Yes, part of that is speed. French people do talk fast. But if that were the whole story, slowing down a podcast to 0.75x would fix everything, and it doesn’t, does it?

Edgar Degas, L’Absinthe. If you feel lost listening to French people while drinking Absinthe, your French may not be the only problem.

Here’s the truth nobody tells you in class: French is kind of sadistic. It doesn’t just happen to be hard to follow, it actively works to make itself harder to follow, at almost every level, on purpose. Here are the ten actual culprits, one by one.

1. Liaisons: letters that come back from the dead

You learned that French drops a lot of its final consonants. Mostly true. Except when a word starting with a vowel shows up right after, and suddenly that silent letter isn’t silent anymore. They’re coming back from the dead like in a classic Romero movie.

And because French couldn’t just leave it there, the letter doesn’t always come back sounding the way it looks. It shows up sounding like a different letter entirely.

• A liaison with a final s turns into a z sound: les amis → “les-z-ami”

• A liaison with a final d turns into a t sound: grand ami → “gran-t-ami”

• A liaison with a final f turns into a v sound: neuf ans → “neu-v-ans”

2. Enchaînements: when three words become one long word

Similar idea, different mechanism. This time it’s not a hidden letter reappearing. It’s the normal end of one word sliding directly into the start of the next one, with zero gap between them.

There are two kinds, and I promise this is the only grammar-textbook part of this whole article. L’Enchaînement consonantique is when a word already ending in a pronounced consonant slides straight into the next word’s vowel, like elle_arrive, which runs together as one block of sound.

L’Enchaînement vocalique is the vowel version of the same thing, two vowel sounds bumping into each other with no pause, like tu_a(s)_écouté. Either way, your ear gets one long stretch of sound where your textbook promised you three neat little words.

More on enchaînements and liaisons together : Liaisons vs enchaînements

3. The letters that are technically there and never used

This is the one everyone eventually notices but nobody warns you about in advance: a huge number of “correct” French sounds just get dropped in casual speech, and it’s usually the E, but not only.

• Je suis → j’suis

• Petit → ptit

• Tu es → t’es

This simple dropped letter actually causes a ton of trouble for my students when we’re trying to decode a scene from a film. Remember this: if you can’t understand a passage, it’s probably because a letter is missing somewhere. And most of the time, it’s je that becomes j’.

4. The words that just... leave

Some words don’t get shortened. They disappear entirely.

• Ne in negation: je ne sais pas → je sais pas

• Il in il y a: it vanishes completely, leaving y’a

• Put those together: il n’y a pas becomes y’a pas

If you mentally scan a sentence for the grammatical markers you were taught to look for, and those markers are simply missing, you will not hear a “shortened sentence.” You will hear nothing you can recognize. French did not merely shorten the sentence; it removed your only reliable clue, leaving you to decipher the rest on your own.

5. Filler words polluting every sentence

Hein, ben, euh, donc, and yes, putain. French speech is stitched together with small noises and words that carry close to zero actual meaning but show up constantly. I once counted how many times my dad said "bon" in a five-minute phone call. Nine. Not one of them meant "good."

Nobody teaches these because they’re not “real” vocabulary. But if a huge percentage of what you’re hearing is filler, and you don’t recognize it as filler, you end up trying to translate air.

Share French with Timo

6. Slang — introduced way too late, if at all

Most teaching methods present slang as an option reserved for advanced learners. In reality, however, French people use it from the very first sentence of an informal conversation—not after ten years of friendship. A beginner who has learned only the “clean” version of French will find themselves stumped by words that a seven-year-old French child already knows.

I go deeper on this here: Les 50 mots d’argot les plus utilisés

7. Verlan, in a category of its own

Verlan is French back-slang, where you flip the syllables of a word, and it deserves its own bullet point because of how relentlessly it shows up. Meuf (femme), ouf (fou), chelou (louche) aren't rare or edgy exceptions. They're everyday words for a lot of French speakers, and there is no logical way to guess them from the original word alone unless someone's shown you the pattern. If you decide to become my student, you might learn meuf before femme, and that’s totally fine!

I wrote a full breakdown of verlan here: Podcast #39 : Le Verlan, le français à l'envers

8. Regional accents and regional words

The standard French taught in classes essentially corresponds to the French spoken in Paris, yet France is far more than just its capital. I grew up in the North, where people say “chicon” instead of “endive” and “wassingue” instead of “serpillière.” If you head south, the accent alone alters vowel pronunciation, and you will discover terms like “pitchoun” to refer to a child. Alsace and Lorraine have their own vocabulary and rhythm, shaped by their proximity to the German border. One country, but very different sounds.

Now imagine being raised in all three. You basically end up speaking a different language depending on where you are. That's actually my case.

9. Idiomatic expressions standing in for plain sentences

French people rarely just say the literal thing when there is a colorful expression sitting right there instead. Instead of saying something is easy, it’s simple comme bonjour. Instead of saying you’re broke, you’re fauché. Someone annoying is lourd, or worse, a total mood swing is avoir la moutarde qui monte au nez. Textbooks tend to teach the “functional” version of French first and save idioms for later chapters that a lot of learners never actually reach. Native speakers never got that memo.

More idioms broken down here: 50 expressions françaises avec les animaux or I Bet You’ve Never Heard of ‘Pédaler dans la choucroute’

10. Onomatopoeia doing half the talking

French people pepper their stories with onomatopoeia right in the middle of a sentence, even as adults, and without the slightest embarrassment. Hop for something moving quickly or effortlessly. Paf for a sudden event or something breaking. Tac tac tac for a rapid, repetitive action, like typing or footsteps. Pfff to express exasperation. You won’t find these expressions on a vocabulary list, yet a French person might slip three of them into a single story without even realizing it. At this point, you have to wonder if the language does it on purpose, just to watch you struggle.

So where does that leave you?

Knowing your enemy is the whole point here. The moment you know these ten things exist, you start catching them in real time instead of getting swallowed by them. Do that consistently and the wall of sound you started with turns into something you can actually pick apart.

Starting next month, this is exactly what we will be doing together in L’Apéro Spoken French, part of a new programme called L’Apéro Club. Live, every month, picking apart real clips from real French people, until every liaison, dropped word, and pfff actually makes sense instead of sliding right past you.

More details land in your inbox next week. For now, just know it’s coming.

Subscribe now

À bientôt, Timo

Hey, I’m Timothée.

I write about the French language the way it’s actually lived: through cafés, music, awkward conversations, old expressions, cultural rituals, and all the small things textbooks usually forget.

If you enjoy learning French through stories, culture, music, and the hidden meaning behind words, you’ll probably enjoy the premium version of this newsletter.

Become a premium member and get access to full podcasts, translations, vocabulary notes, interactive exercises, and live workshops — all for about the price of a coffee each month.

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If you enjoyed this content but don’t feel like subscribing just yet, you can always buy me a coffee. It’ll motivate me to create more content like this!

Keep me caffeinated

Personally, I don't see that as only bad news. It speeds up the repetitive stuff so you can focus on what actually matters. But what about learning a language? I went and did some digging, and that’s what this episode is about.

This episode is free, and it’s the warm-up. The practical part happens live in L’Atelier on Wednesday 26 August at 7pm French time, reserved for premium members: the tools, the prompts, and yes, building your own French app without writing a single line of code.

Find the sign-up link in the subscriber chat:

Et maintenant, place au podcast — English translation available at the end of the article.

Une équipe du MIT a branché des électrodes sur le crâne de gens qui écrivaient avec ChatGPT. Et les résultats ne sont pas très rassurants.

Mais une méta-analyse de trente-et-une études sur l’apprentissage des langues dit exactement le contraire.

