This is our concluding chapter in Terence Field's evocative 'tour' of all things French. He is a retired, successful businessman living on his four acres of paradise not too far from the Normandy beaches of 1944. His lovely wife, Josephine, tends the garden flowers and vegetables, and he, the wine cellar, of course. Terry is a superb chef, and as our readers know by now, 'thinks outside of the box'. Delightfully so and he does not ask that one must agree with him. Next to his culinary talents, he likes good conversation. Take your time, ponder and smile at his humor and perhaps chuckled at his insights. This chapter is about small shops, E. U. bureaucracy, diesel emissions cheating, a visit to the surgeon and French cooking.
France, the French and Why Things are as They are, Part 4
by Terence Field
To continue the theme of slowness to
change,
at this point it is worth referring to the way France 'protects' its
small retail businesses. It is well known as a place full of delightful one-man
and family-based retail outlets. How this is maintained, and the effects it has
on life here, is worth understanding a little.
France operates a control on
retail known as the ''back-margin law". It says, very roughly, that a supplier
of goods can offer a first discount to the retailer- the 'back margin', and
this is offered equally to all end user customers, large and small. Thus, for
example, a retailer selling ten laptops a year will receive the same, initial
'back margin' as the retailer who sells one hundred thousand units a year. Below, a French pastery shop.
If that margin (buying price reduction)
is for arguments sake 10%, then the 90% of full manufacturers supply price is
the lowest price that can be offered to the third party customer by any
retailer. At the end of the year, the
supplier will reward the retailer who sells ten a year with no further discount
(and thus profit) but he will offer the national chain a further (say) 40% in
discount as recognition of the volume of sales (100,000 units) achieved.
Now here is the rub.
If the national reseller offers more of a
discount to the end customer than the 'back-margin' 10% he received in common
with the mom and pop store - in effect 'sharing' some of his second 40%
suppliers discount - then the little reseller can go to the competition
commission, and the national reseller will be fined on a per item basis for
each computer he has sold at less than the manufacturers gross price less 10%.
What is the result of this so called
'protection' ???
Mass consumer goods are often vastly more
expensive in France than in other countries. And the real specialist stores are
in no way protected, since they do not buy the sort of goods that are sold in
vast homogenous bundles, like white goods, computers etc.
Why does such a law exist only in
France? Simple, a loathing of big
business, an economic illiteracy that is endemic, and thinking that harks back
to the time before modern retail -let alone the internet - even existed. All the
prejudices that France is really so remarkably good at expressing. The
self-destructiveness is all too obvious.
These colourful little snippets of
information may give a flavour of the country; they are not intended to be
'accurate'. or 'comprehensive', but from them some inferences may be drawn as
to what France offers its citizens, how it operates in the European Union, and
- here a little self-interest creeps in - what the future for Britain and
France may be - both in or out of the European Union.
The debate in Britain about membership of
the European Union has many strands. The conversation is chaotic, and I have to
declare a preference here; I like representative democracy, and loathe
referendum. I consider this to be a retrograde step. a return to a bun-fight of
mediocrity, where 'the people' scream at each other and the ones with the
loudest, most exciting, most intoxicating ideas prevail. We saw this in Germany
in the 1920s and 1930s, in France during the collapse of 1848 and more recently
in 1968.
I will be accused of being 'anti-democratic' no doubt, but for me the
highest functioning mass democracy ameliorates the strident screaming of the
hordes with the considered, hopefully wise reflection of their representatives,
who one hopes will be of a greater intellectual and experiential quality than
the mass of 'the people'.
In all this confusion, one theme stands
out; that of democratic deficit in Europe. There is a quasi-democratic
representational structure - the 'European Parliament', but in truth it has
more in common with a school debating society than a real parliament. No, in
Europe, the power of the executives, both in Brussels and devolved to the
'regions' by lines of unelected but highly 'political' bureaucrats is almost
absolute.
Could this happen if the structure were
built by Anglo Saxons? No, of course not. The European, is, in general,
schooled in the experience of being a 'citizen' where he or she is very small
indeed and the State is overwhelmingly large and powerful. The 'rights' they enjoy
are politically granted, and can be modified radically if the political winds
change. Power is untrammeled; is held by who so ever the mob likes. There are
few balances, few constraints, to radical imposed change.
