Voila! C’est vrai! On speaking French (sort of) at the fromagerie, & the crime of disrespecting the cheese

Listen to “Speaking French (sort of) at the Fromagerie, and the Crime of Disprespecting the Cheese” on Spreaker.

The first time we visited a fromagerie in Paris with Young Reluctant P, he proclaimed loudly, “Why don’t they have any American cheese?” I’m pretty sure this is a punishable offense in France. If it weren’t for the diplomatic visa, he’d probably be serving time in French juvie for the crime of Disrespecting the Cheese. So a few days ago, when Mr. Reluctant P and I wanted some cheese to go with our baguette tradition, we headed off to a fromagerie in our neighborhood. I’d done my research and knew this was a place we might want to visit again, so I was nervous. One thing you most definitely should not do in Paris is offend people from whom you might want to buy food on a regular basis.

I should mention that, while I can sometimes express my needs in French in very simple exchanges, I can’t understand a word anyone says to me, with the exception of Voila! and C’est vrai! and Quarante-cinq! For some reason, quarante-cinq is the only number that has stuck in my mind. As long as whatever I’m buying costs precisely 45 euros, I’m golden, but if it’s a centime less or more, which, of course, it almost always is, I stand there and squint at the cash register, willing the numbers to pop up on the screen. If they don’t, I have to resort to handing the cashier one or two or three of those lovely pastel euro notes, hoping the notes are sufficient and the cashier is honest. If it’s a small transaction, I’ll hold out my palm with a few coins in it, expecting them to understand the universal gesture for, “Please take however much money I owe you out of my hand, and do it quickly so that everyone in line behind me does not realize that I am a grown-ass woman who cannot count change, and we’ll both forget this ever happened.” (Or I use my credit card…one day we’ll talk about those tiny credit machines and the difference between patientez and retirez.)

Usually, after I’ve made my request but before the exchanging of money, I say d’accord and vrai and oui a lot (the latter pronounced way rather than wii, if you want to sound really Parisian) and try to get out the door before they can engage me in a real conversation. If I’m with Mr. Reluctant P., I just hope he nods and doesn’t open his mouth except to whisper translations into my ear. He is brilliant at understanding French, but he speaks it like a red-blooded American male, which is to say he says “bonjour” as if it’s a hammer he’s throwing at your head.

So when we ventured into the fromagerie,  I asked the cheese lady in French what she would recommend. She asked if I wanted vache (cow) or chèvre (goat). I tried to look pensive, tapping my fingertip on my jaw in what I hoped was a pensive French way, and said, Je pense, qu’aujourd’hui, peut-etre vache (I think, today, perhaps cow.) I don’t know why, but ever since French class with Miss Truly in 10th grade at Murphy High School in Mobile, Alabama, I have loved the phrase je pense que–I think that. I’d say it every day if I could, a hundred times a day, with apostrophes whenever possible. Je pense qu’il fait beau, je pense qu’elles  mangent du beurre, Je pense que je sonne très français quand je dis que “je pense.”

Anyway, the cheese lady replied in rapid French, at which point I stood there looking confused and probably slightly in pain, while Mr. Reluctant P looked at the cookies; of course, there was one box of cookies in the store and he had found it and needed to examine it, while I suffered, lost in translation only a few feet away. I reluctantly admitted to the cheese lady, as I do many times each day, Desole, Je ne parle pas vraiment Francais, (Sorry, I don’t really speak French), to which the woman actually replied, “Mais non! Your French is very good!” As that was the first time in my quarante-something years anyone had told me anything of the sort, I inwardly wept tears of joy until I realized she was probably just having a bit of fun at my expense.

After I picked myself up off the floor, I bought the truffle cheese they make in-house, even though Mr. Reluctant P hates truffles, because I figured I’d gotten in the cheese lady’s good graces, and I wanted to stay there. And then because I was feeling the joy of this exchange, the sheer wonderful Frenchness of it, I asked what wine she would recommend to go with the cheese, and she pointed to the most expensive bottle, which was not very expensive but was still a good indication she thought I was a tourist. The whole thing came to quarante-something, but I wasn’t sure quarante-what, so I looked at my husband, who had at last moved on from the cookies, as if to say, I’m just a little lady, my husband is the one who handles the money, because when French is involved my dignity totally flies out the window, and sometimes my feminism with it.

The cheese lady wanted to keep talking after we paid, which was fine by me, because You Should Always Have a Cheese Lady Who Is Your Friend. She asked where we were from. “San Francisco,” I said, which is what I always say, because it is easier to say, “San Francisco” than to say “a small town south of San Francisco,” and also because in Europe, saying that you’re from San Francisco is like saying, “I’m from America but it’s okay to like me anyway. I totally believe in the Paris Climate Accord. Can’t we still be friends?” And I added, “Maintenant, nous habitons ici.” Which is like saying, I know I’m not one of you but I am trying and I will be back here next week with more euros! 

Well, it turned out that the woman’s nephew had moved to San Francisco recently and loves it, as Europeans often do. I’ve also discovered that, if you’re not acting like a jerk, people may be surprised to discover you’re from America. Sorry, but it’s true. Just as Americans have stereotypes about Parisians, Parisians have stereotypes about Americans, and you should do your best, when in Paris, not to live down to those stereotypes. People in Paris have asked me if I’m Russian or Polish, and they’ve asked me if I’m German or British (not that they particularly like the Brits, mind you), but in our five weeks in Paris, not once has anyone asked if I was American–oh, wait, except that time with the apple man. Let’s not talk about that time with the apple man. When I reply, “Je suis Americaine,” there is that slight disapproving raising of the eyebrows (or am I just imagining the disapproval? The French can be quite difficult to read), which I follow with, “J’habite a San Francisco!”

“Ah!” they say. “I love San Francisco!” Sometimes they love it because they have been there, but more often they love it because someone they know has been there, or they want to go there, or because Europeans have positive pre-conceived notions about San Francisco just as surely as Americans have positive pre-conveived notions about Paris. I do not tell them about the Tenderloin or the needles or the fact that ten different people will find ten different reasons to give you the stink-eye while you’re waiting in line for ice cream outside of Bi-Rite, reasons ranging from the political (your shoes are leather instead of vegan leather) to the personal (your child looks so gentrified with that haircut). And I especially don’t tell them about that guy who sometimes hangs out at the 16th and Mission Muni station with a machete.

I just say, Oh, oui, San Francisco est tres belle! J’adore San Francisco! Both statements are true, but neither is complete. And then I go home and eat my truffle cheese and drink my wine and say to Mr. Reluctant P, Je pense que ce fromage de vache est très agréable, Je pense que je vais manger le tout, while, from deep in the apartment, Young Reluctant P calls out, “Did you bring me any American cheese?”