The French left, a collection of souls so perpetually affronted they could start a riot at a cheese tasting, has finally found its breaking point. And what, you ask, has pushed the beret-wearing brigade over the edge? Giant banquets.
Yes, tables groaning under the weight of roasted fowl, towers of macarons, and rivers of Burgundy have become the latest battleground in the class war that never sleeps. It seems the French bourgeoisie, in a stunning display of tone-deafness, have decided that the best way to celebrate their wealth is to host gargantuan feasts for the obscenely rich while the peasants gnaw on baguette ends. The left, naturally, has responded with the fury of a thousand exploding Camembert factories.
They call it an insult to the hungry, a provocation to the proletariat, and a spectacle so grotesque it might make Marie Antoinette blush. But let us not pretend this is about food. This is about theatre.
The left needs its villains, and what better villain than a man in a waistcoat stuffing his face with foie gras while the rest of the country queues for a hot meal? Across the Channel, we Brits watch with bemused horror and a pinch of envy. Our own class tensions simmer over the price of a pint and the audacity of second homes in Cornwall.
But the French? They do it with style. They do it with banners and barricades and the kind of righteous indignation that only a nation who invented both the guillotine and the croissant can muster.
So let them rage. Let them storm the banquets and demand equality. Because if there's one thing the French left knows how to do, it's to turn a dinner party into a revolution.
And frankly, their food is better than ours.
