ISLAND VOICES
French — with grain of salt
By Clyde McAvoy
The French have started to spit in our direction to make sure we get their message on our war with Iraq, until recently their largest clandestine trading partner. This is a good opportunity to examine some of the false standards by which, out of politesse, we have always measured the French.
Starting with cuisine, the French have coached us to genuflect when their sauces are brought to the table. Because of the care with which the ingredients are mixed, they will tell you all about it. What they won't tell you is that there is no such thing as a respectable cut of meat in all of France. The sauces, then, are for the purpose of masquerading cuts from the haunch of a horse or a slice of goat. To avoid ridicule, don't try ordering a good steak or rib of prime beef in a restaurant. Ce n'exist pas.
Moving on to very expensive French perfume, why is that the province of the French, instead of the Brits or the Belgians or anyone else? For the answer, try a visit, for example, to the local post office or any other natural gathering place where French are inclined to bunch up. A shortage of bath water becomes sufficiently apparent to make you gag.
The absence of a glass of water at French restaurants can also be understood, along with the realization of why the latest craze for bottled water started, you know, over there.
All right, all right. French fashions have captured the market. But where are the French models to sell them? Truth be told, the French are a bit short in the leg. Even the Folies Bergere is peopled extensively with busty, long-legged Brits.
There are institutions in French that man the bulwarks to prevent foreign words of any origin creeping into their sacred language. The latest is from the innocent-sounding le weekend. Offenders, with sly looks, will sometimes slip this and other violations into their conversations. But let a foreigner try it, and he will get blank looks.
The United Nations encounters hilarious situations at regional forums in which participants, all of whom may speak perfect English, attempt to conduct their proceedings without time-consuming assistance from interpreters. Whereas well-educated diplomats from dozens of countries will use English when they address the forum, the French will inevitably insist on speaking their native language.
So where is the antidote to all this? If there is a feral Frenchman in your neighborhood, round him up and force-feed him some American fast food. He will make une face that's worth capturing with a Kodak.
Clyde McAvoy is a retired diplomat now living in Kailua.
