French Kids Eat Everything by Karen Le Billon Page B

bisque soufflé). The French love to talk about food in concrete terms. But soon my question had sparked a more abstract discussion. What, exactly, was French food culture? And how could you explain it to the average American? By the end of the evening, they had their answers pinned down.
    French food culture, it turns out, has three core principles. Over the perfectly cooked bar de ligne (European sea bass), we hashed out the first and most important principle: convivialité (conviviality, which for the French means something like “feasting/socializing together”). For the French, eating is inherently social. People of all ages tend to eat together, whether at home with their families or at work with colleagues. This is so socially ingrained that people can’t think of doing otherwise. In fact, French people never, ever eat alone if they can help it; people eating together are often called convives (which means “table companion,” but translates literally as “living together”). So whenever I explain to the French that North Americans often eat alone in their bedrooms watching TV (even if there are other family members in the house), or alone at their desks at work, they are truly astonished.
    Convivialité is also one of the primary sources of the pleasure that French people associate with food. Why? Because the French make a point of having fun while eating. Pointed jokes, witty repartee, critical appreciation of the food: the French zest for life is perhaps no more apparent than at the table. This is one of the main reasons that French children learn to eat so well (and spend so long at the table, uncomplainingly): the table is a place of emotional warmth and connection. It is also a place where they learn not only about how the world works (from listening to their parents talk), but also about conversation skills (how to interact with adults, how to argue without offending someone, and how to listen well).
    Another aspect of convivialité is that people are not only expected to eat together; they are expected to eat the same thing together. Meals are about the collective enjoyment of a set of dishes, not individual choice about what to eat. (The French sociologist Claude Fischler calls this the “communal” approach to eating together, in contrast to the American “contractual” approach). This is a great way to teach children to eat new foods; scientific studies have shown that they are much more likely to try something new if an adult has tried it first.
    This was another finicky French food habit that I had trouble getting my head around. And it was one that often led to disputes. The night before, I had suggested to my husband that we phone Virginie and Hugo to explain to them what our children liked (and didn’t like) to eat. From my point of view, this was polite, because it would allow everyone to avoid embarrassment at dinner. But for Philippe, this was the height of incivility. My in-laws happened to be over as we began our exchange (Note to self: Never make controversial suggestions to your husband in front of your mother-in-law). Philippe’s mother couldn’t resist jumping into our debate.
    â€œGuests,” said Janine, with a severe look on her face, “have an obligation to please their hosts. Telling people you dislike food, especially food they might prepare for you, is simply bad manners.” She used the term mal éduqué to drive her point home; as soon as those words were out of her mouth, I knew I’d lost the argument. Pointing out that this would trample my individual autonomy, or that I considered forcing someone to eat something they didn’t like to be bad manners, would have no effect. I might protest, but Philippe’s mother’s belief in the supremacy of the French worldview was unshakeable.
    Next, over fromage and salade , we moved on to the second principle: le goût . Virginie began by explaining why