What Do the French Think of Australia's Top Restaurants?

My French in-laws were in Melbourne recently. As a birthday present, we got them a voucher for Attica, Australia's top resto.

We got them this because on their last visit to Oz they hadn't known where to go for good food.(And being French, of course, sourcing good food was priority number one!). They'd gone to fish and chips shops, for instance, hoping for fresh seafood - and then spent hours afterwards peeling batter off fish. My mother-in-law pleaded staff not to batter the scallops to no avail (and much peeling).

My husband Maxime had an additional reason for wanting to arrange things for his parents to do.

'Otherwise, they'll just spend their time going to Coles,' he explained.

So you can imagine his chagrin when he read their email recounting how they'd spent their first day in exciting Melbourne, beginning with breakfast and then shopping 'chez Cooles [sic]'.

In comparison to Coles tubs of mashed potato, and deep fried flake, Maxime and I were quietly confident that their evening at Attica would be a roaring success.

But it wasn't entirely in the bag. Never under-estimate the powers of the Frenchman to criticise. They would have to be the most imaginative, creative critics in the world. What's more, my mother-in-law Jeanne, herself an accomplished cook, says she always orders risotto in top restaurants - because it's so hard to get right. (When I first heard this, I made a mental note never, ever to cook it for her myself). And she was taking a notebook in order to take copious notes throughout the meal. Maxime and I kept our fingers crossed ...

The next day, they gave us their detailed analysis of the night.

'Some people dressed very casually, while other people dressed up.' Why don't they feel the need to show respect to the restaurant and the other diners?'

Because we're barbarians. 'Erm, well -'

'There was a series of small plates - really microportions - of tastes of native herbs. Sebastien was hungry so he ate all the bread. And he asked for more.

In this sentence, Jeanne got to diss the resto AND her husband all in one go - nice work!

'And then there was this sort of undercooked potato thing' Jeanne was completely mystified by this object. The hungi homage had totally passed over her head. Oops.

'But the strangest thing was when I went to the toilet.'

'Ah,' I said, thinking, I'm really not sure I want to hear this,,,

'The waiter led the way and then held the door open for me!'

This was apparently deeply shocking.

'It would NEVER happen in France!'

'Why not?' I aked, confused. I mean, it wasn't as if waiter had asked if she wanted to do a number one or number two.

'Because we don't do this!'

'Why?'

She was astonished I even needed to ask and was at a loss to explain something so obvious.

'It's too intimate.'

Well. I don't find toilet doors very steamy myself, but then I'm not French.

Luckily, Jeanne recovered from having the door to the intimate toilet world touched by the waiter and managed to continue with the meal.

'The dessert was too sweet. Of course, Sebastien wolfed it down.'

Bingo - another double whammy. She was in good form!

But the micro-portions thing stuck in my Australian craw.

'I mean, the French invented nouvelle cuisine!' I complained to Maxime later.

'That was the Parisians,' he said, smugly happy to stick the knife in to those smug Parisians. 'You wouldn't see that in Alsace!'

No, I thought, but you do see a lot of diabetes....

Cricket World Cup 2015: Is Cricket Really French?

Married to a Frenchman, I was unable to spend the day of the Cricket World Cup final as I would have liked – i.e., eyes glued to telly, beer glued to hand. Instead, I was required to participate in a 6 hour lunch and consume my share of 7 bottles of French wine with another French expat and his wife. Yep, a hard gig, I know.

I strongly suspected that our French hosts would not be interested in the match, ‘le criquet’ being unintelligible to the French. For instance, my French in-laws, currently visiting us in Melbourne,  have not been able to make head or tail of it.

‘So when someone hits the wicket, the wicket keeper goes away?’ asked my mother-in-law the other night.

‘Ahhh … not as such,’ I said.

‘And why does everyone shout a lot and go crazy when someone hits the ball into the audience?’ she wondered.

Explaining cricket to the in-laws was probably going to be a task beyond my meagre powers, I realised. My husband Maxime did profess to have a mild interest in the World Cup, however. He sort of learnt cricket by osmosis – through having previously been forced to listen to the Ashes on ABC Grandstand radio as we drove all around Tasmania. By the end of that trip, he was practically channelling Jim Maxwell. And now, Maxime’s view was that the World Cup as an international contest was important … and even if France never got close to ever being in one, a Frenchman could still have a giggle at England getting spanked by Bangladesh. This is why Maxime readily agreed to keep me appraised of the Aussies’ progress in the World Cup final during the meal at our friends’ house via a surreptitiously-held-under–the-table phone.

So it was that just after we and our hosts had sat down to the entrée of chicken terrine and fennel salad, Maxime announced, ‘They got McCullum [the NZ captain]. In the first over!’

Our friends looked up in surprise (and I looked up in delight). Normally at this stage in a lunch, Maxime would say ‘mmmmm’ or maybe ‘the Riesling is excellent.’

