by Peter Mayle
Having been impressed by the everyday politeness of the French, it’s only fair to mention an aspect of French life where good manners, patience, and civility take a very distant back seat: this is the ancient tradition, undoubtedly invented by the English, of the queue. The French are ingenious and persistent in their determination not to stand in an orderly line and wait their turn. They jostle, they creep, they sidle, or they pretend to be joining a dear friend who happens to be standing at the front of the crowd. I even know of a sprightly old lady who never goes to market without a crutch, otherwise never used, which she wields like a weapon to clear away anyone in her path to the front.
But these aggressive habits, taking place as they do among pedestrians, can’t compare with the furious dramas that unfold once the Frenchman gets behind the wheel of his car. His perilous efforts to overtake on a blind bend and to drive six inches behind you are exciting enough, but they are nothing compared with the full range of emotions on display when he is trying to grab a disputed parking spot. He blasts his opponent with a fusillade from his horn. He winds down his window so that his bellowed protests can be more easily heard. Finally, he gets out of his car, much to the noisy annoyance of those trapped in the traffic jam he has caused by blocking the cars behind him, and continues to rant, his arms waving, his face turning puce. By now, drivers from the cars behind him have joined in, horns blaring, and the losing driver has to concede defeat before the local gendarme arrests him for causing a public nuisance. If, as sometimes happens, the contest has occurred in front of a sidewalk café, the loser is often consoled by a round of applause from the café’s customers.
Distractions like this can turn a quick trip to the baker’s to buy croissants into an entertaining half hour, and we were finding that our old efforts to be organized and punctual were gradually disappearing. We could never pass a game of boules without stopping to pick up tips on technique: the narrowed eyes taking aim, the crouch, the graceful swing of the arm, the release of the boule—it was like some kind of rural ballet. And then, of course, would come the arguments. The players would gather round the boules to see who had landed closest to the cochonnet (literally, a piglet, but here the name is used to identify the target ball). Reasoned debate would quickly give way to claims and counterclaims. A tape measure would be produced in the hope of settling the argument, but just when it seemed that a scrap was inevitable, the matter would be resolved and hostilities would cease in favor of a beer in the bar. Cricket was never like this.
* * *
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In between distractions, our search for somewhere to live permanently continued, a mixture of frustration and enjoyment. It was also an education in the wily ways of people with a house to sell. Without exception, they were supreme optimists when describing their precious properties. A sagging roof and shutters hanging off their hinges were “pittoresque.” Ceilings so low they would make a dwarf duck were “intime.” Tiny, dank kitchens with equipment that belonged in a museum were “traditionnelle.” In fact, most of these properties hadn’t been lived in for years, but had been inherited when the previous owners had died. Even so, it was hard to imagine making a home in some of the old relics we saw.
After several months, our luck finally changed. We found a house on a hillside, with several thousand acres of the Luberon Natural Regional Park at the end of the back garden, a modest vineyard, and the fine old stone village of Ménerbes two minutes away.
Our first night was spent, as first nights in new houses often are, with little more than a bed—some furniture would soon arrive from England—but we were too delighted to notice. The dogs were in heaven after their first walk in their private forest. Ménerbes seemed to be a very pleasant village. The house had a pool. There were no close neighbors to worry about. It was home sweet home at last. Now we really were residents of France.
I had occasional urges to write a novel, but something always seemed to prevent me from disturbing the typewriter. Provence had far too many distractions, and two of them were very close to home: our nearest, although quite distant, neighbors were Faustin and his wife, Henriette, whom we had inherited from the previous owners of the house. They had a long-standing agreement to take care of our vineyard, which they did with great diligence. Almost every day, we could see Faustin driving to work on his tractor. In his spare moments, he also gave us an insider’s education in the cultivation of the grape and its slow progress into the wineglass. We learned to prune, we discovered how well old vine roots burned in our fireplace, and we had the thrill of tasting our first bottle of wine grown on the premises. (It would never win any awards, but it was ours.)
Every season, it seemed, brought its own fascinating reason not to settle down and work. The typewriter accumulated dust, and I was becoming more and more adept at ignoring pangs of guilt—something I now know most writers manage to master at some point in their careers. The vendanges came, the grapes were picked, and Faustin put away his tractor. The tourists had gone, and the countryside had suddenly become noticeably emptier. Winter was in the air.
But while villages and vineyards were settling down to their annual hibernation, the forest was humming with activity. The hunting season had started, and no hare, red-legged partridge, or wild boar would be safe until the season had ended in January.
The hunting day got going around seven in the morning, with an opening salvo timed to shock us awake every Sunday. The howls of excited hunting dogs, let loose after a summer in kennels, added to the sound effects, with an extra contribution from our own dogs—a rustic lullaby that went on until lunchtime. Sad to say, periods of silence only occasionally interrupted the gunfire. There were usually about a dozen hunting deaths each year in France, and sometimes more than two hundred accidents that required a trip to the hospital. Recently, a hunter trying to shoot a hare hit his own brother in the leg. Another hunter mistook his son for a partridge. And, in the most implausible case of mistaken identity, an eighty-two-year-old hunter fired at a couple of walkers, mistaking them for a pheasant.
