A 9/11 Visit to Buffalo Grill
The restaurant had a carefully designed faux western décor adapted from a typical Texas saloon. Sets of decapitated longhorn cows graced the walls along with displays of rifles and six-shooters. The full-sized wooden Indian statue seemed to stare at me in mute reproach as “Sonofagun Gonna Have Some Fun on the Bayou” played on the loudspeaker. A maitre d’ wearing a cowboy hat, chaps, spurs and sheriff’s badge approached us and said, “vous désirez un table mesieurs?”
I spent the anniversary of 9-11, 2002 in France having dinner with two visiting American friends at a Buffalo Grill. Buffalo Grill is Europe’s number one steak house. Since it opened its first European outlet in 1980, the restaurant chain with the distinctly Texas environment has built a network of franchises worth millions.
Though not as ubiquitous as McDonald’s in France, Buffalo Grill has over 250 outlets throughout the country. I had never been in a BG before that evening, but had often noticed their unmistakable western-style facades in various locations while living and traveling throughout France. Though unable to remember exactly where, I was certain I had visited Buffalo Grills on a number of occasions back in the States.
It had been a spur of the moment decision to stop there that evening. One of my companions, Andrew, was an Irish American from the Boston area. As residents of France, Andrew and I had both known about Buffalo Grills, but had never patronized them. Neither of us were steak eaters and, having been raised in Boston and New York, we almost saw Texas as a foreign country. Yet somehow the eatery's ambiance drew us in. Here in this vague, somewhat distorted echo of the Rio Grande, was a piece of ourselves, a way-station recognizable as home on an auspicious anniversary. Just prior to spotting the BG on a drive through Toulouse, we had been talking about finding a way to commemorate the disastrous event that had so markedly changed America only one year before. Having dinner at an American restaurant chain featuring a western atmosphere seemed the least we could do.
It wasn’t that difficult to understand why restaurants with the atmosphere of Wild Bill Hickock and Billy the Kid had become so popular in the country of Cocteau and Rimbaud. American cinema had offered French audiences romantic images of the Wild West for over a generation. Texas saloons, gunslingers and outlaws had long been imprinted in the minds of Europeans, possessing an allure both wild and authentic. There was something in the rugged, brooding individualism of the Western cinema’s cowboys, the primitive nature of its Indians and the freedom of the open plains that seemed to reach French sensibilities, perhaps painting unconscious tones of Sartre and Rousseau.
To an American, that French sensibility can sometimes seem like an overly structured cathedral - passionately devoted to its traditions yet perennially yearning for liberation - a place where expectations of appropriate behavior or politesse, no matter how out-moded, are still part of the foundation of the social architecture. Whoever decided to plant Buffalo Grills in France must have realized that the American institution of the family steakhouse with family-style meals would offer an amusing, relaxed, down-home alternative to the sometimes stuffy atmosphere of the standard French restaurant, while being a bit more sophisticated than a night at McDonalds.
When the waiter approached our table, he was dressed similarly to the maitre d’, but he wore a deputy’s badge instead of the sheriff’s star. “Puis-je prendre vos commands, mesieurs?” he said. That’s French for “howdy boys, can I rustle you up some grub?”
We placed our orders. Perhaps getting the “Chuck Wagon Steak” or the “Pecos Chili Burger,” some fries and a coke would, if only briefly, make the experience seem more real, I thought to myself. I looked at the deputy, ordered the chili and instinctively held my breath.
After eating, I asked my companions if they felt as awkward as I did. We had entered the restaurant as strangers in a foreign land in search of something familiar - a sense of meaning. It didn’t take long, however, for me to detect that “Alice in Wonderland” feeling I had experienced at other times in France creeping up the nape of my neck. Something about Buffalo Grill was a bit too familiar, and not quite right. I noticed that both my companions appeared to be as non-plused as I was. “There’s something kinda eerie about this place, don’t you think?" Andrew said after a few minutes. “It reminds me a bit of a Twilight Zone episode I once saw.”
I began to think of the movie “West World,” the sci-fi fantasy account of a vacationer looking for excitement who visits a robotic theme park with a western motif and is pursued by an automaton gunslinger played by Yul Brenner. I instinctively lowered my voice, suddenly uncomfortable that our American English might give us away as “My Achey Breaky Heart” came on the loudspeaker.
