Search This Blog

Amuse-Bouche -- Explaining French to Americans

a sporadic column on the perils of learning French

Amuse-Bouche Popular Posts

Thursday, July 15, 2010

Amuse-Bouche No. 25: Tous à la Bastille ! In French you don’t say “Happy Bastille Day” ...

Amuse-Bouche No. 25: Tous à la Bastille ! In French, you don’t say “Happy Bastille Day.”..
by Julia Frey (julia.frey@aya.yale.edu)
Warning. You can wish someone Joyeux Noël, Joyeuse Saint-Valentin, or Joyeuses Pâques, but you don’t say “Happy Bastille Day” ...
Or Bastille Day at all. In France, the national holiday is called la Fête Nationale française (abbreviated Fête Nat. on calendars) or more simply le 14 Juillet. So, I asked Isabelle and Laurent, how come English speakers call it Bastille Day and the French DON’T? This apparently innocent question opened up a can of worms (which the French would call “un guêpier”—a hornet’s nest—or “un sac de noeuds”—a bag of knots). My friends had lots of theories on the matter. Although nobody seems to know who first used the expression in English, they both thought a reasonable explanation is that French and non-French alike recognize the taking of the Bastille as the beginning of the French Revolution, and a symbolic victory for “les droits de l’homme” (human rights). 
On the other hand, the actual date, July 14, doesn’t mean much, especially when stacked with all the other French fêtes known only by their dates (1er Mai, 8 Mai, 11 Novembre etc.). Which leads me to an aside: the names of months generally are not capitalized in French, but if they refer to a “fête” (holiday), they are capitalized because they’re considered proper names. Fêtes named for saints are feminine even if the saint was male, because it’s “la fête de…,” thus la Saint-Valentin (Valentine’s Day). Most fêtes identified by their dates are laïques (lay, nonreligious), and commemorate solemn historic occasions (battles won, wars ending, etc.), whereas religious holidays usually have real names: Noël (Christmas), Pentecôte (Whitsunday), Pâques (Easter). Even though France is un état laïc (a country with separation of church and state), it’s striking that Noël, Pâques, la Pentecôte, l’Ascension, l’Assomption and la Toussaint (All Saints’ Day) are all national holidays. In fact the French have an amazing number of legal holidays, eleven in all, four of which usually fall in May, which explains why you can never get anything done in May.
Now back to what I was saying... La Fête Nat. is probably called “Bastille Day” in English because “Bastille” is a brief, concise and unambiguous reference to the storming of the prison of the Bastille in Paris on July 14,1789, by 954 men and one woman, armed with pikes and miscellaneous firearms, yelling “Tous à la Bastille !” (Everybody out of the pool). 
The actual event was a little disappointing. After a short battle, the nonmilitary governor in charge of the fortress, by then mostly being used as a hospital, simply gave up. When the victors finally made their way down to the “dungeons,” which turned out to be spacious, almost luxurious, they discovered there were only seven prisoners left in the place. The others, including the Bastille’s most famous inmate, the Marquis de Sade, had been transferred somewhere else shortly before. Disappointed, the conquerors dragged an old suit of armor and a printing press out into the courtyard, to be displayed as instruments of torture. 
Despite rumors to the contrary, the Bastille was not ripped stone by stone from its foundations by the angry crowd. A contractor named Palloy was hired to dismantle it. Most of the stones were
recycled to build a bridge, the Pont de la Concorde. He made money on the side by selling rings set with chips of stone from the walls and patriotic medallions hammered out of the fortress’s iron chains. 
