Did You Hear The One About The Stupid Englishman...?

Communication with the teachers is improving, unsurprisingly at the same rate as my general level of French. Just about everybody tutoies me now, and my big success of the day was when the headmaster shook my hand and asked me how I was, as he does every morning, and I managed to reply with a confident, “Ca va bien, merci!” instead of my usual terrified, indecipherable squeak. I was rewarded with a broad smile of relief.

I’ve discovered that self-deprecation is definitely the way forward when it comes to befriending the French, at least as an English person. They adore Britons who acknowledge their country’s funny little habits and can laugh at themselves. For example, when it rains (which is often), a guaranteed way to get into their good books is to grin and announce that I feel at home and that I deliberately chose the wettest region of France because all the heat and sunshine of the South would be too much of a shock. And they never tire of the joke of offering me tea and staggering with surprise at an anglaise who has coffee instead*.

In the canteen – oh, and that’s a whole story of its own. My, but the French know how to do lunches. It’s no wonder they allow an hour and a half for le dejeuner when there’s so much of it and it’s so good. For 2 euros, you get a hot meal (with meat, veg etc and of restaurant standard), a salad course, French bread, a selection of cheese, and a dessert or fruit. For the same price in most British canteens, you can get a slice of cardboard pizza and some limp, lukewarm chips.

But I digress, which is easy to do when it comes to food over here. The other day, in the canteen, the special of the day was assiette anglaise, or an English platter. I’m not sure how they figured that out since it was in fact salmon fillet with hollandaise sauce, potatoes and broccoli, but it was delicious nevertheless. My colleagues asked me if it was what I considered to be an English meal. I took a mouthful, chewed it thoughtfully, and then swallowed, before replying no, because it wasn’t burnt. And voilà: how to make friends in France.



* My usual response is that we save tea for crises instead. Your husband’s leaving you? Your grandma just died? The house is on fire? I’ll put the kettle on, then. The French, of course, prefer the far more effective remedy of cognac in these cases.