This wonderful book, delightfully read by Anna Fields, is the humorous memoir of an American woman who marries a Frenchman. Peter Mayle’s observations of the French are amusing, but he always observes from the outside, whereas Harriet Rochefort married a Frenchman (providing countless anecdotes of French in-laws); has taught in the French schools (offering trenchant and useful observations of the rigorous French public school system, where children go to school for an education, not to play sports, explaining perhaps why the French foreign minister speaks English embarrassingly better than our president); and speaks fluent French (providing an understanding of the subtleties of the language Mayle cannot duplicate). The book is laugh-out-loud funny. She marvels at the superhuman qualities of French women; her sister-in-law, for example, prepares a ten-course meal in a silk blouse and heels but no apron — with nary a spot. Harriet’s contribution to French cooking is an attempt to introduce the sandwich as a meal concept. “When I first came to France over twenty years ago, I decided to introduce the concept of The Sandwich As A Meal to my in-laws. This was pre- McDonald's, when people like my father-in-law still returned home for lunch, a four-course affair. My mother-in-law, used to the preparation of two ample daily repasts, embraced my idea eagerly. We hence proceeded to prepare sandwiches for lunch and serve one to my father-inlaw, normally the soul of tolerance. He gazed at our creation as if it were a strange living creature and upon being informed that you ate The Sandwich with your hands, commented ironically, "Well, why don't we just get down on the floor and throw bones over our shoulders while we're at it?" That, needless to say, was the last time we ever even entertained the idea of fast food in that family. My father-in-law has since died, but tradition holds. In my belle-famille, a sandwich is not a meal.”
Did you know that the French think nothing of banging into the cars in front of and behind them as they move in and out of a parking place? And horror of horrors, one must never cut pieces of lettuce, but rather fold them with fork and knife then placing it in the mouth. And of course, Gruyere is never eaten the same way as Camembert.
A peek at Harriet’s website is worth the time. She reports there: "Intercultural differences are the subject of my book, French Toast, which tells the tale of what happens when an American from Iowa, yes, IOWA (not Ohio or Idaho, if you see what I mean), goes to France on her own steam, marries a Frenchman, and ends up spending the rest of her life far away from home. In spite of the glamour, it's not always easier to adapt to a foreign culture - especially when you're the one doing all the adapting. I love France, I love French cooking, French history, French museums and monuments. My children were born in French hospitals and attended French schools from la maternelle (pre-school) on to and through university. If it weren't for my American accent, I might almost have gone native. In spite of all this, cultural differences continued to loom and I was fascinated to see that the differences became greater, not smaller, as the years rolled by. In French Toast I tell about these cultural differences which range from French attitudes towards sex, money, and even and especially, politeness. It's admittedly a very American viewpoint but the book has its resident Frenchman, my husband Philippe, right on hand to comment and counter my remarks in an interview at the end of each chapter. I call this the only book about the French in which a French person gets the ‘droit de réponse’ (right to answer) in real time.”
