A French Lesson in Words and Pictures

It took a long time, but it finally happened. My sisters Susan and Jane, along with my niece Leah, came to visit me. In my little Peugeot 108 we drove all over the region, we took trains into Paris, visited the town of Saint-Denis and its basilica near the university where I used to teach. We walked in the forest, rooted through junk and treasures at the Paris flea market and, closer to home, at a warehouse of bric and broc, bric-a-brac, run by Emmaüs, the French equivalent of the Salvation Army.

And at a long oak table, each evening we sat for hours to talk, eat and drink, the highpoint of each day. In fact, no matter what we did, food accompanied us, an integral part of all our activities.

At the Parisian flea market, located just outside northern Paris along the beltway dividing the city from its suburbs, we sought refuge from the heat and crowds at a corner café. There we indulged (we were on vacation after all) in traditional café food eaten sur le pouce, literally “on the thumb,” on the run. When there’s so much to do and see there’s no time for a three-course meal!

That’s why we ordered a “jambon-beurre,” a “saucisson-beurre-cornichons,” even a “rillettes-beurre,” in each case a sandwich composed of half of a crispy fresh baguette slashed down the middle, slathered with butter and then filled with a thick slice of ham (jambon), or rounds of dried sausage (saucisson) accompanied by sliced gherkins (cornichons); or pulled pork smothered in goose fat (rillettes). Umm-good! And who’s worrying about cholesterol?

The French are regimented eaters. They eat at fixed hours each day and have a hard time understanding those who step outside the boundaries. We breakfasted late: fresh baguette or country loaves with thick flavorful crusts and moist “innards” composed of a mix of flours, rye (seigle), whole-wheat (blé complet) or spelt (épeautre). Add to that homemade apple jelly, pear and cherry jams, honey from Provence, fresh coffee, a whole crate of peaches from a friend’s tree, you’ll understand why we often got off to a late start.

 

And that often meant, in mid-afternoon, when traditional French restaurants are closed, we were ready for a snack! Luckily, some bakeries bake their own pizzas and even offer outside tables to sit down; brasseries serve simple meals all day (for example, a galette—a crepe make from buckwheat flour, served with ham, cheese and a fried egg on top), or we could just grab some cheese, a baguette, some peaches and home-grown tomatoes, a feast fit for a queen.

The French are good at food, from the simplest ingredients to the refinement of an official banquet at Elysée Palace, where the French president lives. We experienced both the simplest pleasures and the refinements of French cuisine. On the simple end, the pleasure of eating an egg purchased at a local market a few hours after it was snatched from the nest. My sisters might elect bread and butter as two of the simplest and best ingredients produced by the French. Every day we went to the local boulangerie and bought our baguettes not only fresh but warm.

As for refinement, we devoted much eating time to the subtleties of French patisserie. Not far from my home, there is a bakery with an excellent pastry chef. In that area, expertise and refinement can often be measured by the quality of the standards of French pastry: the simple éclair (how light is the puff pastry, can the filling be all at once light, creamy and scrumptiously delicious?), a tarte au citron or aux framboises, lemon or raspberry tarts (the taste of the fruit, the shortbread crust); a flan, “plain,” chocolate, coconut or pistachio, creamy, eggy and rich in flavor.

Every evening we had a dégustation, a comparative tasting. Among much oohing and aahing, we registered flavors and nuances, determining our favorites and determined to go back to the bakery for more.

My sisters and niece are good cooks and I can hold my own, so mostly we ate at home, but on my sister Jane’s birthday we went out to celebrate at a restaurant with a terrace overlooking the banks of the Oise River. There our dégustation included some dishes we did not make at home, gravlax that melted in the mouth, foie gras, goat’s cheese baked with honey, dorade fish from the Mediterranean, fresh-water perch (filet de sandre), filet mignon of pork, duck (magret de canard), entrecôte, much like a Delmonico steak.

We had dessert too. I indulged (we did a lot of indulging) in profiteroles, puff pastry filled with vanilla ice cream and smothered in hot chocolate sauce.

We all had desert but that did not prevent us from going home for more: pastries with champagne, the grand finale of our celebrations.

Some evenings we cooked up a storm. Some, we simply took advantage of French bounty, fresh green beans and tomatoes from my garden, delicious melon served with prosciutto or in a salad with feta and smoked salmon, cheese and charcuterie trays, and the ever-present baguette, all washed down with rouge, blanc or rosé wine. 

To sum up, we had a great time. To conclude the French lesson, I’ll add a few more words and leave the reader with an open-ended question.

Surely, my sisters, my niece and I participated in French gastronomie: the art of eating well. My question consists in this: were we gourmets, gourmands or goinfres?

At its earliest appearance in the French language in the 14^th century, a gourmet was a wine merchant, someone who knew how to appreciate fine wines. The word evolved to include those who know how to appreciate the quality and refinement of a meal.

