There I was driving through the French countryside in my shitty little Renault Clio, I realized that not all foreigners understand how attached the French are to their dining culture and French etiquette. Are you aware that the entire country more or less grinds to a halt between noon and two p.m? And did you know that later in the evening, dinner is served from seven till nine and beyond? This is not up for debate or choice, it is what it is! The French believe that family values are of national importance, le repas du midi, (lunch) is sacrosanct. French families, work colleagues, school chums, whomever, all congregate at noon, whether it is at home, the factory canteen or in a restaurant, and they eat together. They discuss the up’s and down’s of their daily lives. In towns and villages all over France the line outside the boulangerie is a common sight towards twelve noon. The meal always begins with a starter called the entree, le plat, and finally le dessert. Espresso coffee is served in most homes, and a sieste (rest) is not uncommon before getting back to le boulot (work) at two p.m. This is very common in many of the warmer parts of Europe. Its all part of the ritual, there is no way around it. Another tradition is the apero, the familiar name given to the quick shot of hard liquor enjoyed just before midday — or perhaps the evening meal for that matter. In any relais routiers throughout France as the clock strikes noon, you will see the matte yellow of a Ricard being poured or perhaps a little glass of red or white wine. Relais routiers are trucker restaurants and at mid-day for about twelve Euro you can eat a fantastic three course lunch wine included. The Ricard whets the appetite. There is also the digestif, which has just sprung to mind. Eating and Sex are important to the French. I remember in Brittany when I was twelve staying with my friend Laurent, his parents would invite their Parisien buddies over for the apero and the obligatory dry snacks. it would have been in the middle of August, so the ritual becomes even more important as they have time to enjoy it with no work the following morning. It cracked me up every time I heard them pronouncing dry snacks in a Franglais accent. Les driiiii snackkkk. The red clay from the tennis court all over their shoes. It was all so foreign and French. Very intriguing.

It is really quite amazing that most of the country observes this lunchtime tradition. If you went to a restaurant at half past two, it would not be uncommon to be turned away, as the service would be deemed over. I am sure most tourists who visit France do not understand this most Gaullist of traditions and perceive it to be rude and arrogant that they cannot be served after two pm. More than likely, they will have to wait until the evening service or make other plans to be watered and fed.

I can remember my father taking us into a restaurant when we first visited France after a long day traveling from Calais to Reims. I believe it was our first family holiday in continental Europe. We drove all day after getting off the ferry. None of us spoke fluent frog. We trundled into a restaurant at four p.m. and sat down at a table, waiting to be served. We waited and waited for what seemed an eternity. My father eventually got the attention of the waiter and asked him for the menu. I think that Dad had visions of coq au vin or steak au poivre avec frites. Something like that, typically French, that he had probably read about in one of those Sunday Times musings in the middle of a cold November in Donegal. Besides, the stress of driving through France on a warm summer’s day can really make a man hungry, and this would be our first family meal in France. Their culinary reputation precedes them. When the French cook, it can be pretty salivating. Good French, chefs have baseball player status and are considered national heroes. Are you thinking of something scrumptious right now? By the way, I am not being funny, but your local French bistro does not count. The waiter in his best French accent proclaimed ‘Monsieur, zee service izzz overrrh zince twoo houerrsss, Eeef you want, you kann have ham and cheeezzze sandwiiiiiichezzz?’ I knew my father far too well, I could see the blood curdling inside his jugular vein, his neck bulging and getting redder and redder. Dad had no time for pettiness in any format. ‘You can f**k your ham and cheese sandwiches’ was the immediate retort, driven back to the opponent. Thoughts of John McEnroe smashing one of his cross-court volleys toward the hapless Bjorn Borg come to mind. It was a beautiful thing. The sheer look of disgust on the waiter’s face was as French as it gets, an art form. Dad rounded up the troops. About turn, forward march, Sand Hurst would be proud. Now wait! Why I am thinking about McEnroe? Is it because he never broke the all-English club down, did he? We headed back out the main door. It was an exceptionally funny moment looking back. Did we get something to eat? Not likely. I believe we waited until the evening service. My father was exuberantly mad and impetuous, but he had learned a valuable cultural lesson. Take heed if you were not aware of this custom; remember it is still very strong. Make sure you are not late to eat; otherwise, you may have to go without.