Pardon My French

by Allen Johnson

  I smiled weakly. “What is not correct?” I asked.

  “You cut a wedge of the blue cheese from the wrong end,” André said.

  “Huh?”

  Then André explained in vivid detail the proper way of cutting a slice of blue cheese. Picture a wedge of fromage bleu. If you look carefully, you will see that the blue flecks—mold actually—are all congregated at the slender front tip of the wedge. Therefore, any cultivated human being (I think that most French believe that “a cultivated American” is an oxymoron) knows that one slices blue cheese from the side, thereby leaving an equal amount of blue mold for all to enjoy. I had committed the barbarous faux pas (une gaffe in French slang) of cutting from the tip of the block of cheese. How wicked is the act? Have you heard in the States that some cities are installing smart parking meters that reset to zero when a vehicle leaves the space? It’s that wicked.

  Naturally, I apologized all over the place. I even offered to paste the dishonorable wedge back in place. No, it was too late for that kind of nonsense. I poured a little more wine, more out of unstrung shame than thirst.

  “Ah, I see you are enjoying the wine,” André said.

  “Yes, it is very good,” I said, too embarrassed at the moment to confess that my palate was completely untrained. “I would say fruity without being ostentatious,” having no notion of what the devil I was talking about.

  “That’s good,” André said. If you like that, you are sure to enjoy some cider from Normandy.

  “Merci,” I said. A word of explanation here. With the right intonation, the word merci in such a situation is used to say, “no, thank you”—just the reverse of the American custom. To say “yes” in French—that you would indeed like something more to drink—it is more conventional to say “volontiers,” “avec plaisir,” or even “je ne dirais pas ‘non.’” Voluntarily. With pleasure. I would not say “no.”

  “Mais si,” André said.

  Happy to distance myself from the besmirched blue-cheese debacle and not wanting to offend my host again, I said, “Well, then, in that case, avec plaisir.”

  André escaped into the kitchen and reappeared with a decanter of cider—“the real thing,” I was assured.

  André filled my glass, despite my supplications of “merci … ça suffit … arrêtez!” Thank you … that’s enough … stop!

  I took a long sip of the Normandy specialty. It was indeed tasty, rather light compared to the red wine—cider being four percent alcohol, one-third the alcoholic jolt of wine. Still, after the pastis and the wine, my head was beginning to say, “This is strange, and why does my wife have two sets of eyes, one set stacked over the other?” So I found myself reaching for my glass of water the rest of the evening.

  One last personal footnote before leaving this section on cheese. My personal favorite is Camembert. I know it is the most pervasive, but there is a reason for that. It’s good. I could eat it every day with a fresh baguette and during my year in France came pretty close to fulfilling my wish.

  Fourth course: Almond and pear tart.

  The French pâtisseries (pastry shops) are a marvel. Although I’m certain the French would protest, I would sacrifice the Eiffel Tower before giving up one French pastry shop. Walking into a pâtisserie is like walking into a Lamborghini showroom. You wallow in the wicked decadence of the place, all the while knowing that if your wife caught you there, softly moaning in a waft of new car leather, she would wag her finger at you in wifely scorn. There is no argument for justifying your presence in a French pastry shop other than unbridled indulgence—and, for me, it was practically the only place I wanted to be. Only the horror of the bathroom scale slingshotting into new territory tempered my enthusiasm for the sugary snacks.

  Although there are a few good imitations in the States, the wonders found in a pâtisserie have no rival: chocolate muffins (they actually use the word muffin), mille-feuilles (layers of custard and airy, razor-blade-thin wafers), and, my personal favorite, tartelette à la fraise, a three-inch diameter pie filled with pale yellow custard and topped with glazed strawberries. Tartelette à la fraise is a misnomer. It should be called “sixty seconds in heaven,” which is exactly how long it takes me to scarf one down if I’m trying to prolong the pleasure.

  Now, I am generally rather prudent with my money (I have friends who would argue that the word I’m looking for is “chintzy”). All right. I admit I faithfully check the price tags in American grocery stores to ferret out the can of tomato sauce that registers the fewest pennies per ounce. And I will drive on empty for thirty miles if I think there is a gas station with unleaded fuel for two cents less. So it is amazing to me that I feel no reservation in plunking down two bucks for an apple tart that is gone in four bites. The only thing I can figure is that the euro coins are just novel enough to look like play money to me—like gambling chips in Las Vegas.

  Nicole’s almond and pear tart was, naturally, delicious. I was glowing like a beautiful bride when she served me a generous portion.

  “Do you always eat this well?” I asked André with a smile.

  Before André could respond, Nicole said, “Not really. A dinner like this is usually reserved for guests or family on Sundays.”

  “And as far as desserts are concerned,” André added, “we typically will have fruit.”

  “Or nothing at all,” Monique said. “Il faut garder la ligne.”

  Watching one’s figure, as Monique put it, is routine with the French. Conversely, they are dismayed by the extent of American obesity (their word choice). A French exchange student I met in the States put it tersely. “They’re fat. It’s the first thing I noticed getting off the plane.”

