(Not Quite) Mastering the Art of French Living

by Mark Greenside

  I wash and tear the lettuce and scrub the potatoes. Donna washes and French-slices the green beans. The lettuce and green beans go in the fridge with the chicken, tart, white wine, and water, filling the baby fridge. The freezer is full with six trays of half-the-American-size ice cubes. The cheese is on the fireplace mantle, at room temperature. Two bottles of red are open and breathing on the table.

  By six thirty, we’re prepped and ready. In that time, the weather has changed from sunny to cloudy to dark to overcast to sunny. To be safe, we set up for dinner inside and apéritifs on the terrace. While we’re setting the table, Nadine calls to say Johann and his girlfriend had an emergency and can’t make it, which means a five-hour meal without a translator. Now, it’s totally up to Donna, who’s still groggy from her trip. I place two dictionaries on the table. If I were a religious person, I’d pray.

  Hugo and Nadine arrive early, which is less than forty minutes late. I lead them outside and leave them on the terrace with Donna. This is our division of labor: she cleans the toilets and takes care of the guests. I shop and cook and serve. Both of us will clean up at the end.

  At seven thirty, I put the bird and potatoes in the oven. Fifteen minutes before they’re done, I start the green beans. All night, I clear and serve, clear, and serve again, using every glass, dish, knife, fork, and spoon in the house. Everything is going great. Donna is awake and alert enough to speak and translate—including telling jokes and explaining U.S. trade policy, which almost makes sense when you’re half-sloshed and groggy.

  With each course I serve and every plate I remove, I notice Nadine nudging Hugo and nodding toward me. When I bring out the chicken, she elbows him and points at me. When I bring out the cheese platter, she starts talking about studying English. By dessert, she’s toasting American women and making plans to visit us in the U.S. Hugo, who used to be my friend, does not look happy. Every time she nudges him, he squeezes her close, and says, “Cher-ie,” basically telling her, No way! He’ll do almost anything for her, but not cook (except barbecue), serve (except alcohol), or clean (except the car). I figure from now on, we’ll be eating at their house . . .

  Hugo and Nadine leave at one thirty. Donna and I clean up and go to bed at two thirty. As it turns out, only she and I used the bathroom.

  The following week, Jean-Pierre and Joëlle are coming for dinner. The last meal we ate at their house was a delicious, ocean-tasting, never-been-frozen, home-cooked fruits de mer platter of crab, oysters, clams, langoustine, shrimp, lobster, and ugly, crawly, chewy-like-rubber sea snail thingies called bulots. On Monday, Donna and I will start to prepare . . . This is what it means to cook for French people, and why I always worry about failing or committing faux pas.

  10 Things I’ve Learned about Cooking in France—and Another 10 I’ve Learned about Entertaining

  1. Measurements are different: (Fahrenheit-32) x 5/9 = centigrade; .035 ounces = 1 gram; 28 grams = 1 ounce; 34 ounces = 1 liter; 1 liter = 1.056 quarts; 1 quart = 896 grams = .896 kilogram; a centimeter = .393 inches; electricity is 220 volts, not 110, and gas for the stove can and does run out anytime if you use the metal, impossible-to-know-how-much-

  gas-is-still-inside the tank of butane, as I do.

  2. Ingredients are different: hardly any hot, sour, or piquant spices; prepared sauces are few and mostly packaged and dehydrated, as French people won’t pay for something they can make better and cheaper at home. Veggie and fruit choices are much more limited than in the U.S., as they’re seasonal and regional, not frozen: there’s no Caesar salad in summer, because there’s no Romaine lettuce, and corn on the cob and russet potatoes don’t exist.

  3. Cuts of meat are different: no T-bone, porterhouse, New York, or chuck, but there is horse, frog, bunny, goat, sheep, and every part, internal and external, of pig—which is probably why filet mignon in France is pork, tender as Kobe beef, and the most popular steak is a faux filet.

  4. Birds are different: sold complete with heads and feet and internal organs, and sometimes a few feathers as well. Chicken quality is designated by the color of the bird’s feet—white, red, or black—which hopefully is their natural color and not the result of something they stepped in.

