I couldn't resist it and forgive me if I indulge myself a little.
But after a two week break in search of winter sunshine half way around the globe, I'm back in France and there's a definite sense that spring is in the air.
Now it might be a little too early to get overly excited, after all it's just the end of February and there's still plenty of morning frost around and there's bound to be more rain, grey weather and who knows even snow.
But in the space of just a fortnight so much seems to have changed as nature struggles to free itself from its winter mantle.
And taking a proper look around the garden on my return there was all the evidence I needed that indeed change is afoot.
Bert (the resident mole) has surely resisted the freezing temperatures and has been merrily tunnelling his way through the winter months, so in a sense "all is well in the garden".
But he has now been joined by the very first crocuses, happily poking their heads above ground.
Ah yes this country and many others might be going through financial meltdown and the media is whipping us all into a panic with stories about the economic crisis deepening.
Just yesterday for example on French television there was a report about the danger of deflation with the apparent mayhem it could cause if a recession turns into a depression.
Unemployment is rising, there's the threat of more job losses to come and all the signs are that another nationwide general strike scheduled for March 18 will go ahead.
But hang about, somebody forget to tell nature, because she's not having any of it - at least not here on the edge of the largest forest surrounding the nation's capital.
That solitary crocus from two days ago has now been joined by another, the trees are in bud and daybreak is now at 7.00am - a full 45 minutes earlier than it was two weeks ago.
All right it may all be a rather premature start to a season that should really be making its proper appearance some time in March, but what the heck!
It serves as a reminder that the simple things in life can still make an impact, not just to this forty-something man but maybe to anyone else who is willing to take a little time out to look around them and appreciate.
Admittedly it may seem a little childlike to be quite so enthusiastic, but as a wise man told me just this morning, "It's good to keep some of the child in us alive. It's healthy for the mind and body."
No fears, you've clicked on to a post written in English, even if the headline is a German-French mix.
It's all about manners - and how difficult it can be sometimes to get a word in edgeways (or edgewise if you like) when trying to add one's own two centimes to a conversation.
In particular it's a look at the different way we have of expressing ourselves, especially when confronted with someone from a different cultural or linguistic background.
Apologies in advance if it's a little on the long side. It's the weekend after all, and there's always the alternative of "zapping" along to the next post.
Let's begin with a question.
Have you ever wondered how world leaders manage when confronting each other and being separated not just by politics and national interests but also the lack of a common language?
When for example, the French president, Nicolas Sarkozy, met the German chancellor, Angela Merkel recently in Paris for a tête-à-tête, how on earth did they both manage?
After all neither of them really speaks each other's language, and they're not that inspiring when they try to parler l'anglais oder sprechen englisch.
All right so it's obvious they had interpreters, but in a sense their decisions and those of other world leaders in such high level meetings are very much in the hands (or mouths) of that elite band of men and women diplomatically ironing out linguistic differences and supposedly "getting it right".
By any stretch of the imagination, that's some responsibility.
It's also not a job made any easier by the fact that it's far from always being a done deal that when two people talk to each other using the same mother tongue, they'll necessarily grasp what the other is trying to say.
Factor in the cultural baggage one brings to a conversation with someone in another language other than one's own, and there's a sure fire recipe for some classic misunderstandings.
Let me take you on a momentary diversion that'll hopefully serve as background to what comes afterwards.
As I sit at the keyboard merrily bashing in a four-fingered touch-typing frenzy, I'm having more than a few problems finishing a sentence.
You see on a French "clavier" as they call it here, the layout of the letters is from the top left AZERTY rather than the English language QWERTY, and that can present something of a challenge to the user.
As the "A" and the "Q" are reversed the simple sentence "the cat sat on the mat" (for want of imagination) becomes "the "cqt sqt on the ,qt".
Ah yes, did you notice that the comma on the French keyboard is where the "m" is on the English one.
Makes life easy huh?
But more fascinating (to me at least) is the positioning of the full stop or period.
All right so it's in the same place (third from the right on the bottom) but to use it, you need to remember to hit the "shift" button.
Where's that full stop?
Now returning to the main theme of this post though (manners, just in case you had forgotten), perhaps the layout of the keyboard and the peculiarity of using the full stop shouldn't come as a surprise when, as a non-native French speaker, you find yourself in conversation with someone here.
After all it rather illustrates to the outsider the way the French could appear to think and speak......in other words in one endless sentence, full of clauses, interspersed with marathon length "errrrrrrrrs" and leaving little room for a true dialogue.
Such was the case this week during a dinner party at a friend's rather swanky apartment in Paris.
Ignoring the old tenet of not talking politics, religion or sex during dinner, I asked (what I thought) was a rather innocent, almost innocuous question of my neighbour as to what he thought of the future of the Socialist party.
