Amuse-Bouche: Explaining French to Americans

This is the first of a series of "Amuse Bouche"-- humorous mouthfuls on the perplexities of French language and behavior by a former New Yorker now living in France. They are posted here, to amuse you, or for you to use freely as you like, so long as you respect my copyright. They've even been used to provoke discussion in courses for French speakers learning English!


Amuse-Bouche No. 1: What’s in a Name?
by Julia Frey
julia.frey@aya.yale.edu


Naming your baby in France gets easier and riskier...


I had to ask France Aimée where she got a patriotic name like "Beloved France". (What if my parents had named me "Beloved United States"?) Not patriotism, she said. Her mother is Aimée; her grandmother was named France. Well, I observed, her grandmother was born in 1915. Another friend was named France during the German occupation in 1940. France Aimée’s name, she admitted, can provoke misunderstandings. Backpacking through Asia, she was paged at Jakarta airport: red carpet, flashing cameras, formal cocktail. It seems her Indonesian friend in Paris, to introduce her to someone local, had sent a telegram in English to a government official he knew, asking him to welcome “Miss France Aimée X.” Very excited, the office had quickly set up a reception for...Miss France!

In 1964, when Gilbert Bécaud’s song “Nathalie” was a hit, some 32,000 baby girls were named Nathalie. This year, 40. In 1964, the most popular name for boys was Philippe. It ranks fifth overall for the past century. It lost favor just after World War II because the head of the Vichy régime was named Philippe Pétain, only to be salvaged in 1947, when Elizabeth II of England married Prince Philip. The truly class-conscious seek archaic names like Humbert or Isabeau. Or their Breton roots yield Baudouin or Guénaele. As in the United States, someone with a truly weird, unpronounceable name is usually from an old family—the kind that would do that to an innocent newborn.

A law passed on 11 germinal an XI (April Fool’s Day, 1803) said you had to choose a name from an official list which no one seems to be able to locate anymore. Legal names included all saints with birthdays in the calendrier grégorien (paradoxical since France was using the calendrier révolutionnaire at the time) plus certain historic figures, which ones I can only guess: Cleopatra? Nero? If you wanted to call your kid Friday, tough luck.

Desperate for individuation, people developed nicknames. As Boris Vian’s 1955 song “Je Suis Snob” explains, “Je m’appelle Patrick, mais on dit Bob.” Additionally, la bonne bourgeoisie hatched a flock of hyphenations: Jean-Paul, Jean-Pierre, Jean-Claude for boys; Marie-Paule, Marie-Pierre, Marie-Claude for girls. These even showed seasonal variations. Marie-Noëlle explains hers: “I was born in October, a bit too soon after my parent’s March wedding. My name hints at a Christmas birthday.” A 1966 law, bowing to these faits accomplis, also allowed mythological names (Medusa?) and regional names. Aude is poetic, but Aisne? Unfortunate homonyms for that French département (pronounced N) include aine (groin) and haine (hatred).

After a 1981 amnesty granting illegal immigrants citizenship, it wasn’t politiquement correct to force a saint’s name on a baby beur (French-born person of North African descent). Informally, parents could choose an alternative. Result: 1,784 boys named Mohamed.

But a name that might subject the child to ridicule risked a government veto. Results were inconsistent. Some bureaucrats rejected Marine: too nautical. For others, no problem. Since 1993, all rules are off. Last year Océane was really big.

So now you're safe -- you can name your kid anything you want. Unless some civil servant questions your taste in names. Then the “judge of family affairs” will choose a more appropriate one (Tuesday?). This creates new problems for psychologists. “What will happen to the child named Périphérique Nord, after the highway where his mother’s waters broke?” wonders François Bonifaix (Le Traumatisme du Prénom, 1995). Luckily, anyone over the age of 13 can legally change his or her name. Maybe I’ll change mine to Beloved United States.


© Julia Frey 2011

p.s. Many of these columns were originally published, beginning in 2006, in the magazine France Today. 

