France, of course, is known for its cuisine. I knew that even before coming here. What I didn’t realize until more recently was that I didn’t know why. When I thought “French cuisine,” I thought Julia Child and Disney’s Ratatouille: chefs in big white hats mixing up delicate sauces and flowery desserts, chopping vegetables with a practiced speed and drizzling chocolate with graceful abandon, experimenting with all sorts of nonsense from frog’s legs to escargot. And maybe there is some value in that impression, especially up in Paris. I’ve been to Paris before, and tried both escargot and frog’s legs there. That’s where the biggest cooking schools are, and the five-star restaurants, and world-renowned fashions—food is subject to la mode just as much as clothing is. From the recipe to the plate, much of French food culture does have to do with design.
That being said, living in the south of France, away from the flashy cooking schools and restaurants renommés (renowned), it seems to me that what really separates French cuisine isn’t design—there are excellent chefs autour du monde (around the world)—but a sort of profound respect. It’s ingrained into the culture as a whole: food isn’t simply a means of sustenance, of fuel, but it’s a pleasure. The preparation of food is a ritual. It’s a means of sharing your life with other people. It’s tremendously important—and if it takes a long time, then so be it. It is worth it.
That being said, living in the south of France, away from the flashy cooking schools and restaurants renommés (renowned), it seems to me that what really separates French cuisine isn’t design—there are excellent chefs autour du monde (around the world)—but a sort of profound respect. It’s ingrained into the culture as a whole: food isn’t simply a means of sustenance, of fuel, but it’s a pleasure. The preparation of food is a ritual. It’s a means of sharing your life with other people. It’s tremendously important—and if it takes a long time, then so be it. It is worth it.