French Lessons by Peter Mayle Read Free Book Online

back to the kitchen. “Meet me tomorrow
morning, nine o’clock at the Palais des Congrès. There will be
breakfast with a little white wine, and then the parade. You will be our first
English
confrère.
”
    I wasn’t at all sure
that this distinction was deserved. I could hardly claim to be a connoisseur,
or even a regular consumer, and to be elevated at a single hop into the
aristocracy of frog-eaters was an unexpected honor. It was also something of a
change in status. Normally, my role in these affairs is simply that of an
observer, unknown and, ideally, unnoticed, a bystander scribbling furtive
notes. But this time, I was to be in the thick of things, nibbling thighs in
front of an audience. And what else would I be required to do? Loisant had
given me no particular instructions apart from telling me to turn up for
breakfast the following morning. But I had been a spectator at one or two
ceremonies in which friends had been elected as
confrères,
and
I knew that initiation rituals were often rich in potentially humiliating
moments: draining a monstrous goblet of red wine without dribbling or pausing
for breath, reciting from memory an oath of allegiance in Provençal,
singing the anthem of the
confrérie—
all these I had seen
from the comfortable anonymity of the watching crowd. And now the crowd would
be watching me.
    While it was impossible to imagine exactly what form
the initiation ceremony would take, one part of it was entirely predictable.
Without a doubt, I would be called upon to eat—not only to eat but to eat
with conspicuous relish—at least a couple of thighs, maybe more. I could
remember coming up against frogs’ legs only once before, and an
overpowering experience it had been, too, rather like sucking garlic-flavored
lollipops. But that was the work of an amateur cook, unused to the finer points
of
cuisine grenouille.
Here in frog heartland, the local chefs would
doubtless have a more delicate touch. Encouraged by the thought, I decided to
have a trial run, to get in some private practice before my public debut.
    Although the restaurants of Vittel that evening were united in their homage
to the frog, I found myself drawn instead to one of the stands in a side
street. Canvas had been stretched over a scaffolding framework, with long plank
tables arranged in front of a makeshift counter. Most of the seats were already
taken, and I noticed that the style of the evening was to wear one’s
paper napkin tucked into the shirt collar, which in France is usually the sign
of a man who takes his food seriously. There was just the right mixture of
music and laughter. Bonhomie was in the air, bottles of Riesling on the tables,
frogs’ legs on the menu. I took an empty seat next to a group of large
and boisterous men—members of a rugby club, according to their
T-shirts—and gave my order to the waitress.
    My accent caused my
neighbor to turn toward me, his head cocked. He had the slightly ravaged ears
of a front-row forward who had been in the middle of too many rugby scrums, and
a broad, good-natured face.
    “Where are you from?” he
asked.
    “I’m English.” This was said with a certain
amount of apprehension, as rugby matches between France and England tend to be
replays of the battle of Agincourt, and passions of both players and supporters
run high. Fortunately, my neighbor didn’t seem to bear any grudges.
    “
Ah, les Anglais,”
he said. “
Ils
sont durs.
They play like tanks.” I think it was meant as a
compliment, because he filled my glass from the bottle in front of him.
“And what are you doing here?”
    When I told him I was
anxious to learn about frogs, he let out a rumble of laughter and nudged his
friend. An Englishman who was interested in frogs. What could be more
bizarre?
    As I’ve often said, there is nothing a Frenchman likes
more than a self-confessed ignoramus, preferably foreign, who can be instructed
in the many marvels and curiosities of France. I think it must be part