Some like it hot !

One of the first things people associate with France is food and wine. But is it really as good as the French would like us to believe? Or have they been resting on their laurels? Joking about the poor quality of British food is something of a habit I have with my students, an ice-breaker that animates most French: but coming from a capital city the size and status of London I was honestly underwhelmed by the dining experience when I arrived in Grenoble. Now, however, food is one of the aspects of British culture that I do not miss in the slightest. Occasionally I get pangs of nostalgia for a full English breakfast – particularly, as they are conspicuously absent from supermarket shelves: bacon, British-style sausages and baked beans – and other novelty items such as hot cross buns, scones and, um, Marmite (try convincing the French to eat that!). Happily enough Britain is not so far away that I can’t indulge in some of these ‘delicacies’ once in a while and, in the case of the Full English, sometimes regret.

On the whole, however, I take enormous pleasure from eating in France, from the abundance of fresh, regional produce, from the sheer dizzyinging choice of things to taste and savour. I am horrified when I hear British ex-patriots bemoan the absence here of Britain’s attention deficit inducing confectionary: our fizzy drinks, crisps and chocolate, even our white sliced bread. In a nation where Chocolateries take the preparation of desserts to a new artform, hearing people pine for Cadbury’s – a product not even legally permitted to call itself chocolate – seems laughable.

Before painting a generally complimentary portrait of the current state of French cuisine, Rough Guide to France mourns the fact that “those little family restaurants serving classic dishes serving the region’s produce – and where the bill is less than 15 euro – are increasingly hard to find. The processed, boil-in-a-bag and ready-to-microwave productions of the global food industry … are making serious inroads”. This tallies with my experience: one too many times I’ve had to endure hastily defrosted gratin dauphinois literally swimming in oil. Many eateries in Grenoble and further afield serve frankly sloppy fare at prices which would be considered steep even by London standards (especially given the current exchange rate). While Britain is dominated by chain restaurants, such fare meets modest expectations and is not normally overpriced. Moreover, it is usually served with a smile, and that is not always true in France.

Personally, though, I prefer the pleasure of a home cooked meal to eating out. If you enjoy cooking, like I do, you will attest to the fact that the pleasure of food is not just in the eating. France is paradise for someone like me. Coming from Tescoised Britain, where supermarkets have a cartel-like stranglehold on food retail and where independent greengrocers, butchers and bakeries are becoming a thing of the past, France is heaven. Every district seems reasonably well catered for in this respect, while traditional outdoor markets are still the central focus for many communities.

I am also amazed at gripes from ex-patriots concerning shop opening hours in France, where bakeries and butchers are often open on Sundays, and normally until 7pm during the week to catch trade on the run home from work. The high cost of hiring casual work in France means such businesses may close down while their owners take summer holidays – an almost unthinkable concept for many Anglophones – but on the whole the shops open at times that serve the needs of their clientele. In Britain the only shops open after 7pm are the likes of Tesco, Londis and Seven Eleven. When I lived in London there were few authentic bakers, butchers and greengrocers open on the weekend after Saturday morning – no chance of really fresh bread on Sunday. So what if Carrefour is closed on Sunday? Who wants to go to Carrefour on a Sunday?

Cultural observers will point to the meteoric rise of British chefs such as Gordon Ramsey and Jamie Oliver both domestically and internationally as evidence of the nation’s resurrection as a nation of foodies. However, this phenomenon seems more symptomatic of Britain’s celebrity obsession and boom and bust attitude towards PR, than some wind-change in British cooking. Ramsey is already feeling a massive press backlash in Britain from the very papers who contributed to his initial success. Meanwhile, Jamie Oliver’s books continue to sell by the shed load, but most British supermarkets still don’t carry all of the basic ingredients required to make the recipes. While the supermarkets improve sluggishly, something about the current food culture in the UK smells of hype and faddishness. There is still this notion that ‘quality’ = ‘luxury’, so that perfectly ordinary (certainly by French standards) products are branded as de lux.

In France people seem much more in touch with flavours and ingredients. The seasonal food culture that I vaguely remember from my childhood still exists here but seems all but dead now in a Tescoised Britain. Here people know the difference between fresh strawberries and those flown in from, say, Israel, to fill supermarket shelves in November; or between delicious ripe tomatoes or those grown in enormous Dutch greenhouses for all-year-round consumption. I am consistently impressed in France with people’s engagement with food: many of my students brewing their own alcoholic drinks out of seasonal flowers (génépy, for example), or out picking elusive Morille champignon in the Vercors in the small window of opportunity between the snow melting and the onset of spring. I was only aware of one type of mushroom before I came to France, in Grenoble there are whole festivals devoted to their variety. In the late summer, opportunist pedestrians can be seen in my district picking wild berries by the side of the road; while my students have regaled me with stories of hunting sanglier (wild boar).

Another student of mine, a gruff former truck driver, has a fine palate for wine, and responded to a Guinness dégustation (tasting event) at my school by identifying caramel and coffee among its flavours, a pensive finger placed on his temple. It’s unfair but still hard to imagine a British truck driver being able to identify much more than how many sugars there are in his tea. That people are knowledgeable and passionate about food in France generally seems to transcend socio-economic and cultural barriers in ways that sadly can’t be said about the UK. The French love of food has even been attributed to the famous French paradox: how the French can indulge in a relatively high-calorie diet and stay comparatively slim.

If there is a less pleasant side to the French love of their food culture and traditions, it’s their insularity and dismissal of other nations’ specialities. I have tried on many occasions to convince my adult students of the finer points of Christmas Pudding, a dish which to be prepared properly involves the kind of lengthy preparation that would bore even a Lyon bouchon chef. Such attempts were met with suspicion and sometimes mockery: one student said something along the lines of “first it looks like shit, and then when you taste it you wish it had been shit”. Charming. As I said at the beginning of the article, I’m prepared to concede French superiority in culinary matters, but as a reasonably competent and open-minded cook, I won’t be condescended.

In inclusive Britain, we have plugged the gaps in our own food culture by embracing that of other nations. Indian restaurants, for example, a staple of British life, are not always quite so edifying in France. Imagine my disappointment when ordering a Tikka Masala at a centrally located curry house to be served chicken covered in what can only be described as instant gravy mixed with saffron for a tangy colouring. Evidently tempered for delicate French palates, the very soul of Indian cooking had been exorcised. I am happy to report, however, that there is at least one good Indian restaurant in Grenoble, ‘The Bombay’ on Cours Jean Jaures. They don’t serve Vindaloo but the helpful waiters normally ask how hot you would like it, so British castaways such as myself can sweat through their dinner like back home, cooling their tongues in Cobra and Kingfisher beers. And just in case you forget you’re in France, they offer you an apéritif too: a happy comprimise indeed for an English drunkard like me!

Related Posts:

• What do YOU love about Grenoble?
• Don’t stress: it’s France!
• What is a student to do in Grenoble?
• Frugal living in Grenoble. Part I: Food
• “Just add sugar and hot sauce!” – an interview with Bob and Sylvie of Pumpkins