Et vous, vous utilisez déjà l’IA pour apprendre le français. Aujourd’hui. Sans le savoir.

Bienvenue dans cet épisode de French with Timo, où on ouvre le dossier qui divise tous les profs de langues : faut-il utiliser l’IA — l’intelligence artificielle — pour apprendre le français ?

D’abord, les mauvaises nouvelles

Le MIT a fait une expérience simple. Des électrodes sur la tête, et trois groupes qui écrivent un texte : un avec ChatGPT, un avec Google, un sans rien. Résultat, le groupe sans rien avait l’activité cérébrale la plus riche. Le groupe ChatGPT, la plus faible. Bon, jusque-là, ça n’étonne personne. Mais ensuite, cinq minutes après avoir écrit leur texte, beaucoup d’utilisateurs de ChatGPT étaient incapables d’en citer une phrase. Ils avaient écrit sans retenir. Les chercheurs appellent ça la « dette cognitive ».

Il y a aussi l’affaire Duolingo, que vous avez peut-être suivie. En 2025, l’entreprise annonce qu’elle devient « AI-first », l’IA remplace les concepteurs de cours humains. Sauf que les utilisateurs l’ont très mal pris. Certains suppriment volontairement des séries de cinq cents jours, par protestation. Et sur Reddit, un mot revient sans arrêt : « AI slop », de la bouillie. Franchement, en tant que prof, ça m’a un peu ému. Et le PDG a fait marche arrière quelques mois plus tard.

Et puis il y a un argument qu’on entend presque jamais dans ces débats, et qui est pourtant très concret : l’eau et l’électricité. Écrire un email de cent mots avec ChatGPT consomme environ un demi-litre d’eau, à peu près une petite bouteille. Et d’ici 2027, l’ensemble des infrastructures IA pourrait consommer l’équivalent de la moitié du prélèvement annuel d’eau du Royaume-Uni. Donc chaque fois qu’on demande à une IA de reformuler une phrase, il y a un coût quelque part, qu’on ne voit jamais depuis son téléphone.

Voilà pour le contre. Ce ne sont pas des arguments de vieux prof grincheux, hein, ce sont des données.

Maintenant, le positif

Première chose, et beaucoup ne la remarquent jamais : vous utilisez déjà l’IA pour votre français, sans le savoir. Le petit résumé qui apparaît en haut de vos recherches Google, c’est de l’IA. L’accent aigu que votre téléphone rajoute tout seul, c’est de l’IA aussi. Le train est parti depuis longtemps, et la question n’est plus « pour ou contre » mais « comment je monte dedans sans me faire écraser ».

Ensuite les chiffres, bah ils sont têtus. Une méta-analyse de trente-et-une études trouve un effet positif des chatbots sur l’apprentissage des langues. Une deuxième arrive à la même conclusion. Donc d’un côté le MIT nous dit attention danger, et de l’autre la recherche en didactique des langues dit que ça marche.

Et il y a surtout un résultat qui me parle beaucoup en tant que prof : l’IA réduit l’anxiété. Devant un robot, personne n’a peur du ridicule. Vous pouvez vous tromper trente fois de suite, il ne soupire jamais, il ne regarde pas sa montre. Et pour beaucoup d’entre vous, la peur de parler et de se ridiculiser est le vrai blocage, bien avant la grammaire.

Concrètement, qu’est-ce qu’on peut faire ?

Le plus simple, c’est de poser une question de grammaire précise, du genre pourquoi on dit « je me souviens de mon enfance » mais « je me rappelle mon enfance ». Avant, il fallait fouiller un forum. Maintenant, dix secondes suffisent.

Autre chose très intéressante : la conversation orale. En mode vocal, vous demandez à ChatGPT de jouer un rôle, un serveur, un vendeur, et vous parlez avec lui en temps réel. Vous pouvez lui demander de ralentir, de rester en B1, de vous reprendre à chaque erreur. Personnellement je l'utilise pour pratiquer mon anglais oral. J'ai même demandé à mon professeur du jour de simuler l'accent qui me pose le plus de problème en ce moment, celui d'une maman de Minneapolis avec qui je parle parfois quand j'accompagne ma fille à la piscine. Et au final on a parlé vingt minutes pendant que je cuisinais.

Ensuite il y a les exercices sur mesure. Vous confondez toujours l’imparfait et le passé composé ? Vous donnez dix de vos propres phrases fausses et vous demandez vingt exercices là-dessus, uniquement là-dessus, avec les corrections.

Et pour finir, le truc que je trouve complètement dingue : demander à une IA de vous construire une application. Avec un outil comme Lovable, une phrase suffit, du genre « crée-moi une appli qui m’affiche cinq mots de vocabulaire chaque matin », et l’appli existe, sans écrire une ligne de code.

Petite anecdote au passage : j’ai testé le mode vocal en français avec l’IA Claude. Il me répond avec un accent québécois, impossible de lui faire changer.

Mon verdict

L’étude du MIT ne dit pas que l’IA rend bête. Elle dit que si la machine fait le travail à votre place, votre cerveau se met en veille. Logique.

Mais apprendre une langue, ce n’est pas écrire un texte. C’est parler, se tromper, recommencer. Et pour ça, l’IA peut être un très bon outil, surtout pour les personnes qui manquent de confiance à l’oral.

Bon évidemment, ça ne remplecera jamais un prof de français, on est d’accord, et heureusement mais c’est un outil en plus.

Si vous voulez la partie pratique, c’est mercredi 26 août à 19h, heure française, pendant L’Atelier, le workshop réservé aux membres premium et il sera enregistré si vous ne pouvez pas être là. Retrouvez le lien d’inscription dans le chat des abonnés.

Retrouvez aussi la liste de vocabulaire ci-dessous et faites le quiz interactif pour pratiquer votre compréhension !

À bientôt et merci de m’avoir écouté !

Sources

• MIT Media Lab — Kos’myna et al., Your Brain on ChatGPT: Accumulation of Cognitive Debt when Using an AI Assistant for Essay Writing Task (2025)

• Lyu et al. — Effectiveness of Chatbots in Improving Language Learning: A Meta-Analysis of Comparative Studies, International Journal of Applied Linguistics (2025)

• Wang, Cheung, Neitzel & Chai — Does Chatting with Chatbots Improve Language Learning Performance?, Review of Educational Research

• AI-driven chatbots in second language education: A systematic review, ScienceDirect (2025)

• Bastani et al. (2024), cité dans The Memory Paradox: Why Our Brains Need Knowledge in an Age of AI — sur les lycéens et GPT-4

• Li, Ren et al. — Making AI Less Thirsty: Uncovering and Addressing the Secret Water Footprint of AI Models, Communications of the ACM (2025)

• Jegham et al. — How Hungry is AI? Benchmarking Energy, Water, and Carbon Footprint of LLM Inference (2025) — comparaison énergie ChatGPT vs recherche Google

• Kristen Doerer — Duolingo went ‘AI-first’ and then came the consumer backlash,

  customerexperiencedive.com

• Natalie Stechyson — Duolingo’s CEO says AI will soon replace teachers. But... should it?, CBC News

Liste de vocabulaire

La science et les études

• le crâne : the skull

• l’activité cérébrale : brain activity

• une dette (cognitive) : a (cognitive) debt

• têtu, -e (les chiffres sont têtus) : stubborn (the numbers don’t lie)

Le débat et l’opinion

• grincheux, -euse : grumpy, cranky

• faire marche arrière : to backtrack, to reverse course

Apprendre et se tromper

• un blocage : a mental block

• le ridicule (avoir peur du ridicule) : looking foolish (to fear looking foolish)

• sur mesure : tailor-made, custom

• fouiller : to dig around, to rummage

Expressions et images

• de la bouillie : mush (here: low-quality content)

• le train est parti : the train has left the station

• se mettre en veille : to go into standby mode

• dingue : crazy, insane (familier)

New: The interactive quiz is available directly in the app: frenchwithtimo.com

Bon week-end à tous, et rendez-vous le 26 août pour L’Atelier !

