Confounding Expectations With Chicken Cordon Bleu
The only real joy in life is anticipation--unless Picard and melted Beaufort are involved.
For years I’ve lived by the credo that anticipation is much more enjoyable than the thing itself. The time spent waiting, planning, imagining all amount to longing, which is a more piquant emotion than whatever we feel when we actually experience the thing, whatever that might be. Think of a crush. Think of getting ready for a party. Think of the night before Christmas. These are where the real enjoyment happen, and in fear of sounding cynical, it’s because the actual event can never be as good as we’ve built it up to be in our minds.
All the best love songs are about unrequited, tarnished, impossible love for a reason. Two birds in the bush are worth more than one in the hand, and the idea of chicken cordon bleu is better than the actual thing.
Or so I thought.
I’ve lived in Paris for nearly five years now, and I had not yet eaten a single chicken cordon bleu, be it from a boucherie, restaurant, or homemade. It’s not for lack o…
