French Kids Eat Everything Page 4

  But there was another reason people liked the long and multiple lines: they were a core part of the village’s social life. People didn’t enter into idle conversations at the local café (as I discovered after a few cold shoulders). There were no chairs for sitting down in any of the stores. The village was too small to have a library. In fact, there was almost no common space anywhere in the village apart from the central square in front of the church that was used as a parking lot when the market wasn’t being held.

  Where, I wondered in the first weeks we were there, did people socialize? The market lines—which recomposed themselves rapidly as people moved from one stall to the next—provided, I discovered, one of the only opportunities for the normally reserved Bretons to banter and chat. If people were in a hurry, they’d come early (before the crowds) and be done in a few minutes. If they wanted to socialize, they’d come later.

  By the end of the summer, I started coming later more and more often, as I learned so much from the conversations I struck up. These would often revolve around the food in front of us. How were the garlic shoots this week? What were the radishes like last week? Why were the local mackerel so small this season? Going to the market twice every week gradually introduced me to the local food culture. I had no idea that this variety of food could be available in one place. And I encountered lots of new tastes: huîtres (oysters, which I finally consented to eat, much to the approval of my father-in-law), moules (mussels, which soon became a favorite, cooked simply with white wine and a little parsley), and cidre (Brittany’s famous apple cider).

  Gradually, I learned that asking about food was a great conversation starter. I found that the best way to initiate conversations was to innocently ask: How do you cook this vegetable? (Or, more often than I’d like to admit: What is that vegetable?) A chorus of voices would respond, offering recipes, debating cooking times, suggesting spices. The ice would be broken, and we would move on to other topics.

  The local fisherman was one of my first allies. By the time the market was setting up at 8:30 in the morning, he had already been up for hours, as the in-shore fishing boats left and returned before sunrise. But he had endless energy and a soft spot for kids. “Furr zee baybee” he would say smilingly, carefully filleting the fresh fish in front of us.

  Everyone in the line discreetly listened to my answers to his gently curious questions about life “en Amérique” (English Canadians are, whether they like it or not, lumped in with Americans when abroad). Knowing that September was just around the corner, I would ask him questions about the local school, which his children attended—and where Sophie would be going. With Sophie hanging on every word, he would give upbeat answers with an encouraging smile. And no matter how much I insisted, he would never accept payment for any of the fish I chose for our daughters. He did this with all of the locals, but not the tourists who were still crowding the market, and I felt proud when I realized that this was a sign of acceptance.

  The market was an education for the girls as well. At first, I tended to avoid the “messy” stalls if I had them with me. The butcher’s stall—with the hanging pigs’ heads and the decapitated still-furry rabbits—was a no-go zone. The poissonnerie—where the fish were beheaded, gutted, and de-scaled at the request of each customer—also made me nervous. So I made these rounds without the girls, usually entrusting them to my father-in-law, who would take them for a walk around the square.

  But Jo soon grew impatient with my queasiness. One day, he gathered Claire in his arms and brought her over to the fish stall. Her eyes widened. Raising a chubby finger, she pointed at a particularly large specimen:

  “Poisson!” (Fish!), she shrieked.

  “Coupe! Coupe! Coupe!” (Cut! Cut! Cut!), she continued, turning her hand sideways and making a sawing motion in the air. By now, she had the attention of everyone in the line.

  “Yum yum!” she gravely finished, pointing to her mouth to the sound of approving chuckles.

  My daughter already knew, even better than I, how to make friends and impress people in France.

  3

  Schooling the Stomach

  We Start Learning to “Eat French” (the Hard Way)

  * * *

  Mignonne,

  Mignonne.

  Si tu veux du pain,

  Je t’en donne.

  Si tu n’en veux pas,

  Je te bâtonne!

  Cutie-pie, Cutie-pie,

  Oh so sweet.

  If you want bread,

  You’ll get some to eat.

  But if you refuse,

  You’ll get beat!

  —Traditional French nursery rhyme

  * * *

  By the beginning of September, we were all looking forward to the start of the school year. No one had been awaiting la rentrée more eagerly than Sophie, who desperately wanted to meet kids her own age. So on the first day of school, we were there bright and early. Sophie walked clutching my hand, followed by my mother-in-law, while Philippe brought up the rear with Claire, dressed to match her sister (precious, but I couldn’t resist). Janine had drawn my attention to the fact that French schoolchildren, even in a little country village, were much better dressed than their American counterparts—so Sophie had gotten a new outfit only days before. She looked adorable in a dusty rose shirt-dress with taupe leggings; I had judged earth tones—a popular choice amongst French parents—to be the safest bet for my kids (although lots of French children wear white, which mysteriously stays spotless).

  Sophie and I had gone together in one of our first-ever mom and daughter clothes-shopping outings. On the drive home, I had reassured her that this year—her first in full-time school—would be just great. At the back of my mind was an image of eager village children being fascinated by l’Américaine, falling over themselves to befriend the new girl. But I had forgotten what kids could be like. And I had no idea what a small village could be like (having lived in big cities all my life). I soon learned: if you don’t know the rules, you’re the village idiot. As I was about to learn, my daughter didn’t know the rules. And neither, apparently, did I.

