Why do people come to France from all over the world to eat? One of the more imaginative theories was proposed by American science fiction writer William Gibson. As our bodies are whisked at supersonic speeds from continent to continent, our souls, and thus our five senses, struggle to keep up. If the journey is long—say Los Angeles to Paris—they don’t arrive at the same time. Sight and taste set down first; touch, hearing and smell rejoin our bodies only after.
Why else do new arrivals, waking on their first morning in Paris, stare out at the skyline in mute appreciation, spend a morning strolling around the city in silent awe, then enter, famished, a promising restaurant?
The dish by chef Alan Ducasse on the table in the dining room
The French waiter learns early to accommodate them. Nodding amiably at their struggling Franglais, he delivers their order to the kitchen, then returns with slices of fresh baguette, the golden crust crisp but yielding, the interior white and elastic. He may also include a few pats of butter, their dairy richness set off with crystals of sea salt that crunch deliciously between the teeth.
And then wine. Of course, there must be wine. A meal without wine is like a kiss without a cuddle, a boiled egg without salt. The carafe of cabernet franc from the Languedoc does more than satisfy the thirst. It nourishes the very soul.
With their two resident senses now fully engaged, the visitors turn their eyes to the door to the kitchen, from which, in a few seconds, will issue wonders …
Well, perhaps it isn’t always like that. Rubbery veal, overcooked confit de canard, and suspiciously fishy cabillaud appear in even the best restaurants. The cheapness of precooked dishes can corrupt even the most resolute graduate of the Cordon Bleu.
In many countries, there’s nothing else. Even in France, as farmers’ markets wither away, their place is taken by professional-only supermarkets selling vacuum-packed and frozen Chateaubriand and 50-gallon cans of precooked frites. Fortunately, the French government regards acquiring and preparing food as part of the patrimoine—the national heritage. An infrastructure exists to protect the supply of fresh produce and the means of conveying it to the table at maximum freshness.
To support this effort, regional authorities hold annual food fairs celebrating local cheese, wine, fruit, seafood and meat: cassoulet in Toulouse, truffles in Périgord, tiny Mirabelle plums in Nancy, chocolate at the Salon du Chocolat in Paris and wine everywhere.
Visit a street market anywhere in Paris, and you will find one or two professionals joining the housewives in sniffing, weighing and assessing each item, then filling their baskets with lettuce of maximum crispness and peaches at the peak of their perfume and juiciness.
At such places, one sees the French culinary tradition at its richest. A fromager carves a slice of elephant-skinned Saint-Nectaire from a giant wheel and offers it on his knife, while the boucher is more than happy to debone and roll a gigot of lamb to be roasted for Sunday lunch, or explain the differences between a yellow chicken from Loué and a black-legged bird from Houdan.
Even the professional restaurateur can be overwhelmed by the cornucopia of French produce. Opening his first restaurant in Paris, Australian chef Jean-Paul Bruneteau could barely contain his exhilaration. “I’ve never had such sweet strawberries, juicy pineapples, ripe bananas, ripe tomatoes,” he said. “No hydroponic lettuce. Six kinds of butters to choose from. No margarine in sight. It’s food heaven here, really. Gorgeous, gorgeous, gorgeous food!”
In such a culture, it’s hardly surprising that food and its preparation should remain, as it has for centuries, a continuing preoccupation of French artists. In the cinema and TV alone, as well as the ubiquitous TV cooking programs, a filmmaker has celebrated the first woman to become head chef at the Élysée palace, showing her preparing truffle sandwiches for a dying president. Another confected a feel-good fantasy about the possibility, however remote, of a refugee family of cooks from India relocating in a French village and successfully collaborating with a traditional Michelin-starred restaurant. None, however, could quite compete with the Pixar studio’s Ratatouille, the animated film about the instincts of a great chef appearing miraculously in the spirit of a Parisian rat. Now that Hollywood, has embraced this most precious of France’s cultural treasures, its continuing survival seems assured.