The Teeth Came Home With Me
A French dental adventure I never meant to souvenir
Moving abroad changes how you think about health care, language, and sometimes ownership. But I wasn’t prepared to walk out of a French dentist’s office carrying a plaster cast of my own teeth—wrapped neatly in a branded little boutique gift bag.
This is quite different than the US & it’s not a big surprise, but a weird one.
Dental memorabilia.
junk drawer
My teeth turned up in the back of a drawer this week. I had forgotten all about them.
In the first month that we had our apartment, I lost a crown off one of my teeth. It fell straight out of my mouth and down a street drain. An unlikely way to lose $500, at least that’s what the crown alone had cost me in New York, but it happened.
Getting the crown replaced in France was cheaper—about €100 in the end, with 3 visits, reimbursed by our insurance. (We have private insurance along with French coverage, which is not only suggested, but required for our visa.)
Visas are very important. Stick to the rules.
the mold
I lost the crown before I spoke enough French to get directions and French healthcare language is only slightly clearer than its American counterpart.
And it’s in French. Everyone was as helpful as they could be, even when my language skills are pretty limited.
I met the dentist who quickly looked in my mouth before saying, “Alors, on va faire un petit moulage,”—a little mold.
“Un petit… quoi?”
He laughed softly, the way people do when they’re not sure if you’re joking or lost. “Ne vous inquiétez pas, c’est normal.” Don’t worry, it’s normal.
He then filled my mouth with a cool, minty paste that hardened over ten long minutes of deep nasal breathing. He gave me a thumbs-up as the assistant timed it with a small kitchen timer.
The Souvenir
After a few weeks of back-and-forth visits, it was done. I had gotten to know the dentist and the staff a bit, with the kind of familiarity that comes from seeing someone several weeks in a row.
By the 3rd visit, it was getting downright cordial.
When my last appointment was done, I paid the dentist, who brought out a credit card reader right there in the chair (still a bit odd to me). He then handed me the paperwork—along with a perfect mold of my teeth. He presented it with a casualness that made it seem completely routine.
For him, maybe it was.
I looked over at his assistant, who seemed to be smiling behind the mask and googles, her powder blue medical gear perfectly matching the walls to achieve a kind of green screen effect, making her look like a floating head. all of a sudden.
A smiling floating head. A Cheshire Dentist.
She looked at me and then looked the teeth like they had just given me a gift. A small nod. Eyebrows raised again.
Behind the oversized goggles, she seemed very happy about the teeth.
Should I be happy about them? I didn’t know what to say—in any language.
Je ne veux pas… cette chose?
“I don’t want this,” I told him, holding it up, probably with one of those expressions my wife says needs no translation. “What am I supposed to do with it?”
He blinked, unfazed. “Qu’est-ce que vous voulez que j’en fasse ? Vous l’avez payée.”
(What do you want me to do with it? You paid for it.)
“Well, yes, but…”
“I can’t keep every set of teeth,” he said with a shrug. The assistant raised her eyebrows, noddng sympathetically, as if to add, Non, vraiment, we can’t have those just lying around.
Her eyebrows lifted again, her eyes smiling behind the goggles—You’ll enjoy them!
And that was that. She handed him a small bag; he slipped the teeth inside with my paperwork and handed it all back.
Just like that, I was the proud owner of a plaster model of my own teeth, neatly packaged in a medical-grade gift bag featuring the office logo: two cheerful toothbrushes crossed like bones beneath a smiling tooth.
They both waved. “Bonne journée, Monsieur !”
And I went home.
Medical Cultural Differences
More than 2 years later, the teeth still turn up. It feels wrong to throw them out—can you even recycle teeth?
Every now and then, I’ll open a drawer looking for a corkscrew, a screwdriver, anything—and there they are. Awkward shape, a bit creepy, taking up space.
At first, I wondered if this was some kind of French legal requirement. Was I supposed to keep them forever? Could they ever have another use? Maybe if I needed another crown someday, or a retainer, or some future dentist wanted to admire the craftsmanship—but probably not.
It’s different.
In the U.S., a dentist would have just tossed them into a back room labeled “records” and moved on. There, molds and impressions belong to the office; they’re part of your medical file.
In France, though, anything made for you—like a crown, retainer, or dental mold—is considered your property. Once it’s done, they can’t keep it. Liability, hygiene, data protection—whatever the reason, the result is the same: you get your teeth back.
I’d assume there are a lot of French people with these knocking around their homes. Unless they just throw them out, which feels weird.
I’ve asked a few folks and out of the few people who’ve had this done, most still have their teeth molds - somewhere…
Musical interlude
La chanson du dentiste - La Petite Boutique des horreurs (1986) - dubbed
La Chanson du dentiste is the dubbed French version of “Dentist!” from Little Shop of Horrors (La Petite Boutique des Horreurs). The singer is Gérard Rinaldi as the sadistic dentist, who has his own comedy career her. The original English song was famously performed by Steve Martin in the 1986 film adaptation.
Memoir
Throwing the teeth away feels wrong, but keeping it feels ridiculous. Every time I see it, I picture the dentist shrugging, perfectly calm, like giving someone a model of their teeth was the most natural thing in the world.
And maybe it is.
The crown was fixed, the paperwork handled, but the souvenir? It’s an oddly personal keepsake—too strange to display, too specific to discard.
So, the teeth stay. For now
Ever been handed something you never wanted—especially abroad? Tell me your weirdest medical or bureaucratic souvenir in the comments. Bonus points if it’s stranger than a plaster cast of your own teeth.
further reading
Keith Christiansen
Keith Christiansen
Keith Christiansen
