French Toast by Harriet Welty Rochefort Read Free Book Online

other women present and can report that it was the same deal. Soalthough there were many delicious courses, no one ended up feeling too full. I can also report that the women drank champagne and red and white wine, but, once again, in moderation. Incidentally, while we’re on the subject, it is very impolite for a woman to serve herself wine. If the glass is empty, you just have to wait for it to be refilled. I blush to think that in my younger, innocent days, I served myself once the glass was empty. How utterly gauche!
    Then there’s The Laugh: Frenchwomen emit a little light tinkle, like pleasant bells. I (and some of my American friends) have been known to snort, snuffle, gurgle—in short, make all kinds of noises that stridently break ice. This is not my paranoia. A French girlfriend once confessed to me that she was so embarrassed by the hysterical laughter of two of her American friends that whenever she invited them to her apartment, she made sure to close the windows.
    For some reason, Frenchwomen know how to keep their voices down. My personal noise level is so high in comparison that at dinner parties, I often have the feeling the sounds coming out of my mouth will shatter the Baccarat.
    Of course, Frenchwomen have a long tradition of being told to keep the decibels down. In the late nineteenth century, the Baronne Staffe wrote, “Those who are blessed with a soft voice have received a great gift of nature. If you are born with a soft voice, keep it thereforelike the apple of your eye; if you have received at birth a harsh voice, try to soften it. One must unceasingly keep watch over one’s voice, constantly keep it at the right level. . . .”
    At a rather chic party, a young boy reared up from
under
a table, where he shouldn’t have been in the first place, at an inopportune moment and crashed into a tray with twelve gorgeous crystal glasses. Shards of shattered glass flew everywhere, but the hostess didn’t miss a beat, busying herself with cleaning up the mess. You never would have known from looking at her perfectly composed smiling face that she was upset. Personally, I would have let out a loud scream.
    Nothing has changed since Henry James wrote one hundred years ago that “French women are very formidable. In France one must count with the women.”
    I’d almost have a complex if I hadn’t seen how positively unsisterly Frenchwomen can be. They do not band together as we do in the States. And they don’t share tips. In the States, if someone you like compliments you on a new blouse, you might just tell her that you got it on sale at Saks and that if she rushes, she might be in time to get one, too. In France, this kind of sisterly sharing is something I have rarely encountered.
    One Frenchwoman attempted to explain the difference between Frenchwomen and American women to me, and it made a lot of sense: “I can’t see a film like
Thelma and Louise
being made in France,” she stated.“In France, we position ourselves in relation to men. Of course Frenchwomen have women friends—but they are a bit suspicious of having a foreign woman for a friend. You Americans have a spontaneity that inspires a lack of confidence in Frenchwomen.”
    So that’s it! This wariness of other women, and the indisputable fact that American women are “spontaneous” (prompting suspicion) may be the reason for a certain secretiveness. After all, another woman is potential competition. If you compliment a Frenchwoman on her hairdo or manicure or necklace, she’ll say thank you and smile, but you can bet your bottom dollar she won’t open up and tell you who did the hair and nails or where she got the necklace. Why not? If she did, then you would know and you’d end up looking as good as she does.
Logique, non?
    Frenchwomen seem to avoid direct arguments with men. To wit, a conversation on rape I had at a dinner party with friends. This