There is, apparently, a right way and a wrong way to eat dessert.
When I lived in France, one of my favorite things to get at the Franprix was the flan four-pack. After a hot afternoon, jammed in a metro, one small satisfaction was getting home, pulling back the plastic top, and sinking my spoon into the cool caramel center. Whatever fleeting frustrations I had, melted away. You had to love a country whose grocery stores carried a fifty-cent flan.
Week after week, I enjoyed my flan. Break off a container, pull back the top, sink the spoon in, and enjoy. I might get lost in certain arrondissements. I might not understand the jokes in the movies. I might get frustrated with certain french customs. But I knew my flan. Or so I thought.
One night, I was at a small party, when…
