French Kids Eat Everything

rows of heavy silver cutlery posed on plush red velvet tablecloths that looked more like rugs. Respectful silence greeted even the rituals that appeared, to me, to be slightly ludicrous—like the discreet sweeping of bread crumbs from the table with an intimidating-looking silver ramasse-miettes (literally, “crumb-picker-upper,” an implement that looks like a tiny vacuum cleaner attachment that the waiter rolled across the table at regular intervals).
The food was superb: course after course of playful, sumptuous, and surprising tastes. But the most surprising thing of all that evening (at least to me) was the toddler in the high chair at the table next to us. He sat patiently as the meal progressed, eyes glazing over until he slumped over and fell fast asleep while his parents continued their meal unperturbed. Unhurried, they finished the dessert course only a few minutes before we did, just before midnight. When it was time to go, their child was woken up without ceremony. Popping his thumb in this mouth, he placidly allowed himself to be carried out of the restaurant without making a sound. No one batted an eye. (My children, who were not there, would have been howling the roof down.)
Looking back, this now seems less surprising. French children are exposed early on to elaborate meals and learn that their parents expect them to treat these occasions with respect. Their respectful attitude carries over into everyday meals, which have a slightly ceremonial feeling. The French never, ever, eat without putting a tablecloth on the table. They even have a special phrase for setting the table: dresser la table. (The word habiller, which is the normal French word for getting dressed, is also used.)
The image of a table getting “dressed” can still send my girls into fits of giggles. But it is actually an accurate description of how the French approach the dining table. They dignify the table, and themselves, through clothing it with the appropriate item to be worn for the most important moment of the day. Setting the table is a ritual that expresses the ceremonial and aesthetic aspects of French eating, at the core of which is the belief that eating is intensely social and that it rightfully happens around the table. This was as true for my in-laws’ farming neighbors as it was for Philippe’s university friends: everyone “dressed” the table with (at the minimum) a tablecloth, turning eating into a ritual that was about more than the mere physical consumption of food.
Preparing the table to receive the food in this way might seem a little old-fashioned. But it has a marvelous effect on children. They react as if a stranger in uniform has shown up at the front door: it immediately puts them on their best behavior. This effect is heightened by the rules concerning how the French eat. Food is never eaten standing up, or in the car, or on the go. Food is not eaten anywhere, in fact, but at the table. And food is only served when everyone is at the table. “À table!” is a summons that brings most French children running. Everyone waits for everyone else to be served, and for the ritual “Bon appétit!” to be said before beginning the meal. As children almost always eat with their parents, these habits sink in early.
So eating—even everyday meals—is treated like an occasion. And it is, above all, a social occasion. The French never eat alone (at home or at work) if there is someone else to eat with. And because French food tastes so good, it is an occasion to look forward to.
French food—even the simplest of foods—really does taste wonderful. I still remember the first yogurt that baby Claire ever tasted in France. We bought it at the local supermarket, so it was nothing out of the ordinary by French standards. Except that it was an extraordinary experience for Claire. Served in a little ochre-colored natural clay pot, capped with a crinkly gold wrapper embossed with a reproduction of Renoir’s famous milkmaid, her yogurt looked like an intriguing Christmas present. Clutching her spoon, she peeled back the wrapping, dipped into the pot, tasted her first mouthful, widened her eyes, bent her head intently, and didn’t look up again until every inch was scraped clean. Creamy, rich, tangy without being bitter, French yogurt is simply delicious. This is true for most of the food you find in France. So imagine how French kids feel about it. Food tastes great, is served with a sense of occasion, and is fun because it’s social. The table is where parents and children relax together. It is where they appreciate not only food, but also one another. This makes the rigid approach to food education more bearable for children.
And food education is not something that most French parents view as optional. Because eating is so central to French culture, French kids have to learn how to eat the French way if they want to fit in. It is as important for a French child to learn the food rules as it is for an American teenager to learn how to drive. It’s a rite of passage and a precondition for successfully navigating through society. So food, unsurprisingly, turned out to be our social entrée into village life.
When we first arrived, I would drive half an hour to the nearest large town grocery store to buy my groceries and do errands (les courses), comforted by the familiar act of rolling up and down the aisles with a grocery cart. But the aisles were empty, and the grocery store felt vaguely antiseptic and lonely. So after a couple of weeks, I became a faithful visitor to the village market, which was held twice a week in the cobblestone plaza in front of the church in the heart of the village.
I first had to overcome my resistance to shopping at the marché. My first impression was that the market was an incredibly inefficient way of shopping for a family. My mother-in-law, however,