French Kids Eat Everything

served to all of the children. Only when everyone had been served, and the maîtresse gave permission, could they begin to eat; anyone who gave in to temptation had their dessert promptly taken away.
Anticipating that some sort of situation like this would arise, I had briefed my daughters in the car. I had learned this technique from watching my sister-in-law, Véronique. Just before guests would arrive, or they would arrive at someone’s house, she would take the children aside and firmly remind them of the rules. “No touching any food before the adults invite you to start.” “Only take one of what you are offered, or you won’t get any more.” But somehow my messages about manners didn’t seem to have sunk in, and my girls hadn’t had the benefit of training at the maternelle. Sure enough, before we could stop her, Claire rushed over and grabbed a cracker from the table, crowing with delight as she stuffed it into her mouth.
I chided her gently. “That’s the adults’ table! Don’t be rude!”
“Mais non!” replied Virginie, smiling. “That’s the children’s table!”
I looked more closely and saw that she was right. The wineglasses were miniature versions of adult ones, as was the cutlery. And there were more than a dozen place settings, whereas only four couples were coming to dinner. The table had been so beautifully set that I hadn’t imagined it was intended for the children.
But then I remembered the attention that Philippe’s family would pay to setting the table at home. Even my adventurous, no-nonsense, outdoors-loving, holes-in-his-socks husband would carefully smooth the wrinkles out of the tablecloth before lining up the cutlery and plates just so. If we were going to be late coming home on an evening when we had dinner guests, he would set the table in the morning before going to work.
This was one of the apparent paradoxes that so intrigued me when I first met my husband. How could someone who worked in war zones and loved adventure sports like sailing and mountaineering be so finicky? But the answer was obvious, at least for the French, for whom a carelessly laid table is an example of one of the worst sins imaginable: an offense against good taste.
Embarrassed by my mistake, I followed Virginie and Philippe into the salon, where the separate table for adults was to be found. We sat down on the sofa and chairs, and started with l’apéritif: the “meal-before-the-meal” of finger foods and cocktails eaten in a casual setting before dinner. Small, thin glasses filled with multicolored layers emerged from the kitchen: les verrines (melt-in-your-mouth layered confections eaten with dessert spoons). Mine had a layer of avocat, fromage blanc, and saumon fumé. Philippe’s tomates confites were topped with a layer of mousse au chèvre frais, decorated with tiny wisps of ciboulette.
In the meantime, the children were invited to their table. Worried about leaving Sophie and Claire alone, I started to get up, but my husband gently steered me back to my seat. “Leave them alone. They’ll eat better without you there.” And, out of the corner of my eye, I saw that it was true: my daughters were pulled irresistibly along in the wake of the older children, who were settling themselves in at the table. Tiny verrines were waiting for them too: bright red beet and green zucchini mousse in thin layers that mimicked candy canes.
The verrines didn’t last long, and even Sophie and Claire joined in. But as the first course arrived, I cringed: grated carrot salad with vinaigrette (a French kids’ favorite). Barely able to watch, I saw Claire staring at Jacqueline, an older girl who clearly fascinated her. Jacqueline had taken Claire under her wing, helping her into her chair and sitting next to her in the lovely, slightly proprietary way that older French children often adopt with younger children at the table.
Into Jacqueline’s mouth popped a spoonful of carrots. Claire fidgeted, her hands in her lap. Jacqueline helped herself to an even bigger spoonful. Gingerly, Claire put one strand of carrot into her mouth, munching distractedly, as another girl leaned over and began telling her a story. Claire listened, wide-eyed, while eating one mouthful, and then another. By her fifth mouthful, I began to relax. Even Sophie had started nibbling on the skinniest morsel of carrot she could find on her plate. Maybe I didn’t need to hover over the children’s table after all. Plus, the conversation around me was getting interesting.
The guests were in heated conversation about an announcement earlier in the week by France’s president, Nicolas Sarkozy. At the annual Paris Agricultural Fair (a big event in France), he had held a press conference to announce that he would be launching a national campaign to lobby UNESCO (the United Nations Education, Scientific, and Cultural Organization) to place French cuisine on its official World Cultural Heritage list. If successful, French cuisine would join other globally recognized cultural treasures like Spanish flamenco and Japanese silk making.
The president had ignited a furor in France and abroad: Could food really be “cultural heritage”? The French government seemed to think so. To make it clear, they had even set up a Mission for French Gastronomy and Patrimony to launch the campaign.
To me, this sounded a bit silly. “Do you really believe that French food is the best in the world?” I asked one of my neighbors. “What about Italian food?”
Looking annoyed, he responded: “Mais non! It’s not about French cuisine being the best in the world. Gastronomie is an important part of culture for all French people.”
“But how can eating really be called cultural heritage?” I asked. Heads started to turn in my direction.
“It’s not the act of eating, but rather the approach to eating that is the most distinctive element of French culture,” responded my neighbor.
“Still,” I argued, “it seems sort of elitist to me. Why are you all obsessed with food?”
This got a strong reaction. Amid the din of voices, Hugo’s voice was the loudest.
“French gastronomie is not for