When I was 17 my family visited France. One night in a restaurant in the Loire Valley, I summoned up my high-school French and ordered poulain, assuming it was some kind of chicken (poulet). The snooty garçon (it was the 80s, that’s what we called him) was quick to put me in my place: “Does mademoiselle know she has ordered horsemeat?” Mademoiselle did not.
Fast forward 40 years to another family holiday, this time in Paris with my own children. Holding my own this time (or so I thought) with the serveur, I asked if there were any organic wines – “sans préservatifs?”. He smiled and explained that préservatif is French for condom.