Timo

Hey, I’m Timothée.

I write about the French language the way it’s actually lived: through cafés, music, awkward conversations, old expressions, cultural rituals, and all the small things textbooks usually forget.

If you enjoy learning French through stories, culture, music, and the hidden meaning behind words, you’ll probably enjoy the premium version of this newsletter.

Become a premium member and get access to full podcasts, translations, vocabulary notes, interactive exercises, and live workshops — all for about the price of a coffee each month.

Subscribe now

If you enjoyed this content but don’t feel like subscribing just yet, you can always buy me a coffee. It’ll motivate me to create more content like this!

Keep me caffeinated

English Translation

An MIT team put electrodes on the heads of people writing with ChatGPT. The results are not reassuring.

But a meta-analysis of thirty-one studies on language learning says exactly the opposite.

And you? You’re already using AI to learn French. Today. Without knowing it.

Welcome to this episode of French with Timo, where we open the file that divides every language teacher: should you use AI to learn French?

First, the bad news

MIT ran a simple experiment. Electrodes on the head, and three groups writing a text: one with ChatGPT, one with Google, one with nothing at all. The result: the group with nothing showed the richest brain activity. The ChatGPT group, the weakest. Fine, nothing surprising so far. But then, five minutes after writing their text, many ChatGPT users couldn’t quote a single sentence from it. They had written without retaining anything. Researchers call this “cognitive debt.”

There’s also the Duolingo affair, which you may have followed. In 2025, the company announced it was going “AI-first,” with AI replacing human course designers. Except users took it very badly. Some people deliberately deleted five-hundred-day streaks, in protest. On Reddit, one phrase kept coming back: “AI slop.” Honestly, as a teacher, that moved me a little. The CEO backtracked a few months later.

And then there’s an argument almost nobody brings up in these debates, and yet it’s a very concrete one: water and electricity. Writing a hundred-word email with ChatGPT uses about half a litre of water, roughly a bottle. And by 2027, AI infrastructure as a whole could consume the equivalent of half the United Kingdom’s annual water withdrawal. So every time you ask an AI to rephrase a sentence, there’s a cost somewhere, one you never see from your phone.

So much for the case against. These aren’t the arguments of a grumpy old teacher, they’re data.

Now, the positive side

First thing, and many people never notice it: you’re already using AI for your French, without knowing it. The little summary that appears at the top of your Google searches, that’s AI. The accent aigu your phone adds on its own, that’s AI too. The train left the station a long time ago, and the question is no longer “for or against” but “how do I get on board without getting run over.”

Then the numbers, and they’re stubborn. A meta-analysis of thirty-one studies finds a positive effect of chatbots on language learning. A second one reaches the same conclusion. So on one side MIT is telling us watch out, danger, and on the other, research in language teaching says it works.

Above all, there’s one result that speaks to me a lot as a teacher: AI reduces anxiety. In front of a robot, nobody is afraid of looking foolish. You can get it wrong thirty times in a row, it never sighs, it never checks the time. And for many of you, the fear of speaking and of making a fool of yourself is the real block, long before grammar.

So what can you actually do?

The simplest thing is to ask a precise grammar question, something like why “je me souviens de mon enfance” but “je me rappelle mon enfance.” Before, you had to dig through a forum. Now, ten seconds is enough.

After that it gets interesting: speaking practice. In voice mode, you ask ChatGPT to play a role, a waiter, a shopkeeper, and you talk with it in real time. You can ask it to slow down, stay at B1 level, correct you on every mistake. I personally use it to practise my spoken English. I even asked my “teacher of the day” to mimic the accent that gives me the most trouble right now, a mom from Minneapolis I sometimes talk to when I drop my daughter off at the pool. In the end we talked for twenty minutes while I was cooking.

Then there are custom exercises. Always mixing up the imparfait and the passé composé? Give it ten of your own wrong sentences and ask for twenty exercises on exactly that, and nothing else, with corrections.

And finally, the thing I find completely crazy: asking an AI to build you an application. With a tool like Lovable, one sentence is enough, something like “build me an app that shows me five vocabulary words every morning,” and the app exists, without writing a single line of code.

Quick aside: I ran the same test in French with Claude. It answers me with a Québécois accent, impossible to make it change. Tabarnak.

My verdict

The MIT study doesn’t say AI makes you stupid. It says that when a machine does the work for you, your brain goes into standby. Which is logical.

But learning a language isn’t writing a text. It’s speaking, messing up, starting again. And for that, AI can be a very good tool, especially for people who lack confidence speaking out loud.

If you want the practical part, it’s Wednesday 26 August at 7pm French time, during L’Atelier, reserved for premium members and it will be recorded if you can’t be there. Find the sign-up link in the subscriber chat.

You’ll also find the vocabulary list above, and the interactive quiz to practise your comprehension!

See you soon, and thanks for listening!

My neighbor Camille told me that her sister-in-law had spotted Camille’s boyfriend at the gym with someone else.

So now Camille's convinced her boyfriend is cheating on her. Juicy, I know. But sadly, that's not why we're here. What we actually care about is how a good gossip session can affect grammar.

Two things run this system: le discours rapporté (reported speech) and la concordance des temps (tense agreement).

Au Moulin-Rouge, Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec

Le discours rapporté is how French speakers report what someone said: you either quote it word for word (discours direct), or you turn it into your own sentence (discours indirect).

La concordance des temps is the system that determines how verb tenses change when you report what someone said. The tense of the reported verb can change depending on the tense of the reporting verb.

One is about sentence structure. The other is about timing. You need both to gossip well in French.

1. Quoting someone vs. reporting what they said

Say Camille actually says this to you, word for word:

« Je crois que mon copain me trompe. » — “I think my boyfriend is cheating on me.”

If you repeat that exactly, quotation marks included, that’s discours direct. You’re basically a tape recorder.

But when you pass that on to someone else, you don’t quote Camille, you describe what she said, and her words have to be rebuilt from your point of view. For example, when a third person missed the gossip entirely and you have to let them know what happened:

Elle dit qu’elle croit que son copain la trompe. — "She says she thinks her boyfriend is cheating on her."

That’s le discours indirect, glued together with the word que (qu’ before a vowel).

Notice that the tense doesn’t change here: croit stays in the present tense because the introducing verb, dit, is also in the present tense. Nothing to shift backward. But the pronouns and possessives still change to match the new speaker: mon copain becomes son copain, me becomes la. You're not changing when the story happened, just whose mouth it's coming out of now.

2. Tense agreement, or why the story keeps changing tense on you

Once you attach someone’s words to a reporting verb in the past, like elle a dit que (“she said that…”), the original tense has to slide backward. We call it concordance des temps. Without it, you’ll be butchering your conjugation! Here’s what that looks like in practice.

Présent → Imparfait

• Direct: Léa dit : « Je suis sûre qu’il la trompe avec sa collègue. »

• Indirect: Léa a dit qu’elle était sûre qu’il la trompait avec sa collègue.

Passé composé → Plus-que-parfait

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I ended up recording a full podcast episode in easy French about it, with cowboy-hat Eiffel Towers, a town literally named “cul-de-sac,” and the actual history behind it.

This podcast is reserved for premium members.