‘Do you understand cricket?’ our host Olivier asked Maxime, somewhat suspiciously (wondering if he was a closet Anglophile I imagine).

‘Yes. It wasn’t hard to pick up,’ Maxime said, sounding every inch the insufferably smug frog. (What was nice is that he was being insufferable and smug to other frogs for once. As opposed to me.)

‘Do you understand cricket?’ I asked Olivier.

‘Not at all,’ said Olivier proudly. He’d trumped Maxime by playing the ‘it’s-all-Anglo-Saxon-gobbledigook-so-cultured-French-don’t-care’ card.

But I had an ace up my sleeve waiting for that: ‘Well,’ I said, ’maybe you should be interested in cricket. It turns out that cricket might be French!’

People raised their eyebrows gratifyingly high. So I elaborated: I’d been recently dumbfounded to read in the French version of Wikipedia that the French may have invented cricket. According to the article, the oldest reference to cricket is in a letter of 1478 to the king, no less, about a match of ‘criquet’ in Liettres in the north of France. So cricket must have been bloody important to the French at some stage if they were whinging to the king about not getting their LBW decision (now there’s a third umpire for you!). The English actually planned their first-ever match outside England against France, but they picked a dud year for it. The 1789 tour was a bit of a fizzer. And after 1789, the French got a little side-tracked and replaced cricket with the sport of knocking people’s blocks off with a large blade instead of the traditional ball.

‘Typical English,’ said Olivier with a roll of his eyes as I finished my story. ‘We French have all the good ideas. The Anglo-Saxons just steal them.’ (Right, so NOW he thinks cricket is a good idea, since it might be French.)

I laughed. ‘Anyway, in the Revolution, it seems you lost the habit of playing cricket as well as a lot of heads.’ Then after a bit of reflection I said, ‘Although half the South African team seem to be French.’

‘A lot of Huguenots went to South Africa,’ explained Maxime. Huguenots were protestants escaping persecution in catholic France in the 17^th and 18^th centuries.

‘Right. So now you have Jacques Kallis and Faf du Plessis and de Villiers,’ I said. ‘And Philander seems appropriately French too somehow. But what sort of name is ‘Faf’ anyway? Is it French?’

I subsequently read it’s short for Francois, but Maxime said, ‘It means Fascist in French slang.’

‘Good Lord!’ I said, laughing. 

Ah well, it could be worse. Faf could have been French slang for dick. An astonishing number of words do seem to be slang for dick in French. I sometimes complain that I can’t get a sentence out without Maxime doubling over with laughter, telling me I’ve just said I’d like a piece of dick or something. And unfortunately, when it comes to cricket, there is also the slips cordon, giving Maxime the opportunity to shout things like ‘he was caught in womens’ underwear!’

After much hilarity at the expense of the poor old South Africans, we settled back for main course - Alsatian baker’s stew with beef and potatoes - and knocked over a St. Emillion Bordeaux and an Aloxe-Corton Burgundy. By this stage, the Kiwis were in as much trouble as our digestive systems. It was all going nicely until Boult came in to bat. 

Maxime pondered a bit and then said, ‘Bout means dick in French.’

Let’s just say I will not be taking Maxime to the cricket with me any time soon. Or New Zealand.

What Happens When You Transplant a Frenchman into Australia for Christmas? Christmas Conflicts

A few years ago, my French husband Maxime and I were set to travel back to Australia for Christmas, as we did every other year. We had one last lunch with French friends before the flight. They were curious to know what an Australian Christmas was like.

‘And the family in Australia … do you fit in?’ Sebastien asked Maxime as he swirled a glass of Alsace Riesling.

‘Oh yes,’ said Maxime easily.

‘Err … it wasn’t always that way,’ I reminded him.

‘Oh, well, yes. The first Christmas there, I made a few mistakes,’ Maxime confessed, referring to his first ever visit to Australia, when things had gone ... interestingly. Especially where food was concerned. ‘At Christmas,' Maxime continued, 'they have this sort of gummy cake, the Christmas pudding. And they serve it with some sort of amorphous mass.’

The amorphous mass he was referring to was actually brandy butter. My sister’s girlfriend Wendy the Fluorescent (named for her colourful tracksuits) was immensely proud of her contribution to Christmas dinner. She was thought by everyone to have considerable pudding savoir-faire, and had spent the entirety of Christmas morning whipping up a special brandy butter flavoured with Cointreau.

‘When they put it on the table,’ Maxime said, ‘I made a remark about its appearance that wasn’t appreciated.’

‘Um, actually you said it looked like vomit,’ I said.

‘Oh putain!’ laughed Sebastien.

When Maxime had offered this choice observation that first Christmas lunch, there’d been a pause as everyone tried to decide whether or not he had really just described Wendy’s labour of love as vomit. Eventually deciding vomit must be French for lovely or something, people got on with their pudding.

