You've been in the French Alps for a couple of weeks now and it's fine. The scenery is breathtaking, the Olympic competition is interesting and the food ranges from good to superb. But something is missing. Home cooking.
So, you keep your eyes peeled for a hamburger joint.
But there are no golden arches here, at least not in this part of France.
Then one day, while walking near the speedskating rink, you notice a little hut sharing corner space with a restaurant advertising traditional French cuisine. The stand offers cheese sandwiches, ham sandwiches and, glory be, hot dogs! Now, a hot dog is not a hamburger but, under the circumstances, close enough. Besides, the idea of a French hot dog is intriguing. Can the French culinary wizards improve this noble dish?
So you step up to the window and order that most traditional of American meals--hot dog, fries and a beer.
The woman behind the counter drops the fry basket into the hot oil, then proceeds with the hot dog. First the bun. It isn't really a bun, but instead half a loaf of French bread. She slits it part way and slathers on brown mustard. Then, with tongs, she reaches into a vast pot of hot water, pulls out a longish wiener and lays it gently in the bread. Then she does it again, partly overlapping the first sausage with the second.