Etiquette & Embarrassment

Back in the #IvoryCoast I spent long afternoons, belly down on the carpet under my mom's desk, poring over Françoise de Raucourt's outdated little guide to life skills and #manners. I could hear my mother talking to her students from a distance while correcting their papers, as I lingered over the hundred refined drawings of long-legged ladies in elegant outfits, wearing pearls around their necks and sophisticated lacquered buns on top of their heads. The men, all dressed in suits, each wearing a hat and holding a cigarette, echoed those actors who were always smartly dressed in those old black and white movies that the RTI, the only television channel we had at the time, frequently broadcasted. At the age of seven, I dreamed of the little black dress and of the bolero from Chanel, and I watched my young classmates with doubt, trying to picture them knocking on my door in a spotless tuxedo. Over the years, I kept opening this guidebook as a routine to trigger my daydreams. It usually took me to a virtual place where I was surrounded by delicious people in a #Parisian boudoir, far from my tropical cocoon. In retrospect, this was my favorite science-fiction book. To be honest, I’m now relieved the recommendations are totally outdated as most of the dos and don’ts were not very fair to women…

In my precious dream world, I kept reading the advice given on how to accept an invitation graciously:

1. make sure you ask about the dress code to prevent yourself from embarrassing the hostess with a more elegant outfit,

2. send flowers in the afternoon to give the hostess enough time to put them leisurely in a vase (even though we are always delighted to receive flowers, it can be a hurdle to find a vase that fits while the turkey’s in the oven, and the guests wait to be freed from their coats, hats and bags; the author points out that this can be easily avoided if anticipated: how smart of you Françoise!),

3. never be exactly on time (it’s petty), even less so, early (it’s pathetic) but announce yourself within 15 minutes after the invitation time (it’s dignified); is this where the traditional 15 minutes of delay in French meetings come from?

4. introduce your wife to the elders (yes, back then, women couldn’t hang out without their husbands, sadly) and wait for the hostess to invite you to sit down.

There were many other recommendations that I have, (un)fortunately, erased from my memory, probably because I had to juggle, in the meantime, with Ivorian customs literally at antipodes to the diktat of #Whoswho, and then adjust again as I received invitations from new friends on the other sides of the planet.

As I approach my fifties, I am still struggling to be on time at dinner in France. It is troublesome. I certainly keep point [3] in mind but I’ve been unsuccessful so far to reboot my memory card of manners programed in the Ivory Coast. In my lagoon town, invitations are scarce, because #etiquette requires that the younger ones #visit and greet the elders. In short, we #invite ourselves to the home of the older generation and the younger ones invite themselves to our home. These visits must be regular, and should last at least thirty minutes. You shouldn’t wait for too long to visit again if you don’t want to be rude and offend your seniors. If you visit shortly before lunch or dinner, you’ll be invited to join. This is never a problem: when there is enough food for four, there is enough for eight or ten. The dishes, that have simmered for hours in large pots, consist of various stew made from seeds or plants, with a few pieces of meat or fish. This sauce is accompanied by rice, plantain, or manioc, and can be easily shared among the guests. Courtesy requires that you ask for a refill to flatter the cook and that you do not finish your second plate to show that you have eaten your fill. You can even make your hostess blush by letting a moan of satisfaction out and saying, "Oh, Auntie, I'm so full I’m about to explode!”.

Can you then imagine the panic of my Ivorian father, when he saw my mother, still a bit French at heart, packing bags of beef filets, chicken breasts or lamb chops, four by four, before storing them in the freezer?

"Honey?! What are you doing?

- I'm packing the meat before freezing it!

- I can see that, thank you! What I'm trying to figure out is why you're making packages of four pieces?

- Because there are four of us, obviously!

- Is that so? What about the unexpected guests at lunch time? What’s planned for them? Is someone going to sacrifice their share of meat?!

- ... Come on, who’d come to visit us at lunch time?

- Anybody, obviously!

- Shall I then make packs of six pieces? What if nobody comes? What happens to the extra pieces?

- ...!!?

- …?!!"

