In search of Franco-America (and its food)
Cajun cooking is world famous. So why isn't the food of their northeastern cousins?
By Michael S. Sanders, photography by Russell French
Like many Americans, I am an ethnic mongrel - a bit of Irish, a bit of Welsh, a bit of French, and one who had never deeply considered his roots much beyond the "Dad, where did grandma grow up?" questions of the curious child. When I moved to Brunswick almost fifteen years ago, I thought I had landed in a monocultural universe of average New Englanders as white as their numerous churches and the potatoes in their boiled dinner. More fool I!
It began with everyday observations: the electrician was a Favreau and the plumber a Garneau; the drugstore was called Desjardins, the butchers Tetreault and Bisson, and my elderly neighbor, Zim Legasse, spoke with an accent more Yves Montand than Ricardo Montalban.
It began with everyday observations: the electrician was a Favreau and the plumber a Garneau; the drugstore was called Desjardins, the butchers Tetreault and Bisson, and my elderly neighbor, Zim Legasse, spoke with an accent more Yves Montand than Ricardo Montalban.
