LOTS OF VISITORS to France have amusing language faux pas tales to tell. One common mistake, for example, is to say “Je suis plein” for “I’m full” after a meal—since the phrase Je suis plein means “I’m pregnant” (“J’ai assez mangé” is a better way to say you don’t want seconds). No matter how well one might know the language, it’s still hard to speak it flawlessly, as the author of this piece attests.
JOSEPH VOELKER is dean of the College of Arts and Sciences at the University of Hartford. Previously he held the position of associate dean at Franklin & Marshall College, where he also served on the English department faculty for many years.
IT IS FUNNY that we Americans, in our current enthusiasm for cultural diversity, have collectively decided to be tolerant of all national and ethnic groups on the planet except the French. If a Bororo chieftain starts beating his wife in their hut, the visiting American anthropologist—though feminist to the core—will stand by and say nothing. But she’ll tell you a story that vilifies the French waiter who refused to bring her a wine list.
No doubt there are complex historical reasons for this acceptability of French-bashing: their arrogance as inheritors of a two-thousand-year-old culture, their irksomely deserved reputation for elegance and knowing how to live. And the fact that they are rude.
If we speak English, French waiters and hotel receptionists ignore us. If we try to speak French, they respond in English—and not always the best English at that. We are humiliated by this response. Why do they act so superior? Having recently spent a year living just outside Nantes, I venture a couple of amateurish explanations, in the spirit that tout comprendre est tout pardonner—to understand everything is to forgive everything.
First, the French language is simply much harder than the English. It certainly seems to have more tenses, moods, and genders, and it’s full of subtle and numerous irregularities. For instance, they don’t pronounce the f in oeufs (eggs); for deux oeufs you have to say “duhz uhh.” French is hard to articulate. The French mouth is far more tense than the English and makes its sounds farther to the front, where seemingly minor errors can create major shifts in significance.
French people, from elementary school onward, learn their language in an atmosphere of intimidation. As corporal punishment was the medium in which our ancestors learned Latin, so humiliation is the medium in which the French learn French. As a result, they associate speaking badly with stupidity. At a dinner party recently, a French friend who is by no means pedantic told me she couldn’t drink another glass of wine because it would cause her to make mistakes in the subjunctive.
Two of the best speakers of the French language in public life are François Mitterrand and Jean-Marie Le Pen, who correspond roughly in our political system to George H. W. Bush and Jesse Helms respectively. The two men are politically opposed on every count: Mitterrand is a socialist; Le Pen is a far-right xenophobe. But they share one attribute: they are able to employ the imperfect subjunctive spontaneously, in public speeches. It’s a risky business; errors will be reported in the press. But doing it wins them respect and even votes.
In any given year, the French middle schooler will have one course in French orthography, one in French grammar, and one in French literature. All are hard, and all present the risk of humiliation. One reason the French are generally not good at foreign languages and avoid learning them is that they have no desire to suffer the agonies of French class all over again in another tongue. The vast majority—who by the way are not Paris waiters—are shy about speaking English because they fear they will sound funny.
A French academic I know (he’s a Spanish professor) told me the story of a confrontation he witnessed in Paris. A retirement-aged American couple approached a Parisian and asked him where “Noder Daaame” was. The man responded by shrugging his shoulders and making a sound that I’m going to spell “PFFFFFT.” Then he walked away.
Now, first of all, “PFFFFFT” is part of the French language. It means “I don’t know” or “I don’t understand.” It is neither rude nor hostile. Children respond to teachers and parents with it. It is utterly unrelated to our “raspberry,” which is spelled “PHGFPGHFPFRRRT.” The man made this gesture because he was a prisoner inside the difficult French phonetic system, in which Noder Daaame cannot by any stretch of the ear and brain be transformed into Nuhtr Dom-uh.
Okay, you answer. He didn’t understand and he said, “I don’t know.” But why did he walk away instead of trying to help?
Well, France has been invaded a lot. Caesar arrived in 52 BC. Then there were a half dozen Germanic and Hungarian migrations, followed by the Vikings, who stayed a century. And let’s not forget three modern German invasions within a period of seventy years. Sometimes it is difficult for people whose country has never been invaded and occupied to understand people for whom that is a central fact of their national history. It is not admirable on the part of the French that they are not crazy about foreigners, but it runs very, very deep.