So why did the populace attack the Bastille? Because the Bastille symbolized Royal tyranny. Ancien Régime (pre-Revolutionary) France was an absolute, at times despotic, monarchy, ruled en l’occurrence (in the event, i.e. at that time) by Louis XVI . The King could arbitrarily lock up anyone he wanted, whenever he wished, without any stated reason, by simply creating a “lettre de cachet.” These notorious letters were a particularly French phenomenon, thus the term is untranslatable, although cachet in this context means the royal seal. The most infamous lettres de cachet ordered the indefinite imprisonment or exile, without trial, of the individual named therein. The verb describing this behavior? Embastiller (to put into the Bastille), of course.
Even in Paris today, you frequently hear “Tous à la Bastille !” when there’s une manifestation populaire. Careful, warns Isabelle. Do not translate this as “a popular manifestation.” The noun would be “demonstration,” and it’s populaire in the sense of du peuple, i.e., a street protest by left-wing, usually working-class dissidents who feel their constitutional rights have been violated. Recently, this battle cry has been heard in support of “les sans-papiers” (the “without papers,” i.e., illegal immigrants) and at a general strike against attempts to raise the retirement age in France from 60 to 62. U.S. citizens are more grégaires (sheep-like, not gregarious), having accepted the advance from age 65 to the current 67.5 without so much as a murmur. 
I was surprised to learn that officially, le 14 Juillet does NOT celebrate the 1789 storming of the Bastille. It commemorates la Fête de la Fédération, organized on the same day in 1790, one year later. That night, Paris, in the presence of Louis XVI and Marie-Antoinette, partied on the Champ de Mars to celebrate the success of a peaceful revolution and the principle of a constitutional monarchy. Bad guess. The revolution continued, ever more violent, until Napoléon Bonaparte became Premier Consul nine years later in 1799. Nonetheless, the Fête de la Fédération was renamed la Fête Nationale française in 1880. Virtually everybody in France will tell you, though, that le 14 Juillet commemorates la prise de la Bastille (the capture of the Bastille). “On nous a bourré le mou avec ça dès l’école primaire,” says Laurent. Quoi ? Mou, it turns out, means the lungs of a butchered animal, and the expression bourrer le mou à quelqu’un means to force-feed someone false information,over a long period of time. But careful, cautions Laurent, it’s populaire to say the least, in the direction of vulgaire, since bourrer (to stuff ) has all the same connotations as in English (sexual, over-feeding, plus in French,  to beat someone up and se bourrer,  to get drunk).  Mou (adj. soft) can be associated to la cervelle (the brains you eat, as opposed to le cerveau, the brain you think with).
In any case, like the rest of us, the French are always happy to have un jour chômé (a day off). 
Early on the morning of July 14, there’s a défilé militaire (parade), with soldiers marching to La Marseillaise, the French hymne national (national anthem). In Paris, the French Air Force loudly buzzes the Champs Elysées, spewing exhaust smoke tinted bleu-blanc-rouge (the colors of the French as well as the U.S. flag—the “blue, white, red” in France, the “red, white and blue” en Amérique). Before dark thousands of Parisiens arrive at the Champ de Mars in time to picnic on the grass and crane their necks past la Tour Eiffel to look at le feu d’artifice du 14 Juillet—the spectacular fireworks set off from the Trocadéro, across the Seine. 
One final warning! The French are amused or shocked or both by the blatant chauvinisme (nationalism) of Americans, by the Stars and Stripes dangling from our houses. As my friends remind me, “on n’est pas si patriotes que ça” (We’re not as patriotic as you Americans). La Fête Nat. is just another vacation day. In short, you can wish someone Joyeux Noël, Joyeuse Saint-Valentin, Joyeuses Pâques, and so on, but you don’t wish people Happy Bastille Day, in either English or French. When it first came into existence in 1880, a few noble families, including that of the artist Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, flatly refused to recognize the holiday. To them, it symbolized the decapitation of some of their favorite relatives. Even today, one or two Royalists are still waiting for the Monarchy to be restored.
©Julia Frey, 2010


