Home life
Frites with everything
Alice Thomas Ellis
was sitting on a boat the other day, wondering about the wisdom of this and debating with myself the proposition 'Abroad is bloody etc.' when I heard the voice of a compatriot raised in anger. 'When the cup is crackcd,' he was inform- ing the world, 'in the crack lurks the virus hepatitis B. When the vessel is washed the washing process does not extend to the crack.' His child spoke: 'But father,' it said — rather spitefully, I thought, for clearly his papa had gone to all the trouble of sending him to public school — 'at school everything's cracked.' There was a short pause while papa thought round this one. At last he observed that it wasn't so important in a community: it was the hepatitis B of strangers that was so threatening. He may have been a doctor, or perhaps he'd failed at something. What- ever the cause, he was quite the most shaming chucker-about-of-weight on the boat.
This scare had all come about because his elder child had brought his mama tea in a cracked cup. 'Take that back at once,' his father had roared. 'Look after your mother.' The unfortunate youth who had inherited his father's charm had been told by the man behind the counter to go and do the other thing, and father had taken up the cudgels. Before you could blink he was behind the counter doing his weight- throwing, and the purveyor of tea in a cracked cup had been forced into a stance of mulish, total obstinacy — as well he might. We didn't blame him at all, cracked cup or not. Then our compatriot strode off. 'Ow gawd,' we said to each other, 'he's gone to get the captain and the ship will founder because nobody will be watching where it is going.' Sure enough, he came back with a person in an official jacket, but I think it was only the head steward.
The head steward then brought another cup of tea, carrying it in a fashion rejected by hygiene experts, i.e. not by the handle, or on a saucer, but gripped round the rim by the fingers. He plonked it down before our compatriot, who said in his customary bellow that it was for his wife. But the crew had gone into hiding by that time. I know something about what happens to people who complain about the food because I know some people who've worked behind the scenes. The chef will indeed amend the rejected dish — in several ways, one of which is by spitting in it. If you have a complaint, make it and leave.
When we stopped for some frites and sausage on the other side it was quite relaxing to observe the proprietor of the lay-by stall idly scratching his armpit while hollowing out a bit of baguette to contain the sausage. In the shade lay an Alsatian thoughtfully washing his — well, never mind what he was washing — and on the ground nearby lay windfalls from an apple tree. A contingent of local youth came speeding up in motor cars and rolled out drunk, and we consciously appreciated the foreignness of it all. Drunken French youth is subtly different from drunken English youth. More cheerful and a lot more friendly.
I'm busy trying to remember some French. I have a nightmare about getting into conversation with a local who will ask me what I do and I'll say I'm an ecrevisse — or maybe an escritoire. Still, I was pleased yesterday when I saw a board outside a café advertising '100 'dwiches' — it only took me a minute or so to figure it out. And I've bought some wonderful postcards for people who annoy me. They feature a photograph of an intensely sensitive- looking billy goat and are headed Un intellectuel de gauche. Sweet.
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