  “You have a problem in the United States,” Nicole said. “Many Americans are obese.” (No argument there. In 2014 thirty-five percent of American adults were obese.)

  “Yes, that is true,” Nita said. “It’s a big problem.”

  “It is starting to become a problem here too,” André said. “What you have now, we will have in ten years.” (Although André’s prediction was inflated, the trend was certainly on target. In 2001 only seven percent of the French population was obese. Ten years later that number had doubled.)

  Indeed, France has integrated a host of American practices, many of which I can hardly tolerate in the States. To see them arrive in France is agonizing. The French know this is happening. They know that their culture is being stripped away and, all too often, replaced with galling American exports: mindless cinema, degrading television talk shows, rap music, graffiti, sugar cereal, and MacDo (the French abbreviation for MacDonald’s). They know it is happening but feel helpless in fighting it off.

  “Allen,” André said, “you have come to France to see the last remnants.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We are the last of the true French. You will see our fossils in a museum someday. In two or three generations, we will be indistinguishable from Americans.” He said it with a smile, but it was laced with sadness that made my heart ache. I hoped he was wrong, but mounting evidence supports his prophecy.

  “Have you seen our supermarkets?” André asked.

  I had. Indeed, one of the most disturbing American transplants has been what the French call les grandes surfaces, the fifty-thousand-square-foot department stores that have spread across France like locusts. These stores (Auchan and Carrefour are two of the biggest) are replicas of the American Walmart discount store—only somehow more frenetic. Stepping into the Lattes Carrefour in August is like stepping into a Tokyo subway during rush hour—hordes of French people filling their carts with electronics, hardware, cookware, clothing, and groceries. Arms, legs, and hips are flying in every direction—the picture of chaos (and, incidentally, a microcosm of French roadways).

  The stores employ a half-dozen roller skaters who weave in and out of aisles, skimming customers, all the while talking on cellular telephones. I interviewed one of these skaters—a tall, slender woman in her early twenties.r />
  “What is your job?” I asked.

  “Solving problems,” she said. “Chasing down prices, delivering products, cleaning up messes.”

  “Is it fun?”

  “Not really. It’s hard on your body. That’s why we wear all these pads.”

  I looked at her knee and elbow pads. They were scuffed and dented, the scars from too many crashes. “How long have you been doing this?” I asked.

  “Two years.”

  “And how long will you continue?”

  “Not long, I hope. I’m looking for something now.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  She looked at me with a smile of gratitude. “Thank you for taking the time to talk to me,” she said.

  For me, every French grande surface has a roller derby feel about it: noisy, pushy, and impersonal. It is clearly not my favorite hangout. But the prices are lower than in the smaller shops. Consequently, it is where most French go for their weekly shopping.

  Even André, an old-school Frenchman who valued the intimacy of a mom-and-pop épicerie, conceded to shopping at Carrefour once a week for groceries. Why? To economize, of course.

  I looked at André. His elbows were on the table, his fingers laced and pressed against his mouth. His eyes were downcast, staring at nothing.

  “I hope you are wrong,” I said truthfully.

  “About what?” André asked, looking up at me.

  “About the death of French culture as we know it.”

  “So do I,” André said without conviction. “So do I.”

  Fifth course: Coffee.

  The French do love their coffee, and it is almost always offered at the end of the meal. But faites attention (beware), what Americans call coffee is nothing like French café. American coffee is a beverage, and there are some Americans who drink it in liters. French coffee is not a beverage. It is an injection and is served in a tiny three-ounce tasse à café that is so dainty that the most diminutive of men look like professional wrestlers drinking from a child’s tea set.

  By the time the coffee is served, the conversation often becomes more profound and, if you are really lucky, more intimate. On this evening, our hosts began talking about their roots.

  “I was a pied-noir,” Nicole volunteered.

  Pied-noir is a name applied to French citizens who settled in Algeria after the French invasion in 1830. The name means “black feet” and was coined by the Algerians, reputedly for the color of French army boots. In 1962 Algeria regained its independence, precipitating the exodus of 1.3 million French citizens, an influx that France was ill-equipped to manage.

  “Our family left Algeria with two suitcases, nothing more,” Nicole continued. “I was seventeen. We lived in a one-room apartment in Montpellier. It was awful. Water would run down the side of the wall. I was cold all the time. All the time.”

  The room was very quiet now, everyone listening intently to Nicole’s story.

  “I could never get warm,” Nicole said. “I remember asking my teacher for permission to wrap myself in a blanket during class. ‘Absolutely not,’ I was told.”

  “Were the pied-noir badly treated in France?” Nita asked.

  “Oui,” Nicole said flatly. “I was treated better by the Arabs in Algeria than by my own countrymen. My father was a baker in Algeria, but he lost everything. In France there was no work—nothing. He died within two years, angry and penniless.”

  Nicole paused for a moment. No one spoke.

  “I miss Algeria,” Nicole finally said. “We were happy there. It did not have to end the way it did. De Gaulle was wrong to go to war with Algeria. Of course, Algerians wanted their independence. It was only natural.”

  In 2002 the topic of immigration was already a polemic issue. (That controversy has not changed. In 2013 alone there was an influx of forty thousand immigrants, the largest share coming from North Africa.) I wanted to get André’s take on the subject.