A few days later I found out Buffalo Grill is actually owned by a French company. It’s CEO, François Picart, is one of the country’s richest men. The restaurant with the decidedly Texas atmosphere is no more Texan than Marcel Marceau. Buffalo Grill is a culinary theme park where the ambiance of the Old West has been re-created, adapted with an appropriate, dubbed narration. It was uncanny. Here was French philosopher Bauldrillard’s post-modern universe, The Matrix transformed – a perfect hyper-real simulation that had no real link to the original. Here was a real West World without Yul Brenner, a reproduction of what has already been reproduced, a sanitized Texas bereft of George Bush and the death penalty, its meat locker filled with beef, its holsters filled with portable credit card machines.
That night, I couldn’t help but think of the nature of American culture as an exported commodity – shallow, all too easily digestible, ultimately without substance. As an American, I also couldn’t avoid thinking about my fundamental connection to it. What makes Bauldrillard’s world possible is a loss of identity, a severing of the link between an individual and his history. Eventually, there is no distinction between what is real and what is simulated. The simulation is a shadow that lives in the light, a pantomime without a soul, a “photo-realistic” still-life painted so accurately that it is rendered artistically dead. Unlike West World however, the simulation that is Buffalo Grill was not intended to be lethal.
A few weeks after our visit to Buffalo Grill, I read in the news that a French magistrate investigating the deaths of two people in 2000 and 2001 from an illness linked to "mad cow disease” traced the problem to one of BG’s restaurants. He charged four of the company’s executives, including founder Christian Picart, with involuntary homicide, endangering the lives of others and fraud. The investigation uncovered at least one former employee who was willing to go on record, leading police to seize two meat-processing machines used to make chili. The CEO wrote to the Prime Minister, demanding scientific evidence linking the deaths to the chain's food and dismissing the charges as "void of any conclusive or serious elements."
Before the event, most French people undoubtedly thought, as I had, that Buffalo Grill was an American restaurant. Upon reading the news, it struck me that beyond glamorous movie stars, heroic astronauts, and disdained politicians, perhaps this is what America would leave to the European mind as its indelible legacy – a lethal culinary pantomime. I knew one thing for certain – it would be the last time I would ever order Texas chili at a French restaurant.
The restaurant had a carefully designed faux western décor adapted from a typical Texas saloon. Sets of decapitated longhorn cows graced the walls along with displays of rifles and six-shooters. The full-sized wooden Indian statue seemed to stare at me in mute reproach as “Sonofagun Gonna Have Some Fun on the Bayou” played on the loudspeaker. A maitre d’ wearing a cowboy hat, chaps, spurs and sheriff’s badge approached us and said, “vous désirez un table mesieurs?”
I spent the anniversary of 9-11, 2002 in France having dinner with two visiting American friends at a Buffalo Grill. Buffalo Grill is Europe’s number one steak house. Since it opened its first European outlet in 1980, the restaurant chain with the distinctly Texas environment has built a network of franchises worth millions.
Though not as ubiquitous as McDonald’s in France, Buffalo Grill has over 250 outlets throughout the country. I had never been in a BG before that evening, but had often noticed their unmistakable western-style facades in various locations while living and traveling throughout France. Though unable to remember exactly where, I was certain I had visited Buffalo Grills on a number of occasions back in the States.
It had been a spur of the moment decision to stop there that evening. One of my companions, Andrew, was an Irish American from the Boston area. As residents of France, Andrew and I had both known about Buffalo Grills, but had never patronized them. Neither of us were steak eaters and, having been raised in Boston and New York, we almost saw Texas as a foreign country. Yet somehow the eatery's ambiance drew us in. Here in this vague, somewhat distorted echo of the Rio Grande, was a piece of ourselves, a way-station recognizable as home on an auspicious anniversary. Just prior to spotting the BG on a drive through Toulouse, we had been talking about finding a way to commemorate the disastrous event that had so markedly changed America only one year before. Having dinner at an American restaurant chain featuring a western atmosphere seemed the least we could do.
It wasn’t that difficult to understand why restaurants with the atmosphere of Wild Bill Hickock and Billy the Kid had become so popular in the country of Cocteau and Rimbaud. American cinema had offered French audiences romantic images of the Wild West for over a generation. Texas saloons, gunslingers and outlaws had long been imprinted in the minds of Europeans, possessing an allure both wild and authentic. There was something in the rugged, brooding individualism of the Western cinema’s cowboys, the primitive nature of its Indians and the freedom of the open plains that seemed to reach French sensibilities, perhaps painting unconscious tones of Sartre and Rousseau.