Amuse Bouche No. 2: What's in a name? (bis) -- Le Name Dropping

by Julia Frey
Even as they dump conventional first names (see Amuse-bouche No. 1), the French remain obsessed with le nom de famille

Camille’s  bobo (bourgeois-bohème) parents never got around to getting married. Déclarée (legally recognized) by her father, she bears his surname (not surnom -- which means nickname). But seventeen, and status-conscious, Camille wanted the ultimate snobisme, a two-part name. Her mother’s nom de famille includes the preposition de (known as the particule). World-wide, les snobs are impressed by la particule. French snobs even distinguish between noblesse d'Empire, whose titles merely were bestowed by Napoleon, and ancien Régime nobles who somehow survived the Révolution. So Camille combined both her parents’ last names (which I have changed to protect the guilty). She’s now dite (called) Camille Bidule de Machin-Chouette (Thingamajig of Whatsherface). Not everyone is impressed. Bobos and hoi polloi treat double names like clumsy furniture: un nom à tiroir (a name with a drawer in it), à rallonge (with a table extension), à charnière (with a hinge), or qui se devisse (which can be unscrewed). She can always unscrew -- It’s just a nom d’usage. Legally she’s still Camille Bidule.

Although it’s considered vulgar to ask what you do for a living, in France people want to know your family tree before they decide if they like you. In some circles, being just plain folks ( petites gens - mysteriously feminine in this context) or du peuple (proletarian) is a source of pride. It’s particularly chic to say you come from paysans (peasants) or ouvriers, (workers) if you’re really an intellectuel/le.

Certain women will marry a man who is cruel, stupid, unethical and unemployed just for his aristocratic name. Rich American families like the Vanderbilts used to purchase titles for their daughters by marrying them to impoverished nobles. Less well-heeled social climbers, like Honoré de Balzac’s father, just slipped in  la particule when they thought nobody was looking.

These days, you can’t casually adopt a new  nom de famille. Too bad if you’re stuck with a moniker like Marc Deposay (homonym: marque déposée -- trademark) , not to mention Poubelle (garbage can) or Guillotine, both named for their inventors. Luckily the death penalty has been abolished, and poubelles are no longer allowed in the streets for fear of terrorist bombs. All you find when you look for a place to park your gum is a lidded metal hoop with a green plastic bag attached.

Don’t think marriage can save a French woman from an unfortunate name. Her identity papers bear her maiden name all her life, adding the name of her husband along with details of her marital status. Thus Aude Wessel (homonym:  eau de vaisselle -- dishwater), when she marries, becomes Aude Wessel épouse (wife of) Fosse (drainage ditch). If the marriage dissolves, she is Aude Wessel divorcée Fosse, or if he kicks the bucket, she’s Aude Wessel veuve Fosse. If she remarries, she’s still Aude Wessel, now épouse Bidet.

You may envy  les people (pronounce: laypeePOLE) -- the folks you see in les médias, but a famous name is also a mixed blessing. Sara was once married to Pablo Picasso’s son Claude. “It was astonishing,” she said. “From the moment I became Sara Picasso, I ceased to exist. People only cared about my name.“ (Picasso himself complained people bought his paintings for the signature.) She was very young. The marriage didn’t last. Sara existed again. The name is still worth money. In 1998, Claude sold the signature to the French auto maker Citroën, and named their mid-sized model the “Xsara Picasso”. Sara assumes he named the car after her: ex-Sara Picasso!

©Julia Frey 2011

P.S. Julia Frey (pronounced: fry), an ex-French professor, was amused to discover her students called her “French Frey”.

Amuse-Bouche No. 3: Twelve Ways to Toss a Salad

by Julia Frey

From oysters to eggplants, French is stuffed with food metaphors...

