Le café à la français

Up until a couple of months ago, I was what you would all a complete coffee accro (ak-row: addict). Seriously. I meant business. There was the morning pint with cream and sugar, followed by an afternoon pint of pick-me-up, and then the occasional evening 8-ouncer as my amen before a restless night's sleep. Then I realized that my petite tasse de café (puh-teet tass duh kaf-ay: little cup of coffee) every morning was turning my skin into a total mine field. Everywhere I looked there was another bouton (boo-t-ohn: zit) exploding in red and puss-infested glory. So I gave up the habit and have been in mourning over the decision ever since.

Well, France isn't helping with this matter at all. No one ever offered me coffee at work last year, but this year it seems all the institutrices (on-stee-toot-rees: teachers) at my schools won't settle until they pour a gallon of it down my throat, one perfect little espresso cup at a time. Every morning it's the same routine: “Vous ne buvez pas de café?” (voo nuh boo-veh pah duh kaf-ay: you don't drink coffee?) is the expected question now by at least two teachers at at least two different schools. To which I respond to astounded and judgmental looks « Non, pas non plus, malheureusement » (noh, paw nohn plu, mal-hoor-uhs-mehn: no, not anymore, unfortunately). Each work day I live a constant reminder of how much I miss my beloved cup of coffee and how everyone in France wants me to drink it. Apparently I'm the only person in this country who suffers from bad skin.

The thing is, I get it. I really do. With a café on every street corner and an entire dinner course devoted to the brew, the French and I are completely on the same page with respect to our reverence for the magic black hericot (er-ee-koh: bean). Coffee is, and always will be, fabulous in my eyes, even if my skin doesn't agree. I and the entire French république (ray-pub-leek: republic) understand how essential caffeine is to get through the day, especially when you spend your day teaching other people's children. But since I don't want to spend the rest of my life looking like a sixteen year-old, I've decided to enjoy my café vicariously through my French collègues (kol-egg: co-workers) while I cry into my morning cup of thé (tay: tea). Life. Isn't. Fair.