But it wasn’t just brandy butter that got Maxime into hot water that first Christmas in Australia. My family were meeting him for the first time, and were expecting a polished, sophisticated European.  Mum had been vacuuming the house twice a day for weeks in preparation for his visit. To be fair, Maxime CAN do a decent line in polished and sophisticated at home in France. But somehow in Australia, it all unravelled. I suppose it was because all the rules are different here – when there are any.

And prehaps the little gastronomic shocks Maxime had to cope with rattled him. The first in store was when he discovered that at lunchtime, rather than coq au vin, Australians ate square pieces of bread. ('You eat sandwiches? Every day?' he'd said.)  But it was our Australian Christmas Eve that really took the cake (or the presliced bread). The thing is that since Mum would be doing a lot for Christmas dinner the following day, we’d decided to order takeaway pizza for dinner on Christmas Eve. When it arrived, the boxes were arrayed on the kitchen table and Dad got out some tumblers and a bottle of milk.

Maxime had stared at the table in utter horror.

‘What’s wrong?’ I asked in concern.

‘It’s December the 24^th!’ Maxime squeaked.

‘Yeah, I know.’

‘But it is Christmas!’

‘No no,’ I said. ‘That’s tomorrow.’

‘No! Christmas is today.’

‘What?’

‘In France, we celebrate Christmas on December the 24^th.’

Oh shit. It was French Christmas Day! Maxime would normally have been feasting on canard à l’orange and champagne and here he was with a bendy slice of pizza and a glass of milk. Maxime nibbled his slice weakly.

After the shock of celebrating French Christmas with takeaway pizza, Maxime was perhaps not in the best frame of mind to celebrate Australian Christmas the next day. He perked up a bit just before lunch when someone offered him a glass of champagne, but sagged again when I was forced to admit that it wasn’t real champagne, it was just a five dollar bottle of Aussie bubbly. By the time he got to the brandy butter, Maxime’s gastronomic expectations had sunken considerably. Although to think he was being served vomit was maybe going a bit far.

Christmas food ...who knew it could be so contentious?

And so our Christmas had continued. After lunch, Mum asked Maxime if he’d like to take a look at our garden. We all knew that the garden was Mum’s pride and joy. Well, all of us except Maxime. We were all waiting for him to say ‘I’d be delighted’ and so we were a bit taken aback when Maxime said, ‘Oh, no thanks’.

Maxime had made the mistake of thinking Mum was asking if he genuinely wanted to walk around and look at her climbing roses. ‘In France, you show respect to your guest by making them comfortable, you fit in with their wishes,’ Maxime explained to me later.

Sadly, Mum just thought that all this was not because he was French, but because he was a philistine.

The failed garden tour was followed by a BBQ on Christmas night. My uncle was doling out drinks. He gave Maxime a glass of sparkling wine which he called champagne. I winced, but Maxime accepted it with reasonable grace and took a sip. Then he promptly spat it out on the lawn. We stared at him aghast.

‘It’s corked,’ Maxime said. Then he saw everyone staring at him open-mouthed. ‘What?’ he said.  

Maxime simply couldn’t understand what everyone was upset about. ‘They get offended as if they made the wine themselves!’ he said.

We left Australia after that Christmas having offended most of my friends and relatives, all of whom urged me to ditch the rude Frog.

But I didn't of course and things are different now. Maxime has leant to feign interest in gardening where appropriate, and my family expect him to do strange things with wine. And nobody forces him to eat takeaway pizza on Christmas Eve. He has fish and chips.

Why Frogs Love Frogs' Legs

A few years ago, my French husband Maxime and I went on holiday in the Dombes region of France, in the Ain. 

On the second day of the trip, we were driving to the restaurant Maxime had selected for lunch when Maxime announced, 'This is a gastronomic region!' and his eyes gleamed.

I looked at him, puzzled. 'I thought all of France was a gastronomic region.'

'No!' he said. 'The only true gastronomic regions are Alsace [of course, Alsace is Maxime’s home region], around Lyon [i.e., where we currently were] and the South West.'

‘What about Paris?’

‘Pffff!’ Maxime pffffed.

‘And what about all those I dunno, cheeses in the north of France, and Normandy's Isère butter and Champagne’s…um, champagne and – '

‘No no. In true gastronomic regions, the food and wine are accessible, affordable - enjoyed by everyone – it’s democratic food.’

I thought about this for a while. 'OK ... so what’s this wonderful gastronomic region were in now famous for, then?'

'Frogs.'

'Oh.' 

I felt a little crestfallen. Not truffles or brie then. Not even something edible.

Maxime explained that the whole region was full of man-made ponds, and was hence famous for frogs' legs. The Dombes was frog central.

‘Well, quite frankly, I don’t think I’ll mind if the Dombes people don’t want to democratically share their frogs with me.’

But Maxime said, ‘I can’t wait to eat some!’ and his eyes shone even brighter.

