The Couscous Lady
A French dining experience, accompanied by unjustified laughter and digs at the English. This essay is one of many in my Paris series.
I must preface this essay by stating that all names have been changed prior to publication.
What do you think of when you think of French cuisine? Maybe you’d think of baguettes, an array of soft cheeses, charming pastries or cakes that would comfortably conclude breakfast, lunch or dinner. Ingredients like cream, butter and cured meats may also come to mind, making it all the more surprising that the French seem to be fairly thin. And you’d be right if you were at a restaurant or in search of a light bite in a French household. But for my host family, a handsome, well-to-do family of four, main courses were nothing of the sort.
As an au pair, it is required of you to prepare the evening meals for your host children. Prior to starting my job, this was an area I was looking forward to as I enjoy the act of cooking. However, once I arrived and had settled into a routine, I realised that to refer to what I was doing as ‘cooking’, was rather strenuous. Each evening, I was asked either to simply heat up a pre-bought lasagne, carefully pealing out layers of ham, as apparently this was a way of catering to my vegetarian needs. My host dad would remark that this way I’d be able to enjoy the meaty flavours without having to digest the animal itself - I’d be being spoilt if I had thought anything other than “lucky me” to this. On other days, I’d fry up little pieces of courgette to accompany something equally small found in the fridge. I say all this with no means of sounding ungrateful. I’m just a greedy Brit who is used to a hefty plate of food with plenty of gravy and a variety of condiments.
My first introduction to a more formal and traditional sit-down meal was on my birthday. My host family very kindly arranged an evening of champagne, spreads and delicacies – a selection I’d have found comedic if told I’d be eating by my former self. As well as a belly full of tapenades and salmon eggs, the main thing I took away from the meal was the intense number of courses that the French get through. There are appetisers before the main appetisers, followed by a main course that is generally as small as said appetisers therefore making it hard to distinguish where you are on the meal’s trajectory. Next come an array of cheeses, followed by desserts and hot drinks. Of course, the only dining experience I’ve had to compare this to, is that of the English, in which you sit down for one plate of food, often filled to the rim as to wait and hold out for a second portion would mean too much time at the dinner table.
My host family have a spectacular second home in Normandy, modelled off an old English cottage with Tudoresque wooden beams and a grand log fire in the middle of the living area. Of course, these beams are freshly manicured leaving no opportunities for splinters when touched, and similarly, the fireplace forbids stray sparks from damaging the rugs as it is enclosed in a protective glass dome, therefore the rustic cottage-feel is lacking. In January of this year, I was invited to join the family on a weekend trip to Normandy. I had been once before, and despite feeling like a stranger and tiptoeing around their every move, the weekend did wonders for my relationship with Gabriel so I figured it was wise to go again. In the lead up to the weekend, I was more anxious than normal, as it had been revealed to me that on the Sunday we would be going to a woman’s home for couscous. The only knowledge I had about this person was the fact that she tended to their Normandy home when they were away, and that she would be serving me couscous in a few days’ time, thus I unambitiously labelled her ‘the couscous lady.’
When the Sunday arrived, I was unsure what to expect and had decided that I function better when I can have a couple of hours to overthink a situation first; so, I asked my host mum, Camille, a few vague questions to try and get to grips with how long I would be spending at this stranger’s house. She suspected we’d be there for maybe one and a half to two hours, acknowledging that the latter time frame was rather long though customary of a Sunday lunch. I felt uneasy on the drive over, so I played noughts and crosses with my seven-year-old, Mathilde, to steady myself. As we arrived, it became apparent that all the houses in this area of Normandy were alike in their Albion aesthetic; this house, however, felt more authentic and agrestic. The kids were introduced to the couscous lady and her to-be-presumed husband, and then it was my turn to be acquainted. I politely shook each of their hands and greeted them with an “Enchante.” I was then quickly rumbled by my host parents who revealed that I was in fact English, to which the couple appeared shocked as I’d clearly mastered my French salutations.
As we were all welcomed in, I was quick to spot the elaborately laid table, making me realise this would not be an in and out job. After some gentle chit chat, we took our seats. By this point in time, I had been living in Paris for five months, therefore believed I had a basic grasp of the French language; this lunching loudly popped that dreamy bubble. The issue is, when no context is given to me in regards to the present conversation, I struggle to pick up on what is being said, aside from the ferociously used filler “en fait”, meaning “actually”. Luckily for the French, the repeated use of “en fait” makes the person speaking sound highly expressive and passionate, unlike the English, and our constant employment of the word “like”, which sadly lowers our IQ in the eyes of the listener each time the expression spews out of our mindless mouths.
To begin with, my host dad translated the headlines of the fast-paced conversations occurring. However, shortly after, he lost interest in me, meaning I spent the majority of the afternoon confused and uncomfortable. After the initial pleasantries, the couscous lady’s partner opened some champagne. I figured if I was due to spend the whole lunch in silence, I might as well get a bit drunk. When offered a glass, I said “juste un peu”. I must have slightly mispronounced the word for a “bit”, as I found myself being laughed at. I’d pronounced the word “poux” meaning hair lice, I was told. Clearly, I hadn’t said “just a lice”, so these laughs weren’t justified. Though slightly humiliated, this had confirmed to me that I was clearly lunching with people with a poor sense of humour, meaning my lack of understanding was probably a blessing. So, publicly shamed and with my tail between my legs, I quietly sat back, drank my wine, and waited for the first course to be served.