After all it has been the subject of a fair bit of media conjecture in past weeks with the battle for the leadership and the narrowest of victories for Martine Aubry.
I was then treated to more than five minutes of polemic (the French love that word) of almost Herculean proportions as one sentence stretched out to infinity with no recognisable full stop in hearing range.
The only time he paused was to take a sip of wine - an opportunity I used to respond, but even before I had begun warming up, he talked over and took over the conversation once again, proceeding merrily with his train of thought.
Now maybe I was being just a little too British about the whole thing. But I thought - and still think - that conversation was supposed to be just that - an exchange of ideas and a level of social interaction which doesn't just consist of one-way traffic but is also composed of bodily signals that act as encouragement to join in - a dialogue.
Gaps, breaks, pauses - call them what you will - combined with gesture are an invitation to participate - at least that's what social convention would suggest.
Not so in France it would appear, where quantity seems to be as important as quality, and any "discussion" resembles something along the lines of "here's what I have to say, and if you dare try to interrupt, I shall just talk and talk until there's no air left in the room."
Filibustering supreme.
At some point of course, he did stop, but by then I had lost any impulse I might have had to continue the discussion and was rather ruing my decision to have asked a question in the first place.
Besides my neighbour on the other side was "talking food". This was a dinner party in France after all.
Similarly - and here speaks the voice of experience - trying to hold a conversation in German with a native speaker can sometimes prove more than a little frustrating for Mr-Perhaps-just-a-little-too-polite Briton (oh yes bring on the stereotypes).
It's a language of course full of mammoth sentences with the longest words imaginable, but native speakers tend to be less demonstrative in terms of gesticulation and more measured (read deliberate) in the way they speak than their French-speaking counterparts.
Once again for the well-behaved Brit, enthusiastic to jump in and participate, it can be something of a shock to be pulled short and told "Lass mich bitte ausreden" or quite literally "let me finish speaking".
I mean, at face value it's really just not polite is it? In fact it could appear downright insolent.
But actually is that the case? Are either the French, or in this case, the Germans being rude?
After all they're just using their own language in the way they've been taught and in the manner in which it allows them.
The problem of course is how that actually comes across and in the way in which we see perceive each other.
Here in Europe - a continent of 730 plus million people with a breadth of languages, there's an apparent desire for closer co-operation with each other. The 27-nation European Union is an ongoing work in progress for economic, political and social integration.
But what is surely more than clear to all of us is that, while the United State and Britain are often described as two countries divided by a common language, the EU amounts to 27 nations rendered apart by a whole slew of tongues and traditions, trying to achieve unity of sorts.
When Sarkozy and Merkel get together (with interpreters) do they speak in never-ending sentences never allowing the other to have their say? Probably not. But do they actually listen and understand each other in the process?
Add some more world leaders into the equation (George W, Gordon Brown, Silvio Berlusconi et al) and how on earth do they ever manage to find linguistic common ground? And perhaps let's not even get started on the United Nations or the endless round of international gabfests.
There you go, just a couple of thoughts to leave you with this weekend.
"Right enough already," I hear those of you who've struggled to the end of this post shouting.
I'm off to have a chat with someone I know holds exactly my opinions, will understand every muddled and confused concept I'm trying to express and would never dream of interrupting when I'm in full flow.
Yes, that's right, I'm going to chatter away happily to myself.
How reliable are first impressions - especially when they seem to be formed primarily on preconceived notions of what should and shouldn't be?
What an unusually serious way in which to begin a weekend post, but fear not, that's about as philosophical as it gets.
Instead welcome to another slice of life in France and a pre-Christmas thought. This time both centre on man's four-legged best friend - le chien.
There was a point in the opening question, as will become clear(er) as/if you read on.
For the moment though, back to the dogs.
Owning a dog in France may not require a licence as in some neighbouring countries, but it's still a responsibility.
That's perhaps especially worth remembering at this time the year, when the hunt for THE present sometimes results in the hasty purchase of a pooch.
Here in France, the Société Protectrice des Animaux (Animal protection society, SPA) while desperately trying to rehome abandoned dogs and cats, reminds us all that a pet is not just for Christmas, but for life.
And of course during an animal's life it's important to ensure that it remains as healthy and fit as possible.
While they're not obligatory here, annual jabs are highly recommended to protect pets (and in this case dogs) against a number of diseases including leptospirosis, kennel cough, parvovirus and of course rabies.
The latter still exists among wildlife in parts of Europe but has been controlled to a large extent by programmes such as the oral immunisation of foxes.
Nonetheless there have been a few cases of transmission of rabies among domestic pets - most recently a couple of months ago here in France following the illegal importation of a dog from north Africa.
"Prevention is better than cure" runs the idiom, so a trip to the vet for those annual vaccinations against the nasties and an all round check up seemed to be more than responsible.
