Le Franco Phoney

Today, I was going to write about something completely different, but this French TV advertisement just came on and it annoys me so much that I had to write about it. Perhaps it’s just me applying far too much logic to a simple ad. It features top French tennis player Jo Wilfried Tsonga, and is one of three I can think of with him in similar situations, where he wants the last Kinder Bueno. Can you guess why this advert annoys me? There’s a translation below if you don’t understand the French phrases:

Translation:
Woman (thinking): I’m just a little bit hungry.
Woman: Good evening. The last Kinder Bueno please.
Shopkeeper: Someone has reserved it. How ’bout a fresh muffin?
Woman: That’s too much for me. What about offering the reserver these cookies?
Shopkeeper (looking majorly stressed, as if our mate Jo has a gun pointed at his head): I think he’d really prefer the Kinder Bueno.
(Woman turns, and Jo shrugs as if to say the Bueno is too hard to resist.)
Shopkeeper: What if you share it?
(Woman and Jo laugh like old friends.)

So what’s wrong with this ad? What’s right about it? Nothing is right about this ad.

PROBLEM 1: Who ever reserves a chocolate bar? Why does she even suggest the cookies instead of telling the shopkeeper where to go if he doesn’t sell her his goods?

PROBLEM 2: Why on earth does the shopkeeper looks so scared of Jo? Is he worried Jo’s going to volley a ball at him at close range? I mean it’s serious overacting going on there.

PROBLEM 3: Why doesn’t the shopkeeper have more than one Kinder Bueno? Do they not have more boxes out the back? Or another chocolate bar alternative that either of them would surely scoff down as an alternative if they like chocolate that much?

PROBLEM 4: Why why why why why is the woman so happy to share this chocolate bar that is rightly hers? She’s at the front of the queue, and I’ve never seen someone give up front-row seats for something just because the person behind them wants them. Had I been her, I would have grabbed the bar and done a runner before sharing, stopping only to stamp on both the idiot shopkeeper’s foot and the star tennis player’s.

Fancy some trumpets of death? Look no further than the supermarket shelves. Here, next to the Morille mushrooms, you’ll find the ‘Trompettes de la mort‘, or Trumpets of Death. Also known as ‘black trumpets’ in English, these mushrooms are apparently quite difficult to find, and if bought dried, taste a little like truffles.

Regardless, I just can’t bring myself to buy something that sounds like it’s going to kill me. Just looking at the bottle, I can almost hear those little fungi playing a muffled death march! On top of that, I just can’t get past that weird slimy texture of mushrooms that my instincts warn me against every time I chew on one. I’m anti-mushroom and proud. But perhaps I’m alone. Would you buy trumpets of death?

I was down in Annecy with a friend last night for a movie and a meal. We decided to eat at the little-known Mediterranean gem just outside of town, but when we got there, it was gone. Their food was great, but the disappointment soon turned to glee when my brain registered that a Thai restaurant called Lan-Som-Tam had taken its place. I think I’ve tried all the Asian-style restaurants in Annecy, with the Chinese restaurants typically adapting to the host country, serving frogs’ legs and omelettes (replace those with dim sims in Australia and fat chips in England). We were concerned that this newest Thai restaurant could be yet another sly attempt of non-authentic cuisine served up to a nation who prefer garlic over anything spicy (a mass generalisation, but I’m going with it based on my own observations). Regardless, the miniscule chance of authentic Thai food drew us in.

We weren’t disappointed. The food was exceptional! My Pad Thai was lacking in spices, but no worries: it arrived with a small dish filled with dried chilies and a warning that I’d only need to use a tiny sprinkle. Entrees, mains and desserts were all fantastic, but the only drawback for me was the green tea — a Lipton teabag rather than the loose leaf variety.

And then the night got a whole lot better. We headed to the Décavision cinema to catch a French comedy. I might have missed a lot of the jokes, but that wasn’t a problem. Why? I was in my own personal food heaven, with salty popcorn finally on offer (and purchased for a ridiculous price) at Annecy’s biggest cinema. For year’s I’ve felt annoyed that a cinema with ten screens doesn’t provide such a base choice of popcorn to its movie-goers. So, a bit like the Tim Tam biscuit moment in Carrefour Annecy, I gasped out loud when I saw the golden goodness available in salty flavour. No more weird, sweet popcorn for me: proper popcorn has arrived and I embraced with with open arms — and mouth.