He was getting inordinately excited about frogs' legs, I thought. But it can be amazing what foodstuffs can rouse the passions of Europeans. They don’t just celebrate the births and ressurections of deities but also hold fetes where they can worship snails, asparagus and particular varieties of onion.

'But there’s so little meat on frogs,' I said. 'I mean why do you bother? Why not just eat chicken?'

'Because frogs' legs are thin,' Maxime said. 'When you fry them, you get this caramelised juice that you get at the surface of a chicken wing. It’s like the chicken wing surface without any of the boring stuff underneath.'

'Hmm,' I said, unconvinced.

At lunch, of course, Maxime ordered legs. I had actually seen frogs' legs before, at a gastronomic restaurant in Alsace. In that case, people were served a little leg with sauce. You could have almost pretended it was little bit of quail or something, and that’s what I was expecting Maxime would be served now. But what the waiter brought out to us was a metal platter piled high with stiff-looking V shapes. I leaned forward for a closer look. And then I recoiled with a cry. The V shapes were whole cut-in-half frogs.

'Oh, that’s appalling!' I exclaimed, trying and failing to not imagine someone cutting all the little frogs in half. 'You can’t eat those! They’re too … froggy looking.'

Not to mention the fact that in this case, Maxime'd be eating not just the legs but the frog’s rude bits too.

No amount of caramelisation could lull me into forgetting that I was eating a demi-frog, but Maxime just said ‘mmmm’.

And it wasn’t just Maxime who loved frogs' legs. An Alsatian friend of mine who liked to educate me in the culinary ways of Alsace talked once of the fabulousness of frogs’ legs:

'They're delicious,' Patrice said. 'Although in my Grandma’s day, the legs were better.'

‘They were more shapely back then?’ I smiled.

‘No, no!’ said Patrice, serious because it was a serious topic. ‘They were smaller - more concentrated in flavour.'

I was doubtful that strong frog flavour was a good thing, just quietly. But if you ever find yourself in a suitably ‘democratic’ region of France, you can judge for yourself.

What Sort of Wine Deserves a Medal?

When we lived in France, I did a wine course, as I recounted in an earlier post. Not only that, but I topped the wine exam at the end, beating all the frogs – a fact which is a constant source of satisfaction to me, especially the fact that I did better than my French wine-expert husband Maxime. 

But the story doesn’t end there: having done well in the exam, I was invited to go to Colmar to be a judge at of the latest Alsace vintage. It was to be one of those events where they award those little medal stickers you see on some bottles in the supermarket. How exciting! I thought. But I was too shy to ring up and accept the invitation in French. I decided to make Maxime do it for me.

Of course, he had no problem making the call for me. In fact, he seemed strangely eager to do it. 

After Maxime made the call, he got off the phone and said, ‘Yes, it’s fine – you’ll be judging Riesling and I’ll be judging Crémant.’

‘What do you mean you’ll be judging Crémant? YOU didn’t get invited!’ I said indignantly. 

What’s more Crémant was MY favourite wine! How come Maxime got to be the Crémant judge?

‘I asked if I could be a judge too, since I also did that course. And they said yes.’

No wonder he’d been so keen to do the call. ‘I can’t believe you did that,’ I said.

Actually I could. Maxime has more front than Myers. This is a man who talked his way into a private tasting with Didier Dagenau (when he was still alive) and inveigled himself into being invited to Vinexpo.

Awarding a medal to my nightly drop

The judging day began at 9 in the morning, in a great barn-like exhibition building in Colmar, capital of South Alsace. An old wine official bloke began proceedings by giving the assembled judges (there were actually dozens of us) a briefing. We were meant to award wines that reflect what is typical of Alsace, and of the grape variety, so that the consumer would get an idea of what ‘Alsace’ should taste like. To some winemakers, this is an anathema. What should be celebrated is the individual terroir (that mystical term encompassing climate, soil, topography etc. of an area of land) and the variety of taste you can have thanks to each terroir’s uniqueness. You should not be trying to produce some sort of common denominator wine! As one Alsatian winemaker complained to me once ‘they want us to make wine which is typical. But which typical is that?!’

It seemed I was going to work for the Dark Side of the Force.

After being given our instructions, we went to our tables. I sat at the ‘Riesling table’ with two other judges, who were both Alsatian winemakers. It made my head spin to think that when I’d first come to France, I didn’t even know that Riesling was grown in Alsace. My knowledge of Riesling back then had been based on encounters with four litre cardboard casks of ‘Rhine’ Rieslings back in Australia, labelled Kaiserstühl or some such. Now I was to judge real Riesling from out of a bottle instead of a cardboard box (and the real Kaiserstühl was just up the road). 

