Peter Cottontail's Revenge

By Dave Fox

Sure, the Alps are idyllic. But what's the point when you can't get a cheeseburger?

Attention Americans!

It is now safe to travel in Switzerland!

Yes, fellow citizens, I have just come down from the Swiss Alps, and I am thrilled to report that food is now available there, thanks to American humanitarian efforts.

Dateline: Interlaken — a quaint little village whose main industry since the Middle Ages has been to sell Swiss Army Knives to Japanese tourists. Conditions are primitive. American intelligence sources operating in the region have reported, "Locating food is extremely difficult, due to the fact that the natives print their menus in an indecypherable code known as 'German.'"

But thanks to the selfless efforts of American businessmen (and as you will see momentarily, this is no time to replace the word "businessmen" with a silly gender-neutral alternative), I am proud to report that we Americans have saved the Swiss from their dreary existence. The Great United States have proudly bestowed a new food source upon the poor starving people of rural Switzerland — in the form of a restaurant known as "Hooters."

A starving Swiss milk maid rejoices at the discovery of "USA Popcorn."

As a public service to the primitive Swiss people, I will now explain the concept behind Hooters Restaurant. Hooters is a chain of restaurants that we in America are extremely proud of. The restaurants take their name from the extremely large, supple, and well-rounded eyes of the owl on the restaurant's logo.

Hooters has strict hiring standards. The restaurant seeks to end gender discrimination with a liberal affirmative action policy favoring the employment of women. Employees must undergo a strict physical examination, sometimes involving surgery, to ensure that the trademark owl eyes are prominently displayed on their uniforms in the grandiosity they deserve. Hooters waitresses must also display intense will power. While serving deep-fried snacks and beer all day to their customers, Hooters' waitresses are discouraged from eating — ever.

Yes, it is true. While American politicians were getting their panties in a bunch earlier this year over changing the words "French fries" to "Freedom fries" (in response to which "France" is now pondering changing its name to "Freedom"), neutral Switzerland was being subjected to the worst of American exports. Its citizens innocently foraged in the Alps for berries and deep-fried chicken wings, and stumbled upon buxom waitresses in too-tight T-shirts who were promoting themselves as typical American culture.

Suffering under a centuries-old diet of fondue and chocolate, the rural Swiss people now enjoy nutritious American fare while learning about our culture.

This — plus the fact that "Baywatch" is the one of the most exported American television shows — helps me understand why the United States and Europe have been having cultural misunderstandings lately.

On a break between tours, I went to visit my friend Andrea, who lives in Rüti, a small town on the outskirts of Zürich. Andrea, luckily, had never heard of Hooters, and took me instead to eat at a local restaurant featuring traditional Swiss cuisine. I feasted on wild boar in a Dijon mustard sauce.

"Dave," you might be asking, "I have never eaten wild boar before. What does it taste like?"

It tastes like Dijon mustard.

Dijon mustard is not actually Swiss, but rather Freedomsh. Just south of Dijon in the town of Beaune, I enjoyed another typical European meal, consisting of frog legs and rabbit.

Frog legs are sort of like miniature chicken wings, only they are not served deep fried, and they say "ribbit" when you bite into them. They come slathered in butter and about 93 cloves of garlic, the purpose of which is to cover up the froggy taste.

The rabbit I ate came served in, coincidentally, a Dijon mustard sauce.

"Dave," you ask, "I have never eaten rabbit before either. What does it taste like?"

It tastes like wild boar.

Asked to comment on Hooters' bacon double cheeseburger, this Alpine cow replied, "Moo."

It's delicious, actually, once you get that pesky "Here Comes Peter Cottontail" song out of your head. It came served with mushrooms and fennel.

So there I was, feasting on the Easter Bunny, feeling rather continental, when disaster struck. I chomped down on what I thought was a mushroom and was suddenly gripped by the realization that it was not a mushroom, but rather some internal organ of a French bunny rabbit.

I like French people. I really do. Until they start serving their delicacies. Spleen of rhinocerous. Trout esophagus paté. They eat scary things in France. I had an unidentified rabbit organ in my mouth. The flavor and mere thought of it were making me nauseous.

Had I been alone, I would have proudly represented the United States by spitting the unidentified rabbit organ across the room and demanding a plate of Freedom fries. But I couldn't. I was working with a tour group, and I had to be a well-behaved guide.

"Dave, are you okay?" asked one of the tour members as I began to turn the color of a frog.

I couldn't answer. My mouth was full.

I chewed. And chewed. And chewed on my unidentified Peter Cottontail organ, but my American digestive reflexes would not let me swallow. Finally, summoning all the knowledge I had retained from my Tai Kwon Do classes a few years ago, I pulled an ancient manoever known as the backward tongue thrust and shot the still unidentified rabbit part deep into my belly.

Composing myself and wiping tears from my eyes, I announced to the other seven diners at my table, "I just ate something I thought was a mushroom. But I don't think it was a mushroom."

Two of my dining companions were nurses. One was having the rabbit.

"Is this what it was?" she asked, skewering an identical rabbit part on her plate.

"That's it!" I cried.

"Oh. You just ate a kidney."

The two nurses then proceeded to dissect and examine their rabbit kidney as they explained to me what a kidney actually does. This might sound weird, but what else were they going to do? Eat it?

It took me about five minutes to talk myself down from my wave of nausea. "French people eat this stuff all the time," I reassured myself. "And some of them are still alive."

So basically, my fellow Americans, food is available here in Europe, but you have to be careful.

The frog legs are good if you like garlic. The rabbit and wild boar are equally good if you like mustard. And the fries are tasty, whatever you choose to call them. (Rumor has it they were actually invented in Belgium.)

I never did try the deep fried chicken wings at Hooters. Hooters is a part of the international culinary scene I just can't stomach. Honestly, I'd rather eat a big plate of rabbit kidneys. With lots of extra Dijon mustard, please.