The other night at dinner, Philippe was discussing food. Not surprising. After all, France is a country with four religions and 400 sauces. (The United States, Philippe opines, has four sauces and 400 religions.) Specifically, the pervasiveness of food imagery in French speech. I recounted confronting my first major food metaphor. “T’as les portuguaises ensablées, ou quoi ? ” a fellow student said. Clueless, I attempted direct translation (Are your female Portuguese full of sand or what?), then intelligently responded, “Quoi ? ”

He explained elaborately. Roman policier (detective novel) writer Frédéric Dard, who single-handedly souped up French with more argot than anyone before or since, was a big foodie. Not surprising. Dard, who wrote under the pseudonym San-Antonio, liked to cook up ambiguously edible titles for his books, like Tarte à la Crème Story (1980), Sauce Tomate sur Canapé (1994) and the inimitable La Rate au Court-bouillon (approximately, “Spleen in the Soup,” 1965). Another one, Du Poulet au Menu(1958), sounds like KFC until you know that poulet (chicken) also means cop.

In Ne Mangez Pas la Consigne (“Don’t Eat the Orders,” or alternatively, “Don’t Eat the Baggage Room,” 1961), San-Antonio invented the notorious phrase about the Portuguese. Which are not Portuguese women but edible oysters known as portuguaises and, by extension, human ears. How come? Because ears reminded him of oyster shells. Why full of sand? Because a dead oyster is full of sand. Also, if you’ve got sand in your ears, you can’t hear anything. “T’as les portuguaises ensablées, ou quoi ? ” means “Are you deaf or what?” These days, there’s a rock group named Les Portuguaises Ensablées, and the Dictionnaire Grand Robert lists “portuguaises” as a synonym for ears!

But not all food metaphors in French are complicated. Some are obvious. My favorite is pédaler dans le yaourt / la choucroute / la semoule, as in “ You must get organized. Stop pedaling in (choose one) yogurt / sauerkraut / polenta.” Not to be confused with “Il patauge dans la mélasse” (He’s paddling in molasses), roughly translatable as “He’s in deep doo-doo.”

As we turned to our salad, Philippe remarked that there are 12 ways to toss salad in French, including tourner (turn), touiller (stir) and fatiguer (to fatigue, exhaust or worry, as a dog worries a bone). There’s also remuer, mélanger, saucer, secouer, assaisonner, accommoder, apprêter, relever and I forget. The word salade itself has at least six meanings meanings outside its culinary context. In San-Antonio’s La Vérité en Salade (“The Truth as a Salad” 1958), it is a veritable layer-cake of innuendo:
—Confusion, disorder: Il a fait une salade indescriptible (He messed everything up). See also, Quelle mélasse !
—Lies: Arrête tes salades ! (Stop lying!), but in the singular: Arrête ta salade ! (Stop whining!).
—Making a big deal out of nothing: Elle en a fait toute une salade (She made a big stink about it).
—Quarrel, as in Il me cherche une salade: He’s trying to pick a fight with me. Short form: Il me cherche.
—Unclear or dishonest situation, as in Quelle salade que la politique ! (Politics is a dirty business).
Later, when the detective caught his man, the poulets carted him off in a panier à salade (paddy-wagon) !

We ran into one last food metaphor that night. Standing by Philippe’s car was a woman, writing. Une aubergine lui collait un papillon (an eggplant was gluing a butterfly on him). Quoi ? A meter maid was giving him a ticket! Back in 1977-78, the Paris police department decided those ladies who leave parking tickets fluttering (hence papillon) under your windshield wipers should wear fashionable maroon uniforms with high, rounded caps. Within minutes, someone nicknamed them aubergines. The maligned uniforms have since been replaced with blue suits, but the name stuck. You guessed it: the Robert now lists “aubergine” as “auxiliaire de la police française” !

© Julia Frey, 2009

Julia Frey is a writer best known for her biography of an artist who also loved to cook: Toulouse-Lautrec, a Life (Phoenix Giants, London, 2006, available on Amazon.com).