My dogs -there's more than one - are bilingual. That is they ignore me in both English and French.
Mother and daughter, Mabel and Panthus
We've been to obedience classes together and all been taught (in French) how to "sit" "lie" "stay", "come" and even "heel". Somehow though the real meaning gets lost in translation. Or maybe none of us were very good pupils.
That said they're happy souls with a mild temperament and almost infectious joie de vivre. It's a breed thing (apparently).
Apart from food, sleep, walkies and mischief one of their real joys is to ride in the car. They quite happily bounce into the back of it thinking we're off on some glorious trip and that they'll be able to get in some much needed shut eye.
Mind you that only works on long distance motorway journeys as the humming of the engine seems to have the desired soporific effect.
On short hops they tend to spend their time peering out of the boot (trunk) window and happily making their presence known to fellow motorists and passing pedestrians.
But the fact that they travel well makes life that much more pleasant - even if at the other end it's the vet that awaits them.
So this week was jabs week, and after 15 minutes worth of "singing" we arrived at the surgery, struggled into the waiting room - one owner being pulled in what seemed like six different directions by two dogs at the same time - anyone with experience of cockers will appreciate that's entirely possible.
And as the door slammed shut behind us, that's when we saw HIM.
A quivering, muscled mass - a cool 50 kilogrammes for sure - alert and just a little too interested in the presence of my two "girls".
If I had the same generous pilosity as the couple dragging me every which way possible, the hairs on the back of my neck would certainly have stood up to salute and probably done an about turn at the same time.
'Tyson' (that just had to be his name) was one of those Group 1 dogs - a Rottweiler with a terrible public reputation and about which there have been frequent media reports of their involvement in maulings.
In fact there was such a spate of highly-publicised incidents last year here in France, that the interior minister, Michèle Alliot-Marie, introduced legislation making the muzzling of such dogs in public and education/obedience classes a requirement for anyone planning to own one.
The beast now facing us seemed macho to the extreme, oozing doggy testosterone and a status symbol that for many appears to be the owner's way of shouting out "don't take a step nearer or else...."
So with understandable trepidation I tried ushering my two over to the reception area as inconspicuously as possible.
But Mabel and Panthus (the terrible two at my end) had other intentions and without a second thought made a beeline for him, exchanging greetings in a manner in which only dogs can reasonably get away with in public.
"Sit," came the command from 'Tyson's' owner - a 30-something guy dressed in a sharp suit and brandishing what looked like a Blackberry.
"Tyson" sat immediately and seemed to 'smile' as my two said "hello".
"It's all right," the owner reassured me. "Clarence is beautifully behaved and very mild mannered."
"CLARENCE" I thought to myself. "Whatever happened to 'Tyson'?"
And that's when it dawned on me.
I had read only the headlines, seen the worst reports on television and built up in my own mind what the dog represented, and heavens, even what he should be called.
Here in front of me was living proof - as if ever I needed it - that there is probably no such thing as a "dangerous" or "bad" dog in itself.
They exist for sure - the stories are out there and appear to be reported with alarming regularity.
Certain breeds have earned the reputation for ferocity because of the way in which owners have handled them, the purposes for which they have been bred and the lack of appropriate training they have received.
But the bottom line would appear to be so often that it's the breeders and owners who are "bad" and the dog is just a result of their behaviour.
Clarence certainly looked like a brute, but he didn't behave like one.
And his owner seemed to be taking his responsibility of looking after a "dog with a reputation" seriously.
We chatted for a while as the other three continued their canine investigations, and it transpired that Clarence was in fact a rescue dog, bought by a family the previous Christmas and then handed in to the SPA at the end of February this year - aged just seven months.
Along with the Summer holiday months when owners "dump" unwanted pets because they don't appear to fit neatly into vacations plans, the post-Christmas period marks an alarming surge in the numbers of animals handed in to shelters.
Such had been Clarence's destiny earlier this year. He had apparently "outgrown his welcome" with his original purchasers as the cute Yuletide present quickly turned into a strapping and gangly teenager within the matter of a couple of months.
Just a shame perhaps that they hadn't realised that before buying him.
Thankfully for Clarence, he had only spent a couple of days at the SPA before "Mr Blackberry" turned up and gave him a proper home with the appropriate training to boot.
And now there he was, calmly sitting in front of me, genuinely grinning and sharing a moment of doggy friendliness with my pampered pair.
When Clarence was called by the vet and made his way politely and quietly out of the waiting room, I was left with my two fidgeters to ponder.
The SPA recently held a huge adopt-a-dog show in Paris, and of course centres throughout the country are trying to rehome unwanted pets all year round.
But one point the organisation is really trying to drive home in the run-up to the holidays is that an animal of any sort is a responsibility. A dog or a cat really is for life.