An example of this? The gross manipulation
in France and in Europe generally of the type of automobile used. France ( and
therefore Germany also) agreed some decades ago that diesel engines would be
the way to go. Why? because the desire to reduce CO2 was considered the
priority. The result? Massive nitrogen oxide and diesel particulate pollution
that kills enormous numbers of people in the cities.
A democratic debate about the wisdom of
this? Of course not, the technical ruling class in France, accustomed to
absolute power, simply imposed it, and the Germans fell into line. The deal
with the automobile companies? You fiddle the emissions results of your cars,
and we, the state, will look the other way. It took the competitive actions of
the USA to confront Volkswagen and the edifice of fraudulent dealing between state and manufacturer crumbled.
Are
we seriously supposed to believe all other such manufacturers do not do
precisely the same thing? Are we expected to believe that the engineers at VW
are relatively incompetent and the engineers at Renault and Peugeot , Citroen,
Alfa, Fiat etc have 'cracked' how to make diesel engines when VW are simply in
the dark? That is what the European media would have their benighted
populations believe. The engines that are fitted in VW are identical to those
fitted in very many other manufacturers. The blocks are identical, the 'common
rail' systems subject to supplier patent (often Alfa/Fiat).The distortion of
sane emissions standards is thus a result of politically corrupted all-powerful
executives in league with 'incentivised' manufacturers. Krupp financed and
supplied Hitler. Not enough has changed for the better.
Freedom, free individuals, free and
subtle laws, smaller state power, humble executives and subservient bureaucracy
is the inverse of the history and daily reality of Europe, and of France in
particular.
It is that, more than anything else, that
consistently alienates the British. Mass migration from the unpleasant parts of
the Mediterranean add to the mix, but the sense of a lack of freedom and
accountability is profoundly felt in England. That it is not the same in
Europe, in my view, simply rams home the
realty of a paucity of democratic expectations amongst the peoples of the
continent.
But, what is the best thing about France?
There are many candidates. The food is
superb, and this comes down to an ancient undisturbed semi-agrarian culture,
where nearly everyone understands what an oven is for, how to prepare
vegetables and gently cook them, and where to buy the best.
I cannot, anywhere
in England, buy the quality of foodstuffs I find all over France. Why? Simply
that in any town or city the markets are largely composed of small, generally
tired-looking and weary-from-their-exertions folk who sell what they dug up,
cooked, prepared, killed, fished-for or otherwise directly interacted with in
the almost immediate past.
I buy fish, sometimes still alive on the slab as no
unusual thing. It is true that France has lost some of the philosophy of
'democracy of food', with the unwelcome appearance of 'fine dining', in my view
a loathsome description of expensive cooking for those with a some - or a lot -
more money.
Below, Terry and his turbo, fresh from the sea, now surrounded by lemon and sufficed in a white wine.
Whilst France has always had fine 'haute cuisine', the country
cooking for the generality of the people has been in no way inferior, and often
it would be my choice. Would I prefer a filet steak (a bland, expensive, lazy
little waste-of-time muscle hiding near the backbone) in a fancy setup, or choose a rich flank of beef ( tight from
breathing exertion) or ox kidneys in local red wine or cider slow cooked in an
inexpensive restaurant? Always the conviviality and superb flavour of the
simple offering.
Right, a picture of motherly type churning butter in 19th Century France, decorating a bistro door.
Can I find the same in America? No, in general not. That goes
for England as well. Why? Because a pleasant motherly or grandmotherly type in
France will have spent the morning preparing, searing, braising, thickening the
gravy and finishing with herbs, a piece of meat that is more than often simply
ground up for dog or cat meat in the mega-factories of Anglo-Saxonia.
What is an oven for? 'We do not know'
comes the cry from the school-trained, health-and-safety obsessed, 'organ-meat'
fearful urban peasantry who would not know taste and delight from the
industrial garbage they are schooled to consume.
