I have no problem with the croque-monsieur.
In fact, I think this miracle of comfort cuisine improves upon the already splendid grilled cheese sandwich with the addition of ham and, possibly, delicious sauce. Let me make this as clear as possible right now: I’m pro-croque-monsieur and anti-anyone who might happen to be anti-croque-monsieur.
My objection is with this particular monsieur’s “wife,” the croque-madame. (Literally, her name means “Mrs. Crunch.”) My problem has nothing to do with her taste, really. Like her husband, she’s all hot ham, melted cheese and toasted bread, only the she benefits from the the notable (and sensible!) addition of a fried egg on top. Its in this that I find the problem: When you think about it, the fact that the difference between a monsieur and a madame would be an egg is, at the very least, suggestive. The fact that the egg would be fried and laid upon her is, at any extent, cruel. And I can’t help but to feel that she’s suffered a great indignity. You know, on top of being eaten. People have been brought up on war crime charges for less.
I mean, I’m still going to eat Mrs. Crunch. I just wish that the difference between the monsieur and the madame was, like, a tomato slice or basil or something. And yes, I’d eat those sandwiches as well.