Ouch! While my father wondered how we could ignore the very basic rule of #hospitality, my mother wondered how to turn her back on the most basic sense of organization. Yet, if the situation arose, my father would be mortified, and all #Abidjan, alerted and scandalized, would discredit him and his family. Yes, you heard it perfectly, skeptical reader, ... all Abidjan! Do we not say "Abidjan is big, but Abidjan is small!” This kind of scandal would cross bridges and streets at the speed of a gecko chased by a rabid dog. However, we received very few courtesy visits at mealtime within twenty years. I guess our acquaintances intuitively avoided this time of the day; either they doubted that the mistress of the house would have concocted a copious stew, or pounded yam and banana fufu, or they found it wiser to avoid eating at the house of a French woman who would have probably added half a dozen of unnecessary pieces of cutlery for which they wouldn’t have time to read the user guide. It was safer to show up at teatime and avoid any kind of embarrassment. We don’t like to lose face in the country of elephants.

It was my mother’s turn to experience embarrassment, or more positively, compassion, when my parents were invited to the house of European friends. In retrospect, I think that Dad was deliberately late, hoping to give a quick lesson in #interculturality to his expatriate colleagues, who were convinced that good manners were #universal. I often think of that adorable couple of colleagues, who kept cooking a cheese soufflé as a starter each time they were expecting my parents for dinner. In twenty years, Mom has never seen anything but the hollowed-out sides of a shriveled dried-out #soufflé, that could not wait anymore for my dad to come! You see, the concept of time is no standard data to be coldly placed on the abscissa; for some people, it is a relative indication to a custom, an event, or an occurrence. A provincial bus does not leave at 3 pm, but when it is full; the council of ministers does not start at 9 am, but when the president sits down in the meeting room. Whoever does not understand this, will tirelessly prepare cheese soufflés for dinner. A Swiss classmate who had just arrived in my high school -in Abidjan- explained to us that time was of the essence in his family: his father, who was a stickler for time, always arrived five minutes before an appointment and left ten minutes after the appointment time if the person had not shown up. Us locals exchanged friendly and amused looks, agreeing that this gentleman would probably not conduct many meetings during his stay in Abidjan. I certainly never got to meet him, ever.

When I moved to #Thailand and learned that extended families lived under the one roof same as in Côte d'Ivoire, and that time was not a strict rule for a good day of work, I ventured to think that the mode of hospitality would be similar there. I couldn’t be more wrong: of course, each country has its specificities, Thailand was no exception. I even brushed aside the repeated warnings of several French neighbors who had warned us that it was impossible to make Thai friends: "you’ll see, they’ll never invite you to their house!” It is true that in #France, receiving an invitation to dinner is a strong marker when starting a friendly relationship.

When French people invite someone into their home, into their family cocoon, a closed place decorated with care, it means they are ready to reveal a little about themselves, about their family and social status, about their artistic tastes, about their financial means: they indicate to the other person that they allow them to enter the sphere of intimacy. They bring out the beautiful plates, they are very particular about the presentation of the table, they offer to their guests a feast for the palate and the eyes.

In return, we enjoy ourselves, we congratulate the cook, we help ourselves once more if we are invited to do so and we have the elegance not to take the last piece that languishes in the dish because it may be coveted by others. In France, welcoming a stranger into one's home is a declaration of friendship, a pledge of trust, an invitation to open modest hearts, a promise of deeper understanding. With this observation in mind, I deduced from the benevolent warnings of my fellow expatriates that they did not feel adopted by the Thais because they had not received an #invitation to dinner at home.

When you live in Thailand, you will notice that Thai people love to go out to #restaurants, either with family or friends. The big tables are generally taken by storm. Three or four generations happily share various and delicious dishes, while laughing and chatting. Unlike French dinners, there would be no brandy on the table and no one would dare talk politics.

If Thai people like to gather around a good meal, why on earth don't they invite my comrades from the cheese country? It must be said that most Thai dishes are made of so many ingredients that the preparation of a single plate requires more than an hour of work, and that a festive meal is made of at least seven dishes. As going to a restaurant in Thailand is easier, not to mention the hassle of shopping, serving, and washing up, it makes sense to gather outside. Moreover, many Bangkokian restaurants pay special attention to their decoration: the unique and singular scenery, if it is photogenic, will be the perfect opportunity to take Instagram-compatible photos, to be shared on social networks. In a nutshell, it's much more fun to change your setting each time you enjoy a meal. Therefore, I believe Thai folks have nothing against the #farang, it’s just a common habit for whoever they are dining with. Things are changing though... My favorite proofreader recently told me the dining at each other's houses is on the up.