Let's hope that's a message that will be remembered by all those tempted when staring at that oh-so-cute puppy in the store window.
I'm a murderer. And I'm something of a polyglot. Or perhaps that should be the other way around.
Whatever, one thing's for sure. I can happily give several languages a jolly thorough oral and aural mangling - linguistically speaking, but somehow, somewhere along the line I manage to come out the other side to make myself understood.
But the one thing I can't get to grips with is numbers.....and more specifcally counting, especially here in France where they're a foreigner's nightmare.
Every time I try to give someone my telephone number or make a note of someone else's - particularly over the 'phone - it resembles a badly written scene from the very worst television sitcom. Exactly why will become clearer (I hope) in a moment.
Let me give you a little bit of background, and in the process a quick French lesson.
Apologies in advance if when you get to the "numbers" it all looks rather muddled and complicated in writing. Just imagine, as you're reading, how confusing it can be when speaking.
French isn't the hardest of languages to speak - well at least for a native English speaker.
There are plenty of words that are similar. It's just the pronunciation that can prove a little tongue-twisting at times.
But once you've got over the initial embarrassment of thinking that you're making a complete fool of yourself, it becomes quite easy.
And the French will even warm to you when you try your luck.
Oh and you know that thing the British, at least, have about how sexy a French man or woman sounds when speaking English with a foreign (obviously French) accent.
Well, it sort of works the other way around too - well almost.
Oh all right only partially if you're being generous, but it's getting there - and all the better if you make the odd vocabulary mistake or two.
"Endearing" "charming" "cute" and "funny" - one of this country's most famous Brits living in France, Jane Birkin, the long time partner of the late and great Serge Gainsbourg, plays on the fact that she has an accent - even though she has been here for donkeys years.
And many French find it "adorable".
Well that has perhaps established that speaking the language isn't really as difficult as it might at first appear.......except that is when it comes to numbers.
Time to take a deep breath (and a stiff drink perhaps wouldn't go amiss.)
Probably a fair few of you reading this will be more than able at least to start counting in French:
one two three
or
un deux trois
and so on.
Fine. A good, simple start.
And from one to 69 everything is pretty much OK - well apart from 17, 18 and 19, or dix-sept, dix-huit and dix-neuf respectively, which quite literally translate as ten-seven, ten-eight and ten-nine.
But at 70 it goes blindingly and confusingly bonkers.
70 you see is soixante-dix or sixty-ten, and 71 is soixante et onze or seventy and eleven.
By the time you get to 77 you're in for one almighty mouthful soixante-dix-sept (sixty-ten-seven)
And 80 could blow your mind - quatre-vingts (four-twenty).
90 isn't much better. Any ideas?
Quatre-vingt-dix or four-twenty-ten.
It comes as something of a relief to have made it past 99 (quatre-vingt dix-neuf or four-twenty-ten-nine) to Cent.
Yes, yes there's an illogical logic to it all, but it all seems a bit of a conspiracy for the hapless foreigner to make things even more difficult than they actually should be.
So how does this all play out in everyday life for the Brit in France - or any other foreigner come to that?
"With difficulty," is the short reply, and here's why.
It involves going back to trying to jot down somebody's telephone number - be it over the 'phone or face-to-face (the former is worse).
Imagine you're on the 'phone for example, talking to customer services and the person the other end gives you another number to call - say 01 77 87 92 71 (a completely random telephone number, and one containing 10 digits as all French ones do)
Now in English - well at least in Britain - they tend to be spoken digit for digit.
Hence the person the other end of the line would tell you to call "Zero one seven seven eight seven nine two seven one." Nice and simple, and pretty easy to follow.
But remember this is France, and "bienvenue" to the foreigner's nightmare.
As you've probably noticed from the way I initially wrote it, the habit here in France is it to break the telephone numbers up into pairs, making life unnecessarily difficult and leading to a situation where, when spoken aloud that same number becomes.
"Zero, un, soixante dix-sept, quatre-vingt-sept, quatre-vingt-douze, soixante et onze."
OR, if you haven't been paying attention while the person the other end of the line has blasted it out at terrifying speed could end up as being written down as follows:
01 60 17 4 20 7 4 20 12 60 11.
Of course by the time you've made it past the second seven and you have more than 10 digits scribbled down, you realise that you've made a complete hash of it, and either have to ask the person to repeat it (more slowly) or say it in individual digits (which it has to be said sounds particularly cumbersome in French)
Experience teaches anyone living here what to expect, but even so it can still lead to confusion as the person the other end of the line seems to delight in having a laugh at the caller's expense.
Ah, there speaks the voice of experience as it happened just last week when trying to re-arrange an appointment with the electricity board to come and read the meter.
I had misdialled of course, and the receptionist, rather than transfer me - which seemed not to fall within her job description - gave me another number to call.