During that same 14^th century, the word gourmand entered the language as someone who eats avidly, going for the finest cuts. Today a gourmand likes good food and knows how to appreciate a good meal.

Finally there is the goinfre, a sloppy, greedy eater, a word once associated with debauchery…

In French, the letter G and good eating go together. Now readers, here is my question: which of these “g-words” would you pin on my sisters and me?

 

 

A Tale of Times Past in France

Not all the same but all equal.

It was a long time ago, 36 years to be exact. Some things have changed, some have not. I was new to France. I had a lot to learn, but some things I already understood. For example, I already knew that all immigrants are not created equal.

I arrived in France in June 1987 with a tourist visa that I applied for at the French consulate in New York. France at that time was recovering from a series of deadly terrorist attacks centered in Paris. The Lebanese Hezbollah was planting bombs in the city to protest against French support for Iraq in the Iran-Iraq War. That 8-year conflict lasted from 1980 to 1988, with casualties of over one million, soldiers and civilians combined. At the time, a visa was required to enter the country, but it gave me no rights except those of any tourist eager to discover France.

What the French didn’t know, I had come to stay, with hopes of a job. I’d been contacted by an international school ready to take me on. As my tourist visa excluded employment, I decided to inquire about a work permit at the city hall of Vence, the town where I was living in the Maritime Alps above Nice. This was my first learning experience about immigrants.

I already spoke French well, always a plus in France. The woman in charge of immigration invited me to sit down. I told her about the job offer at the school, one with a very good reputation. She was impressed. We both knew, however, that to obtain a work visa, it was necessary that I apply from the United States. Yet I left her office that day with a work permit, no longer a tourist, suddenly a legal immigrant.

France and the world were a different place then. There were computers, car phones, but no internet, wi-fi or cell phones. We still depended on the post office, and international phone calls were a luxury. In the French town where I lived, it was also easier to be racist.

In that southern town where the summer sun could be brutal, the main square was shaded by plane trees and at its center water flowed from a public fountain. On one side of the square were three cafés; on the other, behind the fountain, a parking lot. The fountain and the cafés were separated by a busy street. It was the demarcation line between the French and “immigrants.”

On the fountain side, on public benches, sat men, their skin creased and brown from working outside in construction, sweeping streets, collecting garbage, doing the unwanted work of French society. These men were immigrants from North Africa. Arabs, as the French called them. On the café-side sat the French and those that blended in, tourists, certain foreign residents, enjoying la dolce vita of the South of France. Everyone knew their place.

I think you can imagine where I sat.

In May 1988 François Mitterrand was reelected President. Very quickly a rumor began circulating that he was offering amnesty to all illegal immigrants. This was at a time when I was attempting to turn that temporary work permit into a one-year resident’s card.

To do that, I could no longer go to the city hall of Vence. This administrative procedure could only take place at “la préfecture,” the county seat of the Maritime Alps, an imposing monolith sitting alone on a hill on the outskirts of Nice. In this area of vacant lots, garages and shopping centers, many workers like those on the public benches in Vence lived in barracks built at the edge of the city’s beltway.

I set up an appointment, I put together my dossier, a thick packet of papers proving my identity and most importantly, proving I had a monthly paycheck. The big day finally arrived.

At that time I had a car, a bright yellow Citroën 2 CV, a ridiculous vehicle with, instead of rollup windows, Dumbo-like glass ears that flapped as I drove. It did not go fast but the motor was sturdy and dependable. I drove to the prefecture and parked. I approached the entrance turnstile where, already at that time, there was a security check. 

I approached and then I stopped. A mob of mostly young men, mostly from North Africa, Algeria, Tunisia or Morrocco, were trying to scale the high metal fence surrounding the building. Reacting to the rumors of amnesty, many were pressed against its bars, their arms passing through, their hands reaching out in desperation for the right to legally reside in France. Policemen held them back from the entrance checkpoint, where a sign was posted: Immigration Services Closed.

I could have turned back, made another appointment and returned another day, but I noticed the guards were screening people and letting some in. Those who did get through looked a lot like me.

I decided to give it a try. I walked up to the turnstile, a guard waved me through. After all, I “looked French.” Behind me, angry chaos raged. Moving forward, I entered the airtight building, where calm and silence reigned.

In the lobby, people stood quietly in line to renew their driver’s license. Workers carrying files walked through the halls. I followed arrows towards “Immigration.” No one blocked my way. When I got there, I saw the agents in their offices. Some were chatting, drinking coffee with a coworker. There was not a single immigrant in sight – except for me.

I asked a woman if I could enter her office and she said yes. We studied my file. Everything was in order. As with the work permit, the one-year card was issued on the spot. From that point onwards, though my immigration troubles were not over, each year things got easier.

