By Sylvia Sabes

A happy dad—just don't ask his name!

“Hello,” I said with a bright smile. “I am M's mom. She is so thrilled your daughter invited her to the birthday party. She'll be very happy to join you. Oh, my name is Sylvia.” I rattled this off to the other mother in my nearly fluent French, my hand out, ready to shake.

“Oh, very well” was the rather dry response. The rejection hit me like a cold shower. Whatever had I done to offend this woman that she wouldn't even tell me her name? Our daughters were seven, went to school together and spent most of their afternoons at the playground with each other. The mom had a full-time job, so our paths rarely crossed. I could not for the life of me figure out what I had done wrong.

Such was my introduction to French society. This mother was an extreme example of traditional French manners, so extreme that she eventually pulled her daughter out of public school because it was just a bit too much for her. But the story stuck with me and taught me a very valuable lesson about French culture. Names here are a valuable commodity and not easily shared.

Understanding this helped me feel less ostracized from the neighborhood. When I met other moms at the park, and other parents who joined our coffee circle every morning at the café, I no longer took it as a snub if we did not exchange names. Eliminating the “Hi, my name is Sylvia” introduction put them at ease and let them know I was one of them. Eventually I'd learn their names. Or not.

When you ask for someone's name in French, you are actually asking for her last name. It is impossible for someone to think you are becoming too chummy. But if you've ever asked the name of a customer service agent in France, you know it is important information that is usually withheld. Even your doctor's secretary is unlikely to share her name.

I didn't understand why this was such an important part of the local culture until I met M. Parmentier. That's right—you probably know a dish named after his family. And a metro station. After our daughters had been friends and classmates for several years, he finally felt compelled to introduce himself. “Parmentier?” I queried. “As in the guy who convinced the French to eat potatoes?” I thought I was being clever and showing that I was not some hayseed Yankee. But I was quickly treated to a lesson in French military history. He explained that, actually, Parmentier had pioneered a system for extracting sugar from beets—which helped Napoleon win a war or two—and it was very frustrating for the family that everyone linked them to the lowly potato when their ancestor had really contributed so much more.

And then I got it. In France, when you give your name, you are often giving much, much more. You are revealing a piece of your family history. Mme Leroy . . . one of her husband's ancestors probably won an archery tournament in the Middle Ages, allowing his family to use the king's name for a year. Mme Leon . . . her family was from Leon, Spain, and was likely chased out during the Inquisition; they probably spent a century or two in Turkey before making it to France. That is a lot to know about someone you've just met. Which is why the French hold their names close to their chests. Oh, and Madame from the playground? I eventually learned that she has a princely name, probably worth guarding . . . de Saint-Exupéry.

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