Souvenirs from France

This article was first posted on The Malaysian Insider on 12 November 2011. The original version is reproduced here.

They live a lifestyle where clichés appears original.

Even with an armload, a baguette is conspicuously seen tucked under an armpit. It is almost as if that part of the body, often scorned as an object of odour despair, is made to cater for that precise purpose. I find this curious observation simply marvellous for who would’ve thought that the dreaded armpit can serve as a tool to hold food?

Here, dogs are men’s best friends, even for the destitute and homeless. The odds of encountering a homeless man begging for a stick of cigarette are higher than a stray dog begging for food. A man can be homeless but a dog is usually never without a master. I suppose it makes perfect sense to have someone who loves you unconditionally as your best friend. Dogs certainly make great candidates.

Old and young couples take lingering strolls with their palms locked together, almost always interrupted by long pauses of embrace and kisses. Evidently, their air is not only filled with the scent of expensive perfume but also of love and desire. It is a home where love is often made, not babies.

They live a lifestyle of intricate contradictions that can easily inspire a voluminous collection of great ideas for dinner party conversations.

For example, some women (of any age) may feel completely at ease lying naked on a public beach, but would never be caught dead strutting along the promenade in a g-string bikini, as you would have seen on American television. They make nudity seems natural and unintentional. Nobody blinks or gapes and it’s just another summer of sun and fun.

Foie gras isn’t just a piece of politically incorrect food but one that provokes the question of how well the rest of world are treating their own animals before turning them into American quarter pounders and fried chickens. The cows I’d seen on the Pyrenees are probably one of the healthiest and happiest in the world and needless to say, pets are not meant to be chained and confined to the porch. Neither are they to be subjected to the ridicule of dressing up like human beings.

Prostitution is tolerated more than pretty women who prey on wealthy men (and vice versa). Should sexual morality be held more sacred than deceit, dishonesty and greed?

Among the three virtues upheld by their national motto, liberty is perhaps the one that is most treasured and practised by them. It is often linked to a philosophical way of life, rather than just a literal translation of the word.

Restrictions and obstacles are to be limited and overcome as much as possible so that one can experience joie de vivre to the fullest. Being obedient to the notion that “I-shouldn’t-be-doing-this-because-society-says-so” does not make you decorous, but a body that’s absent mind, spirit and soul.

They talk about politics, religion and sex more openly than Malaysians talk about food. There are no sensitivities surrounding these issues because one of their greatest thinkers once said that he might disagree with what another person said, but he would defend to his death the right of that person’s speech. Plus, it would be completely delusional to believe that if you don’t talk about sex, it means you don’t think about it at all. The same applies to the rest of the other issues. Besides, isn’t it true that dissenting views are the ones that make far more interesting and intelligent conversations? A winning view is one that withstands the test of challenge, not one that is won by default.

I went for a walk on the promenade overlooking the Atlantic Ocean in Biarritz on an early Sunday morning. It was quiet and calm as the whole sea resort was still recuperating from the night’s partying. I stopped at one point to breathe in the cold morning air and when I looked down, there was a small group of men and women getting undressed together.

From afar, one wouldn’t take a second look to conclude that they were just a bunch of crazy kids attempting to conquer the cold sea water but for their silvery white hair. Stripped down to their bathing suits, only then were their age revealed. They could easily be at least seventy years old judging from the loose and heavily wrinkled skin all over their tanned body.

They ran towards the sea and dived into the freezing water with the courage and capriciousness of teenage adrenaline. Their total abandonment sent a strange shiver down my spine and it wasn’t until later when I understood that feeling as freedom and happiness.

According to French revolutionists, "Liberty consists of being able to do anything that does not harm others: thus, the exercise of the natural rights of every man or woman has no bounds other than those that guarantee other members of society the enjoyment of these same rights.”

I learned from them that freedom applies to all; whether you’re a grandfather, a mother of three, blind or a homosexual, as long as you’ve not done anything to have caused that right to be taken away from you. You’re free to live the life you choose and not what society expects of you. Passing judgments should be left in a court of law; not at school, workplace, supermarket, park or even the street.

Perhaps that is why women sunbathe naked but not strut around in mini bikinis. It’s not about parading their bodies for the whole world to see. It’s about feeling free in your own skin.

Maybe that’s what liberty really means.