  The first inkling I had of trouble was the small white sheet posted on the front door of the school. The contents of the piece of paper were impossible for me to decipher. It was marked with today’s date. It seemed like a list. It had lots of strange words that I couldn’t recognize. But I did recognize the days of the week. Maybe it was a list of after-school classes?

  Mais non! My husband said, laughing. “This is a menu.”

  I looked again and saw that he was right. Across the top of the paper, the days of the week were listed. Wednesday was missing, but that was normal, I reminded myself: French kids go to school only four days a week, with Wednesdays being devoted to sports and other extracurricular activities. Running down the left-hand side were the standard four parts of the French meal: entrée (first course), plat principal (main course), salade and fromage (cheese), and dessert. But I didn’t recognize much else.

  This, my husband patiently explained, was the list of what the children were going to eat at lunch for that week in the school cantine. The meals were designed to be tasty, healthy, and varied. They were also inexpensive: on average $3, although children from lower-income families paid lower rates (the lowest fee at our school was less than a $1 per meal). The school posted the menu on each entrance door so that parents (and children) would know what was being served for lunch.

  The cantine is a universal institution in France—found not only in primary and high schools, but also in many government buildings and private companies. The word is difficult to translate. The closest word in English is “cafeteria,” but this incorrectly conjures up memories of the soggy pizza and overpriced French fries that were the norm at my high school. The best way to think about a school cantine in France is to imagine what your high school cafeteria would have been like if the food had been made by Cordon Bleu chefs-in-training, overseen by a nutritionist, and served to you at the table by maternal waiters (who were only too happy to cut up your meat if you couldn’t quite manage it). The official term “restaurant scolaire” (school restaurant) sums it up perfectly.

  Philippe and Janine scanned the menu, clucking cheerfully at their favorites. But the list struck me as ludicrous. Beets? Fresh fish? This sounded like a meal in a Michelin-starred restaurant, not food for five-year-olds. And certainly not for my five-year-old.

  “Um,” I said hesitantly, “something seems to be missing. There’s only one choice every day.” I was thinking of school cafeterias back home, where kids always had a choice, although one that was often admittedly dubious from a nutritional perspective: between strawberry and chocolate milk, for example, or between pizza and hot dogs.

  “Everyone eats the same thing, bien sûr!” replied my husband. I had already learned that the phrase bien sûr (“of course”) usually implied I had unknowingly committed some kind of social blunder about something that seemed blindingly obvious to the French.

  “But what if the kids don’t like what’s being served that day?” I asked. This question gave rise to odd looks from the parents shepherding their children through the school doors.

  “They go hungry!” Janine replied, looking impatient.

  A story from Tra la lire (France’s most popular magazine for preschoolers) popped into my head. In the story “La journée du NON!” (The Day of Saying NO!), cheeky little Michel is having a “NO” day. He says “NO” to getting dressed and goes to school in pajamas. He says “NO” to eating lunch at the cafeteria (radishes, sausages, mashed potatoes, and ice cream) and then goes hungry all afternoon. Michel feels sad, but his little friends (who ate all of their lunch) don’t feel sorry for him, and neither do his parents. When I had first read this story, I had dismissed it as cruel and unbelievable. But I now realized with a sinking feeling that the French didn’t see it that way.

  “But this is ridiculous,” I snapped. “Sophie only likes pasta for lunch. She’ll be starving!” This was true. Despite my best efforts, Sophie refused to eat anything but pasta at lunchtime. And it had to be made in precisely the same way: with olive oil (definitely not butter) and liberally sprinkled with Parmesan cheese. The fact that the local grocery store did not carry Parmesan had not deterred me from continuing to make Sophie’s favorite dish once we arrived in France. I was proud of my small triumph in charming the initially gruff grocer into placing a special order for “Sophie’s cheese.”

  “School is about learning lots of things, including how to eat what is put in front of you,” replied Janine. (Note to self: Next time, don’t invite mother-in-law along for first day of school). I was cornered. The problem was that my husband and I had agreed that Sophie should eat lunch at school. This idea had originated with Janine. “Eating is central to French culture,” she declared soon after we arrived. “And Sophie will not make friends unless she stays to eat at the cantine.” So we had signed her up to eat meals there every day. At the time, it had sounded like a good idea. We had talked to Sophie about the cantine, and played it up: think of all the fun you’ll have with your new friends! Now I was having second thoughts. But it was too late to back down.

  We walked down the hallway to Sophie’s classroom, where her teacher stood at the door welcoming the students. There was a long line, which moved slowly. As we got closer to the front of the line, I found out why. We watched as each child eagerly approached the teacher to be kissed on each cheek. Some of the parents kissed the teacher as well, whereas others shook her hand. This was accompanied by pleasantries about the summer holidays. After a few minutes, the child moved into the classroom and the parents gracefully retreated.

  This was not an unusual scene in France. Se faire la bise translates as “to give a kiss,” but a bise is really more of a delicate brushing of cheeks with a vague kissing action made in the air close (but not too close) to the other person’s ear. I had a hard time with this, as I was brought up in a culture where your face was as private as your rear end: only a few very close family members have the right to touch it. But since everyone gives les bises every time they meet in France, I realized I had to start getting used to it.

