French Toast by Harriet Welty Rochefort Read Free Book Online Page A

conversation would
never
take place in the United States, by the way. Jacques (not his real name—the guy definitely needs protection) maintained that it is impossible to rape a woman without her consent (!) and that marital rape is inconceivable. I tried to explain to him that if the woman refuses and the man goes ahead, it is rape. Our conversation went on and on, but we never came to an agreement, and he is now convinced that I am a crazy American feminist. Crazy, yes; feminist, moderately so (by American standards,not all that much; by French standards, quite a bit—it all depends on your point of view). The Frenchwomen present that evening somehow managed not to get involved in the debate.
    I’ve been to zillions of dinner parties in France in different social classes and situations. I can assure you, dear women readers, that you see and hear things you would never even contemplate seeing or hearing in the United States. The Frenchwoman does not seem to feel the need to assert herself the way we American women do. She’s too polite to act offended if she’s left out. For example, at the home of a French intellectual, the host dominated the conversation and the women present, who were the wives of intellectuals but not intellectuals themselves, simply did not talk for the duration of the meal. All this is considered normal. What I am saying is, whatever the situation, whatever the social class, compared to American women, Frenchwomen accept the backseat. Period.
    Whether the backseat is “good” or “bad,” and whether they take it because it’s the best option, is another story. Search me, as they say. If I knew the answer, I would have figured out the Frenchwoman. And as you can see, I haven’t . . . yet.
    In some ways, Frenchwomen are much less on their guard around men than we Americans are. They do delicious things, such as laugh at off-color jokes, and don’t yell sexual harassment when complimented on theirhairdo. They can disagree with a man—and keep their cool. So refreshing.
    For example, in the rape conversation, the two Frenchwomen present let us (me and another non-Frenchwoman, who took Jacques’s side) slug it out. They didn’t sit there like dead fish, nor did they ostensibly change the conversation. I don’t actually know what they were doing, so unobtrusive were they. But by not getting into the argument, they ensured that the dinner party remained a party and not a knock-down-drag-out. When I called to thank my hostess, I told her I hoped her husband wasn’t too upset about our altercation. “Jacques?” She laughed. “He’s crazy.”

    Clearly, conversations in France are very different from conversations in the United States. Maybe it’s the wine, but somehow people can get into pretty heavy matters, even be diametrically opposed, but stop short of punching one another out. The good French hostess, of course, is there to smooth everything over. She’s experienced at this. After all, she has to contend with her French husband, and any American wife married to a Frenchman can tell you that’s no small matter.
    I admire Frenchwomen: They have a real big secret they’re not telling anyone. Their husbands must be babied. I adore Frenchmen (I married one, didn’t I?), butI wouldn’t be alone in stating that their behavior is often totally weird and that their relationships with women are frequently, shall we say, not based on equality. This is why many women who are married to Frenchmen squirrel away money to buy things for their houses. Not because the guy doesn’t have any money, but because he’s going to have to make a comment. Nothing gets past him. So as not to have to hear it, the woman becomes a master at subterfuge. I know the case of an American woman who bought a piece of furniture without informing her French spouse, who had a tendency to give her a hard time about prospective