French Kids Eat Everything (11 page)

“But you
do
live to eat,” I responded. “Just look at what we're doing tonight!” I added.

“Art means using your imagination, being skillful at something,” explained Hugo patiently. “You can approach lots of things like an art, like setting the table beautifully,” he said, nodding at the table next to us.

“It does look lovely,” I offered, hoping to sound conciliatory. Virginie beamed. I gathered my courage: “But isn't eating like this a little, well, bourgeois?”

“
Mais non!
” Hugo protested. “My father was a bus driver! I work for a telephone company. I grew up in a very ordinary family. We all did,” he said, gesturing to everyone around him.

At this, the other guests gradually stopped talking among themselves; one by one, they followed Hugo's lead in an attempt to prove that good eating was not the sole preserve of
la bourgeoisie
. I had to admit that they seemed to have a point. Virginie was a nutritionist, and Chloé worked in a factory, organizing logistics and deliveries. Antoine ran his own small business, providing marketing advice to small companies. Frédéric, an engineer, worked as a manager for a big concrete company, but—like most of Philippe's friends—came from “modest origins.” And I knew that Philippe's parents had left school in their teens and gone to work in the shop owned by Philippe's grandfather. His maternal grandmother had been a washerwoman for a hotel, lugging loads of heavy laundry in big
paniers
on her back, and washing, drying, and ironing them by hand.

I realized, wilting, that my comment had been inappropriate. But before I could get a word in edgewise, Virginie jumped in. “Actually, Americans are the elitist ones, the snobs!” she argued. “Only the middle class and the wealthy have access to good food and eat well. No one else! In France, everyone eats well—good food is for everyone, no matter rich or poor. We're actually much more egalitarian than you are,” she concluded triumphantly.

This statement ignited all of my pent-up frustration about Sophie's experience at school. Before I could stop myself, I retorted, “But few people are really that interested in eating such fancy food. And it's a terrible idea to make everyone eat the same way. People should be allowed to choose what they want to eat!”

“But choose what?” said Antoine, Philippe's closest friend, with a smile. “Sure, Americans are free to choose, but they end up making terrible choices. They have no standards for what, when, or how they eat. And they often eat alone. We all know the result!”

I paused at this, in part because it was so hard for me to translate Antoine's comment. What he'd said was: “
N'importe quoi, n'importe quand, n'importe comment, et souvent seul
.” The French phrase
n'importe quoi
is hard to translate, as it is a dismissive term that can be used in a variety of ways. French people often use it to mean “whatever” (like American adolescents), or “nonsense,” or even “garbage.” So Antoine's comment implied that Americans eat poor-quality food, at all hours of the day, with no thought given to manners. This felt a little too close for comfort as I remembered the snacks Sophie gobbled in haste in our crumb-filled car after school and the pasta we served night after night at home.

Meanwhile, Antoine's comment had sparked a small tsunami of remarks. The French have a love-hate relationship with Americans, and something had been unleashed by our exchange. As so often with the French, this took the form of escalating sequences of witty one-liners and wordplays (the kind I often had trouble understanding, much less inventing).

“Americans think food is just a commodity; a matter of convenience (
une commodité
),” sniffed Frédéric.

“But they usually treat eating like it is inconvenient (
incom-mode
)!” said his wife, Chloé, laughing. (I had figured out by now that she was my husband's ex-girlfriend, and I permitted myself a small evil-eye glare directed her way.)

“Americans think that money spent on food is wasted because it goes in one day, out the next,” said Inès, laughing.

“The real problem is that Americans eat like children. American food is
infantile
,” said Virginie gravely. She had spent several years living in the States and worked as a nutritionist at the local school board.

“Americans behave like two-year-olds at the table!” she continued, getting into her stride. “They are impulsive eaters: they snack all the time! They have no self-control: they don't know when to stop eating. And their servings are much too large! They have childlike tastes: they love to eat fatty, sugary foods—exactly the kind of thing kids love.” She finished, damningly, with “Americans have no taste! Just compare a croissant to a doughnut!”

This, of course, met with approving nods, as well as a few blank stares (“What's a ‘doo-not'?” I heard one husband whisper to his wife).

As the target of all of this, I didn't know what to say. But I felt that I had to say something. I summoned up my courage, and croaked out, “I think your approach to eating is way too fussy and regimented. How can you expect
everyone
to eat like this?” My comment was met with silence. Luckily, Philippe came to my rescue. He had left France nearly fifteen years ago and had lived all over the world. So, more than anyone in the room, he had a balanced view. “Both cultures have good aspects,” he said mildly. “French people do eat better than Americans, and their approach makes sense. But you can't impose a uniform way of eating in a country as young and diverse as the United States. They'll have to evolve their own food culture, but it will take time, just as it did in France.”

Before anyone could object, everyone's attention was diverted by the main course, which had just arrived at the children's table. Hugo had prepared a fish dish:
dorade à la provençale
, served with rice. Everyone got up to watch the children eating (a favorite pastime of French parents). Distracted, I watched the adults watching their children savor the food. Not hovering too close, they kept a discreet eye on the table, allowing Hugo to orchestrate the serving, which was met with an enthusiastic chorus.

By now, Claire and Sophie seemed to be thoroughly carried away by the festive atmosphere. Claire, still dazzled by Jacqueline, ate everything on her plate. She even took a nibble at the bizarre-looking side dish: crosnes, a form of tuber that closely resembles waxy caterpillar larvae. Sophie, however, didn't do so well, cautiously eating some rice, refusing to touch the fish after one tentative taste, and quickly hopping out of her chair with a mutinous look when the crosnes appeared on her plate. Being told that they were a French delicacy didn't help, and for a few cringe-inducing moments she refused to return to the table. But after some coaxing, she reluctantly sat down. The adults moved back to their seats. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that Sophie still wasn't eating much, but Philippe motioned to me to say seated.

