Lunchtime or is it dejeuner

Francophones and Anglo-Saxons are divided by a common meal

Nowhere does French culture differentiate itself more from the Anglo-Saxon than at lunchtime.

That bewitching hour arrives all too quickly. You know the one - midday, when any self-respecting French man or woman instantly disappears from the workplace.

It’s not surprising that the World capital of gastronomy closes for lunch but few foreigners are prepared for the speed with which it happens. At Noon + thirty seconds it’s all over. France becomes the Mary Celeste, condemned to sail on for the next two hours with no-one at the helm.

Photo: A sign that lunchtime is almost upon us - a queue at a popular boulangerie

Boulangeries stay open a little while so that working people can pick up the staff of life on the way home. But, first-time visitors suddenly find themselves in a retail desert as they try in vain to buy a baguette after 12:30. The bread’s still there but the boulanger’s long gone to worship at the culinary altar. So has the butcher, the hairdresser, the postman.

The French are out to lunch, spending their subsidised luncheon vouchers, called Tickets Restaurant. Many businesses will close until two o'clock, leaving only larger supermarkets and city-centre stores in the land of the living.

It all started with the revolution. The aristocracy faced the guillotine or banishment abroad. Suddenly Quebec seemed like a good idea. This left their chefs and cooks in France and at a loose end. Many opened restaurants and cafés.

The revolution democratised everything and so eating out lost much of its elitism. It became popular, almost a universal right. These days it’s a major industry, putting a three course meal of the day on the table for prices starting from around 10 euros.

The quality is generally outstanding. It's a mystery how restaurants can bring such value for money to the table despite paying world-beating social security charges.

So if you’re visiting you needn’t spend a fortune to eat well.

Photo: Now this is lunch - today's special, sea bream

Whilst two-hour lunches are not unknown, most people struggle through on less than that. Honour is usually satisfied after an hour or so.

It used to be like this in the anglophone world too but somewhere along the line we just became too busy. The workaholic culture of the Thatcher and Reagan era led to the notion that lunch was for wimps. Thus was born the sandwich at the desk.

During a consulting assignment, I found myself in the Paris office of a British multinational. He, who must be obeyed, arrived from London, hoping for a day crammed with back to back meetings just like in the UK.

No battle plan survives first contact with the enemy. Sir’s carefully organised diary crumpled under the first onslaught of a French lunchtime. Refusing all invitations to lunch, he found himself alone in a sea of empty desks by 12:05.

There were many restaurants and cafés around the building and the company had an excellent canteen. Faced with all these opportunities he opted for Starbucks. "I’ll just grab a sandwich and a coffee..."

How to explain this to bemused French colleagues? I didn't want them to think that all Brits were like this. I searched all afternoon for a convincing story before settling on the most likely. Monsieur came from another planet. His absent-minded parents had left him behind.

Sandwiches do exist in France, but eating at one’s desk is unthinkable, something akin to devil worship. Words cannot describe the shame of being caught with any form of sustenance in one hand and a mouse in the other.

Buying a freshly-made offering at a proper sandwicherie and enjoying it in the park or by a river is almost acceptable if wearing a slightly apologetic expression, as if to say that you'd rather be eating real food.

Driving a car is a handy way to pass the time while smoking and using the telephone but dining is a full-time job which requires total concentration at the table. There's no slumping in front of the TV while munching a pizza here.

As a confirmed Pyrenean hill-walker, I’m amazed at what emerges from a French randonneur’s rucsac at midday. The mountain is yet another sandwich-free zone. There’ll be some charcuterie to start the meal, the obligatory baguette, one or more cheeses, pâté, salad vegetables, fruit and a bottle of wine.

Passers-by will take pity on any walker who doesn’t have all these things. It’s not done to leave someone pâté-less. The day’s walk will be meticulously planned so that lunch happens by a stream. Where else to put the whites and the rosés but in Mother Nature’s wine cooler?

Even here at 3,000 metres, dining is a social occasion. Hikers will share and compare as a humble picnic becomes a cheese and wine swapping party.

French contempt for the humble sandwich is understandable. Many don’t see this anglo-saxon staple at its best. Supermarkets sell the mass-produced variety, made in a factory a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away. The worst are better used as loft insulation than a form of nourishment.

Along with fast food, this is what the French call "la mal-bouffe", in other words mere fodder. So how is it the home of haute cuisine is the second most profitable market worldwide for McDonalds and KFC seems to open a new restaurant every week?

Well, partly they’ve discovered a secret that eludes some traditional restaurants. They allow people to come in and let them spend money. Although truly French eating places claim to serve lunch from twelve until two, some smaller ones refuse new customers after one o’clock.

Often, visitors to France and more than a few French people find themselves on the road or besieged by children when it’s the magic hour. But then, American chains have play areas, free WiFi and take your cash all day.

There’s another reason that this cultural anathema makes money. Stand in the queue at McDo’s behind a family of French holiday-makers and you’ll see it at work. They order the works, a full three-course meal, which they select with the same care that they’d lavish in a French restaurant.

There are special self-service terminals for impatient and cantankerous British journalists, who know what they want and it isn't standing in a queue. And they take plastic. Ordering with a credit card whilst texting at the same time takes but a jiffy. Now, that's gastronomy.

Ronald didn't get where he is by underestimating public taste. He understands his customers very well.