  Les bises made me nervous for another reason: they are unpredictable. When people meet one another in France, they may shake hands instead of exchanging les bises. Sometimes men kiss men, but sometimes they don’t. On some occasions, I was expected to kiss people I was meeting for the first time (mostly family), but with other people (even those I saw frequently) I never got past shaking hands. In some parts of France, people exchange only one or two kisses, but in other parts of the country, people kiss three or even four times. Sometimes, people start with the left cheek, but sometimes with the right. All of these decisions have to be made in an instant, based on a complex calculation about the relationship you have with the person, the location of the encounter, their gender, who else is with you, how much of a rush you’re both in, and some strange sixth sense about the social pecking order. I never quite figured out the logic.

  All I knew was that you could get les bises really wrong. I had seen this with my husband. Soon after we met, we flew back home so that he could meet my relatives. My uncle John came to the airport to pick us up. In the arrivals hall, surrounded by people, Philippe did what comes naturally to French men: he gave Uncle John a big kiss on each cheek. John’s stunned look was promptly misinterpreted by Philippe. “Oh,” said my husband-to-be, smiling, “you must be giving three kisses in Canada!” As Philippe dove in to give another kiss, Uncle John ducked, and the two ended up in a locked-lip embrace.

  Their relationship eventually recovered enough for Uncle John to give me away at our wedding. But bises still made me nervous. And they made Sophie nervous too; even with our relatives, she would balk, although she knew that refusing to give a bise is the gravest of insults. As her turn to meet the teacher approached, Sophie began to fidget. “Bonjour!” said Madame, smiling. Sure enough, Sophie hung her head, let go of my hand and slunk into the classroom. Madame frowned. Now was clearly not the time to mention my worries about food. But I worried all day. And it was a long day. French kids go to school from 8:30 to 4:30 (and many stay in after-school “study time” (études) until 6:30 or 7:00). Sophie’s classmates would be used to this, as it was their third year in school (French kids start formal schooling part-time at two and a half, and full-time at three). They were cantine veterans, but Sophie was definitely not.

  Sophie’s face told me everything as she left the classroom. She bolted into my arms, wailing. When she calmed down, I heard the story. She had eaten nothing all day. Lunch was inedible (according to her). Unlike her day care, there was no morning or afternoon snack. And no one had allowed her to get a drink of water, even when she raised her hand.

  Fuming, I put her to bed early and decided to show up at school early the next day with a packed lunch, water bottle, and some strong words for the teacher. I planned my comments carefully: “Sophie is having enough trouble adjusting to a new culture. At home, children can drink when they want to, even during class. Could she please bring her lunch from home until she settles in?”

  Leaving Philippe to get Sophie ready for school, I rushed over half an hour early in order to get a chance to speak with Madame. But Madame was not impressed. Eyeing Sophie’s lunch bag with suspicion, she sniffed, “I have to think of the entire class. We can’t have special treats being sent from home, or special allowances made for anyone.” Before I could stop myself, I blurted out my concerns. Would Sophie be stigmatized because she ate differently than the other children? Or wasn’t as adventurous an eater? What would that do to her socially? And how would she ever learn anything if she was hungry and thirsty all the time? Seeing my worried face, Madame softened. “Come to see the cantine on your way out,” she invited.

  Our first stop was the kitchen, where the chef was already at work. Wielding a ladle taller than me, he stood on his tiptoes stirring onions in a pot that looked big enough to hold Sophie’s entire class. Meals were made from scratch, he said proudly, pointing to the vegetables lined up on the chopping block. He tried to buy local ingredients whenever he could. And, he added, the government was planning to require 20 percent of the ingredients to be organic by 2012. Good food was not, he added, about spending lots of money; it could be simple, inexpensive, and tasty. I tried to look suitably impressed.

  Not all cantines are lucky enough to have their own chef, I later found out. To cut costs, many have resorted to outside catering companies and started using prepackaged, preprepared ingredients where possible. In fact, one study released shortly after my visit suggested that up to half of France’s cantines were not in compliance with the Ministry of Education’s strict regulations. French parents were up in arms. One well-known chef, Cyril Lignac, even launched a reality TV show (Vive la Cantine!) where he played the role of “food savior” to kids in schools across France (much like Jamie Oliver’s Food Revolution). Still, even the worst cantine meals in France were probably better than the average meals available at most North American cafeterias.

  To understand the crucial role played by the school chef, it’s important to know that the French think that lunch should be the biggest and most important meal of the day—representing about 40 percent of children’s total caloric intake. Since vending machines are banned in all French schools, there is no place to get food except the cantine. A majority of students eat at school, and they are not allowed to bring their own lunches (unless they have serious allergies). So the cantine is the place where the majority of France’s six million schoolchildren eat lunch every day. At Sophie’s school, the chef was the undisputed master of the cantine, regularly walking around at mealtimes to ask the children what they thought of his dishes (and sometimes waving the ladle in the direction of unwilling eaters, Sophie later told me). Even without knowing all of this, it was clear that the chef took great pride in his work.