The Frenchman doesn't seem to care about his birthday....there is no great anticipation, no hints dropped of what present might be sought, no suggestions of restaurants where he'd like to dine...nada...rien...bumpkis.
I should just check off the day as just another day of the week. But, then you know the drama moans would set it....it's my birthday, isn't it?? What are we doing? This isn't just a French thing...it's a universal male thing.
So, I run to Costco, get a few fun items (who knew I gave him a bathrobe two years ago...he's never worn it although he borrows mine incessantly) but the Frenchman uses this day of the year to stock up on.... you guessed...chocolate. He can never have enough. Never. Ever.
I know if I have to leave town, stocking up on wedges of brie, some bread, a little salami and a bucketload of chocolate, will assure the Frenchman is alive upon my return. And chocolate is such an easy gift. Anyone can buy it. You know it will never be returned....ever. And, it's always appreciated, dammit! Merci. By the way, the French love to make fun of the Belgians...ecpet when it comes to le chocolat....it has to be Belgian!