Read French Kids Eat Everything Online

Authors: Karen Le Billon

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BOOK: French Kids Eat Everything
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“Maybe,” I said brightly to my husband, “they just don't have time to socialize.”

Apart from Eric and Sandrine, the only other friendly acquaintances I had met were at the local farm where we had started buying most of our food. Sandrine, who was a close friend of the owners, had brought us there one day. The farm, a short walk from the village, had never been “modernized.” On a picturesque plot of land overlooking the river, they raised cows, pigs, chickens, geese, turkeys, and ducks, plus market garden vegetables. This enabled a steady flow of goods for sale throughout the year, as well as a relative degree of food self-sufficiency. Hubert and Joseph—two shy, sweet, bachelor brothers—seemed amused by the fact that their previously “backward” farm had now been labeled “organic.” But they were savvy too; the farm had become a distribution center for organic produce from across the region. And the food they provided was incredibly fresh, and surprisingly diverse: cheeses, vegetables and herbs, fruits, fresh bread, dairy products, dried sausage, and homemade jams were all apparently being grown, picked, caught, and made within a twenty-mile radius of our house.

Our visits to the farm soon became a weekly routine that made me feel slightly more at home. So, too, did participating in village rituals. We faithfully brought Sophie and Claire to the regular
Fest Noz
(night parties) held on the quay of the small village fishing port, where old and young danced together to traditional music and ate
galettes
(Brittany's regional specialty, a savory crêpe made of buckwheat flour).

We also wandered the seashore, just like the locals. Brittany has the highest and lowest tides in Europe, and some days the water would draw back well over a mile from shore. We'd pull on boots and wade through the barnacles, rocks, and algae, surrounded by villagers—from toddlers to grandmothers—furiously scraping and whacking rocks or digging and poking the muddy bottom for local delicacies like
bulots
(whelks, a kind of mollusk) and
coquilles St. Jacques
(scallops). We even went to the annual
bénédiction de la mer
, clambering along with the villagers up a rocky headland to watch the village priest (in full vestments) gravely step into a local fishing boat, head out into the bay to bless the waters, and pray for all those who had lost their lives at sea.

Thanks to my in-laws, we attended these events. But I was still very much an outsider, a spectator of village life. In my eager North American way I'd introduced myself to all of the neighbors and parents at the local school, but they were stiffly polite, seemingly uninterested in any social contact. The French, I found out, do not make friends easily and definitely do not like to socialize with “new” people, much less outsiders. The fact that I spoke French and was married to a “local” didn't seem to change my status: a foreigner.

I had been looking forward to the start of school, I admitted to myself, because
I
wanted to make friends with the other moms. But school had started months ago, and I wasn't making much headway aside from some polite chitchat once in a while. So I felt more and more lonely as the weeks went on. Now that the weather had gotten bad, our stream of visitors had tailed off. My father-in-law was one of the only people who would drop by the house regularly. He came most mornings, usually when Claire (who had taken to getting up well before the crack of dawn) was almost ready to be put down for her early morning nap. I would rush out the door to take Sophie to school and often return to find Claire fast asleep in Jo's arms. He'd sit quietly with her until she woke up, sometimes waiting for over an hour, biding the time by watching the fishing boats trawl back and forth across the bay. Often, he was the only adult (besides Philippe) with whom I had a proper conversation all day.

To be fair, the French don't easily make friends with other French people either. For the French, friendship is a deep, intimate, lifelong commitment—one that is made cautiously and rarely after one's mid-twenties. Eric and Sandrine were, I learned, exceptions that proved the rule. Even Philippe's friends had been slow to warm, giving me the cold shoulder for years until we really got to know them. “Why are they so mean to me?” I once asked my husband. “They're not being mean! They just aren't comfortable talking to you because they haven't gotten to know you yet,” he replied, bewildered. “
But we've been together for three years!
” was my exasperated response.

Philippe's friends had eventually warmed up to me after our wedding. In fact, Hugo and Virginie turned out to be the most loyal, warm, wonderful friends. They'd remember our birthdays or surprise us with lovely cards or little gifts for the children, sometimes out of the blue. Their kids really connected with ours, to the point that they felt like cousins. This was the upside of friendship in France—once you made friends, they truly were friends for life and shared an intimate complicity that was lacking, Philippe felt, with most of our friends back in Vancouver. So, as the date neared, I discovered that I was secretly looking forward to dinner, despite dreading difficulties about feeding my overtired kids and anxiety about meeting a bunch of new people. I expected to be both scrutinized and ignored (that “elegant chair”). But what I didn't expect was that this one evening would turn me into a convert to French food culture.

The evening started with a misunderstanding, followed by a
friendly argument.

We had arrived the expected fifteen minutes
after
the time for which we'd been invited (the French make a point of never arriving earlier than this on the theory that you don't want to embarrass your hosts by arriving before they are completely ready). Other families were arriving at the same time, and just getting through the doorway took several minutes, with all of the
bises
that were being exchanged.

A beautiful table greeted us as we followed Virginie into the living room. Lovely place settings were aligned on top of a creamy linen tablecloth: pale moss-colored plates nested in bigger white plates, cutlery intertwined with sprigs of dried lavender, napkins nestled in wine glasses next to ceramic bowls on which were perched bird-shaped puff pastry crackers. It looked typically French—at once rustic and sophisticated, formal yet festive. The kind of look I knew I could never pull off at home.

The other children were already gathered around the table, at a slightly respectful distance. Their eyes were on the crackers, but no one dared touch them. They all knew that it was considered very rude for children to help themselves without being asked, even if food was within reach. I always marveled at the self-control evident in even the youngest of French children, which mine certainly didn't display.

