Every once in a while, the French think about the last supper. Not Christ’s repast with the apostles, but their own last meal; the one they would order if they were going to be shot at dawn. It’s not surprising in a civilisation obsessed with gastronomy. Decades after I first came to France, I am still amazed that one can head out of Paris, drive a few hundred kilometres in any direction, stop arbitrarily at a country inn and enjoy a delightful meal. Each time, it seems a gift and a miracle. French food is good. French children learn early to be gourmets rather than gourmands: that one eats and drinks not merely to survive but for pleasure. Gastronomy is an art, a celebration and the...
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