Book Review: French Toast (1997)

Each Wednesday, I review a French-related book. The subject varies, from culture to film to memoir to biography to whatever the heck I feel like reading that week and whatever strikes my fancy at the library or bookshop.

Yes, yet another expat-in-love-with-a-Frenchman kinda book. The subtitle, however, gives away a different and very refreshing perspective. The full title of Harriet Welty Rochefort‘s book is French Toast: An American in Paris Celebrates the Maddening Mysteries of the French. Rochefort, an American journalist, met and married her Prince Charming not too long after she finished her university studies and has never looked back. Her husband, however, isn’t the paragon of perfection that one might expect to find in a typical woman-expat-in-France memoir. Philippe, who has his own Web site called Understand France (which I reckon is his answer to his wife’s extensive site detailing her ongoing observations about his people, her adopted homeland), does have a doctorate in Economics, an undergraduate degree in engineering, plays the guitar and bass, speaks at least three languages (French, Spanish and English) fluently, paints beautifully, and has published a number of articles on urban transportation.

Yes, one could very easily begin to hate Mme. Rochefort for what appears to be yet another charmed life, and she does indeed make no bones about the fact that she’s a happily married woman and is enjoying her second life as a doting grandmother to her many gorgeous grandchildren.

On the other hand, Rochefort writes with such self-deprecation and possesses such a keen eye for human foibles and funnies that one can’t help but nod knowingly at her gentle mocking of American customs while also laugh out loud at her bewildered reactions to some of the more intriguing habits of her French friends and in-laws.

Female Francophiles will especially appreciate the chapter simply titled “The Frenchwoman.” Rochefort obviously has a rollicking good time (and believe me, if you read her earthy narratives, you’ll realize that that word perfectly sums up this Iowa-cornfield-born-and-bred Midwestern girl’s writing style) dissecting the supposed secrets of the glamorous Frenchwoman. She dutifully echoes her compatriots’ sentiments that Frenchwomen are indeed sophisticated and aloof and dress beautifully regardless of their budget. They’re close to their mothers and practice a rigid discipline on their children and have impeccable manners. Bien sur. Anyone who knows anything about Frenchwomen will recognize these descriptions/stereotypes.

Rochefort, however, goes further and harnesses her thirty-plus years of experience living, breathing, and ruminating on French life, towards unwrapping the less savory aspects (at least, from an American point-of-view) of the Frenchwoman’s life. A particularly illuminating anecdote I found both enjoyable and dismaying involved a dinner party in which Rochefort and a fellow guest whom she tactfully refers to by the pseudonym Jacques, argued extensively after the latter made a stupid comment about how “it is impossible to rape a woman without her consent (!) and that marital rape is inconceivable.” (Parenthetical exclamation point is Rochefort’s.)

Rochefort quickly inserts in her text that such a conversation “would never take place in the United States.” I would disagree with her — I’ve met enough horrifying misogynists in my day to know otherwise — but I silently cheered her on as I read about how she and “Jacques” went on and on around the topic, Rochefort trying to explain the whole definition of rape (’cause apparently there still exists men who don’t know what it means), and Jacques forming his opinion of her as a “crazy American feminist.” (Or, as a former boss once referred to me, a “femi-Nazi.”) Uh-huh.

In the meantime, as Rochefort ruefully points out, “the Frenchwomen present that evening somehow managed not to get involved in the debate.”

Sigh. Of course, given that the author herself admits that she got nowhere in this argument with the man, perhaps they were actually the wiser. Still, I know of few American women — with the possible exception of Caitlin Flanagan, Christina Hoff Sommers and Phyllis Schlafly, may God forgive them — who wouldn’t have done what Rochefort did, and for that I’m proud to be American.

In any case, Rochefort does a fine job loading up her narrative with such insightful anecdotes and pithy observations. She spares no one — not herself, her American and French sisters, even her husband — in her critiques of Franco-American relations n the social and domestic front (at one point referring to her husband lovingly but firmly as an occasional “chauvinist”), but does so in a way that makes her seem more like a user-friendly sociologist (i.e., non-academic) rather than an ill-tempered outsider.

The book reads a bit like a guidebook into the French psyche, but without the self-importance of the longtime expat suffering under the illusion that he or she “understands” the French. Rochefort is especially in fine form in her chapter entitled “The Parisians.” Recognizing that the City of Light’s two-million-plus residents are an entirely different subspecies of French, she devotes a great deal of literary space to her observations on Parisian behavior towards their dogs, their homes, and of course, each other. She even throws in an entire section discussing the unique dilemma faced by the Japanese — tourists and residents alike — whom she believes must have an especially hard time in their interactions with the French.

Another chapter I enjoyed — naturally — is the one about money and the French attitude towards it. In fact, I was surprised it was included at all, as a number of other outside observers have pointed out the very secretive attitude the French have towards lucre (doesn’t that have such a lovely French sound?). So I was delighted to find even a rather quick chapter on the subject, which includes commentary on the lengths to which the French go to avoid the tax man and the erratic customer service one receives throughout the country.

Rochefort sums up the cultural perspective on money thus: “the less said about it, the better.” I have to admit, it sounds like an apt description of the general American attitude towards the issue as well, although you wouldn’t think so given all the books, news shows, talk show conversations, newspaper articles, and magazines devoted to the subject. But between individuals, I would argue that money is generally a very amorphous, vague subject of conversation, along the lines of how the stock market is doing that day or week or whether or not there’s going to be a recession. Personally, people generally keep their money issues well under wraps.

French Toast is officially one of my very favorite books about French culture and life. Rochefort is very diligent in her quest to try and make sense of the “maddening mysteries of the French,” including entire chapters on “The French and Their Food”, “The French and Sex, Love and Marriage,” and even the complicated French educational system. The presence of her children and — especially — her husband loom large in these pages, as they serve as willing (and sometimes unwilling, as Rochefort cheerfully admits!) foils to her theories about French behavior and customs. Longsuffering Philippe has the privilege of being grilled by his inquisitive wife (if you don’t want to be interrogated over dinner, don’t marry a journalist) at the end of most chapters, and in these very brief glimpses into their relationship, one can see the deep affection and respect they have for each other, despite Philippe’s obvious snarky humor and Rochefort’s occasional exasperation.

If you’re looking for the perfect, end-all-be-all book about the secrets of the French…this isn’t the book for you. I’m certain that such a book doesn’t and never will exist. On the other hand, if you’re looking for a very down-to-earth, very detailed, anecdote-rich description from the perspective of a very intelligent and very analytical writer-outsider with a gift for drawing out the humor and pathos in everyday life, then French Toast just might be the book for you. It’s hard to resist such an Erma Bombeck approach to the French way of life, especially when the book closes with a final chapter entitled, “Why I’ll Never be French (But I Really Am!)” I suspect that no matter how long someone may have lived in France, she’ll probably always share that sentiment with the indomitable Mme. Rochefort.

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