Hectic Host: Le Grand Petit Déjeuner

When I was 13 my parents decided that I should take part in my school's French exchange programme. I was a shy child but my thirst for experience must have been greater than my fear so I agreed. Several weeks later 50 of us grammar school boys stumbled from a coach into the Côte d'Amour sunshine, blinking in our blazers. The coach was mobbed by mopeds, two students on each: boys, girls, boys and girls; and all in denim and all smoking. By the following year punk would have taken a hold in the UK, and the hippy French kids would not look so cool, but in 1977 this was a remarkable spectacle of liberalism.

My correspondent was named Isabelle and together with her sister, Laurence, this was to be the start of a friendship that would last into adulthood. Having been identified by my new 'famille' I was packed into a car and driven to a grand, country restaurant. In retrospect I imagine that Monsieur was suggesting items from the menu which he presumed I would never have had, but in my eagerness to be polite I agreed to everything, accepting: escargots, frogs legs, a whole river fish, that tasted more of river than fish, and a huge horse steak. I admired the restaurant china and Madame persuaded the owner to sell her some, which she gave me to give as a gift to my mother. Such was the consideration of my hosts.

Hours later we were back in the car and heading home, en route I was told that us children would be dropped off to partake of 'Le Skateboarding'.

'Oh my giddy tante' I thought.

I cast my mind back to the form I completed. Under 'hobbies' I eschewed my real pastimes of collecting Art Deco china and the films of Louise Brooks, even I identified these as peculiar passions for a prepubescent boy and instead simply wrote 'skateboarding'. I could get to the sweet shop and back scooter-style on my skateboard but that was it. Needless to say the rest of the afternoon-into-evening was a complete immersion in total humiliation, but I must say I was always very careful what I put on my CV as a result.

Monsieur picked us up and I completed the final leg of my extremely lengthy two-day journey. As we approached the family home 'Neptune,' the family hound, was waiting in the road. As the dog chased the car down the winding drive past the pigeonnier, and its dole of resident white doves, one of the girl's horses joined him in pursuit. I thought back to our Victorian terrace in East Dulwich and the cat and goldfish. This would truly be a cultural exchange.

Near exhaustion I pleaded to go to bed. I was finally alone in the pitch black and eerie silence. It was the safest I had felt in two days but thoughts of the next day filled me with horror; I was to go to Isabelle's lycée and attend classes with her.

Arriving at the breakfast table sorrowful in my school uniform the room went quiet as they eyed my sombre attire, whilst I wondered why they were dipping bread rolls into bowls of cocoa. My mother, who would not tolerate a dunk of a Digestive in public, would have a heart attack. 

Madame, fearing for my safety at school, decided I must change my clothes, she marched me into the laundry room and handed me a t-shirt and jeans. 'Londres. Londres' she beamed as I looked in horror at the t-shirt.

When I walked back into the kitchen, head hung low, Isabelle and Laurence became apoplectic. 

'Qu'est-ce qu'il y a?' Madame enquired, losing her composure as the girls translated into French;

'My Boyfriend Went To London ?... And All I Got Was This Lousy Tee Shirt.'

I dipped my buttery croissant in my creamy chocolate and started laughing and I pretty much did not stop for three weeks.

To make my French family's Chocolat Chaud à l Ancienne grate your favourite high quality chocolate (mine is Montezuma's from Green & Blue) to taste into a pan of simmering half milk and half cream. Take off the heat and stir in an egg yolk. Serve with piping hot croissants. It is a million miles away from watery cocoa.

Vivent les différences!

Hectic Host appears in the monthly issues of SE Magazines.