Fruit for thought in almost vegan-free France

My sister tells me the French for ‘vegan’ is ‘fou’, but I don’t believe her.

Fou means mad, doesn’t it? And yet here I am, setting off for three weeks to a country that thinks nothing of having raw steak with a raw egg on top washed down by a packet of Gauloise and a pint — sorry, a litre — of burgundy for breakfast. A newly-converted vegan. What could possibly go wrong?

I had not set out to be vegan, anymore than one sets out to be alcoholic, or the parent of triplets; it was not something I planned. Yet just a month ago, pondering middle-aged aches and an unmoving supply of body fat, and feeling bad that even though I support organisations like People For The Ethical Treatment of Animals I was still fairly unethical in my food habits, a lightbulb moment ensued. Go vegan, said the voice in my head. Kill many birds with one stone. Or, rather, kill or harm abolutely no birds — or animals, or fish — whatsoever by the enthusiastic uptake of entirely plant-based food. Almond milk here I come.