The problem with the French
The French that I speak, that is. Also: my future in mâche
I actually have no problem with the French as a people, except for the fact that they are partial to shower doors that only cover half of the shower, which I do not understand.
I do, however, have a problem with MY French. Specifically, my inability to speak it at the level I wish I could, and the pitfalls of being able to speak it as well as I already do.
But let me back up: I just spent two weeks in France! I spent the first nine days with my mom, visiting Paris, the Loire Valley, and Mont St. Michel—a long dreamed of mother/daughter adventure. Then I spent four days alone at an AirBnB in a delightful little town near Versailles called Bièvres, where I worked on my (new) novel, visited local points of interest, and ate untold quantities of baguette, chèvre, and pastries.
Speaking of food: while in France I fell in love with a salad green called mâche that I’ve never encountered anywhere in the US. It has a clover/alfalfa-ish taste to it, and is supremely tender and crunchy. I kind of want to bring it to the US, plant giant fields of it, and become a mâche magnate. Alas, I know nothing about farming.
One of the best parts of the trip, by far, however, was having the opportunity to torture innocent French people with my French.
Not severely torture them, mind you. My French is quite decent. I studied it from 6-12th grade and during a semester abroad in Cameroon during college. I’d been to France three times before this last trip, so I’ve had the chance to practice here and there.
Over the past six months, I’ve been brushing up by listening to French podcasts, reviewing grammar and vocabulary, reading in French, and watching a French show on Netflix called Plan Coeur (called The Hookup Plan in English). (It’s a little silly, but I recommend watching it if for no other reason than to witness the adorable charm of Zita Hanrot, the sublime hotness of Marc Ruchmann, and the chemistry between them.)
But despite my best French learning efforts, because I just don’t have many opportunities to use the language, I remain on a frustrating plateau of intermediate-ness. A high B1, according to the Common European Framework. Maybe a low B2 after a couple of glasses of wine.
And there’s another problem: My pronunciation is really good.
Why is this a problem, you ask? Because it tends to write checks I just can’t cash. Allow me to illustrate.
Here is what often happens when I speak French to native speakers:
I start with a simple but gorgeously pronounced question or statement that maybe I’ve pre-planned a little bit in my mind. For example, I might say to a supermarket employee, “Hello, Madame, excuse me, I’m looking for mâche, but I don’t see any. Could you help me find it?” (But in French. Obv.)
At this point in the scenario, the employee probably thinks: this person, while not a native speaker, must nevertheless speak fluent (or close to it) French, because those R’s in the back of her throat are quite good! Maybe she lives in France, or visits frequently. And she’s definitely not American, because she knows about mâche, which Europe has been keeping a secret from the United States for centuries. Hon-hon-hon!
So, the employee says—in natural, full-speed French—something along the lines of “The mâche is over there, Madame, right between the man in the beret and the blue and white striped shirt and the woman feeding a croissant to her poodle.” And maybe I miss a word or two. Maybe I think she said “the woman whose poodle looks like a croissant,” but I definitely catch the vast majority of it.
“Oh, yes,” I say, feeling terribly proud of my oral comprehension. “I see it. Thanks so much.”
But then I decided to push it. (Because this is going so well! I practically AM fluent!!) I get chatty. And I end up saying something that translates literally to: “I must tell you, I love some mâche. I have never tried it before five days ago. We don’t have it inside the United States, where I inhabit. I think perhaps I would like to carry it to America, make big fields, and become a mâche…euhhhh…” (I do not know the word for “magnate” so I try to come up with a substitute)… “queen! Therefore to become very rich, because of mâche. A salad regime!”
By now the supermarket employee has probably determined that maybe I’m not as fluent as she thought, and/or I am slightly crazy. But again: Those nice, throaty R’s! The confidence! The mâche!
And so she replies, Frenchly, “You don’t have mâche in the United States? That’s so strange; I would have assumed it’s available there. You can find it everywhere in Europe, as far as I know. It’s very popular. In fact, there is a huge mâche festival every August in Lyons that’s been happening since the seventies. I went once or twice when I was young. I remember they built a replica of the Eiffel Tower, and the local children decorated it with sprigs of mâche. A little crazy, but fun. So, what about arugula? Is that available in America?”
But what I hear is: “You don’t have mâche in the United States? That’s so foreign. blahblahblah everywhere. Find blah blah Europe blah I know. Popular, in fact, blahblah festival every August in Leo blah blah blah since [some decade in the 20th century]. I went one or two times blah young. Blah blah. I remember they built blah blah Eiffel Tower blah children with mâche blah blah. A little crazy but amusing. And the Rockettes. Is blah blah America?”
Now I’m panicking, trying to weave all this together in my brain, but I’m pretty sure I get what she’s saying, and I’m quite sure she asked a question at the end. And I think it has to do with a children’s mâche festival that involves the Eiffel Tower and the Rockettes (Who knew?). So I say, “No, we don’t have that in America! But I wish we would have it! It [random Spanish verb] super cool! Well, thank you, always, for the information about the location of the mâche. Good bye!”
“Good bye,” she says. In English.
Two minutes later, I am standing in front of the mâche, and nearby I see bags of what is clearly arugula, labeled Roquette. And I now realize that what the employee had actually asked me was whether we had arugula in the US.
I feel great shame, for myself and for my country.
Then I go buy a bottle of wine, a baguette, and six kinds of cheese.
Alors.
But someday, my friends. SOMEDAY I will get off the intermediate plateau and kick it up to the next level. I will be able to follow not just 75% of what French speakers are saying, but 99%. And someday, so help me god, I will be the mâche queen of America.
All posts on Jane’s Calamity are free and publicly available, but writing is how I make my living. If you enjoy my writing, please consider upgrading to a paid subscription so I can hire a French tutor. Or, hey, maybe buy my book!
P.S. I *know* one of you is going to tell me that one can, in fact, get mâche (aka “corn salad”) in the United States, and that, actually, you’ve been eating it since the nineties. Fine. Tell me.
P.P.S. While I don’t have any events for The Society of Shame planned in the immediate future, I am very excited to be in conversation with Virginia Pye about her wonderful new novel, The Literary Undoing of Victoria Swann on November 1 at 7 pm at the Odyssey Bookstore in South Hadley, Mass. I’d love to see you there!
P.P.P.S. I’ve got some exciting news I’ll be sharing soon about The Society of Shame. Stay tuned!!
Meanwhile, back in Montparnasse cemetery….
I have this problem with German. My accent is natural and I’m colloquial, but mu vocabulary is limited. After a moment, people invariably raise their brows 🤨
Have a friend whose suitcase completely exploded whilst chaperoning a middle school trip to Quebec. He asked the concierge if they had some “tape du canard”…
Loved this, and so glad you and Betsy had a grand trip!