It is a lamentable affectation, but Eastern Europeans seem to look to France for matters cultural than to far, far more civilised England. Think, for example, of Tolstoy’s aristocrats in War and Peace. Prince Vassily doesn’t say “that absolute stinker, Napoleon, has bloody gone and nicked Genoa and Lucca” or something to that effect in Russian. No, he twirls his doubtless heavily pomaded and perfumed moustache and announces “Eh bien, mon prince, Gênes et Lucques ne sont plus que des apanages, des pomestias, de la famille Buonaparte”. Infuriating, isn’t it?
I thought of this when my good wife, who hails from Transylvania, glanced at the breakfast I had so beautifully prepared with a look of withering disdain. What, on earth, is wrong with baked beans on Marmite toast accompanied by a mug of PG Tips? Doubtless a couple of warm croissants would have gone down better especially if served with café au lait, but she is not getting it. Nor, for that matter will there be anything resembling pain au chocolat or brioche.
War has been declared on all things Gallic and my first move will take the form of tripe and onions served with steaming mushy peas. Next there will be liver and bacon and that gustatory glory, a kind of mini haggis, but with a name that cannot be used in America. This to be served with neeps & tatties.
Come Crispin Crispian (St. Crispen’s Day), we happy few will be drinking warm best bitter and munching roast beef, Yorkshire pudding with all the trimmings. The grande finale will, of course, be steamed Spotted Dick.
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