Why We Love the French, Why the Japanese Disappoint

I realize that I'm probably going to offend someone by saying this, but if you have one of those disingenuously named "sport-utility vehicles," I've probably already wished some unspeakable evil upon you. I'm not opposed to conspicuous consumption, mind you, but I just wish for it to be confined to food, wine, and clothing—in short, things that don't ruin the environment while getting in my way on the road.

For those of you who already love the French, this will be just one more justification for your ardor. And for those of you who don't, I'm sure it will reinforce your small-minded, provincial thinking. Yes, the French have proposed to ban SUVs in Paris-centre. (Click here if you only read English.) I swear, I love these people.

As for the Japanese, things there are rather more disappointing. It seems the same food-science Einsteins who brought us the square (actually cubic) watermelon now offer poison-free fugu. Fugu, as you might recall from "The Simpsons" ("Poison... poison... poison... tasty fish!") is that deliciously daring delicacy that is mesmerizingly yummy when prepared by an expert sashimi chef—and irreversibly posionous when cut with even the slightest imprecision. Think of it as the Russian roulette of fine dining.

Now, it seems to me that the whole point of eating fugu is that it might actually kill you, but you hope (and probably believe) that it won't—sort of like maraschino cherries or Tater Tots. But take out the possibility of toxin, and you might as well eat Mrs. Paul's fish sticks. (Wait, bad analogy...)