I Think I’m French 🇫🇷

(Or at least French-adjacent)

I’ve come to a realization that may shock no one who has ever eaten at my table or listened to me complain about food quality in America.

I think I’m French.

Not passport French. More… spiritually French. Emotionally French. Judgy-about-butter French.

You know all those “negative” things people say about the French?

Food obsessed.

Picky.

Political.

Snobby.

Opinionated.

Emotionally attached to bread.

Yes. All of it. I accept these charges without legal counsel.

If caring deeply about sauce texture makes me difficult—fine. If refusing to drink bad wine or champagne makes me elitist—so be it. If believing a meal should be an event rather than a pit stop makes me unbearable—I will simply shrug, sip my wine, and continue being right.

Yesterday sealed it.

I hosted an entirely French-themed Christmas. Five courses. No apologies. No chicken nuggets. No “crowd-pleasers.” Just unapologetic, butter-forward, time-consuming food designed to be eaten slowly while opinions are exchanged.

And honestly?

It was a triumph!

There were courses. Plural. There was pacing. There was discussion. There were people quietly reassessing their relationship with butter and cheese. There was no rush, no microwave, no paper plates. Just food, conversation, and the occasional look of “Oh… I didn’t know food could do this.”

Very French.

I’ve heard people say the French are rude. I disagree. They’re just honest—and frankly, efficiency is kindness. Why pretend a bad idea is good? Why pretend mediocre food is “fine”? Why lie?

The French don’t do fake enthusiasm. Neither do I.

If I love something, you’ll know.

If I don’t… well, you’ll also know.

Apparently this is “snobby.”

I call it clarity.

And yes, the French are political. So am I. When you care deeply about quality of life, human rights, healthcare, art, food, labor, and not dying because a corporation cut corners—politics tends to sneak in. Sorry. (Not sorry.)

Also—can we talk about the obsession with meals lasting hours? That’s not indulgence. That’s civilization. Eating quickly so you can get back to being stressed is not a flex. Sitting, talking, laughing, eating, arguing, eating again—that’s living.

By the end of the night, plates were empty, conversations were full, they ate the escargot and I felt that very specific satisfaction that only comes from feeding people well and watching them slow down.

So yes.

I think I’m French.

Or at least French in all the ways that matter:

I respect food.

I question authority.

I dislike mediocrity.

I believe joy requires effort.

À la France.

And honestly?

Je ne regrette rien.

Julie Bolejack, MBA 🥖🍷

SUBSCRIBE AT julies-journal.ghost.io