French school and the andoulette assault. Monday 23rd Feb, 2009.

We were escorted the 25 minutes to what we hoped would be Alex's school for the next little while by Stephanie, the lady who I spat tea over when invited to her home. We have caught up a few times since then and I think the incident is behind us. The school directed us to the education department that presides over our arrondissement. Here we had to put our case forward as to why we wanted Alex to go to French school. We were met by a very stern woman with eyebrows knitted together so firmly, that two became one. Stephanie was appointed official interpreter and what a fine job she did. One eyebrow became two and the interrogation gently transformed into conversation in no time at all. The department took copies of all necessary documents and said they could see no problems but would check with the director of the school and let us know with in a few days. We bode Stephanie goodbye, our lips gently brushing each other's cheeks, and off she disappeared to work. The cogs of French administration were left to turn and to our surprise, the following morning we received a call telling us that Alex could begin school on Wednesday. Could this be French administration we were dealing with?

Overcome with joy and excitement as we were, we decided a celebration was in order. Agnes, Theodores Mum, had shared the name of a local restaurant with us, "It's where I go with the girls" she shared. Chokate was its name.

Madame Elisabeth ensured we had aperitifs of Rose de Provence sweetened with a dash of sirop de pamplemousse rose (sounds like I am stuck in the set of the Ratatouille movie I know) in hand and a menu to peruse.

The amuse bouche was a perfectly balanced, sweet onion confit sprinkled with a scant shower of seasalt. My entree of Gateau de foie blond et coeur de foie gras was light and flavoursome, served with a centre of the palest hue of pink. John tucked into a hearty entree of Sabodet, Pommes de terre tiedes, with jus a la moutarde violette, he left not a crumb behind. Madame Elisabeth's son, Maxime, was toiling in the kitchen to prepare us a memorable meal. It is a meal we will never forget, because, about to unfold was an incident so terrible, it is difficult to recount. We will call it 'The Andouillette Incident'.

I had pointed out the unassuming andouillette to John at the local markets, advising him to approach with caution if he encountered one while living life in Lyon... he mustn't have listened. While I dined on an oven baked Quenelle de brochet (perfectly cooked I might add), John was delivered a heaving, stinking, pulsating sausage commonly known as an andouillette (alright, it wasn't pulsating but you get the idea). Now I know that this particular breed of sausage consists of every part of the animal conceivable and is a specialty. Like most specialties, and especially French ones, they tend to be a little funky in ways that are endearing only to those who know them intimately.

I oohed and ahhed over my quenelle, smothering it in the creme de crevettes au calvados sauce it rested in. John could not take his eyes off his plate, staring in disbelief, and as he cut into the taught intestinal encasing, it burst like a party balloon filed with the breath of Frankenstein. The odour was unmistakably animal and it packed a taste that would curl your toe nails. I could only describe it as tasting like something that had been lying around the bottom of a nightclub urinal for a day or two longer than it should have been.

You may be thinking I was cruel, sitting quietly dining on quenelle while John ordered this little beauty. Although I knew he was ordering an andouillette, I thought it was a chicken andouillette as I had glanced at the description of the dish on the menu and had read 'Andouillette poelee'. Subconsciously I put this together as a chicken andouillette, or andouillette poulet. An innocent mistake with dire consequences. I knew if it was made of all parts of the chicken it would be an innocent version of the piggy or bovine variety. John had, unfortunately, snagged (pardon the punn) the bovine variety. Neeldess to say, it remained on the plate, straining to be released from the small opening in the intestine that held its aromatic parts together.

We were so effected by 'The Andouillette Incident' we were unable to eat dinner. Every time Alex wanted a laugh and brought up the subject, John and I would look at each other as our faces
turned a pasty shade of grey and our stomachs began to heave.

I have to say that this was entirely our own ignorant faults and everything else we enjoyed at the restaurant was utterly delightful.

So, that behind us...

We all woke early on Wednesday in anticipation of Alex's first day at school in France. John and I hung back on the walk there, (we only had to go as we had to go to administration to sign forms etc) and let Alex and Theodore enjoy their time together. Waiting on a street corner was a group of five boys who joined them, we watched as introductions were made, sealed with a hand slap or shake here and there. The boys were tripping over themselves to speak to Alex, them in petit English and Alex in petit French, but they got there. Alex was beaming, here he was pounding the pavement on the streets of Lyon, France on his first day of school and as usual he plunged in without looking back, dissapearing through the high metal gates into the frey, leaving John and I to find the office.

The staff were so lovely and very welcoming. all was fine, forms were signed and a swipe card for the restaurant was organised. There's no such thing as a soggy packed lunch in France!

Alex arrived home after a fun filled 1/2 hour walk home with the boys. He called me on his mobile to tell me he was a little worried as the boys were letting off crackers and he did not know what to do. They were small, more bang than bite, I asked him if he was comfortable being there (duh) of course he was, he just called because he knew if they were caught he would be in trouble. I assured him that we trusted his judgement and told him to be responsible and to think of consequences of what he took part in, lesson one in letting go for Mum and Dad!

He was home in no time full of stories from "the best day he had ever had at school". A total of three girls are apparently "in love" with him, one confessing this from an upper story balcony. He made lots of new friends and had a great first day. We couldn't have asked for his induction to French school to be filled with any more happy memories.