Technorati Tags: France,joie de vivre,baguette,liberty,French revolutionist,g-string bikini,Biarritz,Pyrennes,foie gras,quarter pounder,Atlantic Ocean,homosexuality

Slurping oysters in Bouzigues

I’ve never been to France during spring. I have always been there during summer, autumn and winter but never spring. What’s France, particularly the South, without spring when towering sunflowers and lavender scented fields grace the landscape of charming villages?

My husband owns an old 19th century family house in a quiet village called Gigean near the city of Montpellier. It’s not particularly a charming village but it’s close enough to Bouzigues and Sete, which come alive during the summer due to their coastal placement. Many city dwellers make their annual summer pilgrimage there to enjoy the azure Mediterranean sea and of course fresh seafood.

My husband always insists on going to Bouzigues for its famous seafood platter whenever we’re there. There’s a small but extremely quaint restaurant that serves a big platter of fresh oysters (huitres) for two and a bottle of Picpoul de Pinet white wine at a very reasonable price (around 30 Euros in total). Nothing really beats enjoying this dish al-fresco style where the temperature is perfect while listening to the distant flapping of seagulls’ wings.

Since we dined there quite regularly, we had become familiar with the owner of the restaurant, a dignified-looking woman in her mid-40s, who according to my husband, laughs like a horse and was unashamed to tell her (much to my mortification). I doubt she remembers us since we haven’t been back to the restaurant for more than two years. Unless of course, my husband decides to remind her of that neighing laugh.

I was never a fan of fresh oysters. Growing up in Malaysia, the only oysters I enjoyed was the fried oyster omelette (O’Chien), which I’m sure would horrify any self-respecting French. I can just hear them scream out reproachfully, “Wat iz it? Mais non! Im-po-zee-ble! You ex-peck me to eat deez, huh? Aarh you crah-zee?! By ze way, I am not ungry anymoghre, huh. No, no, I am not angry, I am ungry. UNG-RY. No, I mean not ungry. Ooh-la-la, merde!”

Fortunately, over the years, I’ve begun to appreciate the taste of it after my husband persistently persuaded me to try them.

I’ve slowly discovered that eating oyster is not the same as eating foie gras (goose or duck liver pate), and yes, I love foie gras right from the beginning despite the cruelty of it all. Actually, eating oysters is no less cruel since you eat them while they are literally alive!

Anyway, eating fresh oysters in France has a ceremonious ritual to it, a bit like tea-drinking ceremony in Japan with none of the subdued rigidity but the same elegance. You wouldn’t imagine that the sight of slurping that piece of slimy meat off its shuck (oyster shell) would be anything but elegance.

First of all, the French eat oysters only during the months that are spelled with a “r” (from September to April). It has nothing to do with superstitions. During spring and summer, the water in the sea becomes warmer which causes the flesh to become milky and hence impairing the taste.

Secondly, the French don’t just tackle the oysters straight away. Before the platter arrives, they carefully spread salted butter on a small piece of brown bread. They exchange news while drinking aperitif; usually whiskey, pastis (or the infamous Ricard!), or kir.

When the platter finally arrives, they show appreciation towards the oysters, nestled on a bed of crushed ice and garnished with fresh sea weeds with a sigh of delight and a huge smile. They take a few moments to feast their eyes on the large platter, sometimes in two tier.

It’s interesting how the customers sitting next to your table almost always tend to take an admiring peek at the platter and flash a solidarity smile while they anticipate theirs to arrive. For those who order something else, there’s always this regretful look on them.

Then, they take their time to garnish each shuck with a splash of shallot vinegar or a squeeze of lemon juice (oyster purists will have theirs without any condiment), stir it delicately around the oyster with a tiny fork to ensure optimum blending.

The vinegar or lemon juice is to complement (not to get rid of)  the strong sea water smell and taste. When opening an oyster shuck, the sea water must never be drained or wasted. This salty water must remain in its shucks even when you eat them. So, never drain them out before you prepare the oysters for eating. What really tells a fresh oyster apart from an imported frozen one is the sea water.

At the same time, the fork is used to gently scrap the meat off the shuck. For a true novice, there is no telling whether this might end up in a disaster. Unless you want to be Mr. Bean having a vacation in France, do attempt this with utmost vigilance.

Now, they are ready. They gently slurp the oyster, let it settles in their mouths for a few seconds and then slowly swallow it with great relish. While the taste still linger on their palettes, they wash it down with a sip of white wine. Picpoul de Pinet is often the best companion for this.

Usually, the French are rather chatty when it comes to dining. They converse animatedly, argue passionately and laugh heartily. But I’ve come to notice that when it comes to eating oysters, they tend to become more “civilised” in manner. Perhaps, the concentration of  coordinated hand movements while preparing an oyster makes it harder to gesticulate and focus on topics that require full engagement.

