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 took this package to the post office last week and it was rejected. Two rounds of tape was perhaps not enough? The address wasn’t clear enough? Nope. It offending element was the brown packaging paper. I wrapped a festive biscuit tin, complete with my homemade gingerbread cookies, in paper made especially for posting. I double-wrapped the paper, then folded in the ends and taped it all up, and wrote the address and sender details clearly.

The man at the post office explained that brown paper packages were no longer acceptable. Cardboard boxes are now the way forward. He mentioned ripping and lost addresses and suggested I gaffa tape the entire package and rewrite the address details in a thick marker pen.

Apparently, La Poste around these parts have a new mails sorting machine that uses suction to move the packages. The man behind the counter also explained that my letter for La Clusaz, 1.7km up the road, would be sent to Grenoble, more than 100km away for sorting, before heading back for delivery unless I bought a first-class stamp. In a world where train tickets cost more depending on the distance of the destination, letter travel seems to be in reverse: pay more, go less distance. I took full advantage and sent that letter on a journey!

Now, back to the package. Did I wrap it in so much gaffa tape that even a thief would fail to open the tin? Nope. I used plastic wrap from the kitchen then made a border of gaffa tape so the address appeared in a square ‘window’. If that suction machine — the one that puts an end to logical packaging — is going to get clogged up with my packaging, I want it to do a decent job of it.

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.

I’ve ranted before about the ridiculous amount of paperwork in France, but I never expected it to impinge on the simple act of getting some snow tyres fitted to a car. You’d think it’d be as simple as going to a tyre shop, asking for some snow tyres, and having them fit them, but no. A friend of mine has a Renault Kangoo which resembles what we’d called a panel van in Australia: front seats only and a large, flat back suitable for carrying all sorts of big objects, although he mostly uses it for carting around his shopping. I drove down to Annecy with him so he could cart my shopping around after sorting out some new tyres. End result? No time for shopping and no snow tyres. Here’s a quick run-down:

Shop 1: “No, we don’t stock those tyres. You need commercial tyres because you don’t have back seats. We don’t stock them.”

Shop 2: ‘Those commercial tyres always sell out early. You won’t find them now. We can sell you the non-commercial tyres and put them on your wheels, but we can’t mount your wheels back on your car because you should have the commercial tyres. You’re welcome to jack up your car and remount your wheels in our forecourt once we’ve put the tyres on your wheels.”

Shop 3: “We’ll check out the back.” (30 minutes later): “No we don’t have any. We can order the commercial tyres in for you. They cost more than double the standard tyres. You’re missing a code on your car registration papers. Go to Renault because you might be able to get the standard tyres if you get those numbers added.”

Renault: “That’s very odd that you don’t have those details. I’ll check with my supervisor” (10 minutes later): “We can’t give you your car’s details. You need to go to the prefecture (car registration office, which is a depressing place), although since it’s late afternoon, they are closed. They are only open in the mornings, and they’re closed entirely at least one day during the week but I forget which day. Good luck.”

At this point, my friend gave up and we drove home as the day faded into night, having achieved nothing but a feeling of defeat.

But part of living in France is about embracing this paper trail and using it your advantage. My friend took his car to the local garage that passed his car for its two-yearly check-up recently, and it seems that they didn’t need the missing code in order to fit standard tyres.

The moral of this story? Don’t waste your time, effort and stress on official processes: it’s just not the French way.

This morning, I received this offer of €10 for simply purchasing something electronic from Carrefour’s online shop. This is perfect timing, since I spent some time yesterday researching the price of a dictaphone I need to buy. Bargain, right? Not really, and here’s why.

I found the dictaphone on Amazon for €50.84. At Carrefour’s online shop it was €52. Okay, so the discount would drop to €8.84 – still better than nothing, right? Not really, and here’s why.

Amazon offer free delivery. Carrefour charge €7.99 for delivery in 2-4 days, or more if I want it sooner. Presuming I can wait a few days (more like a week with French postal services to here), the difference is now down to 85c . Bargain, right? Not really. Apart from obviously not being a bargain, here’s another reason why.

My spare 85c would have to be spent at Carrefour in the next few months. So any savings I make, I have to give back to Carrefour. Not a bargain at all, right? Right. And here’s another reason why.