There was another change in Annecy, but my elation about salty popcorn and Thai food have clouded my memory.

Ahh, France. Did they start the Slow Food revolution? What a great idea Slow Food is: enjoy your food, cooked lovingly for taste rather than speed. The concept seems to have oozed partially into France’s fast food. Pictured is the only vegetarian burger option at Quick, which is France’s answer to McDonald’s. Given that many restaurants have no vegetarian option, I praise Quick for their non-meat alternative, albeit the usual goats cheese deal. This burger is meant to have tomato in it too. Can you see any? There’s one slice hidden at the back that my bights have yet to reach, but I digress.

Back to the Slow Food revolution. Quick seems to have chosen just the elements of the Slow Food revolution that work for it — namely slowness.

I was unfortunate enough to have to eat at Quick after a friend said he was craving a burger. We had to wait for both burgers, fat fries, and condiments. I’m not sure how packages of salt and sauce can be held up, or why mayo turned up when we didn’t request it, then had to wait again while our trusty server went on a mission to find the correct condiments. The wrong fries turned up but we were so hungry by the time the rest of our food came that we thanked the server and walked away.

Pictured is the burger I bothered waiting for. What a waste huh? Burnt on top with one tiny bit of tomato inside, no cheese flavour, but some sort of oil-based mayo making up for that loss, I didn’t get a bit further before giving up. At least if I splurge on dessert, I enjoy it. Here was the equivalent in fat and sugar without the enjoyment factor. And it was slow. And they burnt it and still served it. Fine, it’s fast food, but that’s my point: it’s not even fast. If I’m going to buy fast food, I want it fast because I’m going for the food hit rather than the taste. Just gimme my food!

So, I ate a few skinny fries, watched my friend down all his food — along with the burnt ‘tomato and cheese’ burger (talking marks because  those ingredients are alleged, and I’m still not convinced it should be called anything but the cardboard burger).

I went and bought a crepe instead.

There’s a bar in Annecy which specialises in looking grungy. The toilet walls have been repainted so many times that they’re about an inch thicker and the bar’s walls are plastered with posters of rebellion, such as this Sex Pistols poster right by the stage.

I love venues like this. They have that feeling of being the real thing: they’re all about the music, as opposed to a nightclub with its designer lights, strategic colour scheme, doof-doof music and manicured people conforming to the dress code.

Meanwhile, stepping into this grungy bar in Annecy feels like being transported to a New York dive bar. Denim and beer are perfectly at home among the peeling paint and plastic cups. And yet this grungy bar is still innately French. Right next to the Sex Pistols poster is a sign saying that food, including the typically French croque monsieur, is available all the time.

So between all that rebellion and rock, head-banging gig-goers can take five minutes to dine on their favourite French snack. I imagine a French bloke with his Doc Martins and heavy silver necklace tucking into his croque monsieur with a serviette to wipe his hands on after and perhaps a little salad garnish. It’s the French way.

Watching French television the other night, a woman wore a t-shirt that said:

40 balais, la frite

This directly translates to “forty brooms, the chip”. Any idea what that means? It sounds as though it’s related to a long session of sweeping a single thin slice of fried potato.

It means something entirely different.

In French “balais” officially means “broom”, but it can also be used as a slang word for “years” for reasons that I’m sure I’ll never discover. Meanwhile, “la frite” can be used like some other food substances to convey feelings. For example, “J’ai la pêche” means “I have the peach” or, as we’d say it in English, “I’m peachy”, which actually means “I have lots of energy” when the French use it. Other food substitutions include “J’ai la banane” (“I have the banana” or “I’m smiling”) and “J’ai la patate” (“I have the potato” or “I’m happy”). Okay, the banana makes sense, but a potato? Really? Anyway, it’s also possible to say “J’ai la frite” to say “I’m happy”.

So, if you put it all together, “40 balais, la frite” actually means “Forty years old and happy”.

And the French wonder why it takes us foreigners so long to learn the language…

My Australian friends who brought us news of the 24-hour milk vending machine in Annecy have since moved to a village with a bread vending machine. A baguette is a highly-valued food item here in France, with baguette deals sometimes offered at the petrol bowser. It’s therefore surprising that the typical Parisian baguette vending machine has been snubbed for this machine with big round loaves. My friend Suzanne is impressed with both the bread and the machine, saying:

It is wonderful and the bread seems to be a little different to normal bread. It is much heavier and somewhat rustic.  When I stopped the other day the machine was a little steamy as the bread was still warm.  Yum.