An anecdote I later heard from one French friend hinted at how this self-control is achieved. Starting at the age of three, all of the children at her
maternelle
(preschool) had to sit still with their hands on their knees while the lunchtime dessert was served to
all
of the children. Only when everyone had been served, and the
maîtresse
gave permission, could they begin to eat; anyone who gave in to temptation had their dessert promptly taken away.

Anticipating that some sort of situation like this would arise, I had briefed my daughters in the car. I had learned this technique from watching my sister-in-law, Véronique. Just before guests would arrive, or they would arrive at someone's house, she would take the children aside and firmly remind them of the rules. “No touching any food before the adults invite you to start.” “Only take one of what you are offered, or you won't get any more.” But somehow my messages about manners didn't seem to have sunk in, and my girls hadn't had the benefit of training at the
maternelle
. Sure enough, before we could stop her, Claire rushed over and grabbed a cracker from the table, crowing with delight as she stuffed it into her mouth.

I chided her gently. “That's the adults' table! Don't be rude!”


Mais non!
” replied Virginie, smiling. “That's the children's table!”

I looked more closely and saw that she was right. The wineglasses were miniature versions of adult ones, as was the cutlery. And there were more than a dozen place settings, whereas only four couples were coming to dinner. The table had been so beautifully set that I hadn't imagined it was intended for the children.

But then I remembered the attention that Philippe's family would pay to setting the table at home. Even my adventurous, no-nonsense, outdoors-loving, holes-in-his-socks husband would carefully smooth the wrinkles out of the tablecloth before lining up the cutlery and plates just so. If we were going to be late coming home on an evening when we had dinner guests, he would set the table in the morning before going to work.

This was one of the apparent paradoxes that so intrigued me when I first met my husband. How could someone who worked in war zones and loved adventure sports like sailing and mountaineering be so
finicky
? But the answer was obvious, at least for the French, for whom a carelessly laid table is an example of one of the worst sins imaginable: an offense against good taste.

Embarrassed by my mistake, I followed Virginie and Philippe into the salon, where the separate table for adults was to be found. We sat down on the sofa and chairs, and started with
l'apéritif:
the “meal-before-the-meal” of finger foods and cocktails eaten in a casual setting before dinner. Small, thin glasses filled with multicolored layers emerged from the kitchen:
les verrines
(melt-in-your-mouth layered confections eaten with dessert spoons). Mine had a layer of
avocat
,
fromage blanc
, and
saumon fumé
. Philippe's
tomates confites
were topped with a layer of
mousse au chèvre frais
, decorated with tiny wisps of
ciboulette
.

In the meantime, the children were invited to their table. Worried about leaving Sophie and Claire alone, I started to get up, but my husband gently steered me back to my seat. “Leave them alone. They'll eat better without you there.” And, out of the corner of my eye, I saw that it was true: my daughters were pulled irresistibly along in the wake of the older children, who were settling themselves in at the table. Tiny
verrines
were waiting for them too: bright red beet and green zucchini
mousse
in thin layers that mimicked candy canes.

The
verrines
didn't last long, and even Sophie and Claire joined in. But as the first course arrived, I cringed: grated carrot salad with vinaigrette (a French kids' favorite). Barely able to watch, I saw Claire staring at Jacqueline, an older girl who clearly fascinated her. Jacqueline had taken Claire under her wing, helping her into her chair and sitting next to her in the lovely, slightly proprietary way that older French children often adopt with younger children at the table.

Into Jacqueline's mouth popped a spoonful of carrots. Claire fidgeted, her hands in her lap. Jacqueline helped herself to an even bigger spoonful. Gingerly, Claire put one strand of carrot into her mouth, munching distractedly, as another girl leaned over and began telling her a story. Claire listened, wide-eyed, while eating one mouthful, and then another. By her fifth mouthful, I began to relax. Even Sophie had started nibbling on the skinniest morsel of carrot she could find on her plate. Maybe I didn't need to hover over the children's table after all. Plus, the conversation around me was getting interesting.

The guests were in heated conversation about an announcement earlier in the week by France's president, Nicolas Sarkozy. At the annual Paris Agricultural Fair (a big event in France), he had held a press conference to announce that he would be launching a national campaign to lobby UNESCO (the United Nations Education, Scientific, and Cultural Organization) to place French cuisine on its official World Cultural Heritage list. If successful, French cuisine would join other globally recognized cultural treasures like Spanish flamenco and Japanese silk making.

The president had ignited a furor in France and abroad: Could food really be “cultural heritage”? The French government seemed to think so. To make it clear, they had even set up a Mission for French Gastronomy and Patrimony to launch the campaign.

To me, this sounded a bit silly. “Do you really believe that French food is the best in the world?” I asked one of my neighbors. “What about Italian food?”

Looking annoyed, he responded: “
Mais non!
It's not about French cuisine being the best in the world.
Gastronomie
is an important part of culture for
all
French people.”

“But how can
eating
really be called cultural heritage?” I asked. Heads started to turn in my direction.

“It's not the
act
of eating, but rather the
approach
to eating that is the most distinctive element of French culture,” responded my neighbor.

“Still,” I argued, “it seems sort of elitist to me. Why are you all obsessed with food?”

This got a strong reaction. Amid the din of voices, Hugo's voice was the loudest.

“French
gastronomie
is not for the elite, it's for everyone in France!” he insisted. “Sarkozy is seeking recognition for the art of everyday eating. Everyone in France learns this art and celebrates it!”


Il faut manger pour vivre, et non pas vivre pour manger
(one should eat to live, and not live to eat)!” he concluded, triumphantly. I must have had a blank look on my face; under his breath, Philippe explained that it was from a play by Molière (who I knew was roughly the French equivalent of Shakespeare).

BOOK: French Kids Eat Everything
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