I am French. I have been living in the US for twenty years, and many times I have been asked the same question: Do I miss France?

Well, the honest and straight answer I can give is the famous Facebook gimmick: it’s complicated.

I like the USA; I like living here. But there is one thing, one thing that I miss for sure: it’s food. And I think that is the biggest difference between our two countries: not necessarily what we eat, except of course the usual suspects—tradition, recipes, etc.—but how we eat and our relationship with food.

In my country, meals have always been structured anchors, sort of reference points around which the day is organized, and for a simple reason, because the time spent at the table is sacred. We don’t explain it or theorize about it, and everyone knows it. It’s like that. There’s this unspoken agreement that three times a day, whether we order or we cook, then we sit down, and we eat. And we don’t mess with that, because for us, it is an absolute rule of civility. I can see that some of you are raising their eyebrows and see we do the same thing here in America. Well, it’s not quite the same.

Let me explain why.

When I arrived in this country, I was struck by the contrast between the two continents when it comes to food and meals. It’s a different culture. Not better. Not worse. Just another way of living. But not ours.
For example, fast food and takeout are not seen the same way; here, they serve a purpose. They exist for a reason, and they make sense, and it’s not by accident; they match the rhythm.

But let’s start with breakfast, which was my first cultural shock. For us, it is sacred, and according to the cliché, it consists of a baguette, butter, jam, a croissant, or a pain au chocolat (what you call and make me cringe, a "chocolate croissant”). But nothing salty, never. And as surprising and ironic as it seems, it’s the only meal we don’t cook.
Here it’s the opposite.
People wake up long before sunrise because school and work start early. Some take the time to cook for themselves or for a family that’s still half asleep. But as the days are long and brutal, breakfast is designed to stick to the stomach and to hold the line: eggs cooked in oil and bacon fried until the animal itself has been forgotten.
Bagels as thick as concrete blocks with cream cheese.
And when sugar shows up, it’s not for pleasure; it’s strategic. Pancakes, drowned in an ocean of maple syrup or cereals, served in bowls the size of a motorcycle helmet, with half a liter of milk.

But for others, that is even too slow, so, at six-thirty in the morning, half the country is already in their cars, pedal to the metal, as if they were afraid the day might start without them. They are trying to catch up to God knows what and are already looking behind schedule before they’ve even begun anything. And after working here for a while, I understood why.
Because, precisely, the first stress of the day is being late. It’s a red flag. Since you don’t have time to sit down, and hunger isn’t productive, you grab the first meal of the day on the way wherever the car stops: a gas station, a drive-through, or a coffee shop at the corner of an intersection. But it’s not a destination per se; it’s more like a pit stop; you refuel and move on.

And everything is ordered to go: coffee in a cup that smells stronger than it tastes, sealed with a lid; God forbid if you spill it, it might slow you down. The food is locked inside Styrofoam boxes. Which is not eaten but swallowed in the car, one hand on the wheel, the other in a paper bag. It rides shotgun in the passenger seat.
You eat while driving, stuck in traffic; on the phone preparing meetings; reading yesterday’s report; or finishing the last touches on your makeup. So basically breakfast happens in motion; it doesn’t interrupt the morning. It isn’t a ceremony; it’s preparation. It’s practical.
You can eat it half-asleep, walking, standing, or sitting on the edge of the bed, or on your way to wherever you need to go. And when the stomach is full and the brain has fuel, thinking starts; you can function. Therefore, produce.
You have no time at this hour because the day is already waiting.
That’s breakfast in America for me.

Regarding lunch, there are two ways to handle it.
Ours?
Believe it or not, it’s a law. We are so obsessed with meals and food that lunch breaks are legally protected, and to be honest, eating at your desk is frowned upon. So, we have lunch at restaurants, bars, cafes, and delis. But never alone.

Yours,
At noon, nothing really stops either. Not for anybody, not even for me, as a chef; it’s usually the time in the kitchen when I get carpet-bombed by takeout tickets.
But from where I stand, I don’t really understand why your lunch is called a “lunch break," because it rarely feels like one. It’s more of an optimistic intermission, just a parenthesis between meetings, emails, and deadlines.
Some reheat leftovers and eat with their eyes already glued to their computer screens, phones in hand, but most of the time, when food shows up, it’s in the shape of a stratified, layered sandwich.

The bread wraps the filling. The paper neutralizes and secures everything. The bag carries those layers between you and hunger, insulating desire from regret and pleasure from duty.
And you eat standing up, at your desk, or in the car with the engine running and the AC blasting. It patches things up, like duct tape on a cracked pipe. You eat to hold on because the only thing that matters is not collapsing at three p.m.
So lunch doesn’t interrupt the day either; it supports it—like a brace on a bad knee because once again, the clock doesn’t stop.

Another difference.
We don’t nibble outside of meals. We don’t stuff ourselves with snacks all day long because hunger is part of the ritual. As well, it’s not socially well-perceived.
But here, all day long, I see people snacking. As if you’d do anything not feel hunger or the other way around, you satisfy or indulge every gap in your stomach, no matter when or where. And it’s oversized protein bars or so-called healthy snacks saturated with sugar, and let’s not forget the nuclear energy drinks or the fourteen-syllable iced coffees and iced teas torn between glucose syrup and chemically added sugars.

