Its decline is measured by lines at Pizza Hut. No economic indicator is more reliable than the aisles at Fauchon, the temple of fine food that stocks more mustards than there are days in a year. An improbably fabulous dessert of tomate confit farcie aux douze saveurs at Alain Passard's Arp ge is enough to excuse any rudeness from the Paris cabbie who brought you there. Over centuries, the dinner table has remained an anchor for families and friendships, the heart of what is finest about France. Each course requires separate effort, part of a whole.
Children learn their values and their manners at mealtime.
Nothing important gets signed, sealed, or delivered without the clinking of glasses and the rattling of cutlery. And nothing is so sacred as Sunday lunch. The eating part goes without saying. Good food, with all the art de vivre around it, was partly why I moved to Paris in 1977. For my first real taste of France, I rented a fat, fish-faced Citro n with cushy seats, and I headed south.