Is it possible to deromanticize one of the most romantic lands on Earth? Perhaps not, and yet we hope that our book might help puncture some of the enduring myths about France and its people. Yes, many French people buy regionally sourced foods at their local markets, but they are just as likely to stock up at the hypermarché behemoths out in the suburbs (which, by the way, will include long aisles of junk food just like anywhere else). The French may not have hit American levels of obesity and ill-health, but they may be on their way: more than half of French people over thirty are overweight, and as we have seen, fast food and processed meals have made giant inroads into the French diet. And while of course it is possible to enjoy exquisite meals in Paris, the capital is also full of purely awful restaurants serving reheated slop, coasting on the gastronomic reputation built up by the city over the centuries. In short, while there are many French habits and preferences that justify a sense of exceptionalism—the French do genuinely care more about their cuisine and their dining habits than many other peoples, and it is one of the finest gastronomic traditions in the world—we must also acknowledge that there are many ways in which the French are not so very different from anyone else.
For example, one of the recurring themes we have explored is the substantial gulf that usually exists between the diets of the rich and the poor. The Celtic elites drank Roman wines instead of cervoise, and prosperous monks found innovative ways to satisfy both God and their stomachs. Nobles feasted on roasted meats while peasants scrabbled for vegetables—at least, until Catherine de’ Medici and Louis XIV elevated vegetables to a more exalted perch. Exotic spices and sugar were the preserve of the wealthy until relatively recently, and even during times of siege and war, the richest citizens continued to enjoy their delicacies. It is much the same today, and not only in France. Much attention is devoted to the greatest chefs and the finest restaurants, and the eating habits of the upper classes are sometimes assumed to define an entire national cuisine. Everyday eating by ordinary people does not elicit much interest—unless foodie trendsetters unearth an interesting dish or ingredient and bestow upon it a sort of modern-day “nobility,” or worthiness.
In short, what we eat can reveal a great deal about the divisions and inequalities that fracture our societies. By examining “foodways”—the political, economic, and social practices related to food in a particular region or era—we can learn much about who holds the most power in a society, what sorts of values they prioritize, and how they sustain their elevated position. We can also learn about the most deprived communities, the constraints and limitations they face in simply trying to feed themselves and survive, and what this indicates about the broader society in which they live. And we can see how all these dynamics change over time, thanks to evolving tastes or innovation, restless exploration or wartime devastation. “Tell me what you eat, and I will tell you what you are,” said Brillat-Savarin, presaging the creation of a robust field of study.1
The notion of foodways also helps in exploring a second theme that runs throughout this book: the tension between Paris and the provinces. Anyone who has ever visited the various regions of France outside the capital will find it difficult to believe that regional cuisines were so long disparaged within France, and largely unknown outside its borders. Some of the most classic French foods and some of its most divine wines were mostly local favorites until relatively recently. The food scene in Paris continues to command the most attention internationally, yet most French people outside of Paris are scornful of the capital’s provisions, much preferring their own regional cuisines. And indeed, if you spend some time in Lyon, Marseille, La Rochelle, Nantes, or many other French towns and cities, you will probably find a mind-blowingly good array of local dishes, served up with minimal fanfare but a great deal of local pride.
The idea of terroir is central to these regional dishes and the affection they inspire, and indeed we have seen throughout this book the almost religious devotion that French people have to the concept: the Roquefort cheese that can only be aged in a particular network of caves, the cognac aged in barrels that can only be made with a specific kind of wood, the minuscule wine domaines of Burgundy. Terroir is the foundation for the innumerable varieties of honey and oysters and salt, all taking on the flavors of their home in a process that can seem more alchemy than pure science, however rigorous the AOC system tries to be.
While the concept of terroir is limited to the realm of food and wine, our historical narrative shows that similar precepts of localism underlie the regional identities that continue to be strong within France today. A Breton, for example, is someone from the region of Brittany, who may perhaps speak some of the Breton language (a Celtic language, more similar to Welsh or Gaelic) and enjoy the rollicking strains of Breton chansons. They will almost certainly be convinced that Breton cuisine is the best cuisine in France. They may feel that their primary identity is Breton, not French, even five hundred years after Brittany was politically absorbed into France. Similar dynamics can be found in many other parts of France—in the Basque region and the Languedoc, in the cities of Marseille and Strasbourg. This is not to say that French nationalism is weak—the French can be exceedingly patriotic—but rather that identities and loyalties are layered, and in a contest between one’s locality and Paris, the capital will often lose. In this sense, the maintenance of regional cuisines, and the sheer variety of cuisines throughout France, is a useful illustration of the fact that French identity is not monolithic, nor static.
We hope our book has demonstrated that French cuisine is not monolithic either, and not only because of its regional variations. The benefit of this long historical exploration is that it reveals the enormous influence of foreign cuisines within French gastronomy. Many elements believed to be ineffably French—the wines and liqueurs, the pastries and chocolates, the flavors of Provence—are not native to France but arrived upon its shores over the centuries and were gradually absorbed. It is a process often described more benignly than it deserves, as in many cases these foreign imports were the result of invasion, conquest, and colonization—a process not yet concluded, as the colonial cuisines of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries continue their slow assimilation into French gastronomy, with still uncertain outcomes.
We believe this extended historical narrative helps present far-right groups like the Front National as—to be blunt—even more ridiculous than they at first appear. Their use of food and culinary traditions to uphold a pure and monolithic French culture looks even more idiotic when you consider that everything from croissants to vineyards, from tomatoes to potatoes, from sugar to chocolate have been imports. There is no pure French gastronomy: it has always accepted ingredients and ideas from around the world, and in the process it became the world’s greatest cuisine for centuries. There is no reason to think that this dynamic should be any different today, and thus it must be said that the real roots of the FN’s culinary crusades are simple xenophobia. Their recent popularity is worrisome, and it may be that keeping an eye on the success of their anti-Islamic food campaigns can provide some indications of how the movement is faring.
In the end, it is perhaps predictable that food can explain so much about a country that cares so much about it. As France wrestles with the serious challenges of the twenty-first century, with its own identity on the world stage, and with its social conflicts at home, we can perhaps gain a different understanding of its people and its politics by exploring their gastronomic habits and trends. In doing so, we may discover new ways in which our societies have more in common than we think, which can only help encourage the kinds of cooperation necessary to adequately address the epic global challenges we all face. And along the way, we can take the opportunity to sample new dishes and drinks, to enjoy some of the most delicious cuisine ever fashioned, with perhaps a new appreciation for the centuries of events and exchanges—some epochal, some ordinary—that produced the foods and wines gracing our tables today. Bon appétit.