When I first came to Cannes, it was with a study abroad group. We stayed at the Collège International, which granted us, amongst other things, access to the cantine–dining hall. I had never even gone into a grocery store except to pick up bottles of “the Good Stuff”–90 cent “champagne” that exploded when you opened it, or else rounds of gooey cheese that we swiped on bread and ate at the port.
Now, I’m back at the old collège working at the film festival, but the familiar chimes that signal mealtimes don’t have any meaning for me. I stop by for breakfast, which is included in the price for my room–giant bowls of hot milk, which I never drink back home, and tartines of baguette with honey. Lunch and dinner, though, are on my own, with just a bar fridge to keep things in and no way to heat them.
I’ve grown creative: I found prepared purées–cauliflower, carrot, pea, potato, spinach–that I eat cold. Cartons of soup that were Sunday dinner to me when I lived at the Masurels can be dinner here if I drink them out of glasses–I tell myself it’s like gazpacho. And of course, there’s endive, which my aunt was astonished to learn is one of the cheapest things in the grocery store in France–a bag of five or six for just a couple of Euro. I eat them plain or dipped in hummus, and I revel in the fact that what, for me, is a penny-pinching meal, would be exorbitantly priced at home.
I found these little purple endives–a mix between white endive and Italian Chioggia, according to the package. The instructions say to pair them with prosciutto, cheese, apples or smoked salmon, but I’m enjoying just peeling the leaves off and enjoying them one-by-one.
