We could not find root beer in France. Well, truthfully, we did find it in one place, a store in Paris that specializes in selling uniquely American groceries to ex-pats and American wannabes for dollars on the penny. But just how many jars of Jiffy peanut butter, cans of Campbell soup, and boxes of Pop Tarts can one person stomach?
Wait, don’t answer that. I think someone in my hometown of Omaha may be trying to do just that…
My point is that for all practical purposes we could not find root beer in France. And it is so easy to find it in the United States, almost like there is some kind of conspiracy taking place to make sure you drink some. I blame the advertising industry. I’ve seen Mad Men.
My further point is that Romain had never had root beer. Now he has. And it’s not like he did cartwheels after drinking his first sip. But he was concerned when 14 year-old Ella pulled a bottle of said “beer” from the fridge and began drinking it.
After his sip, I think he came to understand about the alcohol content in said “beer” and that said “Ella” was not trying to get away with unsaid “anything.”
But do I REALLY have to get him to eat sweetened peanut butter, canned chicken noodle soup, and reconstituted brown-sugar cinnamon?