Tags:  San-Antonio, culture, Frédéric Dard, food, France, French,  language, literature

Amuse-Bouche No. 4: Nissarts and Ch'tis -- Separated by Language -

The French tend to ridicule all regional accents but their own.
by Julia Frey

We are exploring PACA (Provence–Alpes du Sud–Côte d’Azur), our new neighborhood, and I discover that les Provençaux speak French so you can understand them! They pronounce all the letters, including some that aren’t in the word. And they’re volubiles. In Vallauris (pronounced valorisse), it’s no use being in a hurry with Jean-Marc, the boulanger, who makes wonderful pain (pronounced pang). He just taps his head and says: “Mais vous n’êtes pas bieng?” (“Is there something wrong with you?” Translation into normal French: “Ça ne va pas, la tête?” Implicitly: “Are you nuts? What’s the rush?”) When they don't want a non-local to understand, Jean-Marc and his wife, both born in Nice, speak Nissart (the Nice dialect) to each other.

As elsewhere, non-local accents can provoke negative reactions, even if studies show most French speakers can’t accurately recognize regional accents. The French really only distinguish between le Nord and le Midi (south). But they tend to dislike the other guy’s accent.

When Brigitte noticed l’accent du Midi was replacing the parigot (Paris street slang) influence on my American accent, she fed me her stéréotypes about les gens du Midi: voleurs (thieving), menteurs (prone to exaggeration), paresseux (lazy). She quoted a so-called Provençal proverb: “Si tu as une envie de travail, assieds-toi et attends que ça passe!” (If you feel like getting a job, sit down until you get over it.) Wanda, une Niçoise transplanted to Paris, laughed. “Julia, at least you’re bien placée (in the right place) to know if we deserve our bad reputation”.

In 1905, one of the first French B.D.s (bandes dessinées, i.e., comic strips) invented Bécassine (the word means “snipe,” as in the bird), a plouc (hick) who arrives in Paris wearing her coiffe bretonne (traditional Brittany lace cap). Comically highlighting the alienation between city and country, peasant and bourgeois, she became so popular that one of the definitions for bécassine in the Trésor de la Langue Française is “femme stupide ou ridicule”. Bretons were long offended by her image but now view Bécassine with nostalgia, as representing the unspoiled good-heartedness of France in times gone by. She was honored by a French stamp in 2005.

Astérix (a series of 50 French B.D.s and films) constantly parodies regional stereotypes, ridiculing preconceptions like Normands who never give you a straight answer, Gascons who never keep their word, cheapskate Auvergnats and, of course, Southerners who are always taking la sieste! The caricatural hostility between Paris and province (Provence is a French province), and the regional pride (and cuisine) of Corsica, Normandy, Brittany, Gascony or Auvergne become pretexts to get children—and adults—to laugh at their own prejudices while teaching them geography. (For some reason the French often claim to be hopeless in geography. Given that they think France is shaped like a hexagon, I’d say they’re more hopeless in geometry.)

The wildly successful comedy Bienvenue Chez les Ch’tis—pronounced sh-tee—(Welcome to the Sticks), has sold more tickets than any French-made film in history, including France’s most expensive film to date, Astérix aux Jeux Olympiques. At this writing, approximately 25 percent of France had been to see this gentil (charming) farce about a postal clerk from sunny Provence forcibly relocated to a small town in France’s far north. Shot in Bergues (pronounced “berk”—which means “yuck”—pop. 4,200), not far from Lille, it uses gags about torrential rains starting at the border and hard-drinking, unemployed rednecks who eat bread slathered in stinky cheese dipped in chicory-flavored coffee, while speaking an incomprehensible dialect calledCh’timi. Nicknamed “les Ch’tis”, they replace “s” with “ch” (you know that singer Chtevie Wonder?), call their buddies “biloute” (regularly confused with biroute, slang for the male sex organ) and end every sentence with hein? (huh? pronounced a little like a duck quacking). All this slapstick has an underlying message: le Nord can be a wonderful place. “People arrive in tears”, someone says, “and leave in tears”. Although the humor, given the accents and dialect, is untranslatable, director and star Dany Boon figured out how to use the “fish out of water” plot for a future U.S. remake— simply transfer a disgraced New Yorkcadre (executive) to a small town in Texas.