  5. Fish are different: often whole, not filleted, or in parts and pieces that look like brains and intestines and things I’ve never seen before and don’t want to see again, and with a few exceptions, like—sole, saumon, and maquereau—are not recognizable by name, so I have to shop with a dictionary to determine if roussette, morue, aiglefin, and grondin rouge are really the fish I want—or don’t.

  6. Quick meals: When I’m alone or with American friends, like LeRoy and Peggy, I rely on French Cooking in Ten Minutes by Edouard de Pomiane, a former medical doctor and research assistant at the Pasteur Institute in Paris. According to Ed, all I need is a frying pan and thirty minutes and I can cook anything. I have three frying pans—so I’m set. The preface to his book says, “I am writing this book for students, dressmakers, secretaries, artists, lazy people, poets, men of action, dreamers, scientists, and everyone else who has an hour for lunch or dinner but still wants thirty minutes of peace to enjoy a cup of coffee.” Bruno and Françoise scorn Ed and his book. Jean and Sharon agree with them, but Ed is my kind of guy.

  7. Making crêpes: Madame P has wasted many hours of her time trying to teach me how to make hot-from-the-griddle, crispy-brown-at-the edges, melt-in-your-mouth, chewy, moist crêpes. My batter is either too thick or thin. My crêpes rip or glob—and when I try to flip them over, I scorch my thumb and drop the crêpe, burning it on one side, leaving it gooey and half-cooked on the other, an incredible, inedible blob.

  8. A meal without alcohol is breakfast . . . usually . . .

  9. My new stove is an engineering marvel—and scares the hell out of me. It’s marvelous because it has three gas burners, one electric burner, a rotisserie, and a large, three-shelf, electric convection oven. It scares me because all of the automatic cooking settings are computerized and the instruction booklet is in French and not even Sharon can figure out how to set the automatic timer. If anyone changes the current settings, it’s not my dinner that’s going to be cooked, but me.

  10. A good meal is a respite from time itself—unless I’m the one cooking it. In which case, I watch my clocks and set my mechanical timer.

  On Entertaining . . .

  1. What to serve: nothing new or different. French people want to know what they’re eating. If they do not like a single ingredient, they may not eat the entire dish. Unfortunately for me, there is no hold-your-nose, gulp, swallow, and smile-to-be-polite routine in France. French people—friends—who are normally curious, friendly, and helpful, have publicly told me my green beans stink, and I use the wrong kind of butter.

  2. Equality and Fraternity: Whom to invite to dinner? I invite everyone—intellectuals, professionals, artists, artisans, craftsmen, laborers, farmers, the unemployed, unemployable, those too young to work and those too old, people working under the table and people working over the table, those who read everything, and those who read nothing, Gaullists and Socialists—I just don’t invite them at the same time. In the U.S., I bring friends together. In France, I keep them apart: every relationship is unique, and everyone wants to keep it that way. The more diverse the group, the more uncomfortable everyone is, and the more diminished each person feels. What kind of party is that?

  3. Cheek kissing: Whom to kiss, how many times, where, and how? French people don’t actually touch when they cheek kiss. It’s an air kiss, but I figure unless I make contact, why bother, and depending on whom I’m with, I put lips to cheeks two, three, or four times, the fourth always eliciting a “Quatre?” which tells me the person is either pleasantly surprised, or I’ve crossed another line. When greeting people, I always kiss women and children at least once on each cheek. If I really like the person I’ll kiss three times, and if I really like them, four. If I’m a very good friend or feel like a member of the family, I’ll kiss the men once on
the cheek, head, or neck—otherwise it’s a handshake. I do the same when leaving, and if I had a good time, I up the ante a kiss or two, but never, ever to more than four. I don’t want people to think I’m excessive, desperate, or worse.

  4. Viewing the house: In the U.S., when people visit for the first time, I show them around so they know where everything is and they can help themselves and leave me alone. In France, people don’t help themselves to anything. At meals, nobody will move until the host says, “Bon appétit,” and even then some people won’t move until they are served. Madame P finally let me carry the dishes from the dining room table to her kitchen because it was two in the morning, and she was too tired to say no twenty times as she usually did when I picked up a plate. I saw her faltering at the tenth no, and in her moment of weakness, I carried on. Rule Number One: if you’re a guest, sit—there’s nothing you can do to help. Rule Number Two: if you’re the host, pray someone breaks Rule Number One.

