The French Know Best

Now I was pretty far from being a woman when I learnt this particular lesson…

In fact, I was only sixteen and I’d barely just been kissed by my very first love. Yup, almost sweet sixteen and never been kissed. Although, to say he was my first love…

Perhaps that is not entirely true. There was a boy when I was in primary school. His name was Donovan and he was a pale, gangly and sickly boy with freckles and light brown eyes and fine blonde hair. I spent many an afternoon after school chattering away at his home which was close by. In hindsight, I think, in my young way, I loved him.

Love… it makes us divulge doesn’t it?

Back to our story at hand, I was on yet another visit to see my mother in London and this time the design studio for which she worked required an extra hand to make year-end deadlines before all the Christmas cheer. An art student, and a good one, at the time, I was hauled in to sand, to slap on a coat of varnish, to paint-by-numbers before the trained specialists got to the real task of antiquing the design...

Whatever menial task was required on the day. I loved that job. So very different from waitressing. It was messy. The lads in the studio were boisterous in their antics. There was no curtseying to customers.

Just a good ol’ honest day’s labour.

And oh, did I ever adore my boss, a Frenchman to the bone!

A Galouise cigarette constantly dangling from the corner of his mouth, and his face almost constantly in a frown considering one solution or another to a task at hand, he was French arrogance personified and at its most offensively charming. If it was French, it was naturally the best. And who was I to argue? So I would simply nod in silence, and perhaps mumble under my breath that surely, it must be so. (So far, all I’d come to love about the UK was Red Stripe beer and that was Jamaican.)

But this Frenchman taught me a lesson that I shall never forget, a lesson that in fact informs the very creature I am today. There is a truth you see in always keeping a bottle of bubbly in the fridge for a special occasion for some days, the bottle of bubbly is the special occasion.

And Francois, my first encounter with the French, he was my first true tutor in such matters. Today, when the freelancing world is being a little unkind, I will merrily forgo the milk and the bread and the essentials for a dinner of Sangiovese and a slab of dark, salted chocolate, tomorrow come what may!

I have Francois to thank for this. It is my way of revolting against poverty, as long as I have my cat and a humble abode.

For you see, once we’d sent off the Japanese inspired wallpapers, the antiqued furniture, the leather wall panels embossed in gold leaf, and it was time to clock off for the year, on top of our bonuses we were each and every one given two bottles of Pierre-Jouet Belle Epoque, one of France’s finest champagnes. I can still recall the bottle today, illustrated as they were with beautifully true to life white blossoms.

Thereafter, we were royally invited to South Kensington’s finest French restaurant for our staff Christmas party. And that night, I could choose whatever I liked.

Loving the ocean as I do, and never having had the opportunity before this, I supped on scallops for the first time that night. Simply prepared, in herbs and seasoning and butter.

I’ve had scallops since.

But they’ve never tasted so tender and so true as they did that eve...

For you see, the French know best.

Still Life with Figure by Mary Armour