L’alimentation des Francais

In Paris, I had decided that there were no … how shall I say? generously sized people in France. I’d seen a few folks who maybe could stand to lose 10 pounds, but no more. Most Parisians are stylishly svelte, and overweight foreign tourists stick out like sore thumbs in a crowded cafe.

In Paris, there is no scrimping on flavor or richness, either, although portion size is more moderate – more realistic – than a typical American restaurant or even private home portion. Still, most restaurants and homes serve dinner in multiple courses through an entire evening – there is an entrée, which is an appetizer course – this may be a simple salad or a fine pate. Next, there is a main course – always a meat (the French are mainly confirmed carnivores) served with some potatoes and vegetables. Next comes the cheese course, which is always my favorite – usually a selection of three or more cheeses, served with a basket of crusty French bread. And sometimes, if the cheese course is not taken as the last course, a dessert, which is a very small portion, and exquisite – the finest chocolate, rich creme brulee, a fine tarte of fresh berries or apple – you get the picture – and served at last with coffee and/or liqueur.

When you are dining out, or dining in a French home, if you don’t finish your entire meal, the waiter or your host will probably ask you (with some consternation) if something is wrong! (I don’t know about other women following this blog, but in Houston, I am the queen of the doggie bag; I seldom finish an entire dinner – not here in France!)

So how in the world do the Parisians do it? Not by going to the gym; I only saw an ad for one “gymnasium  de fitness” in Paris, and if you ask a Parisian if he or she “works out,” they just look at you uncomprehendingly.

I got a clue when I came down to the French countryside of Provence, and began seeing overweight people on the streets, in restaurants … and a few were pretty obese. The diet down here is much the same as in Paris – the Provencals also dine in multiple courses, as described above (although I do not see many cheese courses on the menus). The portions are the same, and the chefs here are obviously making a point not to be outdone by their Parisian counterparts for richness or imagination.

The only difference I can discern is … the walking.

Parisians, I am guessing, easily log at least 5 miles per day just walking around the city. Not powerwalking … but brisk, purposeful walking from point A to point B and beyond. Despite a wonderful Metro system, they usually prefer to walk if the walk’s not more than 20 minutes … and it shows.

Here in the provinces, I am guessing here, the villages are small and there is no need to walk 20 minutes across town to meet friends or get to work or shop. There are no shortages of cars here, either, while Parisians may not even own a car because of the trouble to park anywhere on the crowded French streets. So, I am thinking the Provencals eat pretty much the same – drive much more – walk much less – and are experiencing some of the same problems that we in America are experiencing in terms of weight, health, lifestyle.

Although I walked every day in Paris until my legs literally ached … I am driving much more as well in Provence, and walking less … so I am scaling back on the dessert option and (alas) the cheese as well. And that is a tough one, because those of you who know me well know that I am a notoriously picky eater, having sworn off red meat some years ago, and having a livelong aversion to eggs in any identifiable form.

So, here I am, in meat-and-egg land.

The other evening, at a really fine little French cafe, I ordered the dinner that I thought consisted of a salad appetizer, then morrel mushrooms in sauce, then a mild whitefish, then a dessert.

I got a serving of pate (which Len, who was given my portion to eat, assures me was really quite wonderful, if you eat pate, which I do not); then I got the sauce on which morels were arranged all right; when I plunged my spoon into it, I also discovered a poached whole egg beneath the sauce, and I almost fainted. I managed not to pass out, carefully ate the mushrooms (because by then, damn, I was hungry), and was really grateful when the next course was, indeed, fish.

So, even though there is no such thing as “eating light” down here, I doubt I will be in much danger of gaining a lot of weight. No, I am not even overindulging in all the fabulous wines of the region … when you are driving in a foreign country in an unfamiliar car down tiny, winding roads that are dark by the time you are ready to go home … you don’t drink much.

Vive le France!