Je suis un poutard

Mustard rules. Double entendre. I can use that because I was just in France. I like it chunky, like my peanut butter (not of this faux plaster-of-paris crap that I see in some places.) Ha, and there you go. Faux and paris, wow, this is rife with all things Frenchie.
Why is French's afraid to show off what's inside? I guess, as a bit of an exhibitionist myself, je ne comprend pas. Those tiny globules of goodness, all mixed up with vinegar, salt....it's perfect. And the Fallon Moutarderie in Dijon showed us this, resplendent in their recorded sounds of mustard being ground (does it REALLY get any better than that folks?), and played over speakers while we stared at a centuries-old wheel of stone. Personally, she could've told me anything, that it was used as currency, that the people of Dijon pray to the wheel, it being their watcher, and a hell of a lot more fun than that Children of the Corn deity.
(I love, by the way, that in France, you can add -erie onto the end of anything and make it a store for such. It's like the -eria here in Italy, but better....because it's French.
But what else goes perfectly on it's own, a tasty two-some of ingredients? Nothing, my friends, nothing. You there, with that cocktail sauce, tartare sauce, or ketchup? You must rely on your cocktails of shrimp, your burgers of (ham?) to satisfy the saucy smear. But give me bread and mustard...hell give me a finger and mustard (preferably mine, but Alyssa Milano's, my Milano cookie, would work as well,) and all is right with the world.
Oh, and mustard cures gangrene. Don't go ask some "professional," damnit, trust me. Or, do the whole maggot thing, and then smear some mustard on them. It be tasty.
Needless to say, the mustard lady had me wrapped around her little finger, and her little finger was not so little.
This post n'est pas bien. I'm not really feeling it. What I am feeling is a screaming sinus/allergy/sore throat trio that puts the Roman Triumverate to shame. So, I was going to come to some grand sweeping conclusion about being a grand poutard, which is essentially a big mustard whore. There, I said it, you can go on with your lives, the joke's over.