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Savez-vous qu’il existe plus de 20 villes appelées Paris aux États-Unis ?

Qu’il y a une ville Versailles dans le Kentucky, dans l’Ohio, dans le Missouri, dans l’Indiana et dans l’Illinois ?

Que Louisville, Duluth, Detroit ou même Boise doivent tous leur nom au français ?

Et que certaines de ces petites villes du Texas ou du Tennessee ont carrément construit... leur propre tour Eiffel ?

Bienvenue dans cet épisode de French with Timo où on part à la chasse aux noms français perdus au milieu de l’Amérique.

Read more

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Suzon, barmaid des Folies Bergère, a l’air de s’en foutre royalement — Édouard Manet

So what is le je-m’en-foutisme ? If we check the dictionary — Le Larousse, évidemment — here’s the definition: “An attitude of total indifference toward events.”

Apparently this expression is considered vieilli by the dictionary. Well then. I guess I’m getting old too. Old-fashioned.

Old-fashioned or not, it’s worth knowing. If you’re a je-m’en-foutiste like me, this comes up more than you’d expect.

The verb to watch out for: foutre

The expression is built on foutre, a verb with a lot of meanings, cousin of a certain English word starting with the same letter — the F. Use it carefully! It’s usually less vulgar than its English relative, but not always:

“I don’t care/I don’t give a damn.” Casual. Fine in most company. “En” replaces “de ça”, je me fous de ça.

Funnily enough, the very first sentence my wife ever learned in French was “je m’en fous, connasse” — courtesy of my very good friend Victoire, also a je-m’en-foutiste, when my future wife asked her what she should say to her future mother-in-law on their first meeting. Thankfully, she never actually used it. Maybe it’ll come in handy one day. In a different context, hopefully.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Now compare:

That one’s crossed into F-word territory. Know the difference before you say either.

If you would rather skip foutre altogether, there is « Je m’en fiche ». It’s the same but softer. Say this one enough and you become a je-m’en-fichiste instead.

The polished versions

Not every situation requires “je m’en fous.” Sometimes you want to sound like you’ve thought about it and decided, calmly, that you don’t care.

The everyday versions

For friends, for Tuesdays, for anything that doesn’t need the polish above:

That’s it. Pick whichever one fits you. Next time someone asks if you’re juilletiste, aoûtien, or aoûtienne, you’ll have something to say! Or, more accurately, a very elegant (ou pas) way of saying you don’t.

And to finish things off, a little Spoken French: a video from my master, my role model, the guru of je-m’en-foutisme himself:

Team juilletiste, team aoûtien, or team je-m’en-foutiste? Tell me in the comments. No pressure to care either way.

Qu’importe.

Leave a comment

À vendredi pour un nouveau podcast !

Timo

Hey, I’m Timothée.

I write about the French language the way it’s actually lived: through cafés, music, awkward conversations, old expressions, cultural rituals, and all the small things textbooks usually forget.

If you enjoy learning French through stories, culture, music, and the hidden meaning behind words, you’ll probably enjoy the premium version of this newsletter.

Become a premium member and get access to full podcasts, Spoken French articles, interactive exercises in my app, and live workshops. All for about the price of a coffee each month.

Subscribe now

This episode is for paid subscribers. If you’re not one yet, this might be a good one to start with — you’ll get the vocabulary list, a listening comprehension quiz, and a couple of movie recommendations that go with the theme.

Subscribe now

English Translation available at the end

Salut à tous, et bienvenue sur le podcast de French with Timo.

Aujourd’hui, je ne peux pas parler d’autre chose. Depuis le 22 juillet 2026, la Gironde brûle. Un incendie immense a déjà détruit plus de 42 000 hectares de forêt, entre Bordeaux et le bassin d’Arcachon. Environ 220 000 personnes ont dû quitter leur maison. Plus de 2 500 pompiers, 1 500 militaires et 1 200 policiers et gendarmes sont mobilisés, avec des avions, des hélicoptères, même un avion militaire A400M pour lâcher de l’eau.

C’est un des plus gros incendies depuis 1949. Et moi, honnêtement… bah ce me rend triste, hein. La Gironde, c’est une des régions de France que j’aime le plus. Quand j’entends les noms des villes à la radio — Le Porge, Lacanau, Cap Ferret — ça me rappelle tellement de souvenirs. Le camping à Cap Ferret à la sortie de l’adolescence. Les sessions piscine à Saint-Médard, chez les parents d’un ami, en banlieue bordelaise. Les huîtres les pieds dans l’eau, à L’Herbe — le seul endroit où je mange des huîtres, parce qu’elles

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But this video is also an episode from the Bloqués series with Orelsan, the famous rapper, and his sidekick Gringe. And more importantly, it’s the debut of the character Serge le mytho — played by Jonathan Cohen, who’ll get his own spin-off series later on. As the name suggests, Serge le mytho(mane) is someone who does nothing but tell tall tales. In French we’d say il raconte que des salades — literally “tells nothing but salads,” meaning he spins one lie after another. And the two guys squatting on the sofa believe every word of it like total suckers.

So how do you use this resource?

First, watch the video once, with no subtitles (there aren’t any anyway). Rate your understanding — as a percentage if you like, or just: “I got everything,” “I didn’t get much,” or “it’s all Chinese to me” (c’est du chinois pour moi, as the French say when something sounds like gibberish). The title alone should give you some context. Remember: Serge is a mythomane.

If it’s too fast, remember you can slow it down a little on YouTube. I recommend setting it to 0.95x to keep it natural.

Next, read through the vocabulary list pulled from the video and try watching again.

• aux States — casual, very common way of saying “in the States” / “in the US” — French speakers often just borrow the English word rather than saying aux États-Unis.

• mon reup — verlan (backwards slang) for mon père (my father). Say the syllables of père backwards and you basically get reup.

• poto — slang for pote, meaning “friend” or “buddy.”

• ouf — verlan for fou (”crazy”). It pops up twice: “un ouf des fruits et légumes” (a crazy guy in the fruit-and-veg business) and later “un truc de ouf” (a crazy/wild thing).

• ça cartonnait de malade — a very informal way of saying “business was booming” or “it was going really well.” Cartonner on its own already means “to be a huge success”; tacking on de malade just cranks up the intensity.

• Rungis — not slang, but useful context: it’s the giant wholesale food market just outside Paris, the place any French fruit-and-veg seller would go to stock up.

• avoir un délire / un tic — to have a quirky little obsession or a recurring habit, something a person does over and over almost compulsively.

• caisse — slang for “car.” “Eh mec ! Elle est où ma caisse ?” = “Dude, Where’s My Car?”

• péter un boulard — to totally lose it, to freak out or flip out.

• t’es un génie — “you’re a genius,” said here sarcastically and admiringly at once.

• la pomme quécro — quécro is verlan for croqué ("bitten"), so this literally means "the bitten apple."

• putin — a softened spelling of putain, a very common (and very mild, almost reflexive) French swear word used for emphasis, like “damn.”

• j’te’l donne — casual contraction of je te le donne, “I’ll give it to you.” Notice how in spoken French, je te le practically melts into one sound.

• c’est pas golri — golri is slang for rigolo (”funny”), so this means “that’s not funny.”

• oim — verlan for moi (”me”).

• répleu — verlan for pleurer (”to cry”).

• une polémique — “a controversy” or “a public backlash,” exactly what erupts over the iPhone name.

• ma reum — verlan for mère (mother), the female counterpart to reup — same backwards-slang pattern, different parent.

Starting to piece together what it’s about? What’s your comprehension level now? There are three main jokes you need to catch:

• The origin of the Apple logo

• The controversy around the iPhone 7’s name

• The Japanese wink (le clin d’œil japonais)

Watch the video one more time. So, do the jokes make sense now?