The two winemakers and I had nine Rieslings from the year before to rank and one reference wine that was meant to illustrate what the powers that be deemed to be ‘typical’ Alsace Riesling taste. The samples are tasted very young – as the tasting went on, it began to feel as though the acid was stripping all the skin off my lips and my teeth felt strangely furry. It did not at all turn out to be as much fun as I thought it would be. Especially since only some winemakers submit their wines for medal awards and the top winemakers tend not to. They don’t need a little medal sticker to sell their wine. My fellow judges and I sipped our wine tentatively, and the winemakers looked at one another in dismay and made ‘pfff’ sounds. They didn’t want to give a medal to any of the wines. But award we must.

Maxime, on the other hand, seemed to be having a fine old time on the Crémant table. He and the others at his table were laughing and rosy-cheeked.

‘This is actually quite good – taste this,’ Maxime said, handing me a glass as I approached.

Bastard! I thought. He not only bloody muscles in on my wine judging debut and scores a spot on the Crémant table but he gets decent wine!

Of course, Maxime didn’t really need to be appointed a wine judge. He is one naturally. And no one is safe from his pronouncements. Now that we live in Australia, not even the Australian Prime Minister is safe. Upon reading an article on the contents of Mr. Abbott’s wine cellar, Maxime adjudged it to be ‘the cellar of a yobbo’. And as I’ve said before, wine rules Maxime’s politics. So the PM should be thankful that he can’t vote in Australia! 

Yet. 

Maxime plans to get citizenship ASAP so he can vote for someone who appreciates Clonakilla Shiraz Vigonier.

Mind you, Aussie wine critic Jeremy Oliver can dish it out almost as harshly as Maxime. I particularly love the bit in the article where he says that in the PM’s cellar, ‘the only Riesling listed is from Margaret River, where it should be classified as a weed.’ 

Can you imagine having dinner with a pair of wine critics like that!? Actually, it’s probably better not to.

Can the French Play Footy?

It doesn’t seem to have had much publicity, but nonetheless, the International Aussie Rules Cup is on at the moment in Melbourne. The important thing from my French husband Maxime’s point of view is that it provides yet another excuse to hang out with his fellow frogs. Thus it was that last Sunday, we trekked up to Royal Park to watch France versus Britain. I was looking forward to a fierce fight fuelled by the traditional French-English rivalry. Last year, England beat France in the final of the Euro Aussie Rules Cup, so what with that and Waterloo, the French should have been keen for revenge.

We arrived a little late, and Maxime headed off in search of nourishment in the form of woodfired pizza (such are his priorities). It was almost quarter time when he returned.

‘Where’s France’s score?’ Maxime asked as he approached with the only slice of pizza which had survived the journey back from the pizza van.

‘Where’s France’s score’ effectively summed things up.

‘There isn’t one,’ I said. ‘But, I mean, they don’t stand a chance. The French players are all microcscopic.’

The Brits towered over the Frogs, easily outmarking them (not that the marking was great, I have to say), and brushing them off with relative ease. With the average French player being the size of Napoleon, the game was rapidly turning into another Waterloo. (Les Coqs versus the Bulldogs. Seriously, who would you predict to win a fight between dogs and chooks?)

Napoleon and Asterix take the field for France

‘The French seem hesitant,’ said Maxime.

I’d be hesitant too if I was 4 foot nothing and playing on a yeti.

‘Look, there’s Asterix!’ said Maxime next, spotting a small blond French player we’d met at the meet-and-greet the week before.

‘They don’t need Asterix, they need Obelix!’ I said. ‘Where’s the magic potion? Give the man some supplements!’

By the last quarter, France were yet to score a goal. Nevertheless, a crowd of perhaps 70 French watched the game through to the bitter end. Not that the French supporters provided much in the way of actual support. They were the most silent footy crowd I’d ever stood with, muttering the occasional ‘ah merde!’ or ‘ce n’est pas vrai’ or ‘Oh prostitute’. The only vocal member of the crowd was an Aussie bloke, who would periodically yell ‘man up, France!’ I’m not sure the French understood what this meant. At any rate, they certainly didn’t do it.

France's end. Which about sums it up.

The final score was 88 to 7, with France’s only goal kicked just before the final siren (which I missed it because I’d chosen that moment to go to the toilet. Maybe should have gone more often!)

Today there might be a chance for France to score a win. France takes on the Indonesia garudas, who were comprehensively squished by tiny Nauru (227-7) and Fiji (208-0). According to Wikipedia, a garuda is a ‘large mythical bird’. So there’s definitely hope for France – Indonesia are birds too. What’s more they don’t even exist. Allez, les Coqs!

Can a Frenchman Love Footy?

Honestly, sometimes I think we're still in France. My French husband Maxime tends to organise our social outings and they involve one (or preferably both) of the following elements:

1. Food

2. French people

But last night's food-and-French-people outing at least had an additional element to interest me - Aussie Rules!

