How to Be Parisian: the Proof is in the Pudding

Stephen’s penchant for Christmas pud, custard and beans on toast reveal his Britishness.

I think I’m well integrated as an expat in Paris. My average walking speed in the street is around 30 kilometres per hour. Whenever I see a queue, I automatically push to the front. And on a sunny winter’s day, if there’s one table free on the café terrace, I will mercilessly nip in and sit down while the poor tourists are still hesitating. I always tell people that when in France, I’m more Parisian than I am British. It’s nurture and nature in that order. But no matter how well you adapt to your Parisian surroundings, there are some things about your Britishness that you just can’t hide. These won’t only be a preference for British sitcoms and an inability to understand why someone who has no voice should be hailed as a genius singer because their lyrics are a bit poetic. No, the deepest differences are all about food. Your palate stays rooted in your native country much longer than the rest of you. As a British expat, you cling on to tastes that even your own countryfolk have forgotten. This was brought home to me on a trip back to the UK. When I go to London, I often lunch at a café run by a Frenchman. We know each other by name now, but recently the French owner said to me: “You know what we used to call you before we knew your name? Mr Beans on Toast.”

Not such a cowardly custard

This, I thought, was a good joke, not only because there is something of Mr Bean about me (mainly my ability to spill ketchup in embarrassing places), but also because it’s true: I do love to have beans on toast whenever I go back to the UK, even though hardly anyone except middle-aged builders eats it these days. Some of my eating habits are stuck in Olde Englande. Back home in Paris, I face similar teasing every year at Christmas because I am the only person in my household who thinks it is safe to consume Christmas pudding. I put on a big show of flambéeing it. I make homemade custard and strain all the lumps out (well, almost). But despite all my efforts, I am the only one who is willing to take a mouthful. I described this humiliation in A Year in the Merde. The girls in the scene say that the pudding itself looks like the residue left on a beach after an oil spill, and compare the custard to ‘Englishman’s blood, coagulated and without colour’.

Bring me some figgy pudding

But nothing will dissuade me from adhering to my Great British tradition, and spending every afternoon for at least four days digesting my pudding – because obviously, I always buy a large one in the deluded hope that someone will finally understand the attraction of a lump of boiled flour flavoured with dried fruit and alcohol. Naturally, as an expat who is grateful for the friendly welcome I have received in my host country, I do respect some French traditions: Christmas and the New Year are always celebrated with champagne. Though in recent years, I have been trying to sneak in a bottle of British sparkling wine. Thanks to climate change, the products of the Kent and Sussex vineyards are getting much better, very champagne-like. But so far, I’ve failed to nurture a taste for this Anglofizz in my French family or friends. If I try to refill their glass with fake champagne, they howl as if I’ve just dumped a hunk of Christmas pudding on the plate next to their foie gras. Sometimes nature is much too strong for nurture.

Stephen Clarke’s latest novel, Merde at the Paris Olympics, is out now

From France Today Magazine