probably a new crew-necked, long-sleeved stripy T-shirt, unwearable unless youâre going to a fancy dress party as Picasso. I will listen to passing accordionists, resist a beret, and watch women walk small dogs.
Oscar Wilde said that when good Americans die they go to Paris. Well, when liberal intellectual insecure Englishmen die they go to a queue for a cheese stall in a Provençal market. It is where everything we associate with la bonne vie , the déjeuner without end, exists, and I for one wilfully ignore the truth. That the cheese is made in Holland, the saucisson comes from Poland, that the shoes are from Croatia, the T-shirt was made in Bangladesh, the figs are from North Africa, as is the girl who sold them to me, and everyone else is probably Albanian or a Gypsy or an Englishman like me, pretending to be French. Everybodyâs pretending to be French.
Like other Englishmen, I manage to have selective partial vision. We only see what we need to see to maintain the fantasy of old France. But I must admit itâs getting harder. France is becoming a virtual country, like an old computer game you play on the back of your eyelids. For 200 years France and the French have been the arbiter if not of culture then of the cultured life. It was always a bit of a fraud, a self-delusion, but it was based on some very solid, civilised foundations. Post-war France was the world centre for almost everything that made you feel sedately superior. Films, novels, art, fashion, design. And the food.
Now, one after the other, like insouciant dominoes, theyâve fallen. French films have withered into dire, horrible self-reverential bores or desperate, unfunny comedies. (A sense of humour was never a terribly French thing.) French books: do they still write French books about anything other than politics and gossip? French fashion doesnât exist. The French names are all run by Italian and English and German designers. Art, it must be admitted, was mostly done by foreigners living in Paris or the south of France, but that was fine because they wanted to live in Paris or the south of France, and the art seemed to come from the place that offered them licence and light, a certain je ne sais quoi . French art today has flatlined. French design is a pretentious joke. And worst of all, saddest, is French food.
In many ways it has remained the same, only in far fewer places. As in England, where there is a congenital disease which is killing off pubs, so across the channel itâs the bistros which are withering. The prix-fixe menu of a few francs for a mound of rillettes and a steak frites or a plate of tripe, a small tranche of fish in beurre blanc, followed by some brie or poached prunes or tarte fine, all going, turned into pizza or kebabs. French food has remained, but everyone else has changed. Attitudes and diets have changed, and the chefsâ attempts to mutate bourgeois cuisine, to lighten it and slim it, have made it ridiculous. The ingredients that French food comes from, that astonishing obsession with the finest things that could be grown or plucked or bottled, the most labour-intensive manufacture for the smallest possible production by a peasant society, are all dead. The infinitely fine filigree of artisanal markets is threadbare and cynically manipulated and bought up by brands hiding behind folksy labels.
What has France left in its cultural waistcoat pockets? Well, French philosophy is still as screamingly risible and portentous and irrelevant as it always was. And French pop songs remain the most awesomely naff and brilliantly crap musical moments ever conceived, every one of them some mayonnaise-voiced doggerel attempt to squeeze one more syllable into a line than it can comfortably or rhythmically accept. The French still think pop songs are essentially poems stuffed into tunes, and they still imagine that the words matter. And stoically and absurdly, like a man who always carries a condom and a
Oscar Wilde said that when good Americans die they go to Paris. Well, when liberal intellectual insecure Englishmen die they go to a queue for a cheese stall in a Provençal market. It is where everything we associate with la bonne vie , the déjeuner without end, exists, and I for one wilfully ignore the truth. That the cheese is made in Holland, the saucisson comes from Poland, that the shoes are from Croatia, the T-shirt was made in Bangladesh, the figs are from North Africa, as is the girl who sold them to me, and everyone else is probably Albanian or a Gypsy or an Englishman like me, pretending to be French. Everybodyâs pretending to be French.
Like other Englishmen, I manage to have selective partial vision. We only see what we need to see to maintain the fantasy of old France. But I must admit itâs getting harder. France is becoming a virtual country, like an old computer game you play on the back of your eyelids. For 200 years France and the French have been the arbiter if not of culture then of the cultured life. It was always a bit of a fraud, a self-delusion, but it was based on some very solid, civilised foundations. Post-war France was the world centre for almost everything that made you feel sedately superior. Films, novels, art, fashion, design. And the food.
Now, one after the other, like insouciant dominoes, theyâve fallen. French films have withered into dire, horrible self-reverential bores or desperate, unfunny comedies. (A sense of humour was never a terribly French thing.) French books: do they still write French books about anything other than politics and gossip? French fashion doesnât exist. The French names are all run by Italian and English and German designers. Art, it must be admitted, was mostly done by foreigners living in Paris or the south of France, but that was fine because they wanted to live in Paris or the south of France, and the art seemed to come from the place that offered them licence and light, a certain je ne sais quoi . French art today has flatlined. French design is a pretentious joke. And worst of all, saddest, is French food.
In many ways it has remained the same, only in far fewer places. As in England, where there is a congenital disease which is killing off pubs, so across the channel itâs the bistros which are withering. The prix-fixe menu of a few francs for a mound of rillettes and a steak frites or a plate of tripe, a small tranche of fish in beurre blanc, followed by some brie or poached prunes or tarte fine, all going, turned into pizza or kebabs. French food has remained, but everyone else has changed. Attitudes and diets have changed, and the chefsâ attempts to mutate bourgeois cuisine, to lighten it and slim it, have made it ridiculous. The ingredients that French food comes from, that astonishing obsession with the finest things that could be grown or plucked or bottled, the most labour-intensive manufacture for the smallest possible production by a peasant society, are all dead. The infinitely fine filigree of artisanal markets is threadbare and cynically manipulated and bought up by brands hiding behind folksy labels.
What has France left in its cultural waistcoat pockets? Well, French philosophy is still as screamingly risible and portentous and irrelevant as it always was. And French pop songs remain the most awesomely naff and brilliantly crap musical moments ever conceived, every one of them some mayonnaise-voiced doggerel attempt to squeeze one more syllable into a line than it can comfortably or rhythmically accept. The French still think pop songs are essentially poems stuffed into tunes, and they still imagine that the words matter. And stoically and absurdly, like a man who always carries a condom and a
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