I’m not going to hand you the solutions, because I want you to struggle a bit — je veux que vous galériez, that’s the whole point of these episodes. If I gave you the sentences outright, I know you — you’d just read them without even trying to understand first. And that’s exactly the most valuable part: listening over and over until the message finally clicks. It might feel like torture, but the more you do it, the easier real-life listening becomes.

Between us: it’s better to be frustrated alone in front of your computer screen than in front of the boulangère (the bakery lady) with a line of impatient Parisians breathing down your neck! Bon ok, la boulangère ne parle pas en verlan…

But since I’m nice, I’ll drop the script for this episode in the paid subscriber chat next week. C’est plus fort que moi — I just can’t help myself.

In the meantime, you can brush up on your argot and get a head start on your verlan!

Bises,

Timo

Hey, I’m Timothée.

I write about the French language the way it’s actually lived: through cafés, music, awkward conversations, old expressions, cultural rituals, and all the small things textbooks usually forget.

If you enjoy learning French through stories, culture, music, and the hidden meaning behind words, you’ll probably enjoy the premium version of this newsletter.

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That’s usually the moment learners hit a wall they can’t quite name. They know the words, they know the tenses, but their French still comes out short and choppy: fact, then fact, never linking them. It sounds, well, like a vintage robot. And since that’s literally what this podcast is called out to fix, let’s fix it. The problem isn’t more vocabulary. It’s what’s missing between the sentences: the glue.

That glue has a name: les pronoms relatifs. Qui. Que. Dont. Où.

Master these four words, and “J’ai un ami. Il habite à Paris” becomes “J’ai un ami qui habite à Paris”. One fluid sentence instead of two robotic ones. That’s really the whole point of today’s episode.

This podcast stays free. But if it’s useful to you, becoming a paid subscriber gets you a new episode every week, full access to every article and exercise, a seat at L’Atelier — my monthly live conversation workshop (this Wednesday’s session covers today’s topic; link’s in the paid subscribers’ chat) — and the app I am building so you can study wherever you are. Less than a coffee a month.

🎁 As a bonus, you’ll also get The Honest French Guide, my practical guide to French language and culture, at no extra cost.

Et maintenant, place au podcast.

English Transcription available at the end of the post

Salut à tous, bienvenue dans un nouvel épisode de French with Timo !

En mars dernier, j’avais fait un podcast pour démystifier le subjonctif, et vous aviez beaucoup apprécié. Alors, comme ça fait longtemps qu’on n’a pas parlé grammaire, j’ai eu envie cette semaine d’aborder un autre sujet qui terrorise les apprenants.

Et après réflexion, je pense qu’un autre thème essentiel pour passer un cap en français, c’est les pronoms relatifs.

Pourquoi ? Parce que ce sont les pronoms relatifs qui vous permettent de faire des phrases plus complexes. Sans eux, vous parlez comme un robot, en répétant les mots. Et je parle d’un robot vintage, hein, pas d’un robot de notre époque qui fonctionne avec l’IA, parce que ceux-là ont déjà dépassé l’humain !

Qu’est-ce qu’un pronom ?

Avant de parler de “pronom relatif”, il faut comprendre ce qu’est un pronom, tout simplement.

Un pronom, c’est un petit mot qui remplace un nom. Ça sert à éviter de répéter quelque chose qu’on a déjà mentionné, ou qui est sous-entendu.

Exemple simple : “Marie est arrivée. Marie est fatiguée.”

C’est lourd, non ? On répète “Marie” deux fois. Alors on utilise un pronom :

“Marie est arrivée. Elle est fatiguée.”

“Elle” remplace “Marie”. C’est un pronom (sujet). Facile, non ?

Eh bien, un pronom relatif, c’est exactement la même idée : un petit mot qui remplace quelque chose déjà mentionné. Mais il a un pouvoir en plus.

Pourquoi “relatif” ?

Le mot “relatif” vient du verbe “relier”. Relier, ça veut dire “attacher ensemble”, “connecter”.

Un pronom relatif, c’est donc un pronom qui relie deux phrases en une seule. Il crée une relation entre deux informations sur le même mot.

Écoutez :

“J’ai un ami. Il (cet ami) habite à Paris.”

Deux phrases, un peu répétitives. Avec un pronom relatif, on les relie :

“J’ai un ami qui habite à Paris.”

Une seule phrase, plus fluide, plus naturelle. Voilà à quoi ça sert : faire des phrases plus riches, sans répéter les mots.

Les 4 pronoms relatifs de base

Il existe 4 pronoms relatifs basiques. 4, comme les tortues ninja ! Ou comme les Beatles, si c’est plus votre truc.

Ce sont : qui, que, dont, où.

Chacun a une fonction différente. On les regarde un par un.

QUI

“Qui” remplace le sujet de la deuxième phrase.

Exemple : “J’ai un ami. Cet ami habite à Paris.” → Cet ami, c’est le sujet du verbe “habite”. Donc : “J’ai un ami qui habite à Paris.” Ici, “qui” a fonction de sujet.

QUE

“Que” remplace le complément d’objet direct, c’est-à-dire la personne ou la chose qui reçoit l’action.

Exemple : “J’ai lu un livre. J’adore ce livre.” → “Ce livre”, c’est ce que j’adore, l’objet du verbe “adorer”. Donc : “J’ai lu un livre que j’adore.”

Le troisième c’est :

DONT

“Dont” remplace quelque chose introduit par la préposition “de”.

Exemple : “Le livre est incroyable. Je te parle de ce livre.” Dans cette phrase parler se construit avec la préposition “de” → “Je te parle de ce livre”. Donc : “Le livre dont je te parle est incroyable.”

Autre exemple, lorsqu’il y a appartenance : “J’ai un collègue. Le frère de ce collègue est acteur.” → “J’ai un collègue dont le frère est acteur.”

Et enfin :

OÙ

“Où” remplace un lieu ou un moment dans le temps.

Exemple pour le lieu : “Voici la ville. J’ai grandi dans cette ville.” → “Voici la ville où j’ai grandi.”

Exemple pour le temps : “Je me souviens du jour. Ce jour-là, on s’est rencontrés.” → “Je me souviens du jour où on s’est rencontrés.”

Voilà, ça c’est la base. Si cette première partie du podcast vous a simplement servi de révision, félicitations, vous maîtrisez déjà bien le sujet. Maintenant, on passe à la suite, un peu plus difficile : Les pronoms relatifs composés.

Les pronoms relatifs composés

Les pronoms relatifs composés, ce sont : lequel (masculin singulier), laquelle (féminin singulier), lesquels (masculin pluriel), lesquelles (féminin pluriel). On les utilise après une préposition (avec, pour, sur, dans, sous, etc.), pour parler d’une chose.

Exemple : Voici le stylo. J’écris avec le stylo. → “Voici le stylo avec lequel j’écris.”

J’ai utilisé Lequel parce que stylo est masculin singulier.

Autre exemple :

C’est une question. Je pense souvent à la question. → “C’est une question à laquelle je pense souvent.”

Question est un mot féminin singulier, c’est pour ça que j’ai utilisé laquelle.

Voilà, c’est super simple. Mais ça se complique un peu ensuite :

Ces pronoms se transforment — on appelle ça la fusion — quand ils sont précédés de “à” ou de “de”.

• De + lequel = duquel

• À + lequel = auquel

Et oui, vous le savez déjà, hein, “de + le = du” et “à + le = au”. Eh bien ici, c’est exactement pareil !

