Certain things in France can, so I thought, be relied on: the trains will run on time; half the population will go on strike in September (when the trains won’t run at all); the smallest village will boast three pharmacies; the drivers will do their darnedest to mow you down, especially if you’re on a zebra crossing; and you stand a good chance of getting a decent meal in even the most unlikely place.
This latter assertion has been borne out on countless occasions, perhaps most notably when our son was born two-and-a-half years ago. The French health service not being the NHS, my girlfriend was required to spend the regulation five nights in the maternity clinic afterwards, and I was treated on all five evenings to what is known as the repas d’accompagnant.
This was, frankly, stupendous: soups, patés and crudités; boeuf bourguignonne, hachis parmentier, medaillons de veau; a selection of fine cheeses, a choice of palatable wines; creme caramel, mousse au chocolat, tarte tatin. Digne d’un grand restaurant, as they say here — and all for a fiver.
So on the morning our baby daughter was born in the same clinic last month, I had no qualms whatsoever about staying by Marie-Helene’s side for the evening, despite the fact that France v Turkey was on the telly (that was a joke, by the way). And I would like to report that I enjoyed another significant culinary experience.
Unfortunately, I can’t. A miserable burger draped in a slice of half-melted processed cheese, inedible broccoli, stale bread, generic low-fat yoghurt and wine you wouldn’t serve your worst enemy. Marie-Helene got the same, bar the wine. Digne de British Rail, I nearly said, except that would have revealed how long it was since I last took a train in Britain.
We asked what had happened. Indeed we complained, since if there is ever a moment in a woman’s life when she deserves decent nosh it’s when she’s just been through all kinds of agony and then had to start feeding a newborn. (And if there’s ever a moment in a man’s life when he deserves the same, it’s when he’s missing France-Turkey on the telly).
Well, they said. Budgets, they said. Balance sheets and cost-cutting, they said. The chef of two-and-a-half years ago, who lovingly dreamed up each day’s menu and prepared it with Gallic devotion in the downstairs kitchen, had been fired. In his place there was a refrigerated van bearing anonymous shrink-wrapped parcels labelled ”Deep-frozen on May 12. Do not refreeze”. And the same was happening all over.
OK, so France’s health service is â,¬6.2-billion in the red. OK, so up till now, French hospital patients have, grub-wise, been extraordinarily fortunate. But if this country, of all countries, can’t provide a decent meal for the proud mothers (and fathers) of its next generation, what’s it coming to?
The next thing we know, half the population will be going on strike in June and the drivers will suddenly stop trying to mow you down. Both of which, come to think of it, have just happened, but that’s another story. France ain’t what it used to be. – Guardian Unlimited Â