  5. Bathroom doors: In the U.S., I always keep the bathroom door open to indicate it’s not occupied. In France, the door is always closed and often lockless, which means there’s ample opportunity for being walked in on or walking in on someone else, both of which I’ve done. I now knock—loudly!

  6. Bathroom smells: A box of matches and an open door work fine in the U.S. In France, where the doors are closed, there are more air fresheners with more scents than there are breakfast cereals in the U.S. It’s astonishing. I go to the toilet, usually a tiny, windowless room the size of a broom closet, and I come out smelling like I’ve been to Yosemite.

  7. Open windows: When it’s warm and sunny, people open their windows letting in fresh air, sunlight, and flies. For some reason I’ll never understand, French houses and apartments have no screens. Flies come in and out like guests. French people, renowned for their obsession with cleanliness, eat with flies buzzing around their heads and food. They hang sticky-honey fly strips from their ceiling and light fixtures, and place dishes of powdery yellow fly poison around their rooms, and still, flies zoom and buzz and hop from plate to plate as people eat. There’s a tolerance for nature that’s beyond me. At my house, windows are shut while eating and open when sleeping, the reverse of most people in the village.

  8. At the table: Elbows on the table are OK. Using the wrong glass, dish, and silverware are OK. Even talking with your mouth full—if you have something interesting to say—is OK. The only person I’ve ever seen chastised at the table is the cook.

  9. To stack or not to stack: As a guest, I know I’m not supposed to enter the kitchen or offer to help. What I don’t know is if that includes stacking at the table. So far, as far as I can tell, which isn’t very far, it seems to be OK. The problem is I can never discern if the host intends the dishes or silverware to stay or go. Sometimes, I stack them and see they’re not going anywhere. Then I have to unstack them, remembering the order in which I collected them, hoping Monsieur A’s plate did not contaminate Madame B’s, or their spoons did not touch or get mixed up, in which case I’ll offer to wash everything, which the woman of the house will refuse, thereby either (1) giving her more work to do, or (2) not giving her more work to do and infecting Monsieur A and Madame B. Other times I don’t stack them and end up eating dessert with a fish fork. Now, after eating several fishy-tasting fruit tarts, I do what everyone else does. That way I’m not alone, which in France is worse than being wrong.

  10. Bring the host a gift: Any gift will be appreciated, as it’s the thought and gesture—le bon geste—that count. I know, because I’ve brought liquor to a recovering alcoholic, chocolate to a diabetic, and roses to an allergic-asthmatic—and have been invited back to each home again and again and again.

  A Hypochondriac’s Delight

  (And it’s even better if you’re really sick)

  I grew up with a Jewish mother, two Jewish grandmothers, and an aunt who married a Hassid. Every cough I had was possible bronchitis, influenza, or diphtheria; every ache the first signs of polio; drooling, probable cerebral palsy—and, I can tell you, my people have nothing on Bretons, a people as fatalistic as the Jews.

  Anything I say about my body, medicine, aches, pains, sprains, bites, and bruises is taken seriously. No pooh-poohing here. Rudyard Kipling and the stiff upper lip are damned. These are a people who respect pain—wherever it is, whatever the source, no matter how minuscule—and they’re proud to say it, show it, feel it, even honor it. The only thing shameful is to deny it. My kind of people, for sure.

  In France, the body and bodily functions are normal, hence bare breasts on beaches, nudity on TV, open and visible pissoirs, men peeing in public, male and female toilets next to each other and interchangeable, toilets without doors, without seats, without toilets . . . Everyone pees and craps, so what’s the big deal? I’ve been in line at the boulangerie and listened to the most disgusting private ailments being publicly discussed. Once, the man in front of me lifted his shirt to show everyone the scar from his hernia operation. All I could think was, what if he had hemorrhoids? Another time, I listened to a discussion about constipation, including a lively debate about the best remedy. The winner was a concoction of warm water, lemon, honey, and stewed prunes—with or without lambig (Breton whiskey), I’m not sure.

