Bon Appétit!

Don’t say it.  In fact never say it.  It is considered vulgar in the upper circles, and presumably those in the know, to let the words Bon Appétit! fall from your hungry lips.  Only used by children (from the lower échelons) grateful Brits amused to have something to replace Tuck In! and people like me who couldn’t care less (well most of the time). 

I know this about BP because I have a close girlfriend who is wedded into such upper circles and she keeps me au fait with modern manners and throws light on my many faux pas. 

I am a messy eater.  When I had my first lunch with the late Graham Harris he immediately put me at ease by telling me that he would most likely spill food on me at some point.  The problem is that when in public I eat, as opposed to pushing my food around the plate and taking tiny, elegant bites inbetween tinkly laughter à la Daisy Buchanan. 

What about mopping up my sauce with bread?  I asked my posh friend one day. 

“ON NE SAUCE PAS SON ASSIETTE!”  She admonished me using her best school mistress voice.  (Do not use your plate as a sauce or don’t mop up with bread, even the translation is confusing). 

I have managed to stop doing this in public as I concede it doesn’t look very attractive but it is hard to let all that sauce meunière go to waste at the end of a plate of fillets de perche on a summer’s evening sitting by the lake.   I’m a recovering bread-mopper-uppper and with the holier than thou attitude of an ex-smoker recently told such a person at  a BBQ  what the manners were about bread and plates.  As I watched him mop up his meat sauce, I gave  him a demonstration of how you are supposed to put an inzy winzy piece of bread onto your fork and then sweep the fork around the plate - but friend tells me that even this compromise will not pass muster in some Geneva circles.   He obviously didn’t spot the tongue in my cheek and was not amused.  In fact he ignored me for the rest of the evening and I can’t say I blame him. 

I am still confused about how to treat the catering staff that I come across on some on our evenings out.  Recently at a formal dinner in a house practically falling into the lake it was so close, introductions consisted of  your name AND your profession.

 I was introduced as Mme Ritter which made me glance around to see if my mother in law had snuck in,  la femme de Monsieur Ritter blah di blah di blah.

I wanted to shout I’m not just a wife I’m a writer but the prospect of  having to explain the blog concept to such circles and the word “bloggeuse” (French for blogger) leached all the courage out of me so I just remained quiet and realized that I was in for a very long evening. 

Anyway at such a soirée I made a major mistake by acknowledging , saying thank you and smiling, at the poor sod of a basic wage earning waiter and even, daringly told him the food was delicious when we were all supposed to pretend the hostess had been slaving away all afternoon.  Looking around the table I noticed that everyone else was under the assumption that their plates were just beamed there Star Trek like from the kitchen.  Obviously none of those present had ever waited tables, mon dieu! or worked as an usherette quelle horreur! (now that was a good job) or if they had they were sadly denying that experience altogether.

I noticed Mr. Jules did a sort of half-way house acknowledgement of the waiting staff.  He moved way back in his chair and turned towards them in an accommodating but silent acknowlegement…forever Mr. Switzerland, he deserves a badge.        

Ah well, you know the old saying:  You can take the girl out of England but you can’t take England out of the girl.  That’s me and it makes me strangely proud.

…I’m not supposed to be writing this I’m supposed to be sourcing potnetial writing outlets.  Since the recession in the UK, and the sad demise through bankruptcy of The Geneva Times,  there has been a drought of publishing opportunities.  Mr. Jules says that I should try India or Australia as they “like” the Swiss but when I google publications in those countries I come over all faint with the enormity of the task.  I’m working on the premise Do What You Love And The Money Will Follow…er…right.  Perhaps I should put a donation button at the top of the blog…