When I was sixteen I had my first taste of quiche. It was the real deal, and I had it in Paris! I was on my way to a small village in the center of France where I would be spending nearly the next four weeks with an exchange family assigned by the student exchange organization.
Unfortunately this program, in order to save money, had a group of over 100 students changing airports mulitiple times, causing layovers like crazy, so that by the time we touched ground in Paris, I'd been traveling for about 20 hours non-stop. I'd been begun in Milwaukee, changed flights in Detroit, on to LaGuardia, where we then took a bus to JFK International to gather together all the students from around the US. We then flew to literally the middle of nowhere in New Foundland, where we supposedly refueled for the journey over the Atlantic. Before reaching Paris we dropped off exchange students in Madrid.
At our hotel we were served quiche. I was already disappointed that whichever airport we were in was far enough out of town that we could see nothing of Paris, and now quiche. Imagine a large group of travel-weary American teenagers sitting down to a dinner of quiche. Our first culture shock. I can't say my first taste of quiche was favorable. Not only was it out of my element, but it was gummy, and hey, it was eggs in a pastry crust. Why would anyone want to eat eggs in a pastry crust? I just wanted a hamburger.