A few things to get off my chest about France

FRANCE is the most visited country on earth — 80-something million of us go there each year. So there’s no point going on about it, because you’ll already know all about the French joie de vivre, savoir vivre, savoir faire, sang froid, maybe even the hauteur or froideur if you commit a faux pas like turning up topless to the village post office to buy stamps, having walked a mile along a Cote d’Azur beach in 35 degree heat.

So there’s no point going on about it, because you’ll already know all about the French joie de vivre, savoir vivre, savoir faire, sang froid, maybe even the hauteur or froideur if you commit a faux pas like turning up topless to the village post office to buy stamps, having walked a mile along a Cote d’Azur beach in 35 degree heat.

“Non monsieur,” says the post office lady (for the topless transgressor is male, and therefore legally allowed to get his chest out anywhere). Pointing at said chest, despite it being covered in man hair, the post mistress’s facial shutters slam closed. “Non, non, non,” she says frostily, as the foreigner sweats at the top of the queue. “Ce n’est pas permite.” He leaves, having learned the hard way that what may be legally allowed in France is not always socially permitted. (Good job he wasn’t wearing a burqa, a crucifix or a Jewish skull cap, or she could have had him arrested).

But never mind — think of the violet ice cream and the lavender pate. (Not on the same plate, you understand — unless perhaps you are a confused foreigner from the heathen ape lands north of France). Seeing the pretty lilac and gold tins stacked on a stall at the Saturday market, you might think, yippee, another weird French thing to try, mentally adding it to your collection of sweet chestnut spread, aubergine caviar, jasmine flower honey, sundried tomato pate. Mmmm. Then you read the label and discover it is mashed pig flavoured with lavender. Ew, non.

On the plus side, Americanised coffee does not appear to exist in France. No litre plastic buckets filled with a sugary swill your ‘barista’ may refer to as ‘a grande double shot skinny vanilla iced latte’, possibly with a Mr Whippy of pressurised cream and a squiggle of liquidy syrup on top. Non. The waiter — not the barista — will bring you un café. That is all. A tiny cup of black coffee that could surely cure narcolepsy. The bells and whistles are saved for the ice cream. Imagine if Willy Wonka had moved to France, and opened an ice cream parlour. Ferrero Rocher, Nutella, Kinder Bueno, Snickers. Grand Marnier, Cointreau, Calvados. Caramel, cinnamon, lavender, violet, coconut. There is even blue Smurf ice cream, although hopefully not made from mashed Smurfs.

But for the animal product avoider, the awkward vegan, the one who doesn’t want to eat mashed Smurfs, there is no standing around wistfully sucking on a piece of organic tree bark. Non. There is sorbet. Mango, peach, cherry, lemon, apricot, pear, mint, verbena, almond. Enough to make you run into the nearest post office, ripping your t-shirt off and screaming with pleasure. Ohhhhhh oui. oui, oui.