VIVE LA FRANCE

July 14, 2006 – When I used to live in Rhode Island, on Bastille Day the chef at the only French restaurant in town celebrated the day by throwing an outdoor bash in 90° plus temperatures. He spread a sumptuous table in the broiling sun, laden with everything from duck paté to hot red wine.

When I lived in Paris, the French chose to celebrate Bastille Day by drinking chilled red wine in the shade. Otherwise, they headed, albeit unsteadily, to the annual parade down the Champs Elysée where every plumed, beret-ed, gold-trimmed member of the enormous French armed services (about a fourth of the population) turned out to celebrate the tradition of French military might.

The list of victories being somewhat scant, at least since the days of Napoleon, most people were content to admire the uniforms, which were designed by Pierre Cardin after all. One year, the normally staid ceremony was revved up a notch when a deranged man attempted to assassinate Jacques Chirac, just after his open air motorcade had passed L’Arc de Triomphe. It was not an officer from the elite Garde Républicaine, a lieutenant from the Foreign Legion, nor even one of the brusque female warriors from the Armée de la Terre that prevented the tragedy.

The hero was a father, who had brought his son out to watch the parade. He spotted the rifle aimed towards the President’s head, tackled the man to the ground, and waited. When it seemed safe, the police arrived to take over. Not much was reported of the incident, save the words of Madame Chirac (who said she was quite undone).

And it’s supposed to be British that keep a stiff upper lip.

– Timothy Hagy