Almost French (35 page)

Social pressure also plays a part. Dinner parties are the main way of entertaining and let’s face it, vege lasagne is hardly likely to be a hit in a country of carnivores. In France, food is rooted in ritual and diverging from it can be hazardous. At one of our early dinner parties in Levallois, I served a main course of fresh ravioli with a tomato, basil and pancetta sauce. A friend of Frédéric’s took me aside in the kitchen. ‘Just so you know,’ he said not unkindly, ‘in France we
never
serve pasta as a main dish.’ His voice is hushed and grave as he explains the facts of French life to me. ‘People expect meat or fish.’

Even the promise of something casual doesn’t mean the same thing in France as it did in Australia. When Frédéric’s cousin invited us to a last-minute Sunday lunch of takeaway chicken, I went expecting to help set the table and prepare the salad. But despite the short notice, no detail had been overlooked. The champagne was chilled, the red was already breathing, and Normandy cider was waiting to accompany the almond-paste
galette.
Swathed in perfectly ironed white linen, the table was laid with beautiful glasses and silver cutlery. The takeaway chicken was no ordinary chook either: it was a golden fat, farm variety prepared by the butcher.

Surrounded by this culinary and aesthetic perfection, it’s easy to feel intimidated. Many foreigners at first feel nervous about hosting dinner parties in Paris. To avoid making mistakes, some friends religiously obey the guide books written by fellow English-speakers for expatriates in France. According to these, my life here has been a series of unforgivable faux pas. For example, if you’re a guest it is not on to ask to use the host’s toilet, apparently: they might feel embarrassed because it isn’t presentable for guests. And as a host, don’t whatever you do, pass the cheese platter more than once. It’s considered ill-mannered, I read, after I’d done precisely that at least five hundred times. Skipping courses is another big no-no. Follow the French example and serve entrée, main, salad, cheese and dessert. This advice is also routinely ignored in our household. Unless Frédéric feels inspired, we never do first courses because I can’t be bothered.

You might ask how I was allowed to commit such terrible trespasses without a warning from my very own (apparently negligent) Frenchman. ‘Did you know that?’ I asked Frédéric, after reading the toilet and cheese rules. He said he
did. And he admitted that at first he’d felt uncomfortable about not serving entrées because he knew most French people would expect one. But when I asked why he never said anything, he’d shrugged. ‘These things don’t matter so much anymore,’ he said.

His remark reflects change on a personal level. Frédéric has had to adapt, to relax his standards in some ways, living with an errant foreigner who isn’t familiar with his country’s customs. But it’s also an indication of broader change. ‘We’re too uptight,’ the French complain in their hypercritical manner.
On est trop coincé
. This has been said to me countless, countless times by friends and even virtual strangers. When I first came to France I was amazed by the formality of dinners and drinks parties. I assumed they must always be like that and the thought depressed me. Although a lot of social occasions
are
very formal by Australian standards, there is also evidence of an easing up, a deliberate breaking away from traditions. This became apparent over time as I met different groups of Frédéric’s friends and our circle widened to include a number of cross-cultural couples.

And so our social life can sometimes seem schizophrenic. In a typical week, one night we’re eating pasta with people who have relinquished this pursuit of perfection, the next we’re at a dinner which is stiflingly
comme il faut.
Frédéric used to warn me beforehand so I could prepare for what was in store: ‘this dinner might be a bit
coincé
’ or ‘tonight should be fun’. For several years our social life didn’t make sense to me. It only accentuated the feeling of being in cultural quicksand. I didn’t feel part of the scene—and the ‘scene’ was constantly changing. And then it clicked.
Stop trying to fit in.
Now, whether the scene is restrained or relaxed I’m content to just be myself.

It is probably something I’ve learnt in France, this being less anxious to please. While there’s a great deal of wisdom in the ‘When in Rome …’ maxim, I don’t think respecting a different culture means you have to follow all the rules. Some, yes, but not all. True, non-French behaviour can raise eyebrows. Even something as harmless as laughing loudly can mark you out as different because women here tend to laugh delicately, discreetly. On occasions I have roared delightedly at a sarcastic or ironic remark (which in fact was probably totally lacking in intended sarcasm or irony) only to meet surprised silence, edged with disapproval. These sorts of reactions used to make me feel embarrassed, alienated. Now I don’t care—or at least I care a lot less. In any country, you select your friends. If someone is offended by loud laughing, then they’re not a person I want to see again anyway.

In Sydney, dinner parties used to mean a quick trip to Woollies after work where I’d race around filling the trolley with little foam trays of meat and vegetables hygienically encased in cling-wrap. In Paris, it’s a tactile task that calls for all five senses as you taste and sniff cheeses and squeeze the
saucisson
to make sure it’s
sec
and not too fatty. Dinners now involve a ten-stop shop.

Tonight we’ve invited six French friends over. The menu is pretty simple but also, I hope, good. Although fun and relaxed, this group takes food seriously. We’re having
anchoïade
on croutons with the apéritif, then duck breasts in an orange and ginger sauce served with beans and new potatoes; green salad; a selection of five cheeses. Usually I buy a tart for dessert but the red berry fruits are beautiful at the moment so we’ll serve them with
fromage blanc
and
crème de marrons
—a sweetened purée of Ardèche chestnuts which you buy at supermarkets.

Although there are four butchers’ shops along Rue Montorgueil, there is only one place I’d dream of buying meat. Run by several men and one woman—sturdy country types from Auvergne and Brittany who are passionate about their produce—it’s the sort of shop where customers discuss their back problems, weight loss, their baby granddaughter’s allergies. There’s always an atmosphere of quivering excitement, as though the presence of so much fresh, fine meat has set Gallic mouths watering, minds wandering to the moment when it’s sitting on their plates.

