Le Franco Phoney

One of the benefits of learning French whilst living in France is that the more obscure words I’d be unlikely to learn in a French language class are more available to me. For example, a housewarming party in French is not chauffage de maison. The literal translation does not work. It’s pendaison de crémaillère, which translates to ‘pot hook hanging.’ I’d argue that it’s a stupid name, but is ‘housewarming party’ any better? In fact, after finding out more about the pot hook hanging, I think it’s a better name. Let me explain.

Historically, pots of food were cooked over heat, and they need a pot hook to hang the pot from. By having a party to celebrate the hanging of the pot hook, it means you’re going to cook a big pot of food for your friends who have come around to celebrate you hanging your new pot hook in your new pad. Warmth, sharing, full bellies: it’s everything you want for a nice evening in with friends.

Meanwhile, nobody can agree on the etymology of ‘housewarming’. Some say it comes from a Russian couple who provided bread with salt to a passing dignitary, and others say it’s a Scottish tradition of bringing hot embers to a friend’s new house to literally warm it up. One source even says it was a shoemaker in London who cooked a hot pot stew for friends to celebrate a new home, and in the process of cooking, warmed his house. None of these match what I always thought ‘housewarming’ meant: I presumed you invited your friends around to warm up the house with their love. Regardless, shouldn’t it be called a homewarming party? Because anyone can own a house, but you have to make it your home.

So, last night, I partied at my own hanging of the pot hook celebrations, which involved no pot hook, no bread with salt, no embers and no stew. The house, however, is now a warm home, so it’s time to find my next obscure French phrase to question.

As I mentioned in one of my last blog entries, I’ve moved house. I now live in St Jean de Sixt, which is the next village down from La Clusaz, so it’s not a very big move. A friend visited the new house on the weekend, and as we walked towards the bakery, just a few minutes away, we obviously looked local enough for not one, but two cars to stop and ask for directions.

The first car asked for directions to Aravis. My French friend explained that the entire region is the Aravis, so they were already there. They weren’t convinced and wanted to know where the football stadium in the town of Aravis was. She explained again that the Aravis is a region and that it could be one of any number of football stadiums. They still seemed confused by this, but then mentioned they had been told to head towards Le Grand Bornand. It seemed odd to us (because why would such a small village where snow sports rule be the home of the football stadium for this region?), but we pointed them in the right direction and they thanked us.

The next car was less polite. A man  in a white van tooted and stopped. I presumed it was someone I knew, so I stopped and looked. His passenger was then yelled at to ask us for directions. She asked us where Avoriaz is. Avoriaz about an hour and a half’s drive from St Jean de Sixt, and we explained that they were going the wrong way. The driver took over and demanded to know where straight ahead would lead, while holding up a stream of traffic behind him (he hadn’t actually pulled over, so all the cars behind were glaring at my friend and I, presuming also that we knew this guy). We explained that the road ahead would lead to La Clusaz, and then south over the Col des Aravis. We suggested he turn back to the roundabout and go towards Geneva, which is North, and the correct direction. Without as much as a thanks — and we were unaware the conversation had even finished — he drove off and headed towards La Clusaz.

If this is how tourists treat people who they think are locals, I’m really happy to be considered a foreigner for ever. And to the rude man in the white van, I hope you’re still lost and that your passenger took the train home instead.

First of all, I’m very sorry about this image, but it wasn’t fair that my eyes should suffer it alone, and my blog has been a bit barren of images of late, so I’m sharing it. Once again, I have French junk mail to thank for finding me a topic for my blog.

What we have here is a whole rabbit, skinned, and apparently ready for cooking and eating, with pleasant garnish. But I can’t help but see a human backside on this bunny. My overactive imagination has been aided by the hidden head and lack of paws, which would have made this meat more identifiable as a dead rabbit instead of something resembling a human. Is it just me or is this actually quite gross?

I’ve just had a big clean-out at my place in preparation for moving house. One of the things I decided to get rid of was a boat oar. How did I end up with a boat oar in a ski resort? That’s a good question, and I can explain it, but the bigger question is how the boat oar ended up in a ski resort before it belonged to me. That, I can’t answer. Here’s what I know. A few years ago, I celebrated my birthday with lots of friends in my big front yard, but I had no sports equipment. No worries: we used a heavy plastic plate as a frisbee and we found a ball that the next door neighbour’s dog dropped for us to use. But we needed a bat. And that’s where the oar comes in. A birthday guest discovered it dumped outside the local poubelle (rubbish hut) across the road. We used it as a bat for the day, with the neighbour’s dog attempting to catch the ball before any of the people playing Rounders, and I kept the oar as a memento of the lovely day we all had. It has since stood dormant and on display outside on my porch. I have no idea who dumped it, but I’ve often wondered if they have driven past my place and seen their old oar, and whether it gave them any satisfaction that it had been saved from a future at a rubbish dump.

Fast forward a few years and I find myself with so much extra stuff that the oar had to go back where it came from: the poubelle. So, last week, I took it to the same place I found it, then walked back to my place to continue cleaning out my stuff. Five minutes later, I took an old suitcase I no longer need and a Mexican hat over to the poubelle. Where was the oar? The oar was gone! Within five minutes in a sleepy area outside the main village, somebody had seen the oar and decided to make it theirs. As the oar-keeper for the past few years, it was a gratifying moment for me to know that the oar had found a new home (or perhaps a fire to fuel). I love that the French around these parts see value in one person’s trash. Indeed, when I took the suitcase and the hat to the poubelle, I saw a pair of ski boots and some nice storage boxes, which had also been left beside the poubelle for others to take. Ten minutes later when I went back with a big rug, the suitcase was gone and the boxes were gone, but the hat and the ski boots remained. This was gratifying also to know that the functioning suitcase would get some use — and that someone valued it over a pair of ski boots. Darkness arrived soon after, but I can almost guarantee that the boots, hat and rug were found by new owners.