An hilarious Thai ad that shows that members of the very same family can also be lost in lags and gaps during family gatherings. #generationgap #generationdifferences #etiquette

That being said, I ate at Thai friends' houses on several occasions after my third year in Bangkok. Interestingly enough, at homestays in the countryside, the hosts cook for you but don't eat with you. My friends from the city once told me that they needed to get to know me better before letting me enter a place of #privacy. Some wanted to make sure that I would not judge them by the sight of their interiors (both in more modest houses and in infinitely richer residences) and more importantly that I would not feel uncomfortable if the #protocol was too different from what I’ve been used to. I thought back to our Ivorian acquaintances who did not show up at my parents' house at mealtime, for fear of making a faux pas in front of my mother, and I finally understood that the etiquette of the country of fine cuisine might have been a bit scary for people who have fewer dining rules.

I am not one to cast the first stone if I confess the countless blunders I committed upon my arrival in France. For my first invitation in 1992 to the parents of a college friend, I followed my cultish Dame Françoise’s principles and relayed all the questions that a good lady should ask before introducing herself. Did I tell you that the little guide dates to 1965? My questions left my friend's mother speechless. With that, I quickly abandoned the idea of having a bouquet of flowers delivered! How the service would have put a strain on my student budget! I brought a modest armful of tulips instead and arrived a full hour late. Was it a symptom of my father's chronic latecomer syndrome? Undoubtedly! A congenital condition, for which it is now crystal clear to me, further to thirty years spent abroad, that no effective treatment exists to this day. My husband, distraught, then weary, and finally exasperated, was to give me a little tip after a few months of living together to help me avoid a fatal blow of humiliation: "Niamke, you should get ready an hour before leaving, instead of going under the shower at the time we should leave; you'll see, you'll be better off.” I know, Euro-friends, that this revelation plunges you into a deep incomprehension: "come on here, is she genuinely stupid or perfectly dishonest?” I assure you that the concept of time separates our two continents in such a vertiginous way that the greatest math genius would not solve it without a severe headache.

Anyway, I put my focus on being on time at the second meal I was invited to: it was a success, folks! I used three alarm clocks: the first one to stop what I was doing, the second one to go to the shower, and the last one to leave in time; the success was not complete though, because I arrived empty-handed. A classmate grumbled at my lack of manners, "You don't show up empty-handed at people's houses.” I was so puzzled when I saw everyone proudly handing over a bottle of white wine, a generous piece of cheese, or a jar of pickles prepared by a grandmother... Where I come from, it's rude! You might as well tell the host that you don’t trust their culinary skills, or that you think there won't be enough food... As far as I can remember, my fantastic guide never mentioned this point. #fatalerror! Not only were my bearings shaken, but my bible of manners became obsolete.

Finally, I probably received the most heartbreaking lesson when I decided to pay a #courtesy call on an old friend of my mother’s on a beautiful spring afternoon. As I was about to ring the bell, the owners of the house came out cheerfully, followed by a cute puppy. They had just acquired it and were going on their first walk in the woods. "Oh, how unfortunate, we were just leaving. Let's meet some other time". I stood dumbfounded, stupidly still, gripping the seat of my bike tightly as I looked at the car and its content of happiness getting away from me. I made a note for life that this part of France was not the place to visit people (even close ones) without a proper invitation.

In this age of globalization, there are still enough peculiarities in #hospitality customs to make our guests feel embarrassed over and over again. Sometimes, when I'm longing for peace and quiet, I'm happy to be in my Parisian living room; however, when spring comes, I'm nostalgic for those surprise visits to my grandmother's house at lunchtime and wondering who will be at that improvised lunch. May I ask all the guests that I have offended to forgive my foolishness? I also warmly thank all the kind people who have opened their doors to me with tenderness, when I was in such need of human warmth.

I appreciate that these questions of #conviviality are not clear-cut in a world that is changing constantly: I still remember how my father was offended to be given paper napkins at his German host family in the late 1980s. Twenty years later, the whole planet had adopted them for their unbeatable practicality. It's however a safe bet that they will soon be abandoned in restaurants or dining rooms and will once again be the object of scorn: its impact on the greenhouse effect will take precedence.

As I daydream on my Senufo seat in front of the stove that warms my body and my heart, with no intention whatsoever of going out, I think of all those migrants, who may have just received an #invitation and are wondering what to do. I sympathize as I’m sure they are, equally, lost in lags and gaps.

Kindly edited by Khun Dimpy Kongsiri.