  Given this interest in all matters concerning health, I should not have been surprised when one morning, in passing, like the way we talk about the weather in the U.S., I responded to four separate, “Ça vas?” in four different telephone conversations by telling each person I hadn’t slept well the previous night and I had a headache. Three of them came to the house within an hour. The fourth was Sharon, who’s Canadian-Irish, who said, “Go back to bed.” Not the French. They arrived with something in hand: food (if I’m going to live), flowers (if I’m not), offering sustenance, support, camaraderie, care—and drugs. Even Monsieur P, who rarely leaves his house, hooked up his oxygen tank and drove over with his personal cache of medications, which is ample.

  I have a neighbor who will not leave her house without a plastic sack the size of a medicine cabinet filled with prescriptions, as well as over-the-counter medications for fever and shortness of breath; stomach, back, head, muscle, heart, liver, and kidney ailments; pains, cramps, bruises, cuts, and bites. Her sack, plus two cell phones, and she’ll go anywhere. Without them, she won’t go to Leclerc. For all I know, she’s got oxygen tanks and a defibrillator in her car. She’s her own personal pharmacy and EMT, and the happier and more secure for it. Best of all, everything except the nonprescription medications are reimbursed by Sécurité Sociale, the amount varying depending on whom I ask—and I ask and observe a lot, because someday, Donna, family, friends, or I may need them.

  There’s a Doctor in the House

  I’m driving home after watching Midnight in Paris in Quimper, and I see the kitchen lights on and the front door open at Monsieur and Madame P’s house. Usually, their shutters and door are closed after dark, so I park in front of their house and look through the kitchen window. It’s summer, hot, maybe eighty degrees Fahrenheit, and Madame is sitting at the table with a scarf around her neck. I knock on the doorframe, call, “Bonsoir,” and enter. Monsieur and Henri are sitting in a corner chatting, and a guy with a stethoscope around his neck is writing on a pad. I don’t know who he is, but the one thing I’m sure of, he’s not a doctor.

  “Marc, c’est Docteur M,” Madame says, introducing me.

  He stops writing—the stethoscope swinging from his neck like a snake—shakes my hand, and says, “Bonsoir.” Then he places the stethoscope on Madame’s chest and listens to the left side, the right, upper, lower, her back . . . It’s almost midnight on a Friday night, and a doctor is making a house call: not a registered nurse, a licensed vocational nurse, a home health aide, or a student intern, but a doctor! As far as I can see, there is no emergency. There is no imminent birth or death or child or older person in trouble, no blood or protruding bones. Henri is here without his ambulance, and he certainly doesn’t seem concerned.
What’s up?

  The doctor finishes listening to Madame breathe, says, “Bon,” gives her a shot in the arm, some pills, three prescriptions, and after much conversation, many “Bonnes nuits,” and shaking everyone’s hand, leaves at 12:15 without money being exchanged or leaving a bill. In the U.S., this happens only if you’re dead.

  “Is this usual?” I ask Henri.

  “What?”

  I guess it is, but I ask anyway. “A doctor coming to the house at night?”

  “Yes, of course. C’est normal.”

  “Was there an emergency?”

  “My mother couldn’t sleep.”

  “Couldn’t sleep!”

  “Yes. She has a cough. It keeps her awake so she called the doctor and he came. C’est normal.” He looks at me like, ‘How could you not know this, and why would it be otherwise, and isn’t it like this in all civilized countries in the world?’

  I don’t have the heart to tell him. All I know is if I woke my doctor at eleven thirty at night because I couldn’t sleep, he’d send over an anesthesiologist to finish the job. “How much was it, the doctor’s visit?” I ask.

  “Don’t know. Maybe thirty U.S. dollars.”

  “Ah, bon.” For some perverse reason, this pleases me.

  “The doctor will send my mother the bill, she’ll pay it and be reimbursed by Sécurité Sociale.”

  I don’t even bother to ask how much.

  Later, I figure this must be the reason French people have a reputation for being hypochondriacs. The rich worry about losing their money. Healthy people worry about losing their health. People worry about losing what they have, not what they don’t have, and the French are among the healthiest people on Earth. In the U.S., the people most obsessed about their health are the health-food nuts. The sickies know what they have and are dealing with it, the health-food nuts suspect what they could have, and imagine it’s worse.