The president of France recently warned representatives of the many other French-speaking nations that their common language is in danger of being corrupted by the rest of us.
He is alarmed that non-French words and phrases are creeping into usage and that this could lead to a decline in the language`s cultural importance.
Frankly, I`m not sympathetic to his problem. If anything, I enjoyed reading about his concerns. It`s about time the French got some of their own medicine. Or do they pronounce it mad-wah-sain?
Like millions of other Americans, I`ve occasionally found myself humiliated in my own homeland because I can`t speak, read or understand a word of French.
I`ve gone into restaurants and found myself confronted with a menu filled with ”bwahs” and ”fwahs” and ”swahs” and ”foofoowahs.”
It`s usually handed to me by some stiff with a disdainful manner that turns into outright contempt when he hears me try to fake my way through ordering.
If I say: ”Hmmmm. I`ll begin with the booshoobwash,” he will immediately say: ”Ah, yes, the bwashwabeesh.”
”Yes, that`s what I meant, the bwashwabeest.”
”Ah, yes, you mean the bwashwabeesh.”
They won`t let you off the hook. Once you say it wrong, they have to stick it to you by saying it the right way. And loud enough to be heard by the people at the next table. It`s bad enough that they are nicking you $5 for about 20 cents worth of mushrooms–they want you to feel like a bumpkin.
I wind up doing something a grown man shouldn`t have to do: pointing at the menu, like a kid at a candy counter, and mumbling: ”I`ll have that.”
Wine lists are even worse. I can go in any joint in America and order a double-shooter and a beer back and be understood.
So why should I have to experience the embarrassment of looking up from a wine list and saying: ”We`ll have a bottle of the 28.”
Even worse, sometimes the wines don`t have numbers. Then it`s back to the pointing finger.
”Ah, a good choice,” he says, ”the closh du bwahshwah.”
”Yeah, the uh, mmmm, yeah.”
Why, you ask, do I bother to eat in French restaurants if the language is such a mystery and pain in the neck?
Because they know how to cook. They aren`t much at fighting wars anymore. Despite their reputation for fashion, their women have spindly legs. Their music is sappy. But they do know how to whip up a plate of grub.
My only complaint about it is that unless you read French, you don`t know what you`re getting, which ought to be illegal.
Just about every food item you pick up in a grocery store has got the ingredients listed on the package or can, so you can eat the additives of your choice. There is even a movement to label the ingredients of hooch.
But the French get away with refusing to print on a menu that a snail is a snail, a pancake is a pancake, and a bowl of cold potato soup is exactly that.
I once suggested to a Chicago alderman that he sponsor an ordinance requiring French restaurants to print their menus in English.
He thought it was a good idea until he checked with his precinct captains and found that he had 12 known Frenchmen registered to vote in his ward.
”How about if we go after Eskimo restaurants,” he said. ”I don`t have any of them on the poll sheets.”
Just as irritating as restaurants are books and magazines that slip French words in and expect us to understand them. That`s why I gave up reading the New Yorker, which is one of the worst offenders. I don`t know why that magazine does it. Half of all New Yorkers I`ve known can`t speak
understandable English, much less the language of the bwah and fwah.
Then there are those people who believe it is sophisticated to throw French words they remember from high school into conversations.
I was at a dinner party once, when the hostess–who I knew for a fact grew up in Skokie–said something like: ”. . . I find myself with a strong feeling of deja vu.”
Trying to be helpful, I said: ”Gee, maybe you should go to the toilet.” They never invited me back, so I don`t know if she ever got over her deja vu.
But I figure it was brought on by the cold potato soup.