After writing down the first 12 digits of the 10-digit number, I realised my mistake and asked her to repeat it, which she did.....in exactly the same supersonic manner so that I had a combination that any security company would be happy to affix to their safes.
After three attempts I gave up, asking in my best British-accented French (laying it on thick and hoping to appear charming) whether she could give me the number in individual digits (à l'anglaise).
The charm factor clearly didn't work (how does Jane Birkin manage it?) as I could hear the sharp and indignant intake of breath, and even though the words "idiot" weren't muttered, they were clearly audible in between each pause she made as she enunciated e-v-e-r-y d-i-g-i-t as though she were talking to a five-year-old.
I repeated it back - sounding equally infantile even to my own ears, thanked her and hung up.
The 'phone is perhaps the greatest barrier when it comes to noting or painfully giving a number here in France.
But it can be just as excruciating when face-to-face with someone.
How many times have I launched confidently into rattling off my mobile number rapid fire (I've learnt it like a mantra) only to be asked ever-so-politely to repeat what I've just said?
Of course going back in to the number and trying to make sense of something that defies logic in the first place is no easy task, and to avoid further frustration, there's nothing better than resorting to the rather old-fashioned pen and paper.
The real thing though is that in all of this confusion, it's hard to get over the impression that the French in France are simply trying to make life difficult for the rest of us trying to get to grips with their language.
After all, they could - if they so wished - choose to follow the example of their Francophone cousins in Switzerland and Belgium.
The Swiss-French make life that little bit easier - at least numerically - by substituting septante (70), ottante/huitante (80) and nonnante (90) for the more exhausting - well I won't repeat myself.
While in Belgium, true to form, they don't quite go the whole hog, opting for septante and nonnante, but sticking with quatre vingts.
Ah well.
Of course if you wanted to look across the border from France to German numbers, you would be faced with a whole different set of problems as they seem to have a fascination for counting back to front.
A word of warning before launching into this post. It should perhaps be read on a full tummy, because parts of it could quite literally whet your appetite and have you headed for the fridge to unhinge your jaw and tip back the contents.
So with that in mind and to use the opening phrase of childhood radio listening - and thereby run the risk of revealing my age.
"Are you sitting comfortably? Then I'll begin"
There's been a fair amount of talk on the radio here recently about the standard of French cooking and whether it really lives up to its reputation.
Added to that there are moves afoot to slap in an official application next year to the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organisation (Unesco) to honour this country’s cuisine.
Whether the application is accepted is pretty doubtful, but it has given commentators quite literally "food for thought".
The whole debate coincided with my attempts to wow those around me with my culinary skills - or lack thereof.
In other words I had resolved to throw a dinner party.
The decision was two-fold.
Firstly it was based on my almost slavish devotion and deepest desire to emulate one of my favourite television programmes, which gives viewers step by step instructions on how to concoct and serve a full blown "perfect dinner" (if only).
And secondly I had promised to thank some friends for treating me to a slap up meal in Brussels for my birthday treat last month.
A promise made is a promise kept, and as last weekend stretched for many of us here in France from Friday to Wednesday (every time a national holiday falls towards the middle of the week, as it did this year with November 11 Armistice day, the French take full advantage and "faire le point") the timing seemed impeccable.
Now to be quite honest, if there's one thing guaranteed to scare me witless, it's the thought of having to cook.
I mean it's not as though I'm not reasonably handy at rattling the pots and pans, and making the kitchen resemble a modern-day Armageddon once I've finished.
But more than enough years living in France and being told how wonderful this country's cuisine is, has more than bashed my ego into shape.
Plus I'm British - worse English - and we've not exactly got the best of reputatations when it comes to what we've offered the world - gastronomically speaking.
Speaking of speaking - the French talk about little else - food that is - especially when they're chowing down on one dish or another.
Mealtimes are the occasion during which to talk about other meals, past and in the pipeline. The present just seeming to be an excuse to reminisce or plan.
And of course everything served up is "genial" - which although supposed to be polite encouragement, you know in your heart of hearts really means the same as "interesting."
Hence I wasn't really surprised that even during the starter - a Mousseline d'asperges à la pistache (asparagus mousse with pistachio) , which took hours of preparation - the conversation soon moved away from what was on the plate to gastronomical pastures new and old.
Guest one. "Hmmmn this mousse is delicious. It's just as light as the one that we had at Jacque's last weekend."
Guest two . "Yes but his wasn't home made. He bought it at Le Nôtre - pretty expensive"
Guest one . "I know but it really was worth it. After all they simply make the best cakes and desserts."
Guest three. "I'm not so sure about that. I find them rather overpriced. And besides there's a little patisserie just around the corner from me that's just as good and far less expensive."
Guest four. "Oh yes I remember. Last Cristmas you bought all those wonderful petit fours there....."
