sustain us on our way.
For
the first few hundred yards, all went well, and a brave sight it must have
been, feathers and cloaks fluttering, medals twinkling, and the uniformed
Labrador—now wearing a cap to match his waistcoat—receiving much
encouragement from the crowd. We were managing to maintain a disciplined
marching order that would have done credit to Napoléon’s troops,
when suddenly there was a
crise de baton
. One of the majorettes
attempted an overambitious toss, and the baton went astray, ending up among the
spectators. The majorettes came to a sudden stop. Ahead of them, the band
marched on, unaware of the enforced halt. Behind them, the procession of
confrères
contracted like a human concertina. We waited while
the baton was retrieved, a pause just long enough for my neighboring
confrère
to unscrew his ceremonial staff and hand me the hollow
top. “Do you like pastis?” he asked, tipping up the staff and
filling the top. “I make it myself.” The top was passed around,
emptied, and screwed back on while the majorettes resumed formation, and off we
went again, on the double this time to catch up with the distant band.
The end of the march was marked by a ribbon stretched across the street,
with Monsieur le Maire waiting on the other side, smile and scissors at the
ready. The band played a suitably triumphant piece, cameras clicked, and the
ribbon was cut. It was time to move on to the next and perhaps most important
part of the program: the initiation of new thigh-tasters.
The town hall
was fragrant with the scent of freshly cooked frogs’ legs, and I saw my
fellow
confrère
the Labrador stop for a long and thoughtful
sniff as he came through the door. He seemed completely at ease in his cap and
waistcoat, wagging politely to his neighbors as he took his place in the front
row, reserved for VIPs.
Up on the stage, Monsieur Roussel, the master
of ceremonies, made final adjustments to the microphone while senior members of
the order lined up behind him next to the president, Monsieur Loisant.
Expressions were serious, befitting the solemnity of the moment, and the
spectators did their best to assume an expectant hush as Roussel opened the
proceedings.
Solemnity didn’t last long. The ritual of initiation
starts with some brief and not always flattering comments about each of the new
confrères,
the more embarrassing the better, and Roussel had
done his homework. One after the other, he called his victims up onstage to
describe their backgrounds and achievements, their follies and idiosyncracies,
even their physical appearance (with a special emphasis on the state of their
thighs). The
confrère
was then asked to eat a small dish of
frogs’ legs, drink a glass of Chardonnay, and swear fidelity to the frog
before receiving his medal and retiring to welcome obscurity at the back of the
stage.
An hour or so passed, until the only remaining new
confrères
were myself and the Labrador. He behaved with the
aplomb you would expect from a dog that had already been honored twice
before—scampering up on the stage and polishing off his frogs’ legs
in two great gulps, his performance only slightly marred by turning up his nose
at the Chardonnay. And then it was my turn. I made my way onto the stage,
feeling very dowdy in my jacket and flannels, among the robes and velvet caps.
Even the Labrador was better dressed for the occasion than I was.
Roussel dealt with me gently, possibly because he hadn’t had the
chance to discover anything truly incriminating about me. In any case, my
nationality was enough to give him plenty of material, since the French and the
English have enjoyed saying appalling things about each other for several
hundred years. Curiously enough, they’re often the same appalling things.
For instance, each accuses the other of arrogance, bloody-mindedness, unashamed
chauvinism, and barbaric eating habits. The French say the English are
cold-blooded and untrustworthy. The English say the
For
the first few hundred yards, all went well, and a brave sight it must have
been, feathers and cloaks fluttering, medals twinkling, and the uniformed
Labrador—now wearing a cap to match his waistcoat—receiving much
encouragement from the crowd. We were managing to maintain a disciplined
marching order that would have done credit to Napoléon’s troops,
when suddenly there was a
crise de baton
. One of the majorettes
attempted an overambitious toss, and the baton went astray, ending up among the
spectators. The majorettes came to a sudden stop. Ahead of them, the band
marched on, unaware of the enforced halt. Behind them, the procession of
confrères
contracted like a human concertina. We waited while
the baton was retrieved, a pause just long enough for my neighboring
confrère
to unscrew his ceremonial staff and hand me the hollow
top. “Do you like pastis?” he asked, tipping up the staff and
filling the top. “I make it myself.” The top was passed around,
emptied, and screwed back on while the majorettes resumed formation, and off we
went again, on the double this time to catch up with the distant band.
The end of the march was marked by a ribbon stretched across the street,
with Monsieur le Maire waiting on the other side, smile and scissors at the
ready. The band played a suitably triumphant piece, cameras clicked, and the
ribbon was cut. It was time to move on to the next and perhaps most important
part of the program: the initiation of new thigh-tasters.
The town hall
was fragrant with the scent of freshly cooked frogs’ legs, and I saw my
fellow
confrère
the Labrador stop for a long and thoughtful
sniff as he came through the door. He seemed completely at ease in his cap and
waistcoat, wagging politely to his neighbors as he took his place in the front
row, reserved for VIPs.
Up on the stage, Monsieur Roussel, the master
of ceremonies, made final adjustments to the microphone while senior members of
the order lined up behind him next to the president, Monsieur Loisant.
Expressions were serious, befitting the solemnity of the moment, and the
spectators did their best to assume an expectant hush as Roussel opened the
proceedings.
Solemnity didn’t last long. The ritual of initiation
starts with some brief and not always flattering comments about each of the new
confrères,
the more embarrassing the better, and Roussel had
done his homework. One after the other, he called his victims up onstage to
describe their backgrounds and achievements, their follies and idiosyncracies,
even their physical appearance (with a special emphasis on the state of their
thighs). The
confrère
was then asked to eat a small dish of
frogs’ legs, drink a glass of Chardonnay, and swear fidelity to the frog
before receiving his medal and retiring to welcome obscurity at the back of the
stage.
An hour or so passed, until the only remaining new
confrères
were myself and the Labrador. He behaved with the
aplomb you would expect from a dog that had already been honored twice
before—scampering up on the stage and polishing off his frogs’ legs
in two great gulps, his performance only slightly marred by turning up his nose
at the Chardonnay. And then it was my turn. I made my way onto the stage,
feeling very dowdy in my jacket and flannels, among the robes and velvet caps.
Even the Labrador was better dressed for the occasion than I was.
Roussel dealt with me gently, possibly because he hadn’t had the
chance to discover anything truly incriminating about me. In any case, my
nationality was enough to give him plenty of material, since the French and the
English have enjoyed saying appalling things about each other for several
hundred years. Curiously enough, they’re often the same appalling things.
For instance, each accuses the other of arrogance, bloody-mindedness, unashamed
chauvinism, and barbaric eating habits. The French say the English are
cold-blooded and untrustworthy. The English say the
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