Amuse-Bouche No. 26: L’Esprit Parisien -- Is there une mystérieuse substance that makes Parisians exceptional beings?

Amuse-Bouche No. 26: L’Esprit Parisien 

by Julia Frey (julia.frey@aya.yale.edu)


Is there une mystérieuse substance that makes Parisians exceptional beings?

Reading Figaro Madame, I saw une pub (pronounced “pewb”, from publicité, advertisement, as distinct from un pub, pronounced “pub”, an English bar) selling “l’esprit parisien”. Quoi ? Depending on context, l’esprit parisien -- the essence of Paris -- can mean three different things: mentality, style or witty repartee (that’s repartie in French, by the way). But can you buy that?

Ah! The ad must mean style: “Paris Macadam, l’esprit parisien,” clothes that reflect “l’énergie des rues de Paris, sa vie culturelle, ses cafés.…” Yes, now you can hit the streets dressed in a café waiter’s vest, a street urchin’s cap and scarf, and “claquettes” (not tap shoes, but wood-soled sandals). Where did we get the idea that Parisian means fashionable?

When Louis XIV moved his court to Versailles, Paris became a hub and everything got centralized: government, money and snobbery. Courtly behavior, c’est-à-dire manière, style, tics, préciosité (affectation) and ostentatious pretentiousness, were mimicked by the merely rich. By moving to Paris one acquired l’esprit parisien—the Parisian mentality—what even the French call “la Parisian attitude”—a condescending belief in one’s superiority due to geographic location.

The pub plays on its non-Parisian readers’ sense of inferiority, suggesting they can buy status by dressing in the image of another incarnation of l’esprit parisien: streetwise ragamuffins. The gamin de Paris, famously déluré (smart-mouthed) andmalicieux (mischievous), has become identified with Parisian toughness. Lively and irreverent, skeptical and humorously pessimiste, primesautier (impulsive, spontaneous) and frondeur (constantly questioning authority), the Parisian street kid emanates brio and tape-à-l’œil (flashiness) when tossing off a clin d’œil complice (knowing wink), yet is capable of tendresseand subtle émotion when the occasion demands it. Generically called un titi, the prototypical gamin is Gavroche from Les Misérables, penniless, fearless and impertinent. Another word for a Paris brat is poulbot, from the name of artist and illustrator Francisque Poulbot, whose cartoons with half-pint protagonists became classics in the 1930s. These days, most of the street-wise kids live in les banlieues sensibles (literally: “sensitive suburbs”) a euphemism for high-crime, poverty-level neighborhoods on the outskirts of cities.

Back in the 19th-century, to be fashionable you dressed like une Parisienne mondaine (a society lady) or possibly une demi-mondaine (also known as une horizontale—the kind of woman whose lover bought her a little private town-house in St-Germain-des-Prés). Magazines like La Vie Parisienne, aimed at a developing literate middle class, purported to show bourgeoises andprovinciales what la capitale was wearing.

Soon, the mere fact of being Parisienne meant avoir du chien (“to have some dog”?—why this means a slightly sexy chic, no one knows). The stéréotype persists. Even a Parisienne of modest means, undistinguished background and average bone structure is believed to possess a kind of confident je ne sais quoi: ce mélange d’élégance et de vivacité that can only be learned in Paris.

L’esprit parisien in its third incarnation—conversational sparring—is largely class-bound. At court and in the Paris salons one showed superiority by using charming, brilliant, passionate skepticism and raffinement intellectuel to expound profoundly on futile matters, lightly on serious subjects. La gouaille (sarcasm, ridiculing others) became a special skill. Verbal one-upmanship is still typically Parisian. Since le mot à l’emporte pièce (the cutting remark), particularly if a little vulgar, is a sign of cleverness and subtlety, the desire to be witty can win out over human kindness. At some dîners en ville I’ve observed speakers who actually liked the victim of their quolibets (savage wit) but couldn’t resist the opportunity to amuse the crowd.

Typically, attacks are on the invasive clumsiness of those who “montent à Paris” (climb to Paris, i.e. move from the provinces). In one put-down, the now-forgotten 19th-century comic playwright Nestor Roqueplan announced the discovery ofune mystérieuse substance that made Parisians exceptional beings. It could be purchased like perfume, he said, in bottles labeled “Parisine,” as a cure for provincialism. Proof that you CAN buy l’esprit parisien.

© Julia Frey 2010

Amuse-Bouche No. 27: Words à la Mode -- or how to be out of date fast


by Julia Frey
julia.frey@aya.yale.edu

Cool expressions revolve faster than une porte à tambour (revolving door).

