My neighbour in our tiny French village makes me think of starch. Everything about her is stiff, from her thickly lacquered hair to her rigid opinions. It doesn't surprise me that she was a great admirer of Mrs Thatcher. We have a fortnightly ritual: afternoon tea. Only tea doesn't feature in our version. She usually drinks sweet, sparkling wine with her cake. I agree to forego tea, which she finds 'objectionable'. I offer her sherry instead. It reminds me of Christmases back home, when we always drank sherry with our Christmas cake.
The main aim of these têtes-à-têtes is for us to practise each other's language. Among her favourite topics for discussion is the dire state of everything British, especially the food.
“Tu sais, Bee, the English have no true cuisine.”
My hackles and my colour rise. “How can you say that Audrey; you always enjoy my cooking.”
She shrugs her shoulders and says, “But your cooking is French.”
It's true. I've acquired some French habits, at least in the kitchen. She jabs a finger garnished by a manicured, carmine nail at me. “I mean, they eat the mint sauce with the ship.”
Her English is good, but she'll never master the difference between long and short vowels. I pour her another sherry and she nibbles on a petit four.
“When you mean the meat, you must say lamb or mutton, not sheep. The trouble is, you're just being prejudiced because you've never tried English cuisine.”
She pats her hair and licks a stray crumb from her lip. Her expression is triumphant. “That's because there's nothing to try.”
“You could try toad-in-the-hole,” I venture.
“Toes in the hall.” She furrows her brow and mutters something about not liking pig's trotters.
“Not toes in the hall. Toad-in-the-hole. Crapaud dans le trou,” I translate. After all, to people who eat snails and frogs' legs, that shouldn't sound too bad.
She folds her arms and looks perplexed. “Is this the English humour? I don't think so, that you eat the toads.”
“No, we don't. The toad is a sausage and it's cooked in pudding batter.”
“Disgusting," she hisses. "Sausage in a cake.”
I really can't be bothered to explain that puddings can be savoury as well as sweet. After all a nationality that boasts of fritters called nun's farts (pets de nonne) shouldn't be so pernickety. Anyway, I'm on a roll now.
“And then there's boiled bacon and pease pudding; absolutely delicious.”
She no longer knows how to react. Is this another inscrutable English joke or am I being offensive? “You eat piss pudding with bacon?”
“Not piss, Audrey. It's peeeeeease pudding, a purée made from a sort of lentil. It's excellent.”
Audrey looks around for her handbag. It really is time for her to go before I dig up any more obscure English dishes. As I kiss her on both cheeks, I think of her lecherous old husband and how his greeting always somehow involves contact between his hands and my bosom. I find myself wondering about the possibilities for 'coq au vin'.
The main aim of these têtes-à-têtes is for us to practise each other's language. Among her favourite topics for discussion is the dire state of everything British, especially the food.
“Tu sais, Bee, the English have no true cuisine.”
My hackles and my colour rise. “How can you say that Audrey; you always enjoy my cooking.”
She shrugs her shoulders and says, “But your cooking is French.”
It's true. I've acquired some French habits, at least in the kitchen. She jabs a finger garnished by a manicured, carmine nail at me. “I mean, they eat the mint sauce with the ship.”
Her English is good, but she'll never master the difference between long and short vowels. I pour her another sherry and she nibbles on a petit four.
“When you mean the meat, you must say lamb or mutton, not sheep. The trouble is, you're just being prejudiced because you've never tried English cuisine.”
She pats her hair and licks a stray crumb from her lip. Her expression is triumphant. “That's because there's nothing to try.”
“You could try toad-in-the-hole,” I venture.
“Toes in the hall.” She furrows her brow and mutters something about not liking pig's trotters.
“Not toes in the hall. Toad-in-the-hole. Crapaud dans le trou,” I translate. After all, to people who eat snails and frogs' legs, that shouldn't sound too bad.
She folds her arms and looks perplexed. “Is this the English humour? I don't think so, that you eat the toads.”
“No, we don't. The toad is a sausage and it's cooked in pudding batter.”
“Disgusting," she hisses. "Sausage in a cake.”
I really can't be bothered to explain that puddings can be savoury as well as sweet. After all a nationality that boasts of fritters called nun's farts (pets de nonne) shouldn't be so pernickety. Anyway, I'm on a roll now.
“And then there's boiled bacon and pease pudding; absolutely delicious.”
She no longer knows how to react. Is this another inscrutable English joke or am I being offensive? “You eat piss pudding with bacon?”
“Not piss, Audrey. It's peeeeeease pudding, a purée made from a sort of lentil. It's excellent.”
Audrey looks around for her handbag. It really is time for her to go before I dig up any more obscure English dishes. As I kiss her on both cheeks, I think of her lecherous old husband and how his greeting always somehow involves contact between his hands and my bosom. I find myself wondering about the possibilities for 'coq au vin'.