French Kids Eat Everything (13 page)

This reminded me of a comment made at dinner the night before, one that I hadn't understood at the time. In the midst of our discussion, Virginie had remarked: “When you go into a supermarket in the United States, there is hardly any food!” At the time, I thought it was a ridiculous comment. Now it started to make more sense. There was not a lot, in most American supermarkets, that most French people would consider (traditionally at least) an
aliment
. This was a bit like the Puritans who nearly starved their first winter in the New World because they couldn't (or wouldn't) recognize the edible things all around them. For Virginie, the processed and preprepared foods that filled up the aisles in a North American grocery store weren't real food because, although they were edible, they weren't nourishing.

The realization slowly dawned on me. Learning how to eat like the French was not just about my kids eating vegetables. It was about changing how we
nourished
ourselves, and about changing our psychological and emotional relationship to both cooking and eating. This was a bit of a shock. I had thought I would be fighting to change my children's eating habits. Now, I realized, I'd also have to fight my own ingrained eating
and
cooking habits.

This was going to be challenging, because I simply didn't enjoy spending time in the kitchen. Years of scrambling to prepare dinner after getting home from work meant that I had a harried, stressed feeling whenever I thought about cooking. This was a drastic change from life before kids, when I actually had liked to cook (although I admit that my total cooking repertoire was well under a dozen dishes). Somehow, the stress and chaos of having kids had worn me down, and I fed them a much more limited diet, and cooked much less, than my preparenting self would have believed possible. The thought of learning new dishes and organizing myself to change our family's approach to food seemed daunting. My doubts began to resurface. I started to pile the books in a corner and decided to get on with my day. Everyone, I hoped, would forget about my rash suggestion to teach my kids to “eat French.”

It was not to be. The phone rang before I even finished my pile. It was Philippe's mother.

“How did your dinner go last night?” she asked. I didn't know what to say, but as it turns out I needn't have worried. Without waiting for a reply, Janine carried on. “I just talked to Philippe, and he told me that you had some
fascinating
conversations about food. He asked me whether I had some cookbooks that I could drop off. I've got a
great
one that I used when he was a baby.” (Note to self: Remind husband not to confide in mother-in-law before consulting with wife.)

“Great!” I said, forcing myself to sound enthusiastic. “I'd love to see them.”

When I hung up the phone, I was feeling anxious and cornered. Family pressure had been mounting since we arrived. Philippe's parents were
not
happy at the way their grandchildren ate. Our most recent restaurant outing with my in-laws had been a disaster. We arrived at 7:30
P.M.
(early for the French) in order to get a table with a view at the only seaside restaurant in the village. Both tired and hungry, the girls whined and bickered, provoking glowering looks from my in-laws, the adults at the 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.

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 the table. And, most amazingly, they were taught not to interrupt adults. When we sat at the table in France with our children, the adults could actually carry on extended conversations.

Some of this authority was imposed through an old-fashioned, authoritarian-style parenting that didn't fit with my approach. I remembered one unhappy incident with Sophie earlier that year. We were having a small family gathering at my in-laws, and the
apéritif
had just been served. The children had gathered round, hovering expectantly, not daring to touch the treats that had been put out on trays. Sophie couldn't resist and grabbed a cracker. And then another, and another, stuffing her mouth. Spying her out of the corner of her eye, my mother-in-law gave her two verbal warnings, and then (when Sophie didn't stop) a hard slap on the hand, in full view of everyone. Sophie retreated in tears and was politely ignored.

As far as I could tell, most people thought that this was appropriate: Sophie had broken a food rule, and it was Janine's duty (as she happened to be the closest adult, as well as the hostess) to bring her back into line. When the French reprimand their children in public, this is not seen to be humiliating (although I certainly felt this way, and Sophie did too). Rather, they are committed to instilling discipline in their children (and they assume that the adults around them will be sympathetic). Firmly disciplining your children in public in North America is, I somehow felt, politically incorrect (and, in some cases, physical “discipline” is against the law)—but in France, it's almost the reverse. Even total strangers might let your child (and you) know their disapproval of public misbehavior; as a concerned adult, they are just doing their duty.

I was astounded at the contrast. Many North American parents feel a sense of panic when one of their children starts misbehaving in public. We are often deeply embarrassed and are driven to end the behavior as quickly as possible. In my case, I was always fearful of making a scene because I didn't want people to think I was a mean (read “bad”) parent. So I ended up giving in to my kids when sometimes I shouldn't have. French parents, on the other hand, feel obliged to discipline their child in public—with the full support of onlookers.

Elise, a French friend of ours in Vancouver, once described the first time she realized that the French parenting style wasn't acceptable in North America. One day at the playground, soon after they had arrived in Canada, her six-year-old boy kept trying to interrupt her while she was speaking to another mom. Elise turned around and berated him soundly, lecturing him on his impolite behavior. “I felt,” she later recollected, “an icy silence all around me. I looked up, and all of the parents in the playground were staring at me. It was then that I realized that what French parents might view as normal discipline, North American parents might not.”

Yet most French parents are not overtly forceful. They're loving while being firm. And somehow, magically, the children we met were often devoid of the impolite behavior and stubbornness that I saw in my own kids and in so many of their North American friends. This was, I began to realize, not just an issue of differing food cultures. It was also an issue of parenting styles.

French parents were in charge. This impressed me, because in our family I sometimes wasn't sure who was in charge. The symptoms were obvious. I cajoled. French parents did
not
cajole. I wheedled. French parents
definitely
did not wheedle. I begged, threatened, and bribed my kids. French parents did none of these things (at least as far as I could tell). They calmly and firmly (but usually gently) told their children what was expected, and let their kids know (in no uncertain terms) who was boss. And their children seemed to miraculously comply.

How do French parents achieve this? Well, they demand more of their children, are stricter, and are less indulgent. They do not romanticize childhood. And they have little affection for that early phase of childhood that North Americans idealize as a time of innocence and creativity. Imagine a nation full of unapologetic tiger mothers dedicated to producing well-behaved children rather than violin prodigies, and you would have more or less a good idea of how French parents think and behave.

From the French point of view, the world is made by adults and for adults. Few concessions are made to children. Their children dress like little adults: mostly pastel and matte colors, and no more pink on the girls than you would see on their mothers. The furniture in kids' rooms is usually a miniaturized version of adult furniture (no princess loft beds with slides, thank you very much, and no princess potty thrones either). Children are expected to be quiet (
tranquille
) in public. They are not placed on a pedestal and are not expected to be at center stage in a gathering.