The French and Halloween

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M. Farigoule looked at me and shrugged, his expression a question mark. It was clear that he was not familiar with Halloween and its customs. At last it was my chance to teach him something. He listened while I described the cast of characters — the witches and hobgoblins, the skeletons and spirits of the dead, the Grim Reaper and his attendant vultures — and he seemed to understand the basic principles of trick-or-treating. It was when I was trying to explain the historical significance and traditional use of the pumpkin that I saw, from his elevated eyebrows and pursed lips, that I had touched a nerve.

“Do you mean to tell me,” he said, “that pumpkins all over America are massacred, with all that good honest flesh tossed away, simply to provide a primitive decoration?” He took a deep swig of rosé and shook his head. “Do our American friends know what treasures they’re missing? Pumpkin fritters! Pumpkin and apple sauce — so delightful with sausages! Then, bien sûr, there is Toulouse-Lautrec’s sublime gratin of pumpkin.

“And it must be said that Mme. Farigoule” — he raised his glass to the ceiling in a silent salute — “makes, during the season, a most exquisite pumpkin risotto.” He shook his head again. “No — to sacrifice a pumpkin for such a frivolous purpose as alowine is a waste, a terrible waste. Whatever next?” He allowed me to refill his glass while he recovered his composure, and our conversation moved on to the less sensitive topic of village politics.