To an American, that French sensibility can sometimes seem like an overly structured cathedral - passionately devoted to its traditions yet perennially yearning for liberation - a place where expectations of appropriate behavior or politesse, no matter how out-moded, are still part of the foundation of the social architecture. Whoever decided to plant Buffalo Grills in France must have realized that the American institution of the family steakhouse with family-style meals would offer an amusing, relaxed, down-home alternative to the sometimes stuffy atmosphere of the standard French restaurant, while being a bit more sophisticated than a night at McDonalds.
When the waiter approached our table, he was dressed similarly to the maitre d’, but he wore a deputy’s badge instead of the sheriff’s star. “Puis-je prendre vos commands, mesieurs?” he said. That’s French for “howdy boys, can I rustle you up some grub?”
We placed our orders. Perhaps getting the “Chuck Wagon Steak” or the “Pecos Chili Burger,” some fries and a coke would, if only briefly, make the experience seem more real, I thought to myself. I looked at the deputy, ordered the chili and instinctively held my breath.
After eating, I asked my companions if they felt as awkward as I did. We had entered the restaurant as strangers in a foreign land in search of something familiar - a sense of meaning. It didn’t take long, however, for me to detect that “Alice in Wonderland” feeling I had experienced at other times in France creeping up the nape of my neck. Something about Buffalo Grill was a bit too familiar, and not quite right. I noticed that both my companions appeared to be as non-plused as I was. “There’s something kinda eerie about this place, don’t you think?" Andrew said after a few minutes. “It reminds me a bit of a Twilight Zone episode I once saw.”
I began to think of the movie “West World,” the sci-fi fantasy account of a vacationer looking for excitement who visits a robotic theme park with a western motif and is pursued by an automaton gunslinger played by Yul Brenner. I instinctively lowered my voice, suddenly uncomfortable that our American English might give us away as “My Achey Breaky Heart” came on the loudspeaker.
A few days later I found out Buffalo Grill is actually owned by a French company. It’s CEO, François Picart, is one of the country’s richest men. The restaurant with the decidedly Texas atmosphere is no more Texan than Marcel Marceau. Buffalo Grill is a culinary theme park where the ambiance of the Old West has been re-created, adapted with an appropriate, dubbed narration. It was uncanny. Here was French philosopher Bauldrillard’s post-modern universe, The Matrix transformed – a perfect hyper-real simulation that had no real link to the original. Here was a real West World without Yul Brenner, a reproduction of what has already been reproduced, a sanitized Texas bereft of George Bush and the death penalty, its meat locker filled with beef, its holsters filled with portable credit card machines.
That night, I couldn’t help but think of the nature of American culture as an exported commodity – shallow, all too easily digestible, ultimately without substance. As an American, I also couldn’t avoid thinking about my fundamental connection to it. What makes Bauldrillard’s world possible is a loss of identity, a severing of the link between an individual and his history. Eventually, there is no distinction between what is real and what is simulated. The simulation is a shadow that lives in the light, a pantomime without a soul, a “photo-realistic” still-life painted so accurately that it is rendered artistically dead. Unlike West World however, the simulation that is Buffalo Grill was not intended to be lethal.
A few weeks after our visit to Buffalo Grill, I read in the news that a French magistrate investigating the deaths of two people in 2000 and 2001 from an illness linked to "mad cow disease” traced the problem to one of BG’s restaurants. He charged four of the company’s executives, including founder Christian Picart, with involuntary homicide, endangering the lives of others and fraud. The investigation uncovered at least one former employee who was willing to go on record, leading police to seize two meat-processing machines used to make chili. The CEO wrote to the Prime Minister, demanding scientific evidence linking the deaths to the chain's food and dismissing the charges as "void of any conclusive or serious elements."
Before the event, most French people undoubtedly thought, as I had, that Buffalo Grill was an American restaurant. Upon reading the news, it struck me that beyond glamorous movie stars, heroic astronauts, and disdained politicians, perhaps this is what America would leave to the European mind as its indelible legacy – a lethal culinary pantomime. I knew one thing for certain – it would be the last time I would ever order Texas chili at a French restaurant.
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