Then comes dinnertime.
Our weekday dinners are not a repair job. It’s a landing, so it comes later, when the day is actually over—not when it’s still clinging to you.
People sit down together, not always perfectly, not always peacefully, but together.
And there is a rhythm, a pattern, if you will; there is a starter, a main, usually cheese, and most of the time dessert.
Regarding weekends, it’s the time we usually have friends over at home for dinner.
So you spend your afternoon cooking, setting up the table, and choosing the wine. And when the night falls, it’s time for big tables where long meals stretch forever with endless conversation, mild intoxication, and feasting.

Or we go to a restaurant we have spent the week choosing, according to who’s coming and how many we are at the table, the theme of the night, and, of course, the craving of the week.
It turns into a ceremony because for us, food is emotional. So time stretches, and conversations drift, then arguments happen, and laughter too. But nobody is in a hurry to finish because the point isn’t just to eat; it’s to be there, together.
You see, food is not just fuel for us; it’s a reason to stay at the table a little longer.

Now yours.

It’s early. Always way too fucking early for my appetite. I remember one of my first invitations from friends. I was asked to come over around six. I thought it was the perfect timing for a glass of wine and some finger food to stimulate the appetite. Five minutes after I arrived, dinner was served on the table. You should have seen my face.

But one thing strikes me, though: from what I’ve seen or noticed, outside of social or professional gatherings, families don’t always eat together on a regular basis anymore. It’s mostly when they can. Otherwise, it’s a rolling service; the kitchen is open all day long. Everyone eats when they want, and not necessarily the same thing.
Food is cooked quickly, often something you know by heart and something simple that doesn’t ask questions, and it’s served before hunger really settles in.

So again, people eat standing at the counter, on the couch, or with a plate on their knees in front of a football game.

By now, I get it: people come home wrecked, crushed by pressure, the day stuck to their body like a bad hangover. For that reason, dinner isn’t a celebration; it doesn’t linger. It doesn’t pretend to be memorable; it just repairs before the day drains you completely. And most of the time, that’s enough.

On weekends, it’s different.
Dinner is ordered, and it arrives in brown paper bags. Boxes are stacked on the table; everyone chooses their comfort food, which is usually fried. Portions are generous, and leftovers are expected. So people reunite briefly, often out of family politeness.
Kids talk about school, then pretty quickly, everyone pulls out their phone, and the TV hums like a third adult in the room, already advertising tomorrow’s menu.

So why are we so different?
In France, most of the time meals stop the day. Because hunger is often linked with sociability and emotions, we eat because it’s time and because the table is set and sitting down means spending time together, arguing and laughing, or talking shop, politics, etc.
But when you think about it, even if we don’t have the same relationship to food, meals, and the table, I don’t think it’s a question of taste—that would give it too much credit—nor is it culture in the romantic sense.

It’s a question of time.

One culture created meals around moments where work fades and life takes over, so food fills the space that sharing time creates.
The other one built meals to follow you and negotiate with the clock, sometimes politely, most of the time under stress, and they fill the space-time leaves.
Neither is wrong; they just respond to different lives, different pressures, and different urgencies.

In the United States, meals were designed so the day doesn’t buckle and, above all, so it never slows down. Time bends around the table, not the other way around. Somehow a table ends up being just a surface, a piece of furniture. So people share space and calories, but never the moment.
In a way eating is a function, and food is like an item or a line on your schedule. It is held in the hand and sits in the car, and it fits in your agenda. Like some temporary fuel to stay upright. You don’t overthink it. You don’t analyze it. There is no poetry, no ritual, no romanticism.

After twenty years, I don’t judge anymore. But my body still does, and I feel it in my rhythm. I still instinctively wait for food to stop the world, even for a short moment. Not like food here, which always has somewhere to go. By bike, scooter, or car.
That’s why it’s sometimes challenging for French people to adapt here.
Some manage. Some endure. And others, like me, linger but never change the way they eat. because I am one of those who still prefer eating with cutlery rather than holding food in my hands.
The irony is that in my job, I rarely have time to sit down. So I eat standing in a corner or while walking or doing something else.
Just like you.
See, we’re not that different after all.

Excerpted and adapted from the book Food, Bullshit, and… Other Complications. By Alex Fenot | Published by Foodnbullshit (2026). © 2026 Alex Fenot. All rights reserved.

Two countries, two cultures, two rhythms, one common need.

5/07/26

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YOUR SEAT AT THE TABLE STARTS HERE

NO SPAM.
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THE GOOD STUFF ONLY

Sharp stories, honest conversations, and the occasional badly behaved opinion. Delivered when there’s something worth saying.

BY SIGNING UP, YOU AGREE TO RECEIVE EMAILS FROM FOODNBULLSHIT. UNSUBSCRIBE ANYTIME.