These statistics suggested that walking our dogs in the woods every day was a somewhat risky habit, and one that demanded precautions. We fitted each dog’s collar with a heavy-duty, extra-loud hunting bell, and I took pains to make as much noise as possible when making my way through the woods—snapping branches, shouting to the dogs, and cursing loudly from time to time.
This seemed to work, and I very rarely came across a hunter. One I remember bumping into—a small, khaki-clad figure, his bandolier bristling with cartridges—seemed to be a great deal more nervous than I was. As I came closer, he raised his rifle to the port arms position and took a step backward.
“Are those dogs safe?” he asked, taking a firmer grip on his gun and another step back as they came up to investigate him. I resisted the impulse to tell him that they were trained only to attack armed men, and reassured him. Even so, he was clearly irritated that I was trespassing on what he considered to be his personal patch.
“What are you doing here?” He glared at me, shaking his rifle ominously.
“I live here,” I said. “How about you? Where do you live?”
This was not a subject he wished to discuss. He stumped off down the path, probably wishing he had shot first and asked questions afterward.
I was pleased to discover another kind of hunting that winter—quieter, much less dangerous, and potentially very profitable. Neither guns nor bullets are required, but there is one essential item of equipment: a dog with a keen sense of smell, a golden nose. But it needs to be a wise old nose that has been trained to detect and unearth one of the most mysterious and expensive mushrooms in the world: Tuber melanosporum, the black truffle.
Despite many attempts, it seems that so far there is no way that cultivated truffles can be made to taste as good as the truffle that has grown naturally. And since they grow where they want, around the roots of certain trees, truffles are extrem
ely difficult to find. Hence the dog, the mystique, and the high prices. In 2014, a single large white truffle (Italian, alas) was sold at auction by Sotheby’s for more than $60,000, and the current price for more regular-sized black truffles is around $1,000 a pound. Are they worth it? Or is it merely an extrovert’s way of putting his money where his mouth is?
We’re lucky enough to live in an area where truffles grow, and can often buy them, at a fraction of the Parisian price, from the man who dug them up. And so a regular winter treat is the truffle in its various forms: slipped into an omelet, grated over pasta, or sliced in a risotto. And then there is the most self-indulgent truffle recipe of all, which a friend claims is the closest thing on earth to having heaven in your mouth. You start with a generous slice of foie gras, and place it on a sheet of tinfoil. You then place your truffle on the foie gras and put it in the oven, where the truffle gradually sinks into the melting foie gras. The complex, slightly earthy taste of the truffle and the unctuous coating of foie gras may put you off hamburgers forever. Bon appétit!
Five
La Politesse Française
For many people who haven’t spent much time with them, the French have a less than welcoming reputation: aloof, a little prickly, and definitely not the sort to hug strangers. Like many social myths, this one is not at all reliable. The French are as human as the rest of us, but they come equipped from childhood with what is sometimes seen as a barrier rather than a civilized way of life—the habit of politeness.
This is rare enough in the modern world to be considered a little odd. There was a time in the UK when “Manners maketh man” was widely observed as a useful guide to behavior, but this has long since gone, to be replaced by a slapdash informality. Not so, however, in France, and the difference, to a couple of newly arrived foreigners like we were twenty-five years ago, was striking.
The first thing we noticed was the necessity of physical contact. Its simplest form was the manly handshake, but that depended on the hand being free. If it was carrying something, the burden had to be put down so the hand was available for shaking. If that wasn’t possible, an elbow could be extended; failing that, the last-resort little finger might be presented. I have sometimes passed scenes on the street that might have come from a contortionist’s warm-up routine, but appearances aren’t important. The essential is to touch. Even with builders, gardeners, and others with work-stained hands, you are offered a wrist—a clean wrist—to shake.
This is just as important among the ladies as it is among men, although slightly more complicated, as it involves multiple cheek-kissing. The standard formula is one kiss on each cheek, taking care that there is not a clash of noses during the change from one side to the other. But this is for traditional kissers. The number rises to three between close friends, and in Aix, where there is a large and affectionate student population, four kisses are quite normal.
Kissing between men, once regarded by British visitors as wildly exotic, barely raises an eyebrow nowadays. I have a friend who says he can tell with his eyes closed when men kiss. He claims to be able to hear the faint rustle of stubble against stubble.
But there is more than kissing to French politesse. It also dictates how people talk to one another. The simple word “you” becomes nuanced and subject to its own rules. There are three words in French for “you”—vous, tu, and toi—and each has its particular use. Vous is the most formal, to be used between people who have just met, or who are separated socially by their position. If the relationship should become friendly, vous can be replaced by tu, or occasionally toi, for added emphasis, as in Tais-toi—“Shut up.”
