Combien de bouchées faut-il pour manger une pêche?

Translation: How many bites does it take to eat a peach?

Every night Monday through Thursday, I find myself sitting at the dinner table with my host family, anxious to eat what ever is put before me - I really don't care what it is, it's all part of the adventure. I am careful of every movement I make; I make sure that Madame is sitting down in her place before I take my seat to her right, I don't begin serving myself until she prompts me to, and then I pass the bowl to my left and wait, glaring at my pile of food as if it's going to run away from me. Usually, I would not hesitate to trap the noodles or steak of salmon between my fork and knife, disabling it from escaping from my plate, but I dare not pick up my cutlery until Madame does so herself. She picks up her fork (in her left hand) and her knife (in the right), conducting the commencement of our meal as if it were a song under her direction. The ritual has begun.

The first few nights, I was quite astonished at what took place all in the span of 30 minutes. I was always under the impression that the French, well all Europeans, took their time with their meals - not at all in my experience. Yes, there are always multiple courses, something like the most delicious cantaloupe I've ever had, followed by the main course, fish or pasta, potatoes or ratatouille, then a salad followed by yogurt or cheese and bread, and just to polish things off, some fruit. With each of these courses, one must eat as quickly as possible, and manage to talk about one's day, all without making a mess, or talking with your mouth full, and holding your fork in your left hand upside down. It's a little more challenging than you would think. I always thought of myself as a fast eater, but my family beats me at polishing their plates every single night! There are rules that the table cannot move on to second helpings of a course or to the next course until everyone is finished; every night I find myself trying to politely and inconspicuously shovel food into my mouth as quickly as I can so as not to hold everyone else up. After almost precisely 30 minutes and at least 3 courses, Monsieur is patting the corners of his mouth with his navy and white plaid cloth napkin, asking "Quel heure est-il?", looking at the clock on the oven; "Ah! Les informations!", and runs into the other room to catch the 8 o'clock news. I don't know how they do it - Monsieur really is the one that completely fascinates me.

After the first week, noticing how much time I was taking to finish my plate in comparison, I began to silently observe how exactly they were eating. I counted how many bites it took Monsieur to eat an enormous peach - 2. Two bites. He slides a knife around the peach's circumference, twists the halves in opposite directions then pops one half into it mouth; chew chew, gulp. Ejects the pit, then pops in the other half; chew, chew, gulp, "Bon." Watching him inhale his yogurt was something else in itself - I swear the whole thing was gone in 3 bites even with using that tiny little dessert spoon. However he does it, I still do not know, but he does it flawlessly - I must give him that. If I tried to eat a peach in two bites, I'd have peach juice dripping down my chin, and would be very unattractively struggling to breath; I'm not as graceful as he is. The yogurt and fruit course always seems to be some kind of competition between us though, one that I don't mean to make a competition. The yogurt or the bowl or fruit always sits in the middle of the table, on the axis of the diagonal line that can be drawn from my seat to his. He stares at the selection of fruit or yogurt, which ever one he wants I suppose. I am always asked to help myself first, to choose which peach or what flavor yogurt I would like. Every night I hesitate, I try to guess which one he's looking at, so I make sure to not take it, but I'm pretty sure I've made that mistake at least twice. I pick up my peach, or my strawberry yogurt, and he emits a large sigh, or decides he doesn't want any yogurt or fruit after all.

The man is a bit intimidating, but I think I'm growing on him. At first we had some issues communicating because I didn't understand his accent very well, as he comes from Tunisia. He got a bit frustrated with me a couple times in the first days after he would repeat something three times in French with my only answer being "Je ne comprend pas", only to give up and say it in English. But now, I've tried to talk to him a bit more, I tried with sports but that didn't seem to interest him very much, although he did get a little excited once. I told him how my Dad had world records in swimming, and he told me that he swims too, but Madame cut in to inform me that he only goes to the pool twice a year. He explained that didn't matter "Does your dad swim once a week? Twice a week?", "Oh, he swims almost everyday, at least during the week.", my answer followed by his roaring laughter - maybe he wasn't such a swimmer after all, he admitted. He's on the couch everyday when I come home from school, always eager to ask about my classes, my Histories of Paris class in particular, which doesn't start until Monday. "What classes did you have today? Histories?", every time I reply, "no, just french still", and then he begins to tell me about all the various Paris History classes he's taken all over Europe it seems. Today, he told me about a school in Paris, the other day he was telling me about his studies in Germany. I'm anxious to learn more about him as most things right now I can only guess. For instance, I think he speaks about four or five languages, and from his asking me about my History class, I'm assuming he's very passionate about History, especially that of Paris. He seems to be the brain of the family, everyone, even Madam goes to him when they can't figure something out. Even if it's seemingly the most random question in the world, he usually has an answer for it.

I'm starting to get the hang of it all though, this ritual of sharing a meal with ma famille d'accueil (Host Family). I did give up on trying to use my fork with my left hand, Madame uses her right hand and I can't tell if it's to make me feel more comfortable since I looked absolutely ridiculous when I gave it a go left handed, or if she truly prefers to use her right hand. I'm starting to get comfortable with being the last one to finish my plate, starting to talk more with them, even if it means taking more time to eat, starting to relax a bit. I pass the bowl flawlessly now, in the correct direction and simultaneously hold up my glass while Madame fills it with water from the pale yellow ceramic pitcher, and answer questions about what my plans are for the weekend. It's all becoming more comfortable, familiar, and I'm liking it - I really am.