The latest commentator to attempt to nail the essence of Englishness is
expatriate Frenchwoman Hortense de Monplaisir, currently resident off Fulham Road, as her husband is a
grosse légume in the City:
There is a famous crêperie on the King’s Road. (We love crêpes, as we have kept in touch with simple pleasures.) As lumpen doughy pancakes were brought to the table with a pitiful garnish of anaemic lettuce and flavourless tomatoes, I wept. I gazed out at the rain and said: “I cannot do this.” My husband held my hand and looked quite wretched.
Having no talent for sex (or food), the English make a virtue of their deficiencies. What they really enjoy is going without. Rather than leave the office for a delicious lunch, they will pull out a Tupper-ware box of sandwiches. Instead of a soirée sensuelle, candlelit dinner followed by a night of love, they’ll go to the country to strip wallpaper, walk in the rain and sleep in a freezing cold bed.
In France, we are wary of the marchands de biens, dealers who buy and sell houses for profit, but in England everyone is a marchand de bien. The property ladder is the very essence of Englishness: a fusion of greedy profiteering and stay-at-home cosiness.
I'd also recommend the book "Touche" by Agnes Poirier, a brilliant comparison of the differences in French and English society and mentality. I read it this weekend after returning from a trip to Paris - most enjoyable book I've read all year, and a great companion to "Watching The English"...