French Kids Eat Everything

next table, and even the waiter. Philippe’s mother insisted on ordering fish for Sophie (although I also quietly ordered a plate of plain pasta, just in case). Luckily, the pasta arrived first; I studiously avoided everyone’s gaze when pulling the Parmesan out from my purse. I knew that Sophie wouldn’t eat her pasta without it, but I also knew no one else would think this was appropriate. When the fish arrived, Sophie pursed her lips, turned red, and looked as if she was about to cry. I quietly asked the waiter for ketchup, ignoring his disdainful look. Smearing it on Sophie’s fish had the desired effect; she started to eat. But Philippe’s mother clearly voiced her disapproval. “Humph,” she snorted loudly. “La méthode américaine.” Labeling something the “American method” was, for her, a grave insult. Coating something in ketchup was bad parenting, a concession to a childish caprice. Even worse, it sullied Sophie’s emerging taste buds. It was clear what they were thinking (even the waiter): How would these children ever learn to eat properly?
Something had to change about the girls’ eating habits. They were old enough to start feeling everyone’s disapproval, even if they couldn’t understand it. And I realized that they needed to learn to eat like other French kids. If we decided to stay in France, they would be negatively affected socially and professionally if they couldn’t eat well. The high value that French people placed on food made me feel responsible, as never before, for how my children were eating.
I was even more eager to do this because of the reading I’d been doing about the links between nutrition, school performance, IQ, and health. Kids who ate more vegetables and had a more balanced diet did better at school. They had higher IQs. They were less likely to be overweight, so they would live longer and have fewer health problems as adults. Reading all of this made me even more convinced that I had to do something about how our kids were eating.
Plus, things had been going better at school and at day care. Both Sophie and Claire were eating more and trying more new things. In fact, they would eat things at school and day care that they refused to eat at home. Claire would almost always eat everything that she was offered at day care, the staff happily reported. And at school pick-up, Sophie had adopted the French habit of telling me what she had eaten at lunch. She would happily chat about things like grated carrot salad (although items like radishes, another school favorite, still wouldn’t pass her lips). And her visits to Marie’s house had also widened her repertoire. Seeing Marie eat things like lettuce and lentils had a magical effect, and Sandrine was gentle but firm in encouraging Sophie to eat what everyone else was eating when she stayed for dinner.
We were ready, I thought, to try changing our family food culture. Christmas was just a month away, and I wanted it to be a positive experience. French families look forward to the Christmas family meal the way many North Americans look forward to the Super Bowl: it’s the big event of the year. Plus, I knew that there would be at least thirty people for dinner, many of whom would travel from across France to be there. I wanted Philippe’s extended family to have a good impression of our children, which meant that I needed to train them to eat like French children.
The problem was that I didn’t know exactly how to go about doing this. No one had taken the time to explain the rules to me, and no one I’d asked had a handy list. Maybe I’ll find a list in one of the books? I thought. American parenting books were often full of long lists of recommendations (that I never managed to stick to). By early afternoon, I’d gone through all of the books borrowed from Hugo and Virginie, looking for a list of rules. But there was none. The French “rules” that I’d noticed were probably so universally understood that no one had ever thought to write them down.
I was going to have to make my own plan. And I was going to have to test it the hard way, through making mistakes, and through breaking the unwritten rules that govern food in France for even the youngest of children.
“The Plan,” as I labeled it, took several days to craft.
First, I reviewed what I had learned. There were general rules, I decided, that were useful in understanding French attitudes. But they weren’t actual, practical tips. They were more like principles, or habits. Still, I thought, it would be worth noting down the rules at the start of The Plan, as a reminder. I took a clean sheet of cardboard paper from the kids’ art box and sat down with a few precious Crayola washable markers (they apparently don’t have the washable kind in France, and I’d had to ask my sister for an emergency shipment soon after we arrived).
One by one, I jotted down the food rules I’d learned.
Rule #1:
Parents: You are in charge of your children’s food education.
Rule #2:
Food is not a pacifier, a distraction, a toy, a bribe, a reward, or a substitute for discipline.
Rule #3:
Parents schedule meals and menus. Kids eat what adults eat: no substitutes and no short-order cooking.
Rule #4:
Food is social. Eat family meals together at the table, with no distractions.
This was a pretty good summary of what I had learned so far. But there was another issue that had been nagging me: the connection between kids’ eating habits and parenting styles. French parents seemed to exercise a natural authority around their children that I, and most of my friends back home, lacked. This was evident in many ways. French children sat patiently, waiting until everyone was served before starting to eat. French children compliantly tried new things with a sense of open-minded curiosity. French children didn’t have tantrums at