The Office de la langue Française

Last night we had a dinner party of sorts; Brigitte made some fabulous salmon (I'm not one for cooked fish, but now I'm a convert -- just that, now _I_ have to learn how to make it).

But around the table were three couples . . . admittedly, in the " . . . is the new Thirty!" range, and the language range was all over the place. Every single person at the table spoke at least three languages, probably almost fluently.

Half the table was babbling in French and the other half in English. Parts of the table would interject in Hebrew. Those of us who didn't understand the topic language would be given a quick, friendly, hurried translation and then the multilingual chaos would resume. No one cared or took offense that they might not understand parts of some joke or little whispered side-to-side.

I was speaking to Anna, who is Polish and probably fluent in half a dozen eastern European languages, is married to an Israeli who speaks French, English and probably a half-dozen Middle-Eastern languages and we were talking about my son, who is Japanese (and American, and Canadian).

And lo and behold, the phone rang and I was talking to my son in Japanese, from Japan. But no one was amazed. I speak almost perfect conversational Japanese, like Anna does English, Brigitte does Hebrew, and all the other participants probably more than four languages apiece.

And then we have the Office de la langue Française, that bastion of Frenchdom in this sea of "Anglodom" who are truly just a small bunch of bullies all wanting to lash out at the most pathetic slight.

When we (two of the couples present last night) went to eat at Basi, an incredibly good Italian place near Jean-Talon market, we learned from the owner that someone, some little vindictive jerk, was targeting him because of some imagined slight, and had reported him to the OLF about some tiny imperfection on his menu, something about maybe the "Appetizers" title not being 50% smaller than the "Entrées" title. Or whatever.

But our brave restaurateur was genuinely captivated by our Calgarian (multilingual) guests' tales of no language hassles back west, and now I fear we're going to lose him.

Much as I love Montreal, I despise the backwater provincialism that even to this day seems to penetrate everday life.

Christ, most born-and-bred Americans can barely speak their own language. French from France: they're so consumed with their own Frenchness that most don't even bother to speak anything else.

And here, in this huge, friendly melting pot, we have the Language Police just to make sure the "Natives Don't Get Out Of Hand."

Pathetic.