À ça, il faut ajouter les transformations selon le genre et le nombre :

• Masculin singulier : lequel → duquel / auquel

• Féminin singulier : laquelle → de laquelle / à laquelle

• Masculin pluriel : lesquels → desquels / auxquels

• Féminin pluriel : lesquelles → desquelles / auxquelles

Vous avez peut-être remarqué qu’il n’y a pas de fusion au féminin singulier. C’est normal : vous savez déjà que “de + la” reste “de la”, et “à + la” reste “à la”. Donc “laquelle” ne se transforme jamais complètement, elle reste “de laquelle” et “à laquelle”.

Dont ou duquel ?

Alors, petite question logique : pourquoi on a “dont” ET “duquel” ? Ils veulent dire un peu la même chose non ?

En fait, on utilise dont par défaut, dans la majorité des cas, quand le “de” est directement lié au verbe, ou au nom dans le cas d’une appartenance.

Exemple : “Le livre dont je te parle.” (parler de)

Mais on utilise duquel (ou de laquelle, desquels, desquelles) quand le « de » fait partie d’une préposition composée — appelée aussi locution prépositive —, plus longue, en plusieurs mots, comme « à côté de », « en face de », « au sujet de » ou « près de ».

Exemple : “La maison à côté de laquelle j’habite.” (et pas “dont j’habite à côté”, ça sonnerait bizarre… mais en fait c’est pas correct !)

Alors je récapitule :

• préposition simple “de” → dont.

• Préposition composée avec “de” à la fin → duquel / de laquelle / desquels / desquelles.

Ce qui, ce que, ce dont

Pour finir, un dernier petit groupe : ce qui, ce que, ce dont.

C’est exactement la même logique que “qui / que / dont”, sauf qu’ici, on ne remplace pas un nom précis, mais une idée générale, quelque chose de non défini. Le petit mot “ce” veut dire “la chose”.

• Ce qui = sujet, idée générale

  Exemple : “Ce qui m’intéresse, c’est le français.” (on peut remplacer par : la chose qui m’intéresse, c’est le français)

• Ce que = objet, idée générale

  Exemple : “Je ne comprends pas ce que tu dis.” (la chose que tu dis)

• Ce dont = avec “de”, idée générale

  Exemple : “Ce dont j’ai besoin, c’est de vacances.” (la chose dont j’ai besoin, avoir besoin de)

Vous voyez, c’est exactement la même logique que qui/que/dont, mais version “idée générale, pas de nom précis”.

Voilà, on a fait le tour des pronoms relatifs : les 4 de base — qui, que, dont, où — et les composés : lequel et ses copains, duquel, auquel, et enfin ce qui, ce que, ce dont.

Ne cherchez pas à tout mémoriser d’un coup. L’important c’est de bien comprendre la règle. Quand vous écouterez des Français parler, repérez ces petits mots, et petit à petit, ça deviendra naturel.

Merci de m’avoir écouté jusqu’au bout. Si cet épisode vous a aidé, n’hésitez pas à le partager, et à laisser un commentaire avec vos questions. Et on se retrouve mercredi 29 juillet pour l’atelier mensuel (lien sur le chat des abonnés payants) où je répondrai à vos questions sur les pronoms relatifs et pour pratiquer ensemble avec des exercices. Allez faire les exercices sur l’app pour pratiquer un peu !

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Allez, à bientôt, et bon courage avec votre français !

Find the link to the workshop in the paid subscribers’ chat:

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Do you want to remember this lesson, not just listen to it? I've added a new interactive exercise on Pronoms relatifs to the French with Timo app.

It’s reserved for premium subscribers. If that’s you, head over and give it a try:

👉 frenchwithtimo.com/grammar

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À la semaine prochaine !

Timo

English Translation

Hi everyone, welcome to a new episode of French with Timo!

Last March, I did a podcast to demystify the subjunctive, and you really enjoyed it. So since it’s been a while since we talked grammar, I felt like tackling another subject this week that terrifies learners.

And after thinking about it, I believe another essential topic for leveling up in French is relative pronouns.

Why? Because relative pronouns are what let you build more complex sentences. Without them, you sound like a robot, repeating words over and over. And I mean a vintage robot, of course — not one of today’s AI-powered robots, because those have already surpassed humans!

What is a pronoun?

Before talking about “relative pronouns,” we need to understand what a pronoun simply is.

A pronoun is a small word that replaces a noun. It’s there to avoid repeating something already mentioned, or something implied.

Simple example: “Marie est arrivée. Marie est fatiguée.”

That’s clunky, right? We repeat “Marie” twice. So we use a pronoun instead:

“Marie est arrivée. Elle est fatiguée.”

“Elle” replaces “Marie.” That’s a pronoun (a subject pronoun). Easy enough, right?

Well, a relative pronoun is exactly the same idea: a small word that replaces something already mentioned. But it has an extra power.

Why “relative”?

The word “relatif” comes from the verb “relier” (to link). Relier means “to attach together,” “to connect.”

So a relative pronoun is a pronoun that links two sentences into one. It creates a relationship between two pieces of information about the same word.

Listen:

“J’ai un ami. Il (cet ami) habite à Paris.”

Two sentences, a bit repetitive. With a relative pronoun, we link them:

“J’ai un ami qui habite à Paris.”

One single sentence, more fluid, more natural. That’s the whole point: making richer sentences without repeating words.

The 4 basic relative pronouns

There are 4 basic relative pronouns. 4, like the Ninja Turtles! Or like the Beatles, if that’s more your thing.

They are: qui, que, dont, où.

Each one has a different function. Let’s look at them one by one.

QUI

“Qui” replaces the subject of the second sentence.

Example: “J’ai un ami. Cet ami habite à Paris.” → “Cet ami” is the subject of the verb “habite.” So: “J’ai un ami qui habite à Paris.” Here, “qui” functions as the subject.

QUE

“Que” replaces the direct object, meaning the person or thing receiving the action.

Example: “J’ai lu un livre. J’adore ce livre.” → “Ce livre” is what I love, the object of the verb “adorer.” So: “J’ai lu un livre que j’adore.”

The third one is:

DONT

“Dont” replaces something introduced by the preposition “de” (of/about/from).

Example: “Le livre est incroyable. Je te parle de ce livre.” In this sentence, “parler” is built with the preposition “de” → “Je te parle de ce livre.” So: “Le livre dont je te parle est incroyable.”

Another example, when there’s possession involved: “J’ai un collègue. Le frère de ce collègue est acteur.” → “J’ai un collègue dont le frère est acteur.”

And finally:

OÙ

“Où” replaces a place or a moment in time.

Example for place: “Voici la ville. J’ai grandi dans cette ville.” → “Voici la ville où j’ai grandi.”

Example for time: “Je me souviens du jour. Ce jour-là, on s’est rencontrés.” → “Je me souviens du jour où on s’est rencontrés.”

That’s the basics covered. If this first part of the podcast was just a review for you, congratulations, you already have a good handle on this topic. Now let’s move on to something a bit harder: compound relative pronouns.

Compound relative pronouns

Compound relative pronouns are: lequel (masculine singular), laquelle (feminine singular), lesquels (masculine plural), lesquelles (feminine plural). We use them after a preposition (avec, pour, sur, dans, sous, etc.) to talk about a thing.

Example: Voici le stylo. J’écris avec le stylo. → “Voici le stylo avec lequel j’écris.”

I used “lequel” because “stylo” is masculine singular.

Another example:

C’est une question. Je pense souvent à la question. → “C’est une question à laquelle je pense souvent.”

“Question” is a feminine singular word, which is why I used “laquelle.”