Host (that's me, in case you had forgotten). "So how's the starter?" as everyone seemed to be talking about dessert.
"Oh genial," came the collective response, and so the conversation continued in much a similar vain throughout the rest of the meal.
And what a meal - even if I have to say so myself - which clearly I do.
Now is neither the time nor the place to go into the ins and outs of the recipes - chef's secret and all that. Besides a quick surf on the Net will reveal a host of possible preparation alternatives and ingredients. But here's a guide as to what was on the menu.
To begin with there was that mousseline d'asperges à la pistache of course, followed by pintade au chou (pot roast guinea fowl with cabbage) cooked in Belgian blonde beer. Sélection de fromage (cheese platter) and Charlotte au chocolat (Chocolate Charlotte bought from Le Nôtre - as I'm not too good at making desserts).
Ever noticed how even the most unappetising sounding dishes in English can appear mouth watering when written in French?
The cheese in particular seemed to go down a real treat, which is hardly testament to my cooking abilities it has to be admitted.
Mind you, it's difficult to go wrong in a country whose former president, Charles de Gaulle, once famously asked how a country with 246 varieties could possibly be governed.
The choice is vast and as I live in the heart of Brie country on the outskirts of the capital, I knew from experience that the only way to serve it was by leaving it at room temperature for a couple of hours so that it would virtually make its way to the table by itself, by crawling off the plate and along the floor.
There was even an excellent "young" goats cheese (not too whiffy) and a rather sweet and mild Comté (one of my favourites).
But the "crowning glory" was to throw the British equivalent of a dairy spanner into the works with what only those across the Channel could tell the French is the "King of cheeses" - a deliciously ripe (read mouldy) blue Stilton.
Cheese apart, throughout every course I would continually enquire as to how the food tasted and whether the wine I had chosen was appropriate. Getting that right is never easy as the French clearly have their own thoughts on which wine goes with which dish, and woe betide you to contradict or break the rules.
The response may always have been more or less the same "genial" yet I knew, and felt pretty chuffed, that everyone seemed to enjoy the meal, even if they spent a great deal of it talking about other dishes.
As the evening gradually drew to a close, there were the inevitable longest goodbyes, before I was finally left alone to face the disaster zone of a kitchen and had the chance to reflect on the previous few hours.
And I realised - not for the first time - that this fascination or almost social obsession the French seem to have with food and chattering about other dishes virtually to the exclusion of the one they're currently "enjoying" has nothing to do with bad manners.
It's not even done intentionally. It simply seems to be what happens at the dinner table here in France. Even that "genial" isn't really as bad as it might at first seem.
The French love eating and are very appreciative of good food. So much so that they can't help talking about it.
Next time though, maybe I'll get caterers in - and let it be known beforehand.
That way, I too can participate in gastronomic gossip without the effort or worry of whether what I've actually served up has been in the least bit "genial".
It's maybe not as well known as it's more famous cousin Versailles, which lies to the south-west of Paris, but Fontainebleau is definitely a town worth more than a casual visit.
Fontainebleau rue Grande
And it has probably been given an extra boost - in terms of tourism here in France - by being featured in this week's edition of one of the country's leading news magazines.
L'Express sells around half a million copies each week, and is a pretty good read, bringing anyone who's interested, bang up to date with what's happening here in France.
Of course it has a political bias, but that can be balanced by maybe reading one of its competitors such as Marianne or Nouvel Observateur.
Anyway I have a subscription and receive my copy every weekend.
Imagine then my combined horror and surprised delight as this week's edition popped through my door, and there emblazoned on the front was a banner headline "Fontainebleau and its surroundings" with the promise to reveal 60 top names and addresses of "must sees" and "have-to-go tos" in the town itself and the neighbouring villages.
One of those neighbouring villages is the one in which I live, and about which I wrote here a couple of weeks ago.
Without waxing too lyrical, it's a great place. It's home to around 1,500 people, sits on the edge of one of the largest forests surrounding Paris and is chocolate-box pretty while retaining a real soul.
Any thoughts I might have had when I first moved here a year ago that it was one of those "best kept secrets" we all like to look for, were quickly dispelled when I realised that it attracted bus loads of Japanese tourists - come rain or shine - who visit to pay homage to a hotel in which Emperor Hirohito once stayed.
Add to that the fact that it also has a school of painting named after it (one of its most famous sons was Jean-François Millet), has numerous artists' ateliers, restaurants and hotels and a calendar jam-packed with cultural events, then it's no surprise perhaps that it pretty much acts as a magnet for tourists all year round.
Still it was a bit of a shock to see the face of the local butcher staring back at me from the cover of L'Express, with the recommendation to all readers within driving distance that this was the place to buy some of the juiciest and most tender cuts.