I’d have to spend a minimum of €100 to even get my 85c voucher to spend in Carrefour in a limited time. So, if I spend a further €48, I’d get my 85c voucher, but if I take that 85c off, I’ve only have to spend a further €47.15 for the privilege of shopping online at Carrefour.

Bargain.

Today marks the release of the controversial Beaujolais Nouveau 2011 batch. That’s right: a 2011 wine is already on the market, but it won’t be there for long. If you’re not familiar with this wine, it’s a young wine which needs to be consumed quickly after production, rather than aged. Although it was officially released in 1951 when the AOC rules for Beaujolais sales were relaxed to allow sales prior to 15th December, it only really became better known in the 1970s, when the race to Paris grew in popularity. Yes, there is a race to Paris with the new wine, from the Beaujolais wine-making area just west of Switzerland, every year and it has since spread to other countries. The date of annual release was 15th November until 1985, when the French realised they should sell the wine just before the weekend to take advantage of marketing opportunities around the world. And so now it’s released on the third Thursday of November.

History lesson out of the way, here’s the dirt. Years ago when I was a French language student in Annecy, the teacher announced that it was Beaujolais Nouveau release day, and that there’d be a wine-tasting session upstairs, put on by the school. Actually, I didn’t understand anything she said but a classmate explained it in English. We discovered a room full of clueless students getting a free swig from French wine sellers who explained to them in English why they should buy a bottle or two. Lured with enough freebie snacks, some of them spent their lunch money on the wine and filled up on crackers and cheese — and wine — instead.

I’ve asked some French people what Beaujolais Nouveau is all about and the general consensus is that it’s a good excuse to make fast cash on unfussy wind drinkers both here in France and abroad who know nothing about wine. Of course, there must be plenty of French people who love the wine (probably mostly from Beaujolais, in the same way that the Savoyards love their sickly sweet Savoyard local white wine as if it’s the best stuff in the world), but I’ve yet to met them.

So, today marks the day when the French supermarkets and wine sellers go into a marketing frenzy to try to get as much of the short-lived wine from shelves to customers’ mouths, while many around these parts walk past saying “bof” at the whole spectacle, plucking a bottle of that world-class Savoyard white wine instead.

Okay, I know this is just an unfortunate translation, but it made me giggle, wondering exactly what lads’ services the occupants of this car were offering. For non-Brits, ‘lads’ is a bit of a stereotype of those guys you see on bucks nights/stag nights/bachelor parties doing things that only they find amusing. Thankfully, La Clusaz isn’t a lad hotspot, and I’ve no idea where the name for this business came from. The services offered actually include rental property management, cleaning and taxi service.

In the same vein, French speakers can snicker when they go to England and see the restaurant chain Zizzi because in French a ‘zizi‘ is a little boy’s term for their private parts. That’s right: Brits are eating in a restaurant that roughly translates to ‘willy‘.

Of course, there are plenty in English alone, with my fellow Australians calling those things you wear on your feet ‘thongs’ (which in Britain is a skimpy type of underwear, while the footwear is called a ‘flip-flop’), and the things you wear in winter to keep your legs warm ‘pants’ (which the Brits call ‘trousers’ because ‘pants’ are, again, underwear).

Getting back to French language surprises, an American friend went into a French lingerie shop and said she needed ‘a slip’. In English, that would mean a skirt-like type of underwear. She soon discovered that it’s French for ‘underpants’, and she can only hope that the shopkeeper didn’t think she needed a pair that urgently. Have you stumbled across similar mix-ups?

I’m not sure I need to write anything to accompany this photo, which I snapped this week in the carpark of the Carrefour supermarket in Annecy. But I will.

I remember my secondary school days, when some of the students would draw hairy genitalia on the plastic seats, which no doubt amused them, but always made me want to swap chairs. The thought of sitting on that before I’d even seen the real thing grossed me out. And now I’m wondering if some painter dudes came along and saw an opportunity to relive their school years. I wonder if they stood back and admired their handy work. And do disabled car park users feel the need to switch car parks out of not wanting to park their car over that?

The pictured symbol was one of many racy symbols on the ground that day. It lifted the mood of shoppers who were ready for the drudgery that lay ahead in the brightly-lit supermarket. And for those leaving the supermarket, it gave their brain something else to think about after having the intro of the ‘Happy Days’ tune rammed in their ears to the point of going mad. Happy days, at least, for the disabled symbols getting it on.

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…