French Kids Eat Everything

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French Food Rule #4:
Food is social.
Eat family meals together at the table, with no distractions.
This rule seems to turn North American understandings of food on its head. It’s really about how to eat, rather than what to eat. Of course, this rule (and I encountered lots of variations) has a host of implicit subrules that most people back home would be familiar with. “Don’t eat on the run,” for example. Or “don’t eat standing up.” Even worse: “don’t eat in the car.” These are rules that Americans observe only in the breach.
Absorbing these explanations, I began to understand why adults and kids gather at the table so naturally in France. As a happy by-product, French kids learn how to eat well, for the rules governing eating are more easily reinforced when eating together with adults every evening.
By now, it was nearly midnight. I hadn’t seen Sophie and Claire for hours, although I could hear chatter and laughter from another room. My husband peeked in at them and assured me that all was well. Then all the children came running back to the table at the mention of dessert: a simple mousse au chocolat with a raspberry sauce that induced a sweet silence for five full minutes.
Sipping coffee and enjoying a few mignardises (little round, hard cookies often served at the end of a formal meal), I watched them eat and marveled at how well the evening had gone. I’d never seen a group of children eat so well, or so happily. Even Sophie and Claire had tried new things with much less complaining than usual. The most surprising thing was that everyone thought this was normal. Not once during the entire evening did I see a parent force, threaten, or cajole a child into eating anything. No fuss, no resistance, no coercion, and no whining.
It was now, I suddenly realized, well past midnight. I was feeling slightly woozy owing to the late hour, and also perhaps owing to the chouchen (sweet Breton apple mead) that had been served after dessert. But I was still excited enough about the ideas I’d been hearing to have a flash of insight. Eating well and eating together, for the French, is the cultural equivalent of saying the Pledge of Allegiance, or watching Hockey Night in Canada. It’s a daily, lived expression of their cultural identity.
“I get it!” I said cheerfully to my hosts. “If asked which inanimate object best represented their culture, many Americans would probably say the car. But most French people would probably say the dining room table!”
This met with approving chuckles. We grinned around the table at one another, our earlier tension forgotten. My hosts and their guests were happy: they had succeeded in explaining French food culture to the satisfaction of a foreigner. And I was happy too, mostly because I had succeeded in making a funny remark (one of my first-ever successes at being witty in French).
Given how easy it all seemed that evening, I felt more confident than ever before about the wisdom of the French approach. What had seemed overwhelming a few months ago—teaching my children how to “eat French”—now seemed manageable. If there were food rules for adults, there must be food rules for children too, I reasoned. I would just have to figure them out and apply them to my own family.
I couldn’t wait to get started.

5
Food Fights
How
Not
to Get Your Kids to Eat Everything


Dans un petit jardin, tout rond, tout rond, tout rond, Il y a des poireaux, des carottes, des radis, des tomates, des pommes de terre, Et une petite rivière qui coule, qui coule, qui coule!
In a little garden, round and round and round, I see leeks, carrots, radishes, tomatoes, and potatoes, And a little river that runs and runs and runs!
—This traditional nursery rhyme is the French version of “Round and round the garden, like a teddy bear”


There was one downside to the French approach to late-night dinners: my kids’ internal clocks didn’t have a “sleep-in” option. Claire and Sophie had gone to bed well after midnight but had woken at seven in the morning. Lack of sleep seems to have an opposite effect on adults and children: whereas I was groggy, they were wired and excitable.
The day stretching out before us seemed very, very long.
Sitting in our cold kitchen with damp air wafting from the stone walls, I had one of my (many) moments of doubt about our French adventure. Everything had seemed so simple the night before. Learning about French food culture had resolved many of my criticisms and questions. Full of enthusiasm, my resolution about changing my children’s eating habits had been heartfelt. I had even shyly shared my idea with Philippe’s friends, and they’d sent us home with an armful of cookbooks and warm words of encouragement.
Things seemed different in the pale, gray morning light. All I could think of were excuses and objections. I don’t have enough time. It’s too expensive. It won’t work: the Americans and the French are just too different! My energy and enthusiasm waned away.
In the meantime, Sophie and Claire had gotten their hands on the cookbooks, spreading them out on the living room floor. They soon found a favorite, and I peered over their shoulders. The recipes were intriguing: yogurt and avocado smoothies, oven-baked parsnip fries, tomato-strawberry tarts. There was even a baby section, with simple soup recipes designed to be drunk in baby bottles. “My First Red Puree” featured tomato and fennel, followed by “My First Yellow Puree,” combining corn and chicken. My favorite was “My First Green Puree”: peas, mint, and a handful of baby spinach leaves.
The photos were clever too. The authors had figured out something basic about kid psychology: children love to look at real-life pictures of other children. Images of happy kids eating (and cooking) appeared on almost every page. And the photos of the dishes were whimsical and funny. Vegetables and fruits were arranged in a series of