See, that’s pretty simple. But it gets a little more complicated from here:

These pronouns transform — we call this “fusion” — when they’re preceded by “à” or “de.”

• De + lequel = duquel

• À + lequel = auquel

And yes, you already know this: “de + le = du” and “à + le = au.” Well, here it’s exactly the same!

On top of that, you need to add the transformations based on gender and number:

• Masculine singular: lequel → duquel / auquel

• Feminine singular: laquelle → de laquelle / à laquelle

• Masculine plural: lesquels → desquels / auxquels

• Feminine plural: lesquelles → desquelles / auxquelles

You may have noticed there’s no fusion in the feminine singular. That makes sense: you already know that “de + la” stays “de la,” and “à + la” stays “à la.” So “laquelle” never fully transforms — it stays “de laquelle” and “à laquelle.”

Dont or duquel?

So, here’s a logical question: why do we have both “dont” AND “duquel”? Don’t they mean roughly the same thing?

Actually, we use “dont” by default, in most cases, when the “de” is directly tied to the verb, or to the noun in cases of possession.

Example: “Le livre dont je te parle.” (from “parler de”)

But we use “duquel” (or “de laquelle,” “desquels,” “desquelles”) when the “de” is part of a longer, compound preposition — also called a “locution prépositive” — like “à côté de,” “en face de,” “au sujet de,” or “près de.”

Example: “La maison à côté de laquelle j’habite.” (and not “dont j’habite à côté,” which might sound strange to say... but actually, it’s simply incorrect!)

So to recap:

• Simple preposition “de” → dont

• Compound preposition ending in “de” → duquel / de laquelle / desquels / desquelles

Ce qui, ce que, ce dont

Finally, one last small group: ce qui, ce que, ce dont.

It follows the exact same logic as “qui / que / dont,” except here we’re not replacing a specific noun, but a general idea, something undefined. The little word “ce” means “the thing.”

• Ce qui = subject, general idea Example: “Ce qui m’intéresse, c’est le français.” (you can rephrase it as: “la chose qui m’intéresse, c’est le français”)

• Ce que = object, general idea Example: “Je ne comprends pas ce que tu dis.” (”la chose que tu dis”)

• Ce dont = with “de,” general idea Example: “Ce dont j’ai besoin, c’est de vacances.” (”la chose dont j’ai besoin,” from “avoir besoin de”)

See, it’s exactly the same logic as qui/que/dont, just the “general idea, no specific noun” version.

So, we’ve now covered relative pronouns in full: the 4 basics — qui, que, dont, où — and the compound ones: lequel and its friends, duquel, auquel, and finally ce qui, ce que, ce dont.

Don’t try to memorize everything at once. What matters is really understanding the rule. As you listen to French speakers, pick out these little words, and little by little, it’ll become natural.

Thanks for listening all the way through. If this episode helped you, feel free to share it, and leave a comment with your questions. And we’ll see each other on Wednesday, July 29th for the monthly workshop (link in the paid subscribers’ chat), where I’ll answer your questions on relative pronouns and we’ll practice together with exercises. Go do the exercises on the app to practice a bit!

Alright, see you soon, and good luck with your French!

Vitrail du zodiaque et des travaux des mois, cathédrale Notre-Dame de Chartres.

Beyond the fun factor, knowing how to say your zodiac sign in French is genuinely useful, mostly to avoid one very specific misunderstanding. If someone asks “Tu es quoi, toi ?” and you’re born between August 23 and September 22, you are, technically, Vierge. Which also happens to be the French word for... virgin. Context saves you every time, but the first time you say “Je suis Vierge” out loud to a French person, expect a smirk.

So here are the twelve signs, each with a handful of personality adjectives. It’s perfect vocabulary to describe yourself, your friends, or that one coworker who’s definitely a Scorpio.

Bélier — Aries (21 mars – 19 avril)

Impulsif (impulsive), énergique (energetic), direct (direct, blunt) : voilà le Bélier en trois mots. Il fonce sans trop réfléchir, quitte à se cogner de temps en temps. Mais on lui pardonne vite, parce qu’il est aussi courageux (brave) et enthousiaste (enthusiastic).

Taureau — Taurus (20 avril – 20 mai)

Le Taureau, c'est le signe du confort. Têtu (stubborn) et gourmand (a foodie), il déteste qu'on bouscule ses habitudes. Il est aussi fiable (reliable) et patient (patient)… jusqu'à un certain point. Après, mieux vaut ne pas insister.

Gémeaux — Gemini (21 mai – 20 juin)

Impossible de s’ennuyer avec un Gémeaux. Bavards (talkative) et curieux (curious), ils sautent d’un sujet à l’autre sans prévenir. Un peu imprévisibles (unpredictable), ils adorent les conversations qui partent dans tous les sens, et c’est bien ça qui les rend attachants (endearing).

Cancer — Cancer (21 juin – 22 juillet)

Le Cancer porte son cœur sur la main. Sensible (sensitive) et très attaché à sa famille (family-oriented), il est parfois nostalgique (nostalgic). Attention cela dit : sous ses airs doux, il peut se montrer étonnamment rancunier (resentful).

Lion — Leo (23 juillet – 22 août)

Le Lion aime être au centre de l’attention, et il ne s’en cache pas. Charismatique (charismatic) et fier (proud), il assume totalement d’être un peu théâtral (dramatic) de temps en temps. Ce qu’on oublie souvent : il est aussi profondément généreux (generous).

Vierge — Virgo (23 août – 22 septembre)

Perfectionniste (perfectionist) jusqu’au bout des ongles, la Vierge aime que tout soit à sa place. Organisée (organized) et plutôt discrète (discreet, reserved), elle a tendance à être critique (critical), surtout envers elle-même, ce qui n’est pas toujours facile à vivre au quotidien.

Balance — Libra (23 septembre – 22 octobre)

Charmante (charming) et diplomate (diplomatic), la Balance déteste par-dessus tout les conflits. Son point faible ? Elle est réellement indécise (indecisive) et peut mettre trois heures à choisir un restaurant.

It's my sign, and I have to say I completely agree with this description.

Scorpion — Scorpio (23 octobre – 21 novembre)

Intense (intense), mystérieux (mysterious), passionné (passionate) : le Scorpion ne fait jamais rien à moitié. Loyal jusqu’au bout envers ceux qu’il aime, mais mieux vaut ne jamais le trahir. Il est encore plus rancunier (holds a grudge) que le Cancer, voire pire.

Sagittaire — Sagittarius (22 novembre – 21 décembre)

Une valise à moitié prête, toujours. Le Sagittaire est aventurier (adventurous) et optimiste (optimistic). C’est aussi un franc-parleur (straight talker) qui surprend parfois. Il dit ce qu’il pense, sans filtre, et assume totalement.

Capricorne — Capricorn (22 décembre – 19 janvier)

Ambitieux (ambitious) et discipliné (disciplined), le Capricorne est du genre travailleur acharné. Sérieux (serious) dans tout ce qu’il entreprend, on le trouve parfois froid (cold), à tort, la plupart du temps. Il faut juste apprendre à le connaître.

Verseau — Aquarius (20 janvier – 18 février)

Original (original, quirky) et farouchement indépendant (independent), le Verseau vit selon ses propres règles. Rêveur (a dreamer) dans l’âme, il n’aime vraiment pas qu’on lui dise quoi penser… Autant vous prévenir tout de suite !

Poissons — Pisces (19 février – 20 mars)

Le Poissons a la tête dans les nuages, et c’est souvent là qu’il est le plus heureux. Rêveur (dreamy), empathique (empathetic) et créatif (creative), il ressent tout plus fort que les autres, dans le bon comme dans le mauvais sens.