I mean it's not as though I disagree - far from it. It's just that I feel a little protective towards a man I've come to know and like over the past year. He's MY butcher and I don't want anyone else muscling in.
Philippe Auguin. is the guy from whom I buy some of the best meat available - all of which is organic, top quality and simply delicious. So much for my "find". Now the rest of the world (or at least those who read L'Express) are likely to make a beeline for the village to stock up
Mind you, his popularity and great reputation are more than fully deserved, and it's hard to begrudge him his new found notoriety. He's the kind of fellow who is very much the heart of the village, always has a smile for his customers and makes the chore of shopping a pleasure, by offering a personal and personable alternative to the anonymity of the "Grand Surfaces" superstores.
Philippe loves his job, works a long day and takes the shortest of holidays simply because as he told me recently he "loves being back home and at the centre of what's happening."
Somewhere in that is a lesson for all of us perhaps.
His is not the only "address" featured in L"Express. The special pull-out lists 60 of them, all in villages surrounding the main town of Fontainebleau - just over 50 kilometres south east of the French capital.
For sure It's less well-known that Versailles but that doesn't make it any less worth a trip out to the "sticks".
By no stretch of the imagination is it poorer architecturally, culturally or in terms of setting.
Château de Fontainebleau (from Wikipedia, Carolus)
It too has its own chateau, which although less ornate that the one in Versailles is actually older. With its trademark horseshoe staircase, the château de Fontainebleau was the largest one built be François 1 in the 16 century.
For French history buffs, François 1 was prone to building chateaux all over the shop, leaving them empty and instead just moving the royal court (complete with furniture) around when he fancied a change of scenery.
For those planning a visit, the opening hours are a bit haphazard - depending on the time of the year - and it constantly seems to be undergoing renovations of one sort or another, but it's definitely a must see.
Fontainebleau also boasts one of Europe's premier business schools, INSEAD, and during the 1950s and 60s was home to Nato's HQ allied forces central Europe - until that is the former French president, Charles de Gaulle, took the country out of the organisation.
What really sets it apart though from many other towns in or around the French capital is its forest.
It's enormous - more than 250km2 and hugely popular with Parisians looking for a weekend break in the countryside while not wanting to face the dubious delights of spending huge chunks of Friday and Sunday evenings sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic.
At the moment of course there are guided crack-of-dawn tours to help those that are interested in identifying and collecting edible mushrooms. There are huge boulders for rock climbers to tackle, cycling pistes for the lycra-clad cross-country enthusiasts, bridle paths and a criss-crossing network of footpaths for the serious or even more humble rambler.
Throw in the enormous variety of fauna and flora, the stags currently roaring their night time rut and wild boar rampaging through the place, and you have an ideal cocktail of preserved nature just a 40-minute train journey from Paris.
The townsfolk go by the delightful name of Bellifontains or Bellifontaines and are well used to foreigners dawdling around the centre of town with maps in hand and phrase books at the ready.
While their English might not be the most robust, they're a pretty friendly bunch with none of the infamous arrogance for which the French, and in particular those living in the capital are often accused.
Fontainebleau café
And if all you want to do is sit outside a brasserie or café and watch the world go by or see what a "proper" French market is all about (three times a week) it's all here (and more) in living technicolour.
So there you go. L'Express has done its bit at telling the rest of France a little more about Fontainebleau, and now I've chipped in giving readers here a taste of what they can look forward to.
Just promise though that you won't all be descending on Philippe and depriving me of the joy of bagging the best cuts for myself.
In case you're wondering you can't - shop on a Sunday. Not normally that is. Many of the big stores are closed, apart from some "home improvement" places, gardening centres and a chain of supermarkets (but only in the morning). For the most part, retail therapy is contained to popping along to the local market where there's a range of fresh produce on sale.
Oh yes, there's the run-up to Christmas of course when the exception proves the rule and everyone is shoulder-to-shoulder in the last minute rush hunting for "that" present.
Today was different though, as the nearby hypermarket threw open its doors for a Sunday shopping special. Hooray!
When looking for a house a couple of years ago in this part of France, just 50 kilometres south of Paris, we were told by the estate agent that the place we were going to look at (and would eventually buy) was just minutes away from the largest Carrefour in the country.
I did something of a double take as my literal mind translated back into English
"Carrefour (meaning "crossroads" in English) - You mean as in a motorway intersection?" I asked innocently.
"That's hardly a unique selling point. We were rather looking to escape the daily grind of the city for a bit of piece and quiet in the countryside, but still be within commuting distance of Paris," I continued, digging myself further into a hole.
"The idea of being right next to a major road junction doesn't seem very appealing."
There then followed a moment of complete blankness from the agent and she took a deep breath, obviously wondering which planet I had just arrived from. She then went on to explain that she meant the chain of hypermarkets - the largest in France, and pretty well-known around the world and NOT a crossroads.
