penfield | Fascism Fritters

A few years ago, in the wake of France's unwillingness to "just go along" with the war in Iraq, the U.S. House of Representatives mandated that their cafeterias change "french fries" and "french toast" to read "freedom fries" and "freedom toast."

French embassy spokesperson Nathalie Loisau, in a moment that would make Jerry Lewis proud, responded, "We are at a very serious moment dealing with very serious issues and we are not focusing on the name you give to potatoes."

I mention this not just to point out the silliness of this exercise, especially with new perspective – whether you agree with France's 'fraidy-cat foreign policy or not, I think we have to award them that round – but to draw attention to a much more serious intrusion of French imperial regime: the Croissant.

I hate Croissants. They are excessively flaky. They are hard to break easily. They appear buttery, but they actually have a pungent salty flavor. They can appear piping hot, right out of the oven, and yet when you eat one it will still taste like it has been sitting in someone's sock drawer for two weeks.

This is my main complaint about the Croissant. It always tricks you into thinking that it's good enough to eat. It mingles with the bagels and muffins and doughnuts, pretending that it fits in with those hearty breakfast treats. It flaunts its dainty crescent shape in a sort of seductive come-hither gesture to the unwitting breakfast patron. It speaks with a romantic accent, suavely inviting itself onto your plate. "I taste rich and delicious with butter," its lilting voice oozes; "C'est magnifique!" It surprises you with its negligible weight, suggesting calorie-free transport into the world of exotic cuisine.

But then you try to eat it, and the skin flakes all over your plate and your suit and the floor. You try to tear it open, but you have to yank the hell out of it and you end up sending flakes in all directions. By now your hands are all covered in a thin film of oil, making the application of butter a regrettable proposition, but you will need it to make the crusty dough inside seem moist and palatable. The bite is disappointing, an anti-climax of grease and crumbs, thoroughly unsatisfying. You wonder why the hell people are always trying to invade France. You start to understand why they always surrender.

"We give up," You can imagine the French peasants screaming to the liberating armies. "Bring us your Krispy Kremes!"

With all this talk about immigration reform, I say we start with the most egregious of foreign interlopers. Deport the croissant! And get rid of flan while you're at it.