In the past, an art of being French involved conversation brought to its climax in the salons of the Ancien Régime governed by women. They have been replaced by revolutionary vulgarity, the rudeness of Hébert, the obligatory informality, the affectation of filth to make people.
We no longer converse, we bellow, we shout, we insult.
This same art of being French was inseparable from culinary and oenological genius. Talk about wine before drinking it, tasting it, appreciating it, then talking about it again with friends. Great chefs now eat cuisine for toothless people who ingest purees, espumas, creams and emulsions.
We no longer eat, we eat wind.
In this art of being French, there was the irony of Voltaire, his freedom of spirit, who said, without saying, while saying, not without making us smile in the process. A comedian today is a jester paid by those in power who does not risk the Bastille but the Legion of Honor.
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We no longer smile, we giggle.
Let us add to this art a use of reason brought to its incandescent point by Descartes. The philosopher leaves aside ideology, politics and religion to think by activating well-conducted reflection. From now on, opinion is the law, post-truth triumphs, fake news presents the truth as fake news.
The bed was never far from the table
We no longer think, we bleat.
Let's not forget a Rabelaisian relationship at the table which supposes dishes in sauce and wines of thirst, endless conversations with friends or friends. The bed was never far from the table. At this time, we eat tasteless food alone in cardboard containers, we drink sodas, and we are less interested in seducing a neighbor than in phishing a partner on a dating site.
We no longer enjoy reality, but our navel.
Dear France, where there is conversation, politeness, courtesy, irony, reason, pleasure, you are and you will be. I try every day to serve you.
France
