HALLOWEEN AND THE FRENCH

NO TRICK, NO TREAT, JUST EATING RIGHT.

        

    France doesn’t waste much time on Halloween.  It’s dismissed as one of those synthetic festivals, like Valentine’s Day, that exist exclusively to make money. Of course they still observe a public holiday  – when there’s an excuse for a long weekend, the French are downright ecclesiastical – but nobody tricks-or-treats, and pumpkins are thin on the ground.

            On the whole I’m on their side. Halloween is still All Hallows Eve to me, a night to remember the dead, but with dignity, not theatrics. In Catholic countries such as Austria and Poland, it’s the custom to set a candle on the graves of those one loves or respects. In Vienna’s Central Cemetery, where Beethoven, Schubert, Schoenberg and Brahms lie buried, candles will cover their graves that night, and the ground for metres around.   

            France has no Thanksgiving either. For a chance to gather with the family, to reaffirm old relationships – and, of course, revive old feuds – we must wait for Christmas. That’s one difference between the cultures which I do regret, but for purely selfish reasons:  I miss Thanksgiving food. Turkey, pumpkin pie and all the classics, of course, but also those antique side dishes:  corn pudding, scalloped tomatoes, mock oyster, and stuffings of cornbread and sausage that are almost a meal in themselves.    

            France does mark the seasonal change with food, but not quite what you might expect. Driving up to Montmartre this morning, I noticed an ad for winter clothing on the back of a bus. But the text didn’t refer directly to parkas and scarves. Instead it said “This is the season of Raclette.”

The copywriter knew his business; you would never think of eating Raclette except at this time of year. It’s as autumnal as a head-cold or chilblains. There is even a traditional Raclette Day -December 13th.

In case you’ve never eaten Raclette, you prepare it as follows. Fix a wheel of cheese - Morbier is good, or Fourme d’Ambert, if you prefer a bleu - next to a heat source, and wait for it to start melting.  As it softens, scrape the outer layer onto your plate. Help yourself to cold boiled potatoes, ham, sausage and pickles, washing it all down with a dry white - Sancerre or Muscadet.

Obviously this isn’t something you whip up as a snack. Among dishes that demand both expertise and machinery, only cheese fondue comes close  – and, significantly, both were developed in the same area, the Swiss Alps; specifically the canton of Valois.

Or so the Swiss would have us believe. People on the French side of the border in Haute Savoie disagree. The discussion can get heated. One Parisian Savoyard restauarant conveyed its distaste for the Swiss version by offering anyone who ordered it a complimentary glass of schnapps - from a bottle in which a small snake was preserved.

So what is special, you may ask, about melted cheese and cold cuts? Why not just grill some Swiss or Cheddar and serve it with the appropriate accompaniments? Well, that would be to lose the theatrical element that turns a dish into an event. Would Crepes Suzette taste the same brought to the table ready to eat,  rather than being served, sizzling, from a pan at your elbow, with those gouts of blue flame, the smell of burning sugar, cognac and orange zest? This isn’t food for nourishment; it’s food as performance. And if you don’t think that matters…

I recently spent a morning exchanging restaurant stories with a former writer for Gourmet magazine. Some of the best involved Arpège, Paris’s most honored establishment – three Michelin stars -  and also among its most expensive: $500 a head.

She had dined there with a party of other food writers, invited to sample its menu de degustation or tasting menu, a stroll in twelve dishes through the latest creations of its innovative chef, Alain Passard.

After a certain amount of confusion, the party found its seats, ignoring  glares from other – paying - patrons.  The first course arrived while they were still looking for a place to put their bags or discovering the location of the toilets, and the second as they were jotting down notes about the first.

It took a few seconds to realise something was wrong.

“But….this is the first course again,” one writer said.

It should have been sliced scallops and preserved radish, perfumed with geranium.  Instead it was a soft-boiled egg à la coque, with its top removed and some cream added, with a few drops of sirop d’érable: maple syrup. In other words, the first course, served a second time.

They shook their heads about this apparent decline in the usually impeccable service. A waiter was called.

“Let me speak to chef,” he said, and retreated.

A few minutes later, he returned.

“Chef asked me to say”, he said, “that he repeated the dish on purpose. When you ate it the first time, you were not paying attention.”

You hear that? And get your elbows off the table!

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