French Kids Eat Everything by Karen Billon (classic english novels txt) 📕

would give upbeat answers with an encouraging smile. And no matter how much I insisted, he would never accept payment for any of the fish I chose for our daughters. He did this with all of the locals, but not the tourists who were still crowding the market, and I felt proud when I realized that this was a sign of acceptance.

The market was an education for the girls as well. At first, I tended to avoid the “messy” stalls if I had them with me. The butcher’s stall—with the hanging pigs’ heads and the decapitated still-furry rabbits—was a no-go zone. The poissonnerie—where the fish were beheaded, gutted, and de-scaled at the request of each customer—also made me nervous. So I made these rounds without the girls, usually entrusting them to my father-in-law, who would take them for a walk around the square.

But Jo soon grew impatient with my queasiness. One day, he gathered Claire in his arms and brought her over to the fish stall. Her eyes widened. Raising a chubby finger, she pointed at a particularly large specimen:

“Poisson!” (Fish!), she shrieked.

“Coupe! Coupe! Coupe!” (Cut! Cut! Cut!), she continued, turning her hand sideways and making a sawing motion in the air. By now, she had the attention of everyone in the line.

“Yum yum!” she gravely finished, pointing to her mouth to the sound of approving chuckles.

My daughter already knew, even better than I, how to make friends and impress people in France.

3

Schooling the Stomach

We Start Learning to “Eat French” (the Hard Way)

Mignonne,

Mignonne.

Si tu veux du pain,

Je t’en donne.

Si tu n’en veux pas,

Je te bâtonne!

Cutie-pie, Cutie-pie,

Oh so sweet.

If you want bread,

You’ll get some to eat.

But if you refuse,

You’ll get beat!

—Traditional French nursery rhyme

By the beginning of September, we were all looking forward to the start of the school year. No one had been awaiting la rentrée more eagerly than Sophie, who desperately wanted to meet kids her own age. So on the first day of school, we were there bright and early. Sophie walked clutching my hand, followed by my mother-in-law, while Philippe brought up the rear with Claire, dressed to match her sister (precious, but I couldn’t resist). Janine had drawn my attention to the fact that French schoolchildren, even in a little country village, were much better dressed than their American counterparts—so Sophie had gotten a new outfit only days before. She looked adorable in a dusty rose shirt-dress with taupe leggings; I had judged earth tones—a popular choice amongst French parents—to be the safest bet for my kids (although lots of French children wear white, which mysteriously stays spotless).

Sophie and I had gone together in one of our first-ever mom and daughter clothes-shopping outings. On the drive home, I had reassured her that this year—her first in full-time school—would be just great. At the back of my mind was an image of eager village children being fascinated by l’Américaine, falling over themselves to befriend the new girl. But I had forgotten what kids could be like. And I had no idea what a small village could be like (having lived in big cities all my life). I soon learned: if you don’t know the rules, you’re the village idiot. As I was about to learn, my daughter didn’t know the rules. And neither, apparently, did I.

The first inkling I had of trouble was the small white sheet posted on the front door of the school. The contents of the piece of paper were impossible for me to decipher. It was marked with today’s date. It seemed like a list. It had lots of strange words that I couldn’t recognize. But I did recognize the days of the week. Maybe it was a list of after-school classes?

Mais non! My husband said, laughing. “This is a menu.”

I looked again and saw that he was right. Across the top of the paper, the days of the week were listed. Wednesday was missing, but that was normal, I reminded myself: French kids go to school only four days a week, with Wednesdays being devoted to sports and other extracurricular activities. Running down the left-hand side were the standard four parts of the French meal: entrée (first course), plat principal (main course), salade and fromage (cheese), and dessert. But I didn’t recognize much else.

This, my husband patiently explained, was the list of what the children were going to eat at lunch for that week in the school cantine. The meals were designed to be tasty, healthy, and varied. They were also inexpensive: on average $3, although children from lower-income families paid lower rates (the lowest fee at our school was less than a $1 per meal). The school posted the menu on each entrance door so that parents (and children) would know what was being served for lunch.

The cantine is a universal institution in France—found not only in primary and high schools, but also in many government buildings and private companies. The word is difficult to translate. The closest word in English is “cafeteria,” but this incorrectly conjures up memories of the soggy pizza and overpriced French fries that were the norm at my high school. The best way to think about a school cantine in France is to imagine what your high school cafeteria would have been like if the food had been made by Cordon Bleu chefs-in-training, overseen by a nutritionist, and served to you at the table by maternal waiters (who were only too happy to cut up your meat if you couldn’t quite manage it). The official term “restaurant scolaire” (school restaurant) sums it up perfectly.

Philippe and Janine scanned the menu, clucking cheerfully at their favorites. But the list struck me as ludicrous. Beets? Fresh fish? This sounded like a meal in a Michelin-starred restaurant, not food for five-year-olds. And certainly not for my five-year-old.

“Um,” I said hesitantly, “something seems to be missing. There’s only one choice every