March 26, 2003

WAR WOULD NOT be war without a generous dollop of ludicrousness, and since modern war always involves some butchery of the language, I have been watching – with an uneasy mix of horror and hilarity – the words France and French be purged from the already threadbare American lexicon. We now have freedom fries and freedom toast; can the Freedom Laundry be far behind?

Of course, that's a joke: It couldn't possibly happen – probably. The variable is war, a vast chaotic contingency that has a way of unhinging carefully laid plans, good intentions, noble goals, all the while debasing the language. War planner (a direct descendant of army intelligence) is surely one of the great Herb Caen-worthy self-canceling phrases of these strange days. Doubtless there will soon be others.

American ire at the nettlesome French is nothing new, though because of our amnesiac national character we are perpetually surprised when they stray from our lead, as they always seem to. We admire and resent the French the way we would a beautiful house cat, which provides grace and style and even affection – permitting itself occasionally to be stroked, on its own terms – while resolutely refusing to do what we say, no matter how clearly and forcefully we say it. Oh why can't a cat be more like a dog? A bulldog, say. Yet feline recalcitrance can be a healthy corrective to otherwise unchecked bossiness.

It is at the very least debatable whether the French owe us their allegiance, military and otherwise, in our latest Mesopotamian adventure. It is not at all debatable that we owe our very existence to them; without French support, the American Revolution would certainly have failed. Our language too: even if we seldom avail ourselves of its rich possibilities, modern English – a supple and nuanced amalgam of Germanic and Romance elements – is what it is largely because of the Norman conquest of England in the 11th century.

And of course food. French influence on American cooking extends far beyond those beleaguered dishes with French in their names; such beloved American standards as meat loaf and apple pie, among many others, have deep roots in French gastronomy. We may tell pollsters we prefer Italian foods above all others, but the basis of our own cuisine is unmistakably French.

Yes, we are them and they are us, like it or not. Dunderheads drunk on fool's patriotism might want Lady Liberty deported from her longtime roost in New York Harbor, but the truth is she does belong there, a reminder not merely of our highest ideals but also of our fraternal relation to the source of those ideals.