It was the meet-and-greet with the French Aussie Rules team, over from France to contest the International Cup in Melbourne. Over 300 French expats were expected to come along, and maybe the police got wind of it, because the venue was flanked with booze buses. Maxime was even breath-tested on the way in (maybe they also caught wind of his form when it comes to wine). But the police were out of luck - Maxime hadn't had a drop (in fact, the police were keeping him from having some drops). Billy Brownless may have stubbies rolling around in his car (as he announced on Triple M's Rush Hour), but our car is, sadly, a dry area.

As we entered the venue, the French football team was busy giving a rendition of the Marseillaise. So in true footy spirit, I sang 'We Are the Boys From Old Fitzroy' (OK, it was really just to annoy Maxime by messing up his anthem). Then the players introduced themselves to the assembled French expat masses. (We learned that the players included one with the nickname of Asterix, which means the opposition will need to look out for rovers on supplements.) As I listened to the player introductions, I looked about me and noted from the banners that the French team had chosen the name of 'the Coqs' (roosters). A little foolhardy for a competition in Australia, I thought. At any rate, I'm not sure I'll be shouting 'up the Coqs!' when I see them play ...

Singing the Marseillaise

French footy was actually born in Maxime's home region of Alsace. Maxime didn't start it, of course. But he did come across the Alsatian footy team when we lived in France. He had been surfing the net to find information on the microscopic size of Aussie footballers' ... shorts. (Such are the things Maxime looks up on the net). Instead of short footy shorts, he found a footy team - the 'Strasbourg Kangourous', just up the road from us in Alsace, and started by one Marc Jund. Back in the 80s, a couple of games of Aussie Rules were televised in France, and Marc had seen them. Probably it was a slip-up - the network probably meant to show some weird European winter sport involving someone going down a slide in sub zero temperatures dressed in Lycra. Be that as it may, Marc had been hooked and decided to start his own Aussie Rules club. He sought help from the AFL, and received a couple of footies and the rules in English. Which no one spoke. So much for that then, you might think.

Not at all! The dogged Strasbourgeois kept up their club. They did their best trying to nut out the game, watching all the footy replays they could get their hands on. More than ten years later when Maxime and I visited the Strasbourg team, they still hadn't worked out how to bounce the ball. (And so I showed them. 'Ah!' they said, fascinated as though I'd just performed an arcane act.)

And so it was that footy gradually caught on in France despite considerable odds and the inability to drop punt. The reason it does survive in France and other countries in Europe is down to European footy players who are not so much footy mad as footy insane. Like a Czech tigers fan I ran into in Europe whose entire house is festooned in black and gold. 

Last night, I met a case in point: as the French footy meet-and-greet evening wound down, and les Coqs became les Coqs au vin, I was introduced to a tall Toulousien at the bar named Gregoire Patacq. I asked whether his club, the Toulouse Hawks, had had any support from the AFL (some rules in English, perhaps). No, seemed to be the answer.

'When Demetriou said the AFL wasn't interested in expanding the game, I was devastated,' said Gregoire. 'I'd had a hard week at work and then that. It was really tough.'

'Did he really say that?' I said. 'I seem to remember someone telling me the AFL were practically throwing money at the middle east in order to get them to take it up.'

Then I added a few sympathetic things about things not being fair even in Australia - about how poor old Tassie doesn't ever get an AFL team, for instance (despite actually wanting one).

'Well,' said Gregoire defiantly, 'we still have footy. And we're not giving it up!' 

And I understood that if any football authority ever tried prevent them from playing it, the French would be up on the barricades. The French are always so passionate about things. But who would have thought one of those 'things' would be footy? 

Fantastic.

French Tips on Mixing Business With Pleasure (a.k.a. Food and Wine)

The other day, my French husband Maxime observed rather mournfully that Australians don’t do business lunches very often. Personally, I'm not so keen on business lunches - I’d rather have a break at lunchtime, and do business meetings at a table without getting crumbs in my computer and sauce on my reports.

‘But it’s the ambience,’ Maxime said. ‘It’s nicer to be in a restaurant than a sterile office. And the good food makes me feel happier.’

‘Business meetings aren’t supposed to be about pleasure,’ I said.

Or are they?

When we lived in France, Maxime had ‘business’ lunches every day. His calendar was planned months in advance,detailing whom he would meet at which restaurant. I would ask each night how the business lunch went, and Maxime’d go into raptures about the food and tell me which wine they chose. So not much business got done then, I thought to myself. Unless it was the business of eating and drinking. Maybe his business lunches should have been called 'pleasure lunches'.

Of course, in Australia, things are different. Maxime has been forlornly lunching alone and wineless. But now it seems things have taken a turn for the better: Maxime came home from work yesterday brandishing a bottle of 2003 Pinot Noir from Orange, NSW, and grinning from ear to ear.

‘It’s for work,’ he explained.

‘Is it?’ I said doubtfully.

‘We found dozens and dozens of crates of wine in the warehouse!’ Maxime’s eyes were shining like stars. ‘And my job is to taste it to make sure it’s OK!’