Thirdly, if they don’t live by the sea, most French indulge in oysters during Christmas and New Year. It’s that special kind of dish that takes a lot of hard work to prepare. Sure, they are eaten raw and there is no need to cook them but cleaning and opening the tight shucks require special manipulation of an oyster knife.

Since it needs quite a substantial amount of force to pry the shucks open, the men usually attend to this task. It’s a bit like opening up a durian. Instead of being pricked by the durian’s spikes, if not careful, you can easily be pricked by the oyster knife since it’s difficult to have a good grip of the tiny rough shuck while giving it a good pry. It’s best handled with gloves or towels to protect your hand.

I used to like moule frite (mussels and fries) and soup de poisson (fish soup) best amongst all the seafood in France, but now I’m actually looking forward to my next oyster experience in France. It’s not so much the taste that excites me. It’s the whole ritual. If you’re eating something else, you tend to feel left out.

Shucks! I guess I’ll have to wait patiently for it.

P/s: I’m thinking of starting a series of stories on my experience in France. Please feel free to provide any comments on what interest you about the country.

A lesson in “savoire faire”?

I read this somewhere:

An American was writing a book on French idioms-phrases that cannot be translated directly and often mean something other than their literal meaning, such as "to catch his eye." He was particularly vexed with the correct translation of the phrase savoire faire.

At a cocktail party in Paris, he happened upon three French businessmen conversing in a corner of the room. He approached them, explained the purpose for his visit to France and asked each of them what they thought "savoire faire" really meant.

The first one said, "Suppose I come home from work early one afternoon and find my wife in a liaison with another man. I would say to them 'Excuse me.' That would be savoire faire."

"I somewhat agree," said the second man, "but I would say to them, 'Excuse me, please continue.' That would show real savoire faire."

Finally, the third man, with an amused smile on his face, spoke up and said, "I have a totally different perspective than you do. I would say to them, 'Excuse me, please continue.' If they did, they would have savoire faire!"

Savoire faire in French means “to know how” or “world wisdom”. It defines a person who is refine, cultured, sophisticated, wise and basically knows what to do or say in a social setting.

The French pride themselves as the creator and master of savoire faire and they would like to dispute how Brits are well-known for their gentlemanly manners, if they can.

When I first met my husband, he gave me some lessons on savoire faire. For instance, when a man and a woman climb up a flight of stairs, the man should go before the woman. It is deemed rude to have a full view of the woman’s derriere from behind. And if a man dines with a woman, he must always allow the woman to choose the seat first before he settles down to sit. This is so that the woman will be given the best seat in the restaurant.

I must confess that coming from a patriarchal society, I was not used to such treatment, but be rest assured that I am getting to used to it!

You’ll notice that a lot of the savoire faire the French talk about have to do with how men treat women. (At the end of the day, it’s how well the men behave which will get the women in bed. If you don’t believe me, read Stephen Clarke’s books which make fun of the French culture.)

Anyway, tonight I had another lesson on savoire faire (I’ve said it enough times now that the words are starting to grow on me).

My husband and I went to this much rave about French restaurant in Phnom Penh called Van’s Restaurant. It’s probably one of the most chic and high end restaurant in Cambodia. Not surprising since it is set in a majestic old colonial mansion on Street 13.

You know right away that it would be a costly meal as soon as you enter the restaurant. So, as soon as we settled down, we were given two menus toute suite by a waitress who did some sort of a curtsy every time she set something on our table, much to our amusement. I couldn’t help but giggled every time she did it. Yes, not very savoire faire of me but I couldn’t control myself.

After surfing through the mouth watering array of gourmet food, I realised that there was no price attached to any of the dish. I turned to my husband and pointed out the error. He reassured me that this was normal in such a restaurant.

I was confused and I told him that this was just not right. How could we order whatever we wanted without knowing how much it would be? I feared that I might get a heart attack when the bill arrives later.

My husband, probably tired of my often frugal attitude, asked me to choose my dish and stop questioning. I managed to shut up for awhile but the price-less menu kept nagging me throughout the meal. I would ask my husband to guess how much would this and that cost, etc.

He finally gave up and in order to shut me up, he told me that he knew precisely how much everything we ordered cost.

Well, you see..in such a restaurant, it is customary that only the men’s menu comes with the price but not the women’s. It is considered rude if a woman knows how much the man would be paying for her meal.

Now, what would a feminist say about that??