“I must be comfortable when I eat,” he said, “and nothing is more comfortable than the clothing of athletes. Also” … he pulled his waistband in and out … “one can make a place for the second helping. Très important.” He grinned, and raised his glass. “To England and the English, as long as they keep their cooking to themselves.”
Most of the French people we had met were more or less disdainful of la cuisine Anglaise without knowing very much about it. But Régis was different. He had made a study of the English and their eating habits, and during dinner he told us exactly where we went wrong.
It starts, he said, at babyhood. The English baby is fed on bland mush, the kind of pabulum one would give to an un-discriminating chicken, sans caractère, sans goût. The French infant, however, even before he has teeth, is treated as a human being with taste buds. As evidence, Régis described the menu offered by Gallia, one of the leading baby food manufacturers. It included brains, fillet of sole, poulet au riz, tuna, lamb, liver, veal, Gruyère, soups, fruits, vegetables, puddings of quince and bilberry, creme caramel, and fromage blanc. All of that and more, said Régis, before the child is 18 months old. You see? The palate is being educated. He paused to lower his head over the chicken in tarragon that had just been put in front of him, inhaled, and adjusted the napkin tucked in the collar of his tracksuit.
He then moved on a few years to the point where the budding gourmet goes to school. Did I remember, he asked me, the food I ate at school? I did indeed, with horror, and he nodded understandingly. English school food, he said, is famously horrible. It is grey and triste and mysterious, because you never know what it is you’re trying to force yourself to eat. But at the village school attended by his five-year-old daughter, the menu for the week is posted on the notice board, so that meals won’t be duplicated at home, and each day there is a three-course lunch. Yesterday, for instance, little Mathilde had eaten a celery salad with a slice of ham and cheese quiche, riz aux saucisses, and baked bananas. Voilà! The palate continues its education. And so it is inevitable that the French adult has a better appreciation of food, and higher expectations, than the English adult.
Régis sliced a fat pear to eat with his cheese, and pointed his knife at me as if I had been responsible for the badly educated English palate. We now come, he said, to restaurants. He shook his head sorrowfully, and placed his hands wide apart on the table, palms upward, fingers bunched together. Here—the left hand was raised a couple of inches—you have le pub. Picturesque, but with food only as a sponge for beer. And here—the other hand was raised higher—you have expensive restaurants for hommes d’affaires whose companies pay for what they eat.
And in the middle? Régis looked at the space between his two hands, the corners of his mouth turned down, an expression of despair on his plump face. In the middle is a desert, rien. Where are your bistrots? Where are your honest bourgeois restaurants? Where are your relais routiers? Who but a rich man can afford to go out and eat well in England?
I would have liked to argue with him, but I didn’t have the ammunition. He was asking questions that we had asked ourselves many times when we were living in the country in England, where the choice was limited to pubs or tarted-up restaurants with delusions of adequacy and London-sized bills. In the end, we had given up, defeated by microwaved specialities and table wine served in ceremonial baskets by charming but incompetent people called Justin or Emma.
Régis stirred his coffee and hesitated for a moment between Calvados and the tall, frosted bottle of eau de vie de poires from Manguin in Avignon. I asked him about his favorite restaurants.
“There is always Les Baux,” he said. “But the bill is spectacular.” He shook his hand from the wrist as if he had burnt his fingers. “It is not for every day. In any case, I prefer places more modest, less international.”
In other words, I said, more French.
“Voilà!” said Régis. “More French, and where one finds a rapport qualité-prix, a value for money. That still exists here, you know, at every level. I have made a study of it.” I was sure he had, but he still hadn’t given me any names apart from Les Baux, which we were saving until we won the national lottery. How about something a little less grand?
“If you like,” said Régis, “it would be amusing to have lunch at two restaurants, very different, but both of a high standard.” He poured another nip of Calvados—“for the digestion”—and leaned back in his chair. “Yes,” he said, “it will be my contribution to the education of les Anglais. Your wife will come, naturellement.” Of course she would come. The wife of Régis, unfortunately, would not be with us. She would be at home, preparing dinner.