Hence, when the French insist on answering our noble efforts at their language by speaking English, we should be more forgiving. First, these are tired people trying to get through a day’s work with dead-end jobs in the tourism industry. Second, they are sparing us from looking ridiculous, and thus embarrassing them in turn.
Early in my own sojourn in France, when I was by no means linguistically up to snuff, I found myself in the express lane of a grocery store. A tall young man challenged me—I didn’t catch all the words—for being in the wrong lane. I stammered out an answer, to which he replied, “Oh, m’sieur, vous ne parlez pas Français” (“You don’t speak French”). Instead of letting it go, I said, “Mais, essayez-moi” (“Try me”), unaware that the phrase is a standard homosexual come-on. Only his wife derived any enjoyment from the scene, and her “Oh, Jean-Pierre, oh la la la la la la!” will stay with me until I die.
Once I inadvertently told a French family gathered at the dinner table that my mother used to make wonderful jellies and she never put condoms in them (les préservatifs). Once I phoned a neighbor to ask directions to a famous château and, wanting to know if she thought it was worth a visit, tried to ask, “Vous l’avez vu?” (“Have you seen it?”). But the American phonetic system (and my untrained mouth) couldn’t distinguish among the different French u’s, and so what I actually said was “Vous lavez-vous?” (“Do you bathe yourself?”). She laughed inexplicably. An hour after hanging up, I realized what I’d said.
Just learning the body language to enter and order something in a bakery in France is a small challenge. Somehow we Americans never know where to stand. We end up dead center in the store, with everyone staring at us. I can offer some advice for negotiating small shops.
Begin with “Bonjour,” followed always by “m’sieur” or “madame.” (“Bonjour” by itself is rather abrupt—even, well, rude. In fact, I’d bet that that retired American couple approached that Parisian in a manner that seemed awfully brusque by his lights.) When you are handed your bag of croissants, say “Merci, m’sieur” or “Merci, madame.” And always say “Au revoir” or “Bonne journée” or something equivalent when you leave. If that’s all the French you ever speak, you’ll be thought of as an intriguingly polite American.
And if you want to try the language, don’t do it in the American Express office in Paris, for heaven’s sake. That poor guy may have spent the last six hours in that cage. Get out of Paris, off the beaten track, where the people don’t speak English, and where some of them will be delighted to chat with you. Try retired people: they’ve generally got the time, and therefore the patience, to let you practice.
If you need a subject, ask a question about food—or wine. Here’s a sure thing. Ask if the region produces good asparagus—or, if you’re near the coast, good oysters. These are questions so subtle, so complex, so rife with possibilities for a Frenchman to display a Cartesian clarity, that you will likely have a full hour in which you won’t have to do anything but listen. If you want to say “Ah, bon?” (“Oh, really?”) once in a while, go ahead. It’s thought to be encouraging.
It pleases me to remember that the story I used to tell most often in conversation with new French acquaintances was the one about the grocery store, the “essayez-moi” story. I suppose I was shrewd enough to see that it endeared me to them. It was the sort of moment that they, as French people, feared the most. It is hard to explain, but it got me over a bridge. It made me human, rather than another bossy, abrupt American. “Oh, le pauvre!” they would say—“Poor thing!”—laughing in genuine sympathy.
“I seem to have accidentally on purpose devised a tradition of celebrating my birthday (in February) in Paris. I’ve been there consistently over the course of the last ten years or so. Bon Appétit magazine is based in Los Angeles, and one of the best birthday trips was definitely along the lines of “You can take the girl out of Hollywood, but …” I managed to find out which brasserie was featured in Something’s Gotta Give, that delightful comedy with Diane Keaton, Jack Nicholson, and Keanu Reeves. Not only did my friend Stephanie Curtis track down the restaurant for us—Le Grand Colbert behind the Opéra—but she managed to reserve for Paul (Nagle, my life partner) and me the same table where Keaton and Reeves sat; there was a very discreet poster for the movie placed behind the banquette. That night we had all the classics—superb fresh oysters, perfectly cooked chateaubriand for two, pommes dauphine, profiteroles, Champagne, a great bottle of Margaux. I can’t think of a better place—or more delicious way—to mark the passing of another year.”
—Barbara Fairchild, food writer, editor, consultant, and former editor in chief, Bon Appétit