“Don't make a fuss,” he said to me quietly. “You'll only make it worse. Just wait and watch.” He was right. Within a minute or two, Sophie relaxed, and even ate some more fish—having figured out that it was delicious. Meanwhile, I was mulling over everyone's comments. I knew that Antoine was right. What French people ate at ordinary meals wasn't so different, at least in spirit, from what was served in high-end restaurants. I thought of my in-laws' neighbor Bernice, who had almost never left the village and still talked about how happy she was when they tiled the dirt floor of her family home (in which she was still living). Of modest means, Bernice sat down every day to a three-course meal that didn't differ that much, at least in spirit, from what we'd be eating this evening.

Suddenly timid, I turned quietly to Virginie. “Where I come from, only a few people are interested in
gastronomie
. Why is it such an obsession for the French?”

“It's a pleasure, but not an obsession!” she said, laughing.

“Good food was democratized a long time ago,” added Sylvie, overhearing us. “It's because of the French Revolution: the aristocrats no longer had a monopoly on the best food and the best chefs. The revolutionaries made French food culture accessible to everyone.”

“Not just that!” interrupted Hugo. “It's economic! Paris was Europe's first big city with a middle class that had enough disposable income to eat at restaurants. Cooks couldn't depend on aristocratic patrons any longer, so they opened restaurants and had to compete for customers and public opinion. French food is about capitalism and competition leading to better food for everyone!”

“Actually, it's really about religion,” offered Sylvie. “Catholic countries have always been more interested in food. French
gastronomie
is like a secular communion, like a sacrament or a ceremony.”

By this point, I was completely lost. Maybe I was misunderstanding the word “
gastronomie
.” For me, it meant elaborate, expensive, indulgent meals that had little to do with what interested me about food: nutrition, health, and price.

“Maybe it would help if I understood how French people learn to eat as they are growing up. Why don't you tell me the most important things that French children learn about eating?” I ventured.

This got everyone's attention. “Knowing how to enjoy food,” said Sylvie.

“And knowing how to talk about it!” added Hugo.

“How to behave at the table, and to enjoy good meals with family and friends!” said Olivier.

“It's part of French culture,” someone else chimed in, “that children should learn to eat well!” This got the most enthusiastic nods.

In the meantime, the children had moved on to salad and cheese, and to my quiet delight I saw Jacqueline feeding tiny bits of goat cheese to Claire who, as the youngest child at the table, was the focus of enthusiastic encouragement from the older children. Sophie, not one to be left behind by her younger sister, was making a tentative foray into the salad, although I noticed she was picking out the smallest leaves, and not even this level of peer pressure could make her change her mind about the cheese, which sat untouched on her plate. I had to admit that the scene—the children gaily eating, with parents looking on approvingly—seemed idyllic.

Having finished their main course, the children were dismissed until it was time for dessert, and ran off to play. It was the adults' turn to eat. Conversation turned to critical scrutiny of the entrée—
soufflé à la bisque de homard
(lobster bisque soufflé). The French love to talk about food in concrete terms. But soon my question had sparked a more abstract discussion.
What, exactly, was French food culture? And how could you explain it to the average American?
By the end of the evening, they had their answers pinned down.

French food culture, it turns out, has three core principles. Over the perfectly cooked
bar de ligne
(European sea bass), we hashed out the first and most important principle:
convivialité
(conviviality, which for the French means something like “feasting/socializing together”). For the French, eating is inherently social. People of all ages tend to eat together, whether at home with their families or at work with colleagues. This is so socially ingrained that people can't think of doing otherwise. In fact, French people never, ever eat alone if they can help it; people eating together are often called
convives
(which means “table companion,” but translates literally as “living together”). So whenever I explain to the French that North Americans often eat alone in their bedrooms watching TV (even if there are other family members in the house), or alone at their desks at work, they are truly astonished.

Convivialité
is also one of the primary sources of the pleasure that French people associate with food. Why? Because the French make a point of having
fun
while eating. Pointed jokes, witty repartee, critical appreciation of the food: the French zest for life is perhaps no more apparent than at the table. This is one of the main reasons that French children learn to eat so well (and spend so long at the table, uncomplainingly): the table is a place of emotional warmth and connection. It is also a place where they learn not only about how the world works (from listening to their parents talk), but also about conversation skills (how to interact with adults, how to argue without offending someone, and how to listen well).

Another aspect of
convivialité
is that people are not only expected to eat together; they are expected to eat the
same thing
together. Meals are about the collective enjoyment of a set of dishes, not individual choice about what to eat. (The French sociologist Claude Fischler calls this the “communal” approach to eating together, in contrast to the American “contractual” approach). This is a great way to teach children to eat new foods; scientific studies have shown that they are much more likely to try something new if an adult has tried it first.

This was another finicky French food habit that I had trouble getting my head around. And it was one that often led to disputes. The night before, I had suggested to my husband that we phone Virginie and Hugo to explain to them what our children liked (and didn't like) to eat. From my point of view, this was polite, because it would allow everyone to avoid embarrassment at dinner. But for Philippe, this was the height of incivility. My in-laws happened to be over as we began our exchange (Note to self: Never make controversial suggestions to your husband in front of your mother-in-law). Philippe's mother couldn't resist jumping into our debate.