  “What do you think of the immigration problem now?” I asked.

  “Problem is the right word,” André said. “Unemployment is already high in France. And relaxed immigration makes it worse. We are a socialist country, and when foreigners do not find work, which is often the case, we pay the bill. And we’re getting fed up with it.”

  “Are the French racist?” I asked.

  “No,” André said. “The French are not racist, but the Arabs are.”

  “How’s that?” I asked.

  “They will not integrate into our culture. They will not learn our language. They live in their own communities. The girls go to school wearing veils. That is not right.”

  I have heard similar examples from other Frenchwomen and men.

  • One Frenchman criticized a fourteen-year-old Algerian for refusing to enter a Christian church on a historical field trip.

  • A French science teacher complained that high school Arabs demand and are given a separate table in the cafeteria.

  • A French parent was appalled that Arab students should be excused from reading the French nineteenth-century writer René Chateaubriand because his manner of describing the Orient was thought to be racist by the Muslim community.

  Many French citizens complain that the Muslim refusal to be integrated into the French community is a violation of the Republic’s declaration of fraternity and the principle of separation of church and state. Some even fear that acquiescing to Muslim demands could result in the disintegration of French society. (It was in part for these reasons that Islamic head scarves were banned in French public schools in 2004.)

  One fifty-year-old Frenchwoman I spoke to said, “We have gone to war over the question of religion before. I think it is time we do it again.” Later in the evening I spoke to another Frenchwoman who was present when the comment was made.

  “Her words were a little severe, don’t you think?” I asked.

  “Perhaps,” the woman said, “but one can understand. She is scared, just as I am scared.”

  The issues of immigration and cultural integration are complex, but I do believe that one thing is certain. Most French people wish to protect their unique identity. They have a healthy and warranted pride in their heritage: their history, their language, their mores, their contributions to science and art. Understandably, they do not want to see that legacy vanish. So, it is not surprising to me that immigrants, particularly Muslim immigrants, are often viewed as a threat.

  When I asked my French friends in Languedoc what could be done, most shrugged their shoulders, a gesture of impotence. And then they would say, “I am not fearful for myself. My life will not change dramatically. But I am fearful for the lives of my grandchildren and great-grandchildren to come.”

  Not everyone in France shares André’s perspective on immigration. Jean-Marie, for example, is confident that the Muslim population will be integrated into the French culture in two to three generations. I think the future will lie somewhere between the attitudes held by André and Jean-Marie. Although integration may come with time, it will not be easy, and it will not be reached without embittered battles along ethnic, economic, and religious lines.

  By the time we left the dinner table, nearly four hours had elapsed since our 7:00 p.m. arrival. The evening was an unbelievably rich experience. We had been introduced to a variety of foods and beverages, but, more importantly, to an intriguing culture, which, like all cultures, is a complex tapestry of virtues and challenges, courage and fears. And in the midst of it all, this American felt humbled and immensely grateful. What a joy to step into such an amicable and unrestricted learning milieu—a kind of cultural graduate school with the added benefit of good bread, cheese, and wine.

  CHAPTER 9

  On the Trail

  THE HIKING CLUB OF PÉROLS was an absolute marvel to us. It had 250 members, ranging in age from twenty to seventy-five, all of whom were avid hikers and, more importantly, world-class talkers. Nowhere else did we learn so much about the language and spirit of being French. At the same time, we wer
e introduced to a hundred villages, limestone cliffs and grottos, and cloistered farmhouses with stone ovens for baking bread. These images will never fade from my memory.

  The club offered two full-day and two half-day hikes each week. The hikes were color coded to designate level of difficulty.

  In other words, there was a hike for everyone. Nita logged in the half-day hikes while I sampled both half- and full-day excursions—the opportunities were just too rich to ignore.

  * * *

  MY INTRODUCTORY CLUB HIKE was an easy pastel green stroll (the French use the word balade) along the beach from Carnon to La Grande Motte. The group was led by Henri, a tall and hardy man in his mid-fifties. There were a dozen hikers, mostly women, in their fifties and sixties.

  “We have a newcomer,” Henri announced to the group. “His name is Allen, and he is an American.”

  “Ah, an American,” a petite woman with black hair said excitedly. “I have a daughter who lives in Boston. Do you know Boston?”

  “Yes, I …”

  “What region do you come from?” another woman interrupted.

  “I come from the state of Washington.”

  “Oui,” she said. “Zee White House.”

  “No,” I said, knowing this conversation by heart, “that is the city, the capital of the United States. I live in the state of Washington—in the far northwest. Do you know Seattle?”

  “Ah, Seattle. No, not really.”

  I found a stick and drew the outline of the Unites States in the sand. “This is the Unites States,” I said. “This is Florida, here’s Texas, and here is the state of Washington.”

  “And here is Boston,” the woman with black hair said, poking her finger into the sand at the approximate location of Boston Harbor. “My daughter lives here. Her husband is American so that is where she lives, of course, but she really prefers France. She doesn’t feel safe in Boston. Do you feel safe in Boston?”