‘And who decided that would be your job?’

‘Me.’

Surprise, surprise.

Maxime's work for the weekend

But now that I come to think about it, wine has been very helpful to Maxime at work. He's always been respected for his wine knowledge by his bosses. What's more, he's used wine in recruitment: when we lived in France and Maxime held job interviews, he always asked the interviewee if they liked wine. 'I need to know if they'll fit in the team,' he would say. The German who replied to the question 'do you like wine?' by saying 'yes, when it’s mixed with coke' did not get a job.

What is worse, (or perhaps better?), Maxime also uses wine to decide how to vote. He was delighted a few years back when he read in a French wine review that the people he favoured in French politics were those who most liked wine, and was thrilled and vindicated when he read that François Bayrou got drunk on pacharenc (a fortified wine) to cure a speech impediment.

Sarkozy, the teetotaller, is of course completely despised by Maxime. 'A bit of a yobbo,' Maxime calls him, showing how well his Aussie slang is coming along. Sarkozy is 'totally lacking in culture'. Not only is Sarkozy a teetotaller, but Maxime suspects that when Sarko was president, Carla Bruni, who knows her wines, was drinking the French presidential cellar dry together with hordes of Italian interlopers.

Then, horror of horrors, president Hollande sold off the rest of the presidential cellar to the Chinese! Maxime was incensed when he heard. 'But that's the French patrimoine!' he cried.

In 2011, Maxime announced to friends that if it came down to a choice between those two wine dingbats Sarkozy and Hollande in the 2012 French presidential election, he would emigrate to Australia.

And of course, he did! Now that's how to take wine seriously.
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France versus Australia: Who Will Win the Argument?

I was a bit disappointed with the trip away on the weekend. Me and the Frog (my French husband Maxime) and our kids had travelled far, far away from the bright lights of Melbourne, and more importantly, far from the bright lights of its restaurants. I expected that being out country, we’d have some spectacularly dreadful meals and Maxime would say spectacular things about them, seasoning his sentences with French insults concerning people’s grandmothers in shorts - thereby giving me fantastic material for this blog post. But the food was good, damn it! (We were too close to Daylesford, apparently.)

And so, sadly, there was no parmigiana Parmageddon.  But then on Sunday, we stopped at a winery on the way back home and, oh joy! The winery delivered!

The Wintry Way Home, Warmed by a Winery

 It wasn’t the food or the wine – they were fine. Nevertheless …

Maxime and I had made our workmanlike way through the list of wines on offer. And of course, the ciders, due to the Frog’s rather dubious predilection for them). But at first I was worried: during the tasting, Maxime was calm; polite; complimentary. Don’t tell me everything’s OK?! I thought.

Then afterwards, in the car, it all came out. Not the wine - the French rage.

‘I couldn’t stand that guy!’ fumed Maxime (referring to the man serving us in the wine tasting). ‘He only served borderline acceptable amounts in the glass. And he knew nothing, nothing!’ (The hapless winery bloke had told us, ‘I only pour the wine, I don’t know about it.’ Which I think was a joke. But if you’re French, wine is not the stuff of jokes). ‘AND,’ Maxime went on, ‘after the sweet cider, he didn’t give me a new glass for the dry whites!’

‘Serve you right for drinking lolly water!’ I laughed.

‘So I used the Pinot Grigio to wash my glass out.’ (Which Maxime thinks is as good a use as any for Aussie Pinot Grigios. He prefers the French-spelled ones.)

But here’s the interesting thing - Maxime didn’t actually say anything to the winery bloke’s face.

This is something of a first for Maxime. He has – or at least used to have - the Gallic way of venting when something is bothering him. You just yell. And getting yelled at doesn't bother you, because you know not to take it to heart. In short, the French believe in letting off steam instead of stewing, and there’s something to be said for that. Except if you're not used to French culture and you're on the receiving end. For instance, instead of suggesting that perhaps it might not have been such a good idea to leave the foil on the bottle neck, Maxime would cry ‘what the hell are you doing!? You’re completely deranged!’ Then, having screeched at me for ten minutes, he would put his arm around me and suggest trying the wine. I would look at him in amazement. ‘What?’ he’d say in surprise. ‘Are you upset?’ I’d be almost lost for words.

‘Of course I’m upset! You just said I was deranged!’

‘Oh is that all? Of course I didn’t mean that, I was just angry. Why do you take everything so personally?’

‘You called me deranged! How much more bloody personal can you get?!’

I would stick to my guns and insist that Maxime may not have meant to hurt my feelings but he nonetheless had, and demand an apology. To give the Frenchman his due, he always gave me one. But even when I was furious, I was curious. The French way of seeing things was so different. (Curiosity kills the K, I thought.)

The Anglo-Saxon – French differences in argument style were a problem for Maxime at work too, when we lived in France. Anglo-Saxon colleagues sometimes felt he was too harsh.