At first, I only ever bought chicken breasts. How many would you like today? the butcher would ask as soon as it was my turn. Thai chicken curry was my dinner party staple (although the quantity of curry paste had to be halved for French guests). But the enthusiasm in the shop proved infectious.

‘
Ooooh, c’est beau!
’ The cry echoed down the line of customers as the butcher appeared from the back of the shop one day dragging a vivid-red flank that looked like it had come straight off some bovine beast. The country might be in the grip of mad cow panic but no-one in the queue was passing on the
bavette.
Swept up in the rush, I ordered a couple of slices too, completely ignorant of what cut I was buying. The woman behind told me to fry it in butter with chopped shallots, prompting a rapturous murmuring about
bavette à l’échalote
.

Nodding at the sliced flank the butcher assured me, ‘You’re going to have the time of your life with that.’

Gradually I started buying solid cylinders of beef to oven roast, chestnut-fed pork filets, beef chunks for
bœuf bourguignon,
and during the hunting season even pheasant and
hare. Duck breasts are my latest discovery. My increasing daring draws interest and occasional encouragement. ‘Madame’s very into duck at the moment,’ the butcher observes approvingly when I order them for tonight’s dinner party. He sounds like a teacher pleased with the progress of a student, reminding me to leave on the thick white layers of fat which will infuse the breasts as they cook. As we’re leaving, a fat missile of raw meat flies from behind the counter, skimming a customer’s nose and landing with a wet splat on the floor. For Maddie.

The queue at the cheese shop stretches out the door. I’ll be here for a while. I put down my shopping, which now includes two heavy bags of fruit and vegetables and four big bottles of Badoit water from the supermarket. The
fromagerie
is owned by a charming couple with two handsome sons who give each customer patient, personalised attention, helping decide on dinner menus, wine lists, refusing to hurry even as the queue grows longer by the minute. It used to drive me mad.
For god’s sake, make up your mind!
I’d privately implode, when someone had sampled at least ten different cheeses and still couldn’t decide. But Parisians are admirably serene in such situations, knowing that when it’s their turn, they’ll take their time too. I have learnt to do the same.

‘What’s good at the moment?’ I ask at last. Like the butcher, the
fromagerie
has also been an education for me. Before, I never realised cheeses were seasonal. Now I know the taste depends on whether the cows are grazing on young spring grass or a winter diet of straw and silage and that the goats’ cheese season finishes around October, November, when the milk is fed to newborn kids.

‘
Le Brie est magnifique
,’ the younger son tells me, pointing to its oozing, custardy centre, which appears to be
making a bid for freedom. He cuts me a sliver to taste from the massive, thirty-five-kilo wheel of
vieux comté
which arrived this morning. Having been aged for two years, it’s full of flavour. I choose three others: creamy St-Félicien which is so ripe it quivers at the slightest movement;
brebis corse
, a Corsican speciality made from sheep’s milk and rolled in rosemary and thyme; a
chèvre
—not too dry but tasty, I specify. A lot of the
sec
goats’ cheeses have a powdery texture which I dislike whereas the younger
chèvres
can be milky and a bit tasteless. He recommends the small discs of
Picodon
from the Drôme region.

There might be six bakeries on Rue Montorgueil but I’m also particular about where I go for bread. Contrary to popular belief, not every baguette in France is brilliant. In fact, good ones are getting harder to find as increasingly poorly trained bakers resort to shortcuts like buying pre-made frozen dough. In an interview years ago an award-winning
boulanger
in the 18th
arrondissement
told me how to pick a good one. It should be creamy, not white, Thierry Meunier had told me. Sturdy as opposed to being airy and the surface should be imperfect-looking, not smooth. The final test, he said, is to scratch the inside with your thumb and if crumbs fall away then it’s no good. (The thought of some crotchety Parisian shopkeeper placidly standing by while you tear open a baguette is too incongruous to contemplate.)

Any Parisian polish I might have possessed is obliterated by the three
baguettes traditionnelles
I buy. Even though it might mean doubling back down the street, I always make the
boulangerie
the last stop because baguettes are awkward to carry when your hands are full. Squeezed into one of my shopping bags, they bump against my legs, covering my jeans with flour which bakers dust on bread to give it an authentic,
artisanal
appearance. After an hour-long crawl up the street, my fingertips look like raspberries from the bouquets of plastic bags slicing into each hand. Frédéric will come down later for flowers and wine and the
saucisson
I forgot. People pass pulling those smart little shopping trolleys, which would be a sensible investment if it weren’t for the fact we’d have to lug ours up the stairs along with everything else. I puff up the six flights, sweating, reflecting that it’s no bloody wonder Parisians don’t entertain spontaneously with all the effort that’s involved.

Frédéric sets the table as I’m cooking. Even when I try to do it like him, with the crystal knife rests, two glasses for each place, the linen napkins, the sprinkling of candles and flowers, it never looks as good. If we’re having people over midweek, he’ll set the table before going to work. To Frédéric a beautifully dressed table is as fundamental to a dinner party as food. Now his sensibilities are much appreciated but in the past I saw this painterly perfection as a sign of formality. I used to sabotage his work, replacing silver cutlery with bent forks and unfolding his carefully folded napkins in the misguided belief that the appearance of carelessness would create the casualness I cherished.

We’d said eight thirty to our friends, safe in the knowledge that no-one will turn up before nine. Lateness is institutionalised in Paris to the extent that if you arrive for dinner on time your hosts might not be terribly pleased to see you. Tonight’s group is made up of friends Frédéric met as a student in Paris. Two of the guys went to
grandes écoles
, France’s elite administrative finishing schools which fill the country’s ranks of top civil servants and engineers. Their wives are full-time mothers. The other couple—both lawyers—arrive at 9.20pm.