The Frog's (Roast)Beef

The beef between the French and the English started a long time ago. It dates back to the 11th century when the Northmen (vikings) who ruled Normandy, a region in northwest of France, invaded and took control of England. You might therefore argue that the antipathy that exists today can be blamed on us Scandinavians and our ancestors. Anyhow the Northmen dissappeared but the Anglo-Norman conflict continued. After that followed the English miraculous defeat of the French army at Agincourt in the 15th century. Following this defeat, the English army captured the 17 year old commander of the French army, Joan of Arc, convicted her of heresy (unorthodox religious views), and burned her alive. The armed conflict came to an end after Napoleon was defeated at Waterloo in 1814, and England emerged as the worlds next super power.

In modern times the beef has turned into a pacified war of cultures and politics, and attacks on national traits. The English refer to the French as "Frogs" due to their habit of eating frog legs and the French like to call the English "Rosbifs" (roastbeefs) on equivalent grounds. The epithet "Rosbifs" also has a double meaning. Every summer France is invaded by British tourists, (I think the term is applied on members of Great Britain alike), and they tend to obtain the color of a bloody roastbeef during the first hours of sunbathing.

Not so long ago, I was made a victim of this beef in an unprovoked attack of mistargeted despise. I was minding my own business, waiting for a friend of mine at a small fishmarket-square in the old town of Nice, when I had the impression of being addressed by a coarse voice behind me. I turned around, and was asked a question (I think) by a "friend of the streets", to use a euphemistic and romanticized term for his kind, pointing to a bottle of wine by his feet. Since I failed to distinguish enough words in his sentence, and since I felt I hadn't deserved the aggressive tone, I simply shrugged my shoulders and turned round again. Doing so was of course a mistake since I acknowledged that I was receptive for communication.

The man came down from the third stairstep where he was residing and approached me. He was undoubtedly determined to provoke me, posing threats of intimate nature towards my mother, and repeatedly stating that I belong in the burning inferno below us. I praised him for his impressive vocabulary, with the intention of disarming his verbal attack, but this just seemed to aggrevate him further. His last resort was urging me to hit him in the face, probably in the hope of a pugilistic settlement. When I denied him this pleasure, he walked away calling me a no good English racist. I mumbled back, "actually, I'm Swedish, and I'm not racist." The man then walks back to me, shakes my hand and says "Swedish? Ok, I appologize.."

.

To my aggressor's defense, he seemed to be powered by more intoxicants than the contents of the bottle by his feet, that had been the subject of his initial inquiry. In any case, it was a very unexpected ending.