Garage sales don’t really exist in France. Instead, there’s the Vide Grenier (empty attic), where people group in a public place and display all their housewares that they want to sell. I guess the dumping of stuff at a poubelle fills a different gap, much like the old council collection days we had in Australia, where you’d leave your unwanted — and often broken — bulky homewares such as TVs, dishwashers and car parts for the council to take away. Normally, more than half of that stuff was reclaimed by others who saw some value in it before the council came to collect it. So I guess that no matter where you are in the world, people will always seek out junk.

Now, if only someone would dump a nice coffee table…

My blog statatistics tell me what some visitors have searched for before they arrived at my site, and they’re mostly on track with the content of this blog. The number one search every day is ‘how to pronounce French words’. I’ve discussed this, but there’s certainly no lessons coming from me, considering I’m still struggling to make the rolling ‘r’ sound!  So, for those visitors, try going to the BBC learn French website or the Indo-European Languages free online tutorials.

Now that I’ve lost half my audience, let me carry on with some other search queries. Someone found my blog by searching for “haloumi cheese in france”. Haloumi cheese is stocked in Paris, apparently, although I don’t know how widely available it is. It is not available at any of the shops in the vicinity of Annecy, Thônes, Moutiers or Bonneville. Yes, I have searched.

Another one: “how is ‘goat’ spelt in French language”. It’s ‘chevre’ and that can also mean goats’ cheese. So, if you order a salade chevre chaud, which translates directly to ‘hot goat salad’, rest assured that it’s actually warmed goats’ cheese salad and not a hot goat.

Another one: “music in Annecy”. The live music scene in Annecy is often limited to Savoyard thigh-slapping bands with big horns and matching outfits, but Annecy does offer some more modern live music too. Head to La Brise Glace (French for ‘ice-breaker’) on almost any night of the week and you’ll get some sort of music act. It varies from death metal to open mic nights and despite its diminutive interior, has often drawn popular international and local acts.

Now, some odder ones. Someone arrived at Le Franco Phoney after searching the net for “guys pee pee”. Mate, off you go to find what you want somewhere else! Other searches include:

• gay snowman
• angry tractor
• monster real life

Is this one person searching on several rather bizarre subjects? I’m afraid I can’t help this person/people or anyone who searches for these topics in the future. You’ve arrived at the wrong site. Is there a right site?

I was talking last night to an American friend who is married to a French girl, and he remarked one something that had never occurred to me. He said: “Have you noticed how in English, we insult our friends by animal, whereas foods are used French?” I hadn’t noticed. So, I’ve been thinking about it.

In English, you can indeed call your mate a pig, dog, cow, turkey, chicken, snake, donkey, ass and more. The only food-related insult I can think of right now is saying somebody is a cabbage or a couch potato. I’m sure there are more, along with a few nice ones, like calling someone pumpkin or honey, but banter-wise, the animals definitely outweigh the foods.

When my American friend was saying this, our French friend was giggling away in agreement, so I can only presume he’s correct. He mentioned patate (potato), flan, quiche, and cake (in English). Yes, you can call your mate a cake or a flan if she or he is being a bit silly. You can also yell ‘patate!’ at a fellow driver if they don’t follow the road rules. Imagine someone yelling out ‘potato’ as an insult! I’d want some comedy music to be playing in the background at the time, and cartoon cars too. I’m not good at French insults yet, so this is where you come in. What are some other French insults/friendly banter relating to animals or foods and when do you use them?

Coming back a few days ago from the tropical weather of Queensland, Australia, I was pleasantly surprised to see snow falling from the sky on my first morning back. Of course, it’s not winter yet, and it might all melt, but there’s more snow predicted for the foreseeable future, so perhaps the winter base is laying its foundations.

Les impressive was the loss of my suitcase, which was discovered spending more time in Malaysia than my flight’s three-hour stopover. When it eventually arrived two days later, the frustrated delivery man asked me why I hadn’t answered my phone: he had been lost and had driven for a very long time trying to find my place. He managed the smallest grin when I pointed to the suitcase and explained that the charger was in there.

Meanwhile, Bruno the cat has been busy killing small furry things which I think are voles. He’s been leaving them on the doorsteps of the empty apartments in the same building, totalling nineteen bodies and three heads, plus a bird which he somehow managed to sneak inside when his temporary carer wasn’t looking. I’m not sure just how many he left on my own doorstep while I was away, but it’s clear that he has adapted well to life in the mountains. That is, at least, until this white stuff starts settling.

The annual ski sale by the ski shops — the braderie — takes place in La Clusaz this weekend. This is where the shopkeepers all pile into a big public building and sell off any old stock at reduced rates. At the moment, La Clusaz is quiet, with many restaurants and shops still closed between seasons. All this will change by Friday when locals from near and afar arrive to bag themselves a bargain. This is definitely the time to buy up big and pay little, so if you’re nearby, you might consider dropping in to see what’s on offer. I’ll be looking for fat skis while Bruno bemoans the return of the snow.