© 2009 Julia Frey

Amuse-Bouche No. 5: What’s Litotes?

When is an insult not an insult?

by Julia Frey

Isabelle has invited les copains (pals) to dinner. She brings in the entrée (“appetizer,” not “entree”) hot from the oven, gives each of us a slice, watches to see if we like it. François-Noël swallows his first bite and announces,“Ça se laisse manger” (“It lets itself be eaten”—i.e., it’s edible). Quoi? He’s usingune litote (lee TUT), understatement. His slangy expression means Isabelle’s quiche is delicious. But don’t say that to your boss’s wife. Context is important. Depending on your tone of voice, “elle n’est pas mal” (she’s not bad) can mean anything from she’s okay to she’s gorgeous. In a classic litote, you take the opposite of what you mean and put it in the negative: Il ne fait pas chaud (it’s not hot) means it’s freezing out. Isabelle might have answered François-Noël, “Ah bon, c’est pas trop dégueulasse?” (It doesn’t make you feel like throwing up?)

My sister, ever the literature professor, uses the English pronunciation: “Lye TOE teez? That’s a figure of classical rhetoric; to show irony, you use the negative of its contrary. Put simply, you say the least to mean the most. I teach it to my students.”Sympathique! (Nice!) All the irony is in my voice, but it’s still une litote. I really mean c’est pas sympa’. I’m glad college English is far behind me. The French use litotes all the time. Oblique language, particularly understatement, shows your esprit(cleverness) and subtilité (sophistication). To be truly spirituel (“witty,” not “spiritual”), you have to master l’euphémisme, la nuance, le non-dit (the unsaid) and le sous-entendu (hidden meaning). They say “elle est sortable” (you can take her out), to mean “She’s a babe.” If you hear “On se téléphone” (Let’s stay in touch), it may or may not happen.

Assez! (All right already!). I have enough trouble just being clear. In multicultural America you have to be explicit, because fewer and fewer people are native English speakers. We are taught to value “plain speaking” -- transparence -- not ambiguité. Poor, flat-footed Americans are simply trying to avoid misunderstandings. The French challenge you to think. Often they’ll say one thing to imply something else. Above all, they abhor banality. I remember the day Michel said he’d try to give me a ride to the airport, but he wasn’t sure. When I got home there was a note on my door: “Je suis passé te dire au revoir” (I came by to tell you goodbye). Unspoken was: “Sorry I can’t take you to the airport.”

The word litote itself is an example of what I nickname “mots-mode” (fashionable words), like velléité (whim) or en l’occurrence(in this case). These sometimes obscure words and expressions become extremely popular as "in" or "out" identifiers among groups of people who love le mot juste (the perfect word), particularly if they think you don’t know what it means. Another common phrase is “Revenons à nos moutons” (“Let’s get back to our sheep,” i.e., the subject—a quote from a medieval farce). Paradoxically, such in-jokes have often become clichés. In fact, that one was a cliché by the end of the play.

But revenons à nos moutons. The French, reluctant to dire ce qui est évident (state the obvious), love the ambiguity of la litote. Famous examples abound. Every high school kid knows the scene in Le Cid when Chimène says to Rodrigue: “Va, je ne te hais point” (Go, I don’t hate you at all). Serge Gainsbourg goes even further in his classic song “Je T’aime, Moi Non Plus”: “I love you,” sighs Jane Birkin. “Me neither,” Serge replies. Of course he originally wrote the song for Brigitte Bardot.

© Julia Frey, 2009

Julia Frey’s hobby is deconstructing the French.

Amuse-Bouche No. 6: Le Vélib’ -- trying out Paris’s bike rental system.

Amuse-Bouche No. 6: Pourquoi Faire Simple?

by Julia Frey

Taking the Vélib’ for a spin.

