I’ve just spent ten days in France, attending a series of trade shows for people in the travel industry. Here’s the thing: there’s no fancy new equipment to look at, no lavish exhibits, just a warren of booths staffed by folks from hotels, local tourist boards, bus companies. You have a schedule: an appointment every 20 minutes. But at 1 PM on the dot, everything comes to a halt and everyone—300 exhibitors, 300 delegates—files into the convention center’s “restaurant.” What’s going on?
Well, duh, this is France, and it’s lunchtime. Three courses, three sets of cutlery, glasses for wine and water, plus a cup for the post-prandial coffee, cloth napkins. Anything less would be a scandal.
The first course is already plated: a fillet of smoked trout, perhaps, with walnut salad, or freshly cured salmon with field greens. White wine, naturally. The red wine goes with the second course: a duck confit, perhaps, or a chicken breast wrapped in cabbage and pastry dough. The waiters move quickly; they’re used to the pace. Dessert and coffee: a sorbet with plum brandy, or a caramelized apple tart.
In the afternoon session, some exhibitors offer visitors a glass of champagne "to tide you over." The gala dinners (three of them on this trip) begin late, eight-ish, always with an aperitif followed by at least two wines and a digestif. Four or five more courses (a fish appetizer, a main course, cheese, dessert). Music, interminable speeches badly translated into English, more music. The formal banquet: it’s like church, a familiar rite for the French, who seem to take comfort in its ritual. Midnight and counting, with an early start the next morning, only the Americans, disoriented and tipsy, get impatient and annoyed.
