I live next door to a McDonald's. After years of taking French classes, struggling with the mishmash of tenses and forms in this convoluted but elegant language, writing countless compositions on French greats like Racine and Voltaire, and beating the embarrassment out of myself to perfect an acceptable accent, I perhaps expected a more authentic beginning to la vie parisienne.
But no, the great French gods of Irony and Fate have placed me squat next to the most glaring example of the country I left behind.
It must be said, however, that this is the most beautiful McDonald's I have ever seen. Set in the upscale and urbane 16th arrondissement, this MacDo (as the French prefer over the country-hickish alternate "Mickey-D's") is decorated in a smart, modern style of browns and whites.
Huge photographs of plump, juicy tomatoes and gigantic heads of crisp lettuce span the walls. There are few tables but instead a long bar with windows that overlook a quaint French street scene. Newer Madonna music plays from the stereo system.
The whole feeling is reminiscent of the calm cool of an Apple store, and entirely unlike the loud reds and yellows and cheap plastic seating of American McDonald's.
Perhaps most ironic are the rows upon rows of huge glass milk bottles which line the counter where one orders. I rarely if ever see anyone at a McDonald's order milk, let alone from big creamy bottles that look like they came directly from the source.
Also present are faux-chalkboard diagrams of a chicken's different quarters, stressing the meat's "quality" and "freshness."
Why the pretense? One assumes the milk to be fake, as it is encased behind glass and remains constant in number, and everyone knows McDonald's doesn't use anything but highly processed and, if one believes the rumors, genetically altered chickens born without heads.
It's as if the French, with their superior tastes and aversion to all artificial foods, must be lulled into a false sense of security before indulging in their burgers and milkshakes.
This marketing tactic seems to be working, as on every occasion I go by it is filled with French people gobbling up their fast food without so much as a drop of guilt or hesitation.
And these are not just troublesome teens or obese gluttons - these are thin, attractive, smartly-dressed Parisians. Old women with elaborate scarves and too much perfume. Young hipsters with faux-hawks and tight jeans. Families with children dressed up like dolls.
Where was the famous French anti-globalization and anti-American sentiment which caused a group of farmers to symbolically dismantle and destroy a McDonald's in 1999? If anything, the French seem to have embraced McDonald's and made it their own, classing it up a bit and giving it the je ne sais quoi it will never have in the States.
I myself succumbed to the lure of the arches after only three days. I swore off fast food and soda a few years ago after my feeling that it was killing me from the inside was confirmed by reading Eric Schlosser's "Fast Food Nation." And yet, after a night of drinking in an overpriced bar on an empty stomach, McDonald's seemed the perfect way to end the evening.
I ordered a "Maxi Big Mac et Frites," the biggest size the combo meals come in, and incongruously named after a feminine hygiene product, about which I snickered quietly.
As I waited, one French teenager returned his fries, demanding fresh ones in place of the soggy, cold ones. I felt thankful he complained as I probably would have just accepted it as the natural lot of eating at a McDonald's; it appears the French zeal for fresh food is alive and well even at MacDo.
The verdict? It could have been the alcohol, but it tasted exactly the same as every other Big Mac and fries I've eaten in my life. That is to say: tasty, vaguely satisfying, and later, stomach-ache inducing.
The only difference I noted was that in addition to ketchup, MacDo gives you packets of "Frites Sauce," a whitish substance which by any standard would be remarkably similar to mayonnaise. I have never understood the predilection for this bland, fatty emulsion of eggs and oil and instead contented myself with the Americana of ketchup.
Washed down with bright orange soda, I forgot I was in Paris, if only for a few minutes.
After this impulsive binge, I promised myself that I would never eat at MacDo for the rest of my time in Paris. After all, there are thousands of other caf?©s, p??tisseries, brasseries, and boulangeries just oozing French charm and beckoning me to experience authentic and fresh cuisine.
But then I remembered my home-stay does not come with wireless Internet, and that from my tiny room I have no way to get online. My only option, of course, is to trudge downstairs and use the free WiFi offered at McDonald's.
And so, begrudgingly, each day I must return to MacDo, if only just to check my e-mail. It is a strange dose of irony; one that I don't know whether to credit to corporate globalization or to the absurdity of daily life, as Camus might put it.
Either way, I would be kidding myself if I didn't admit that alongside all the croissants and croque monsieurs in store for me in the following months, there will also inevitably be a few more "Big Macs et Frites."
-Adam Winograd is a junior majoring in international relations. He can be reached at Adam.Winograd@tufts.edu.