Grève générale des métros! It’s the biggest Paris transit strike in 10 years. Perfect time to try out the Vélib’. I’ve never used it before, so I’d better démarrer sur les chapeaux de roue (“take off on the hubcaps,” i.e., at full speed). I go down early.

7H02—There’s already a line. The (almost) free bike rental system inaugurated in major French cities in recent years is a victim of its own success. In the first 6 months after it opened in Paris in July, 2007, des Vélibiens (Vélibistes? Vélib’eurs?), rented bikes 6 million times and rode 7.5 million miles. Elegantly gris souris (mouse-gray), a Vélib’ (its name combining “vélo” [bike] and “liberté,” with an apostrophe replacing the last syllables) has a kickstand, headlight, basket and lock. Les bobos(bohémiens-bourgeois) are detaching from their cars, becoming “des drogués des déplacements doux” (addicted to soft—i.e., environmentally friendly—transportation). “Vous vélibez?” There’s a website vélibataire (Vélib’ + célibataire: single) for vélibats. Vélib’ for romance: It’s la vélorution! But a Vélib’ is not biplace (tandem), donc pas top pour la drague (not ideal for pickups).

7H15—Finally, I’m at the head of the line. One bike left! Should I buy a pass for a day or a week? With a one-day pass (€1), I can make as many 30-minute trips as I want within 24 hours. The first half-hour of every jaunt you take that day is free. If your trip lasts longer, costs spiral geometrically: €1 for minutes 31–60, €2 for another 30 minutes and €4 for each subsequent half-hour. Careful. Twenty hours costs €151. Not to mention the €150 credit card deposit against theft or loss. People without bank cards are out of luck.

7H20: So are les Amerloques! It won’t take my card. The man in line behind me asks “Your carte doesn’t have une puce?”Quoi? My card needs a flea? The puce, a computer chip embedded in European bank cards, triggers a release mechanism in the borne (kiosk). No puce, no Vélib’. Obviously le système has a few couacs (literally, “quacks,” i.e., glitches). Head back upstairs, come down with husband’s European credit card.

7H35: “My” bike is long gone, but luckily two more bikes have been turned in at the rack. I wait in line again, buy pass with French card, type in number of a Vélib’ s parking slot on keypad at the rack’s computer terminal. Ouh là là! (Uh-oh!) Typo! There isn’t any Vélib’ in that slot. Nonetheless, la location est prise en compte (the rental is recorded) and now I have to return a bike that I don’t have. I feel like a locdus (boob).

I decide to call la hotline on my portable (cell phone). After five tries, two unexplained hang-ups and 10 minutes of being on hold, I am told that 1) my borne doesn’t exist, and 2) my account can’t be traced because the server is down. Pourquoi faire simple quand on peut faire compliqué? (Why make it easy when you can make it complicated?) After 20 minutes they unblock my account number.

8H20: One bike left. I have 60 seconds to push a button to free the bike. Before I can figure out how to get it out of the stand, my Vélib’ is bloqué. That means I can’t take out a bike again for five minutes. C’est lourd (frustrating). Wait. Try again. Merde!(mild obscenity). Flat tire.

8H32 The borne informs me there’s a station with bikes a 20-minute walk away. I race over.

8H52: Génial! (great). Two bikes are disponibles (available). I liberate the closest one…but it won’t move. Some person or persons unknown have chained it to be sure to have a Vélib’ when they want one. I consider rubbing my chewing gum into their lock’s keyhole.

9H01 Enfin! (At last!) On bike, struggling up hill. Vélib’ is solide: 22 kilos. But traffic in Paris actually seems less dense since the bikes are available. I wonder if it’s true. As I head downhill, I’m getting into this, the wind in my hair, skirt flapping.

9H25 Oups! Now I’m en retard (late). I grille un feu (“broil” [run] a red light). Getting caught would cost €200. Manage to park the bike in a borne and dash to my meeting. Ouf! (Whew!) They're starting late because of the transit strike.

16H (4 pm.) Learn the strike’s been extended…indefinitely. Why didn’t I go for that one-week pass?

© Julia Frey 2009