Um.
Since then I've been an infrequent visitor to the place. Sure it has everything you could wish for under one roof; all manner of electrical appliances, DIY-til-you-die equipment, its own garden department, clothes, and a food hall that offers just about everything, including a whole range of organic produce and a section "produits du monde" which contains usually unobtainable goodies from back home that I've missed in my years living abroad.
But it's all just a little too large for my liking, and whenever I've been dragged there in the past, I've usually come away with far more than I had initially intended buying, a maxed-out credit card and a foul temper. I'm not the world's most patient shopper.
So when the store started posting leaflets through our door, advertising its "special" Sunday opening and low prices on a range of products for one day only, I wasn't too enthusiastic. And besides there were a whole host of better ways I could think of spending my free time rather than doing battle with the hoards of bargain hunters.
That was until I was reminded that there would also be a Foire aux vins, the time every year when there's a rush to fill up the wine cellar with some of the best this country keeps for itself - at reduced prices.
Plus Carrefour had helpfully pushed all the right buttons as far as I was concerned by providing us with a voucher for the princely reduction of €10 if we bought wine totalling more than a certain amount on this special opening day.
Remain restrained and focused - just wine
We've all been encouraged here in France over the past year to tighten our belts and watch our spending, especially as prices have been rising and there basically seems to be less money all round.
My mind did a quick bit of maths and it didn't take long for it to dawn on me that if I remained very focused and only bought what I needed, I could be on to a good thing.
That's when the alarm bells should have started sounding. Special offers and loss leaders, I knew were a ruse to get us all happily spending our hard-earned centimes. I mean it's not as though any hypermarket - let alone this one - had suddenly "seen the light" and decided to become a charity. They were hoping of course that once inside the cash registers would start kerchinging (or whatever it is they do in these electronic days) merrily.
Plus, I thought, there were probably plenty of others out there who had exactly the same idea as me. There again a bargain is a bargain, so why not go along and take a look? It couldn't do any harm and there might be some surprises. All that was called for was restraint.
Of course I wasn't far off the mark about the number of people who had come up with the same brilliant idea.
We pitched up at 11 o'clock, and already the car park was heaving. Once we had found a space and grabbed a trolley (how interesting that they call them "chariots" here - it almost describes how the French behave when put behind one) we made our way into the store where....the world and its mother seemed to have had exactly the same notion of the ideal way of NOT spending a relaxing Sunday morning.
Still I had only one thought in mind, wine - as I pushed my way past the music section.
"Ooh the latest by Carla. Yes. Why not?" Well there were plenty of reasons but.
On through books. "Another on Sarkozy, Go on then, I'll add it to the other dozen or so that I've bought and not finished reading over the past year."
The automobile section. "There's that emergency triangle that became compulsory in all cars in July, but which I haven't been able to find yet. Oh it's good we came."
Household. "Are those GENUINE Laguiole knives? Wow. They're good value."
Then my nose paused in front of the bakery. " Ah the smell. Wonderful. Fresh bread and those gateaux. That'll be a treat for tea this afternoon."
A quick glance at the produits du monde. "Branston pickle. Yes. Oh and salt and vinegar crisps". In fact we hadn't even made it anywhere near to the wine section and le chariot was already half full. I had better get away from the food hall quick.
So I took a left at the next aisle.
And there it was.
Shelf after shelf.....
..... of computers, including that beautiful creature, the MacBook Air. I had been drooling over its photo for weeks in magazines. I had read every review. But I had never seen one up close. Breathtaking. Sexy. Gorgeous. The pictures didn't nearly do it justice. And now I was well and truly and lustfully in love. Cue romantic music and misty lens.
Except suddenly I had a blinding light, a revelation and an elbow shoved into my reverie.
"We are here to buy wine." I was informed from the one who knows better. "Not buy more equipment that you'll never be able to work out how to use properly."
That jolted me back to reality. And sheepishly I had to agree. So with a long last look over my shoulder at what was never meant to be, I bade a fond farewell to my dreams and soldiered forth to the wine.
Now I have to admit that we did in fact manage to pick up quite a few good bottles - er......enough to last us until Christmas (2009) and beyond probably. And it was by no means plonk.
But as we stood for what seemed like hours in a queue at the checkout with our heavily laden chariot and then paid (crikey where had that focus and restraint gone?) I couldn't help thinking back to that lovely little aluminium-clad number which obviously had my name written all over it.
Alas though not for now. In fact probably not for a long time.
And there's be no return to Crossroads in the near future as temptation might jut prove too strong.
But at least come next Sunday - when it won't be open - I'll be able to dream of what might have been as I crack open the first in a long line of bottles to drown my sorrows.
I couldn't resist it and forgive me if I indulge myself a little.