WHAT? Still warm? The bread could be made from the worst recipe in the world and still be saved by that homely smell of fresh-baked bread. Is there a better smell and taste in the world than warm bread? This bread is no doubt tasty even once cooled, and I’m looking forward to buying a loaf next time I’m visiting.

Unless, of course, my friends move to a village that has a 24-hour chocolate pudding vending machine…

Last week, I returned to England for a few days of work mingled with a few days in London and Cambridge to catch up with friends. Opposite the Turnham Green tube station is this Chinese restaurant — with its name slightly altered for the worse. Obviously someone’s idea of a joke, I wonder how long the sign has been like this and how much longer it will remain.

London done, I headed to Cambridge, where I was greeted by pirates, adults in nappies (giant babies) and a whole variety of other costumes as part of the Chinese boat races held for charity last weekend.

Pictured are the pirates and some men dressed as women. It’s always amusing to see men decorate themselves as their idea of a female: a 1960s housewife, complete with a dodgy dress and a scarf over their hair seems to be the norm.

I don’t remember ever seeing a woman dressed like this, but top points to them for making themselves as dowdy as possible, then adding the biggest pairs of boobs that will fit in their dresses, as if to counteract the frumpiness.

The next day, a restaurant just outside of Cambridge provided a laugh for us all when we went to the toilets. The walls and doors were made of frosted opaque glass, although outlines were still possible to see if someone was close enough to the glass. Out in the communal hand-washing area, a toilet seat was raised off the ground as a bin for hand towels. The thought that this (hopefully repainted and thoroughly disinfected) throne probably started life collecting a different type of waste made me shudder as I opened the lid to place my hand towel inside.

Thankfully, my trip returned to happiness with some cupcake goodness. Friends of mine in France go on about how lovely those French chocolate ‘cake’ slices — made up of layers of mousse and pastry and something sweet and crispy — taste, but I’d prefer a cupcake any day, and I’ve yet to see any decent ones here in the Aravis region of France. So, I made the most of it, sampling both the lemonade cupcakes and the chocolate cupcakes offered by FireFly Cakes which provided me with the sugary-soft and moist sponge I’ve been missing. I’m having cake envy just thinking about them now. They all went within the day.

It’s been a few years since I mentioned the Fete du Reblochon, but watching the parade the other day made me realise it’s time to bring it up again. Where else in the world would you be ‘chased’ by a stuffed wild boar on wheels, led by a man dressed as a country bumkpin?

The boar was projectiled towards the crowd that had gathered for the parade and the man directing it seemed pretty happy with his job. Other highlights of the parade were the kids throwing hay and some sort of seeds that stung as they hit bare skin, and the men carrying an enormous amount of hay on their heads (like massive grass affros), the deafening bell ringers and best of all, the free samples of Reblochon cheese. The Fete du Reblochon is a really enjoyable day offering all sorts of rural entertainment. It swaps the Ferris wheel for a donkey race, the target shooting for wood chopping, hot dogs for local diot sausages, the man selling that amazing kitchen chopping device that peels, grates, chops, dices and more for the woman explaining how cheese is made, and the showbags of sweets for bags of cheese. It’s a great day out.

Now, back to the boar. Spain might have the running of the bulls and Rio might have Carnival, but La Clusaz is possibly the only place in the world that has the stuffed boar on wheels. And at least one person (the guy pulling the boar) thinks that’s a win.

Some of you may remember the menu translated into English that included salad of goat, greedy coffee and a stove of Saint Jacques. That menu was easy to giggle about (although perhaps the ‘rib steak of the butcher’ was not so funny for the butcher).

Now, along comes a drinks menu that’s a bit more alarming — and it hasn’t even been translated into English. Fellow ex-pat Aussie in France, Chris, sent me this.

He says:

This is from a little restaurant in Provence at Fontaine-de-Vaucluse. I know the price is only €2 but I think I’ll have a whisky.

And I’m right there with him.

As far as I’m aware, the words for ‘baby’ and ‘foetus’ in French are roughly the same (‘bebe‘ and ‘foetus‘). Is there some French joke I’m really not getting or is this just really strange?