french fried

You have to love the French. And laugh at them. Mostly I think I love them. They get a lot right.

This morning I ride le train touristiques from Langeac to Langogne through the gorges of the Allier, et retour. It departs just after nine, and returns at 1:33. Unfortunate timing. I am hungry, but not much is open.

I hurry into the centre ville from la gare. The maison de la presse (newsagent) is fermé (closed). So is my little épicerie (grocery), and the 7-eleven equivalent, the 8-a-huit, or eight-to-eight (much more civilised).

This is bad for me; I can’t get what I want: a back-up bottle of Orangina and a spicy supplement for the Camembert I will bung in my baguette. Camembert is cheap enough to whack hefty slices into your sandwich, but it lacks a little oomph. Hence the need for chutney, or relish, or salsa, or Serbian pista.

[A sandwich isn’t a sandwich in France: a baguette on its own is a baguette, but when filled with ham or salad or chicken or Camembert, it’s a sandwich. Our sandwich—two slices of bread with filling—doesn’t exist here.

Orangina is my drink of choice in France, given that I’m teetotal, hate coffee, and am not to keen on water either. Orangina is not too gassy, not too sweet, isn’t the colour of a Dutch football jersey, and the pulp is left in the drink. It’s orange soft drink as it should be.]

Despite not getting my Orangina or a nice chutney, I love that the shops are shut. You have to admire the good sense of having a rest in the middle of the day. And the even better sense of having time to enjoy your déjeuner, your lunch.

We’re crazy in Australia: we eat on the run, we eat at our desks, we eat hastily and barge back into the office. The French indulge themselves: they prepare lunch; they savour lunch; they relax and let it settle gently in their stomachs.

I suspect if there’s a little time left before re-opening the shop a bit after two, they probably enjoy a quick fuck as well. Good on them. All hail!