Does everybody read the newspaper with a yellow marker, or just me? At Sunday lunch, I regularly ask Nicole’s family to solve my word mysteries. But this week, before I even get out my (14-page) list, Nicole me pose une nouvelle colle (slang usage of colle, glue: asks me a new “sticky question”). “Veux-tu le sot-l’y-laisse?” I stare stupidly at the roast chicken, translating mentally: “Do you want the idiot leaves it there?” Quoi? The sot-l’y-laisse, she explains with a laugh, describes delicious but hard-to-find parts of the bird, tiny muscles on each side of the backbone. They’re called le sot-l’y-laisse because only an imbécile would leave them uneaten. In Nicole’s family, they fight over these morsels, found just above the croupion, and sometimes erroneously confused with it. The croupion, au contraire, is the fatty tissue holding a bird’s tail feathers. The verb, croupionner, can describe a woman who wiggles hers as she walks, presumably to attract attention. Ornithologists call the croupion the pygostyle, but hoi polloi call it the “Pope’s nose” or the “parson’s nose” depending, I suppose, on whether you prefer to insult Catholics or Protestants. So try asking for the pygostyle next Thanksgiving.

But I digress. After a character in the movie Amélie ("Le fabuleux destin d'Amélie Poulain" 2001) referred to the sot-l’y-laisse, spectators began wondering what it meant. The 18th century aristocratic culinary expression was reborn. Recipes, usually for the near-by muscles we call “chicken oysters”, appeared in a number of cooking publications, and in 2007, Le Figaro newspaper published a whole article on exactly what part of a roast bird sot-l’y-laisse refers to. Now there are at least eight restaurants called “Sot-l’y-laisse” !
This article is the first of an occasional series on what I call “mots-mode”, my own term for words à la mode—not like apple pie with ice cream (a non-French usage of à la mode), but like clothing styles, which are à la mode if they’re the latest thing. Normally not part of the ever innovative genius of argot (French slang), “mots-mode” are trite yet often paradoxically obscure words and expressions that spread like a virus for a few weeks or months, then fade. As I write, I’ll identify the culprits with the abbreviation mm (mot-mode), or worse, p (passé: out of style).

Just like clothing, mots-mode reflect one’s pretensions: political, economic, social or intellectual. Each clan— from gauchos (mm leftists) to taggeurs (mm graffiti artists) to bobos (p bohemian bourgeois)—has its own markers of who’s in and who’s out. Since frequently the general public has no clue (p) what the expressions mean, people use them to show they’re branchouillés. Of course, I’m using branchouillé  humorously here, as a pejorative variant of the word branché (plugged in, i.e., hip) to imply that the speaker is p, i.e., not really branché. And by now the word branché is definitely p.

Even the French make fun of their tics de langage. In January 2009, Le Figaro asked its readers to choose the most overused word of 2008. Nominations included subprime, buzz, Facebook, bling-bling, pirates, récession, développement durable (sustainable development), récolement (inventory—often in the context of bankruptcy), Livret A (a savings account) and Grenelle. Of the 10 mm, let me point out in passing, six were English or bilingual. And nine had to do with either fame or money. Or both.

The last word, Grenelle, is a perfect mm because even if you’re French, it’s totally esoteric. It refers to the Accords de Grenelle, agreements resulting from government-vs.-labor negotiations during the 1968 turbulence, held at the Ministère du Travail on Rue de Grenelle in Paris. J’hallucine! (mm Give me a break!). Nobody can understand that! In 1968, half the population of France wasn’t even born yet. Later, in 2007, important meetings on long-term environmental policy became known (abusivement, since they weren’t held on Rue de Grenelle) as le Grenelle de l’Environnement. Now, by analogy, a Grenelle refers to any important French policy debate among multiple interest groups.

What is horripilant (mm irritating) is not so much the actual words (except perhaps bling-bling), as le caractère tyrannique with which they’re used everywhere, then never. They revolve faster than une porte à tambour (revolving door). You constantly used to hear Santiags— a fashionista (p) mot-mode for heavily decorated, expensive cowboy boots— meaning shoes -- in the expression traîner (to drag) ses Santiags (i.e., to hang out). So “il traîne ses Santiags au Buddha Bar” used to mean he frequented that bar scene. However, suddenly tongs (thongs or flip-flops -- the ones we used to call “go-aheads” because they fell off if you tried to walk backward) hit Paris like a plague of plastic locusts. Now il traîne ses tongs au Mood. Where it’s highly unlikely he’ll get served le sot-l’y-laisse.



©Julia Frey 2010