It may be tough for Brits to swallow, says Les Dunn, but when it comes to the sensual language of food, French makes mincemeat of English
Language shouldn’t really matter when it comes to food. All that should matter is how the food looks and, of course, how it tastes. ‘A rose by any other name would smell as sweet’, wrote Shakespeare. Noble sentiments, but tragically naïve. If a rose variety were called Taylor’s Skunkhole, would you be rushing to smell it?
Words do matter and, let’s face it, the French have the ones that sound most appetising. French cultural imperialism has a lot to answer for, but ‘chou farci’ is always going to sound better than ‘stuffed cabbage’.
For every prosaic, uninspiring food word or phrase we have in English, the French have an enticing, effortlessly superior version. They fashion quenelles, we make dumplings; as they breathe in the aromatic scent of a bouillabaisse, we stir our lumpen fish stew; while they confit, we cook in fat. Even their word for burnt, brûlé, makes it sound like it wasn’t an accident.
There have been brave British chefs who have tried to insist on the English words for things: good, honest ‘gravy’ now seems to have dislodged prissy ‘jus’. At a country house hotel recently I saw ‘raw meat’ on the starters. But would ‘steak tartare’ sell better? I think we know the answer...
It’s difficult to compete against the French, words-wise. Just ask the Germans, who have 10 three-Michelinstarred restaurants but a language that, shall we say, lacks a certain je ne sais quoi. You may understand why those 10 culinary establishments haven’t quite captured the British imagination when you learn one of them is called Überfahrt.
French culinary words are so evocative to Brits of insouciant desirability, they can be dangerous. Like the Pied Piper’s tunes, they have the power to hypnotise us into s