There are, of course, exceptions, my favorite being the ex-president of France who persisted in addressing his wife as vous even after forty happy years of marriage, when you would have thought a level of intimacy might have been established. But on the whole, the rules are followed. And nowhere more carefully than when following the cast-iron rules of bonjour.
This is one of the most valuable words in the language, a verbal passport that helps to put the French world at ease. Forget to use it, and you risk being ignored, or taken for an ill-mannered—or, perhaps worse, arrogant—foreigner. It is even one of the few words to have a price put on it. There used to be a café in Paris that offered this discount for good manners when ordering: Coffee, 2.50 euros. Coffee + bonjour, 2 euros. Coffee + bonjour + a smile, 1.50 euros. Waiters in restaurants also appreciate being treated like people, and bonjour is a good place to start.
Small physical acts of politeness, almost extinct elsewhere, have managed to survive, too. It is not uncommon to see a man stand up when a woman enters a room, to hold open a door to let her pass through before him, or to defer to her in the choice of wine at dinner. (Though this last one is rare.)
Is any of this useful and important, or is it all merely a leftover from more leisurely times? I’ve become used to it over the years, and I think life would suffer greatly without it, because it is not just a set of social trimmings; these are simple expressions of respect and consideration for others. They make everyday existence more pleasant, whether you’re buying a baguette or meeting someone for the first time.
There are two notable exceptions to this agreeable state of affairs: the first is the abrupt personality change that takes place as soon as the French get into their cars, when consideration for others takes a back seat.
Normally mild-mannered men and women become impatient, often aggressive, horn blowers and suicidal overtakers, given to yelling their disapproval at the driving ability of anyone in their way, anyone who has taken a precious parking space, and anyone who is driving too slowly. The best response to this is not to react, but to stare straight ahead.
Infuriating, and effective.
The second exception is the queue. I think the problem here is that the queue, in its very early days, was treated as a primitive contact sport without any rules, and nothing much has changed. Women are far better in queues than men. They are more cunning, more ruthless, and more determined, seeing opportunities for pushing in and queue jumping that most men wouldn’t dare attempt.
Whenever we go to England, I’m struck by the docile behavior of English queues after the rough-and-tumble of Provençal housewives, and once I actually saw a man give way in an English queue to an anxious woman. Perhaps la politesse anglaise is still thriving after all.
Six
Learning French, Inch by Inch
The best way to learn French is to have a partner who is both fluent and patient. Failing that, you have to muddle along as best you can with phrase books, the local newspaper, television, and stumbling exchanges at the post office and with the butcher. Unless, of course, you are lucky enough to find a good teacher. This happened to me quite by chance one Sunday morning, when I was negotiating with the baker to buy some bread, and a croissant for Jennie.
“Une baguette et une croissant, s’il vous plaît.”
At once, I heard a voice behind me say, “Non, non, et non.”
I turned around to see the man behind me in line: a small, gray-haired man wearing small, round spectacles, his index finger wagging energetically. I must have looked puzzled enough to encourage an explanation.
“C’est LE croissant. Masculin.”
“Excusez-moi, monsieur. Je suis anglais.”
“Ah, bon? I speak English.” He held out his hand. “Farigoule.”
“Mayle.” We shook hands, I picked up the baguette and le croissant and turned to leave, but Monsieur Farigoule hadn’t finished. “Wait for me outside,” he said. “We will have coffee.” He looked at his watch. “Or perhaps an apéritif.”
We settled down at our table, and Monsieur Farigoule opened the proceedings. “I get very little chance to speak English with an Englishman,” he said, “and so I am going to make the most of you.”
Which he did, for nearly an hour, speaking good, charmingly accented
English, pausing only to order more rosé or to check with me that he had used a word correctly. He was, he told me, recently retired from his job as an English teacher at a local school, and was finding retirement a little tedious. The level of intellectual discussion in the village was inadequate, and he was already bored with spending his days tending his small garden. “The brain is like a muscle,” he said. “It must be exercised or it will wither. Now tell me: What are you doing to improve your French?”
I looked at him. I wanted to learn French. Here was a professional teacher with plenty of spare time. It wasn’t a difficult decision. We agreed to meet each week. Monsieur Farigoule would organize what he called a curriculum. There would be homework. My French, as Farigoule put it, would “blossom like a flower in springtime.” As our glasses were emptied and refilled, it became clear that he was extremely knowledgeable about the local wines, knowledge which he promised to share with me. I was delighted. I would have not only a professeur personnel but also an experienced palate to guide me through the confusing selection of wines to drink, wines to keep, and wines to avoid.
Jennie, who had just acquired her own teacher, was almost as pleased as I was. Together, we would escape the Anglophone club of expatriate English speakers who resolutely cling to their native tongue. As a first step, we would start speaking French to the dogs.