In the history of man on this planet, the
most remarkable phenomenon is that rich productive clever societies have
adulterated and made poisonous the delight that should be good food. Having
passed a longish period in Florida, and in other parts of America, (a place of
surpassing pleasantness that I could live through the winter in, in a
heartbeat) I am at a loss as to how to find excellent ingredients.
The Carrot for Example!
I
can buy attractive looking carrots in the supermarkets, of a length that it is
impossible to achieve in Europe. (This must be because gravity is stronger in
America, and thus the roots are pulled down further into the soil). I cut them
up. I saute them in a little oil and water, lightly seasoned, then bake them,
and look forward to a pleasant experience. What happens? I lose consciousness.
That is the only explanation, since after I have eaten them I have no
recollection of the taste of a carrot. It looked like carrot, it cut and cooked
like carrot, but it tasted like fresh air.
Terry in his French kitchen sans carrots but with asparagus and vino.
In France, a carrot (often the one I dig
from my potager, in common with millions of other fellow citizens) TASTES like
a carrot; as do all the other vegetables.
What else is good about France?
The
superb healthcare system, unlike the nightmare version in England, (since it is
not built on an outdated Soviet-type model), and has sufficient funding from both national
taxation and top-up insurance, paid by those who can afford to meet the
insurance premiums (and NO immoral 'pre-existing' condition nonsense) married
to adequate supply, furnished by both the nation and private suppliers, all
gently competing for custom through excellence delivers a marvel of quality and
accessibility.
What is bad about the system? In common
with England, dentistry is dreadful; rare is the hygienist. Miserable is the
dentist. Violent is the experience, more often than not. Glowering is the
dental assistant, who seems to take a perverse delight in mining the bottom of
my pallet for red blood cells whenever she has her way with the saliva drain.
I am sure it is because she is getting
back at me for the Thirty Years war, or the non-appearance of the rest of the
Royal Airforce over the battle fields of France in 1940. Whatever it is, I know
hell on earth awaits me the moment I settle back in the chair.
A similar experience awaits when surgery
calls. Having visited my GP with a condition that required surgical
intervention, I was rapidly referred to a surgeon; the next day (No this is
NOT the NHS, is it!) I visited his lair, to be told that he could 'do it now,
under local unaesthetic'. (He is an Arab; not conducive to calm thoughts at the
present.)
'IT is quick, he said, but you may feel
the anaesthetic going in!'
I prepared myself on the surgery table;
my life flashed before me and I regretted being sharp with my wife over
breakfast. AGONY. I pour sweat and twitch. The needle penetrated deep and two
hundred mils of God-knows-what enters my
quivering corpse.
Sweating profusely, I inquire if the pain
would ease. 'Give it another minute' he said. The pain duly disappeared, and he
appeared beside me with a scalpel blade. ' I will commence in fifty seconds' he
said. A plaintiff voice, of the sort I have not made since I wore short
trousers, asked 'could you possibly wait
a little longer for the anaesthetic to take full effect', perhaps a full
minute??'
'It is ready, and I have a full surgery
today' came the reply.
He cut away, and, miraculously, I felt
nothing.
I recovered for a short moment, dressed
fully, and he shook my still sweaty hand. He led me to the door, and as he
opened it, he said ' Well done; you have a good pain
threshold, most people would have cried out'. The door was open to the waiting
room as he said it. The fear and terror on the faces of those waiting to enter
was my consolation.
The result. No chance of being made
dependent upon opiates as so many Americans are. On balance I would prefer to
become a junkie. Pain here is good for you; like cold water baths.
How to sum up?
France - a delightful, insane, hard country, full
of dreams for a socially fair way of doing things, politically broken, always
fearful of the Hun, with bloody minded rejection of much of modern life,
naturally rich in what matters in life, with a constant reference back to the
value of lessons hard learned, and many delights that excite a jaded mind so
used to homogenised living. Bloody irritating though.
Above, Josephine, Barb and Terry sample garden vegetables on the garden terrace in Normandy.
Happy days to you all, with your
tasteless carrots. And fish fingers.
Terry, an Englishman in France!
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