Party French

I have been noticing how many store and restaurant names have French in them. This seems to be especially true on the Upper East Side.

House of Chocolate! Upper East Side, Manhattan

At a party last night I spoke some German with a tall Austrian basketball player (a woman) and a tiny bit of French with a couple of friends. The latter experience reminded me that party French needs to be much better than quiet-café French or you will be (a) incompetent and (b) a huge bore.

French continues to be spoken by Brandt and me chez nous. Today a French-Canadian violinist materialized in our living room. Not unannounced, which would have been really weird, but rather, accompanied by our pianist friend Julian. Since everyone there was perfectly happy to speak French, a conversation in said language ensued.

I, unfortunately, had to leave for a run and abandon the French chat. This broke my heart. Such opportunities do not fall into a French learner’s lap every day. I mourned a bit as I ran around Central Park.

A non sequitur: I have wondered for a long time why you don’t say septante for seventy. It has always struck me as particularly unwieldy to have to say soixante-dix (literally “sixty-ten”). Why not just do the math for me? Same thing for quatre-vingts (“eighty,” but literally “four twenties”) and various other French numbers.

I answered this question through Google. Years of confusion were dispelled in the seconds it took me to read this explanation.

Having read it, though, I would still love it if “seventy” were septante. And yet, sentiments such as this about language are completely useless.

A final note: I have resolved over the past couple of days: there will be no leaving of French at the end of April. I simply can’t do it. I am actually getting somewhere, and I don’t want to stop getting there.