On June 27, 2023, Nahel Merzouk, a 17 year-old Franco-Algerian, was killed at close range by a member of the Police Nationale in the Parisian suburbs. The shooting set off a week of violent rioting in France. Cars went up in flames, stores were looted, public buildings, including schools, were set on fire. Insurance experts claim damages amount to over 600 million euros.

In 36 years some things in France have changed; some have not. Immigration to France is not easy for anyone these days, but to get on in French society, it still helps to look like me.

 

 

A French Pollyanna

 

Earlier this month, on Sunday June 11^th, at 6:20 AM, an overpass collapsed due to a violent fire on I-95 in Philadelphia. It was noon here in France and I found out about it almost in real time scrolling through US news on my phone. A couple of hours later, while speaking to my sister in Pottsville, I mentioned the fire and she reacted with surprise. From the other side of the Atlantic, on another continent, I’d been the first to know.

News travels fast, and thanks to our smart phones, 24/7, we have the world at our fingertips. Often this means living our lives against a backdrop of violence, war and tragedy.

I think about this a lot as I carry on with life. I think about distance. For example, 1,000 miles from where I live, a war is going on. An entire generation of young men is being sacrificed in Ukraine, a country with a population of 43 million. Today fighting is going on in eastern Ukraine as, village by village, the Ukrainian army tries to regain territory lost. The death toll is heavy on both the Ukrainian and Russian sides.

We live in a world where it’s hard to ignore what’s going on at home or on the other side of the globe. To escape the news, we’d have to live like Henry David Thoreau, in a cabin we built ourselves, eating the food we raise. Even if you tossed your cellphone in the Schuylkill River and turned off the TV, current events would catch up with you somehow.

During the night of June 13-14, off the coast of Kalamata, Greece, a boat carrying refugees sank. More than a week later, the number of deaths, most likely in the hundreds, remains unknown. The 104 survivors, all men, speak of 750 passengers on board, with most of the women and children trapped in the hold. This is the worst refugee boat accident in the Mediterranean since 2016.

I am not a morbid person and I am not trying to depress my readers, but I ask myself and I ask you how to live life against a backdrop of bad news.

My response may be a cowardly one—I am not an activist by nature, but my decision is made. I try to make the best of each day, fighting bad news with a smile. I suppose that makes me a Pollyanna. I loved the 1960 movie with Hayley Mills, now a classic, and I enjoyed the book.

 

Playing Pollyanna’s “Glad Game,” I’m glad for my morning cup of coffee and fresh bread with honey, a breakfast fit for a queen. I’ll admit, I’m glad to no longer be teaching. That alone makes each day a gift. I live modestly but what does it matter when I can read, write, walk, garden, visit friends, live.

The morning after the tragedy in Kalamata, I heard about it on the radio while I was picking red currants in my garden. I have to use scissors to cut the fruit from the tiny stems. If I try to pull a berry from the bush, it crushes between my fingers and the berry juice stains my fingers red. That morning, while others’ hopes, lives and families were destroyed, I was enjoying summer’s splendor. The contrast made me feel beholden to life. 

 

Only yesterday, just as I was sitting down to write this article, my friend Sophie called with a spur-of-the-moment invitation to hear her son sing with the youth choir of Opéra comique. They were giving a free concert in the main hall of Musée d’Orsay, the museum of 19^th century art across the Seine from the Louvre. Art and music all under one roof. Carpe diem. I seized the day and hurried to Paris. It’s not hard to play the “Glad Game” in circumstances like that.

Somedays, though, it is. This past winter, I shivered through each day, huddled in front of the fireplace, my only source of heat, in the apartment I moved to in January 2022. Taken in by the look of the place, I overlooked there was no heat. The few radiators are good for nothing except running up the electric bill. There were days when, without my coffee and bread, I’d have found nothing to be glad about. The only way to warm up was to take a swift walk outside.

Now it’s summer. Last year I planted some honey suckle. This year it’s in flower and I can smell its sweet scent, one I came to love as a child. On our way to the East Side pool, my friends and I would stop at a honey suckle hedge, pick the flowers, and suck out the sweet nectar.

On this summer day, the windows are open, birds are singing and the air is fragrant with the scent of linden flower. And all’s right with the world, I’m tempted to say, except it’s not.

Here, the natural world is in peril and so are we. There is not enough water. For the moment, we are practicing voluntary water restrictions. In a neighboring département, strict conservations measures have been put in place, along with fines. What happens if we run out?

That’s another thing I wonder about. If we were the refugees, fleeing drought, who would take us in?

I also wonder what it would be like to play the “Glad Game” if I didn’t have shelter, food, friends and family always there to love and help. What if I were all alone and had to face mortal illness, war? I’ve not been tested. I don’t know.

On June 11^th, when the I-95 overpass collapsed, rescuers first believed there were no victims. Later in the carcass of the fuel truck that caught on fire, the remains of Nathan Moody, age 53 at time of death and father of three, were found.

Let’s hope in the months and years to come, his family can overcome loss and find things to make them glad.