‘What exactly did you say?’ I asked Maxime on one such occasion. He told me. ‘OK … you know, there are other, gentler ways of telling people they could do better,’ I suggested. ‘You shouldn’t really say to an Anglo-Saxon things like, “this document is a piece of shit and working with you is a complete nightmare.”’

But now that we’re in Australia, it seems the Frog’s French edges have become softened with Anglo-Saxon restraint. Well, that’s all to the good. I won’t get called deranged anymore! Until I run into another Frenchman perhaps.
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What Do the French Hate About the French?

Last night, my French husband Maxime went out for a night on the town with fellow French engineers. They went, predictably, to a European beer bar. Maxime said he had chicken parmigiana.

‘To be safe,’ he said.

Safe? I wondered. How can a chicken parma be safe? It won’t blow up on your plate?

‘It was pub food,’ Maxime explained.

Meaning there was danger of the food being sub-frog standard, but, Maxime thought, no chef can stuff up a parma. Actually, I think they can. One day, Maxime will have a rude parma awakening in some godforsaken pub in the back of beyond (and I want to be there to take a pic when it happens).

It might happen sooner rather than later too: this weekend, we’re heading up Bendigo way and staying in some tiny town we’ve never heard of (which Maxime complains is in the ‘arsehole of nowhere’. So refined, my Frog.) We are going to try some ‘safe’ parma at its pub tomorrow night.

Anyway, back to the French engineers' boysy night out. Maxime was a bit doubtful about the first fellow frog he talked to, he said.

‘I thought Olivier was a bit of a wanker,’ Maxime said (he’s really got the Aussie lingo down now) ‘too French.’

‘French people are wankers?’

‘The Franco-French,’ Maxime precised – people who are ultra-French. ‘The ones who think they are owed everything,’ (oh no, not entitlement again. Thoroughly sick of that word at the moment), ‘who are afraid of everything and never go out of their comfort zone, and they have the pensée unique.’

Maxime often brings up this pensée unique thing when he bags his countrymen. He doesn’t mean they have a unique thought – rather the opposite. He means these deplorable Franco-Français think there is only one way to do things. And that’s the French way of course! I wonder what the Aussie version of Franco-French is? Ocker? Someone in thongs holding a beer can who believes in mateship and thinks the establishment can get stuffed? Wikipedia says Ocker means an ‘Australian who speaks and acts in an uncultured manner’ which I reckon is a little harsh.

Anyway, Olivier wasn’t a wanker as it turned out. He and Maxime soon bonded over bitching about England (both had lived there for a year). Olivier told Maxime how he’d moved from Normandy to St. Albans as a teenager, and went to the local bakery to get something to eat and find accommodation. I really can’t say why he thought the baker would give him a bed. Must be a Norman thing. Whatever, the thing was … there WAS no bakery. Olivier ended up without decent bread and in an attic being sublet by a Pakistani. Before moving into a share house with a muslim fundamentalist who insisted on reading the Koran to him every morning over brekkie.

Maxime had things a little better during his stint in London. He shared with an Italian who stayed in bed most of the day and who cooked fabulous pasta. He and Maxime even invented a dessert together, a regular Escoffier and Carème:

Maxime and Guiseppe’s Killer Dessert

1 container of yoghurt (large)

5 spoons of honey

1 bottle of rum (large)

1 aspirin (for later)

After Maxime and Olivier had reminisced about their time in Old England, they moved on to having a dig at those wankerish ‘Franco-French’: Olivier had had a short stint in Oz four years ago and then had had to return to Paris. In January. It wasn’t warm and it wasn’t fun. The Parisians got up his nose (the way they clamber up the nose of all provincial French) with their cold hoity toityness. So when Olivier got offered a permanent job in Australia, he booked the tickets the same day.

‘Oh you’re so lucky!’ Everyone said to him. ‘I’d love to live in Australia but I don’t speak English.’

But according to Olivier and Maxime, moving to Australia wasn’t luck, it was hard work (getting engineering degrees and learning English, for example), and if their French countrymen got off their ‘entitled’ bums, they could move to Australia too. Hmm, just think of all the new French bakeries we could have then! Even a few Normandy-style bakery-hotels perhaps.

It’s funny, though, hearing Maxime talk like that. Now that he’s moved here, Maxime talks about moving to Oz as the most sensible, natural step for him to have taken, and is not above looking down at those who have stayed put in Frogland. He has conveniently expunged from his memory the fact that I had to threaten, cajole, emotionally blackmail – use every trick in the book – to get him to even consider moving to Australia. We suffered through years and years of rows and cried buckets of tears (actually those were just my buckets) before he agreed. And now, if someone asks him if it was hard to move to Australia, he’ll just say ‘of course not.’

Arrrrrgh!!!!!!!!!!

OK, OK. I’ll chill. I mean, we’re here now. Even if it’s only thanks to a piece of cheese.
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