Brought to the table were thumb sized pieces of bread – perhaps you’d call them untoasted croutons – each with a small piece of smoked salmon or asparagus upon it. The appetisers also had a small dollop of a white condiment placed beside the topping to make the dish appear fancier, but I wasn’t fooled; I knew it was mayonnaise. As the decorated bite-sized snacks disappeared, bowls of olives and breadsticks began appearing on the table. Simultaneously, I found my champagne flute being refilled. The lunch was clearly picking up pace, as was the conversation, which I was still failing to follow. I’d have found the function quite exciting if I could understand the gist of the dialogue. Instead, I focused on trying to look as natural as possible, despite being mute. I studied the olives as they entered my mouth, taking an extra amount of time to chew them so I’d look like my mouth was permanently busy, thus contributing to the conversation was simply impossible anyway. Each time I’d start to settle into my own awkwardness and began mastering the act of blocking out the surrounding noise, I’d be dragged back into the present by a member of my host family asking if I understood what had been said. Clearly, my silence became too loud.
After our plates were cleared, it was time for the dreaded couscous. I have always struggled with this dish. Its size, texture and colour resemble old pieces of food that gather in between the gaps of your teeth, so it always baffles me that people voluntarily eat bowl after bowl of it. The home-owners brought out a mountain of plain couscous accompanied by a bowl of slightly discoloured water. I wondered whether the bowl was for dipping the tips of your fingers in to clean them, like you might find in a fancy restaurant. Before I had a chance to contaminate everybody’s meal with my clammy hands, I found out the water was actually vegetable broth. Next to appear was a plate of sausages and pork chops. As to be assumed, I was the only non-meat eater at the table, alienating me further. Thankfully, the vegetables used to make the broth were then distributed, so I tucked into some boiled courgette as the rest of the table munched on various cuts of pig. I thought it would be wise to force down as much couscous as possible, as I was aware that everybody else was also filling up on meat, so I didn’t want to be left with an attention-seeking rumbling stomach.
What a fool I was to slurp up all that soupy couscous. In my all-consuming nervousness, I’d assumed that after everyone had finished their plates, we’d say our thanks and then swiftly depart. When fresh tableware was dispersed, images from my birthday dinner flashed before my eyes. In my rush to finish up and leave, I’d forgotten the way the French liked to dine. My memory was quickly refreshed when four large blocks of cheese were placed in the centre of the table. It was not as fancy a selection as those seen on my birthday evening, but definitely more interesting than any cheese board I’d come across in England – which is traditionally made up of cheddar, stilton and maybe a brie, accompanied by the Sunday lunch’s leftover cranberry sauce. The cheese was introduced without any sign of cracker or baguette, meaning we all sat there like little mice, nibbling on the minute portions we’d cut ourselves, with freshly poured red wine to help relieve the clagginess.
By this point in the afternoon, the kids had become bored of listening to adult conversation, so took themselves off to do some colouring. I had grown equally bored of listening to my own thoughts, so I joined them. I drew a picture of Mathilde, which Gabriel surprisingly said was “magnificent”. I then started to sketch a portrait of Gabriel, but he abruptly told me that the picture was not of him, despite me only having drawn the outline of his hair and his glasses frame. I grew to realise, during my stay in Paris, that he had a distorted image of how he thought his hair looked. He was under the impression that a splash of water would keep it well-kempt and in a side parting for the whole day, therefore when I drew strands of hair falling onto his forehead, he seemed rather insulted and repulsed.
I began to relax once I’d left the table. My quietness was now justified as I was focusing on my artwork. As I began to colour-in Gabriel’s glasses with an appropriate cargo green, we were beckoned back to the table as it was time for dessert. It was a choice between chocolate cake or an apple tart. I had a slither of both. Our hosts then served coffee and herbal teas – the varying drinks were brought out with an intermission between them, making each a separate course. I opted for a herbal tea, as I needed something warm and minty to settle my bursting belly. As I went to pour myself a drink, I was asked from across the table, “I suppose you want some milk and sugar with that”, which was met with the all-too-familiar laughter. What a poor attempt at a joke, I thought. Yes, maybe the stereotypes of Englishmen sat with their pinkies raised, drinking sugared and diluted tea, is slightly comedic. However, not even the English make their mint or chamomile infused tea either milky or sweetened. As a result, I downed my tea, making sure to scold every corner of my mouth, and returned to my illustrations.
Thankfully, the hot beverages concluded the lunch. We collected our coats, said a quick hello to their beast of a dog, and headed for the car. Before I left, I felt the need to demonstrate that I hadn’t ignorantly been living in France assuming I could get by with English alone, so I uttered to the couscous lady’s partner, “Merci pour le déjeuner”. My host mum seemed shocked, as she often did when I’d say anything in French – I remain baffled as to how she thought I’d been communicating with her seven-year-old up till then, as she barely spoke a word of English. Finally, I made my way back to the car, my safety chariot, and continued my game of noughts and crosses, feeling neither convinced of my liking of French dining habits or my liking of couscous.