I had the pre-party jitters, prompted by my wife Claude's annual neighborhood fête, which is held in July. Not that I would play any role in the proceedings, beyond popping a few corks. Claude's cousin Jeanne would be helping and she's an expert caterer, and Claude herself is a marvelous cook--that end was fully covered, I knew.

I was worried about the social aspects of the party. Despite its motto--liberty, equality, brotherhood--France retains some of its old class consciousness. Maybe not like England, where in certain precincts--Oxbridge, to put a finer point on it--the "wrong" accent will get you a sniffy look. Yet in France it's still there.

And what an eclectic mix the party would be!

The baker, the butcher, the candlestick maker were just for starters. There would also be the hairdresser, surgeon, crane operator, factory manager, art dealer, charcutier, ironmonger, librarian, beautician, farmer, anaesthetist, and on and on.

This was not an American-style cocktail party where everyone bumps up for thirty seconds and starts looking over shoulders for the next brief encounter. Nor would it be a tray-gathering around the electronic fire when quick comments about the whiz of programs (if a man holds the zapper) pass for conversation.

No, these people would be sitting down to dinner together. Actually talking to each other. Eye to eye. How remarkable that seemed to an American, even after so many years in France.

Guests begin to arrive for the neighborhood party. At any gathering of the French, one subject is inevitably the main topic of conversation.

Yes, I admit it, that was my twitch: What in the world would this diverse group find to talk about?

The French consider it impolite to ask the kind of personal questions that an American will ask another American in an instant.

"Where'd you go to school? Whattaya do?"

So a major conversational area was out, as was talking about politics or religion. Perhaps surprisingly, considering their reputation, they were not likely to speak about sex, either. And Frenchmen usually respect women enough not to bore them with sports talk at the table.

Well, as I really knew deep down, I had nothing to worry about. The French, whatever their background and profession, can make conversation in a social situation probably easier than any other nationality.

The reason is simple. To get up close and personal, they talk about food. And wine. Topics which remain the national passion. Everybody has a story about their favorite meal, their favorite dish. And everybody else listens, awaiting their turn to describe a long-ago trip to an out-of-this-world restaurant.

Since the party falls in the month of both our national days, we usually bring out the French and American flags. (The French, by the way, never call it "Bastille Day," it's always Quatorze Juillet, July 14th.) And Claude tries to split the menu between French and American dishes.

This time she prepared a twenty-pound ham, Virginia style, and made potato salad, based on a recipe given years ago by my mother. That may sound rather boring to an American, but to the French it was exotic.

Which started our French guests to talking about their favorite subject. Only this time the topic was not French food but American. And what they had to say made me squirm.

There is a revolt in America against genetic modification and the use of hormones and additives. But compared to France, it looks like no more than a small guerrilla action. The French want nobody messing with their food. They've been at war with Britain for nearly a decade over the "mad cow disease," still refusing to import British beef even after it has been cleared by the European Union.

And many of them--I'd say, most--don't want their country to import American meat or vegetables that have been fiddled with. Now this isn't one of the routine cycles of anti-Americanism that periodically roils France and passes like a summer storm. There is an underlying feeling that the U.S. has grown too economically and politically powerful. But the question about the direction American food is taking is very serious stuff, independent from the rest.

The Ceremony of the Last Drop. The party became a roaring success after I admitted that I didn't like the genetic altering of food, either.

To make it worse, McDonald's has become the symbol of the revolt for many of the French--and someone very close to me rents a property in Paris to the very enemy in question. Quelle horreur! As you can imagine, I was not anxious to disclose this bit of intelligence to our guests, which would have placed me and my "someone" in the ranks of the collaborationists.

As it was, when I mentioned that my garden contained American corn, somebody suggested, as politely as possible under the circumstances, that I was a butterfly killer. Moi? The charge stung enough that I began to monitor the butterfly population in and around the garden, and was relieved to record no diminution in numbers from past seasons.

I always defend the flag as a matter of principle by launching a counterattack against some French felony committed a few centuries ago. The Burgundians helped the English burn Joan of Arc, didn't they?

But I must admit that I was hard put to counter the French stand against genetic modification. I threw out the standard American argument: "There have been no long-term studies that indicate a negative effect from the genetic altering of fruits and vegetables, or the use of hormones and steroids in meats."

And I got what I deserved in return: "What studies? What does long-term mean?"

Actually, my heart was not in it. The question of genetic altering makes me uncomfortable, and I wish America would not plunge headlong into this technology just because it exists. If this be treason, make the most of it. Once I admitted that I agreed with them, the party got back on track and was a roaring success.

Everybody praised the American-style ham and potato salad to the high heavens. You would have thought they'd never eaten anything so delicious.

Of course, we all knew where it came from.

Duquesa Turns 100

Summer was also a time to celebrate our animal companions. Is that politically correct -- animal companions? Duquesa had her sixteenth birthday which, in human terms, made her a 100 years old.

Duquesa is a pure-blooded Spanish goat dog (and the longest lived on record), but she has spent most of her life in Paris, where she was considered something of a phenomenon. Duquesa was one of the few curb-trained dogs in the city.

Recipe Four

Madame Binon's Sanguette (Sanglette)

Summer was a time to prepare a few of our free-range chickens for the dinner parties that take place in the dreary months of winter.

I always say that everybody should be prepared to kill what they eat. And then I usually run on about how modern society has become squeamishly detached from the realities of its own dining habits.

What I really mean, though, is that everybody should eat what Madame Binon is prepared to kill. Madame Binon, who arrives on her motorbike to help us, is probably the last generation of real paysannes, country women inured to hardship of any kind who are experts at cultivating and raising practically everything they eat.

One law of the countryside has always been that a chicken is to be eaten completely except for "les plumes et la merde." And from this comes the recipe for a sort of blood crêpe or pancake called "sanguette," sometimes "sanglette." "Sang" is the French word for blood.

Madame Binon and Claude (hat) bleeding a live rooster into a plate of sliced onion to make a sanguette, a delicacy in the French countryside. Claude is faking it. She refuses to kill anything--but she'll cook it.

You don't want the blood of some hormone-filled, penned-up, unhealthy chicken. I hope you can find this where you live, but if you can't, come to see us. Then, translating directly, you...

"Let the blood drip onto an earthenware plate, which has a bed of parsley and finely chopped garlic, often with the addition of little pieces of lean bacon. When the blood is coagulated, turn the plate over into a frying pan, add a little pork or goose fat, and cook it on both sides for a short time as you would a crêpe [or pancake]. Then transfer to a round plate and sprinkle a little vinegar on top."

Well, we were making this sanguette for Max, who loves it, as thanks for the new barn door, and Max, being Max, has his own special recipe, which Madame Binon was amenable to following. In fact, Americans may find it more appealing than the Larousse version. Here is Max's:

"Finely chop a medium-sized white onion into a recessed plate. Add pepper and salt to taste. Sprinkle a dozen thumb-nail size pieces of butter throughout. Hold a live chicken over the plate, slit the throat, and let the blood drop into the plate to cover the onion. Turn the plate over into skillet. Using a medium heat, cook on both sides, like a pancake; it should be no thicker than a finger. Stick a fork in it and if no blood shows, it is done."

Oh yes, I forgot. The blood. Madame Binon pinches the neck artery with two fingers and pierces it with the tip of the knife, to make the hole as small as possible as it pumps out the blood with every declining heartbeat. She does it this way, very neatly, in case you want to eat the head.

How does it taste? Yes, I've eaten it. Like a blood and onion pancake. Very crunchy. As the French say, "Chacun son goût."