A few useful rules to remember:

• General rule: add an -e for the feminine form → indépendant → indépendante, original → originale.

• Adjectives already ending in -e: nothing changes → timide stays timide, sensible stays sensible.

• -eur → -euse: rêveur → rêveuse.

• -eux → -euse: généreux → généreuse, ambitieux → ambitieuse.

• -if → -ive: impulsif → impulsive, créatif → créative.

• -et → -ète or -ette: discret → discrète, coquet → coquette.

• Irregular ones worth memorizing: franc → franche, fier → fière, doux → douce.

Tip: go back through the list of signs above and practice turning each adjective feminine/masculine. It’s excellent review!

Alors, tu te reconnais dans la description de ton signe ? Dis-le-nous en commentaire !

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If you’re interested in astrology, I invite you to get your birth chart for free here. It will be entirely in French, making it a great reading comprehension exercise!

To generate it, you’ll need to know your time of birth, which you can usually find on your birth certificate.

À bientôt !

Hey, I’m Timothée.

I write about the French language the way it’s actually lived: through cafés, music, awkward conversations, old expressions, cultural rituals, and all the small things textbooks usually forget.

If you enjoy learning French through stories, culture, music, and the hidden meaning behind words, you’ll probably enjoy the premium version of this newsletter.

Become a premium member and get access to full podcasts, translations, vocabulary notes, interactive exercises, and live workshops — all for about the price of a coffee each month.

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Le concert est annulé.

What nobody expects is what the singer does next.

That’s Serge Gainsbourg for you. Before he was the most provocative voice in French music — writing for himself, for Brigitte Bardot, for France Gall — he actually wanted to be a painter. Music came almost by accident. But by the late 70s, provocation had become something like his signature.

Which is how, in 1979, he ended up turning La Marseillaise, the French national anthem, into a reggae song. People were not happy about it.

Below is the video with the lyrics, so you can hear the song that started it all, and pick up some real vocabulary while you’re at it.

If you want to know how that turned into a national scandal, and what Gainsbourg actually did on that Strasbourg stage, that’s this week’s episode: real French, spoken clearly, made for intermediate learners who want to follow the story properly.

In this episode, you’ll find:

• The full story in easy French: Gainsbourg’s career, the reggae album, the scandal, and that night in Strasbourg

• The vocabulary list from the episode, so nothing gets lost

• Extra content and the English translation, for whenever you need a hand

Already a paying subscriber? The full episode is below, plus the quiz to check what you caught.

Not yet a subscriber? For the price of a ☕ a month, you get the full podcast archive, the app, a seat at L’Atelier (our monthly conversational workshop), and The Honest French Guide.

Et maintenant, place au podcast.

Bonjour à tous et bienvenue dans ce nouvel épisode ! Aujourd’hui, on va parler d’une chanson qui a fait scandale en France : « Aux armes et cætera », de Serge Gainsbourg. C’est une version reggae de l’hymne national français, La Marseillaise. Cette chanson a provoqué une énorme polémique, et l’histoire se termine par une scène incroyable, dans une salle de concert à Strasbourg. Je vais tout vous raconter.

Qui est Serge Gainsbourg ?

D’abord, une petite présentation. Serge Gainsbourg est né en 1928, à Paris.

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Today’s scene is a little masterpiece of polite pettiness: Martine, a wound-up hostess, fills an awkward silence with Charlotte by talking astrology and the rivalry between the two women is already simmering underneath.

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How to work through this scene

Watch the whole scene once first to get a feel for the tone. Martine talks fast, cuts her sentences short, keeps relaunching. Then watch it again, this time trying to catch what they actually say: the liaisons, the hesitations, all of it. Compare with the dialogue in the analysis below. Finally, practice shadowing: say each line out loud, trying to match Martine’s rhythm. It’s a non-stop festival of spoken punctuation (tu sais, enfin, quand même).

Where to watch the film? Cuisine et dépendances is available to rent on the main French VOD platforms (Apple TV, Amazon Prime Video, Canal VOD). If you’re in France or using a VPN, it’s also the kind of cult comedy you can often find secondhand on DVD or occasionally on French TV replay services.

Found it somewhere else? Let us know in the comments — legal links only, to help other readers track it down.

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Analysis

Alors, évidemment, pour tuer le temps, on a grignoté. So obviously, to kill time, we snacked.

Tuer le temps is the exact equivalent of “to kill time.” Notice the word order: pour tuer le temps is pushed to the front, and on a grignoté lands at the end — spoken French loves saving the main verb for last when the reason comes first.

J’avais acheté un énorme sac de pistaches I’d bought a huge bag of pistachios

Plus-que-parfait (j’avais acheté): the buying happened before the snacking she just mentioned — a small but very natural use of this tense to set the scene before moving the story forward.

J’suis folle des pistaches, moi. J’pourrais en manger des kilos. I’m crazy about pistachios, me. I could eat kilos of them.

Je suis collapses to j’suis in fast speech — even more clipped than the already-common j’sais pas. The pronoun en replaces des pistaches (”kilos of them“) — never skip it. And moi tacked on at the end adds emphasis, doubling down on a subject already stated.

Pardon ! Sorry!

Already a paying subscriber? The rest of the analysis — plus the shadowing recordings — is waiting for you below.

Not yet? For the price of a ☕ a month, get full access to the app and blog, a seat at L’Atelier — the monthly conversational workshop — and The Honest French Guide: practical, no-nonsense advice for anyone serious about their French journey.

Et Jacques, il me fait une guerre terrible : « Arrêtez, vous allez vous couper l’appétit »

And Jacques goes to war with me: “Stop, you’re going to ruin your appetite”

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Like Pédaler dans la choucroute. Literally, it means "to pedal in sauerkraut." Not exactly the terrain professional cyclists dream of.

A surprising amount of everyday French comes straight from le vélo. You’ll hear it in the office, at the dinner table, from a friend who hasn’t touched a bike in years. So while the peloton rests, here’s a handful of the expressions it left behind.

Avoir la tête dans le guidon

Literally: “to have your head in the handlebars.” Picture a rider hunched so far forward, so locked into the effort, that he can’t see anything past the ten centimeters of road in front of his wheel. Applied to real life, it means being so buried in a task that you’ve lost all perspective on everything else.

✓ « Désolé, je ne t’ai pas répondu, j’ai la tête dans le guidon en ce moment. »

“Sorry I didn’t reply, I’ve had my head down lately.”

Perdre les pédales

Losing your pedals is as chaotic as it sounds: feet flailing, no control, everything unraveling at once. Perdre les pédales means to lose it, in whatever form that takes for you. Panic. Losing control of a situation. Losing the thread of what you were saying mid-sentence.

✓ « Il a complètement perdu les pédales pendant la réunion. »

“He totally lost it during the meeting.” Panic or something wildly inappropriate said out loud, depending on context.

Être déjanté

A jante is the rim of the wheel, the metal part the tire sits on. When a tire comes off its rim, it’s déjanté, and things get wobbly fast. Applied to a person, it means a bit unhinged, eccentric, off-the-wall. Usually in a fun way.

✓ « Son humour est totalement déjanté, mais j’adore. »

“His humor is totally off-the-wall, but I love it.”

Être en roue libre

La roue libre is freewheel mode, when you stop pedaling and let the bike coast on its own momentum. As an expression, it describes someone who’s stopped putting in effort. Coasting. Doing the bare minimum. Going with the flow without really steering anything.

✓ « Depuis les vacances, je suis en roue libre au boulot. »

“Since the holidays, I’ve basically been coasting at work.”

Pédaler dans la choucroute (ou dans la semoule)

Literally: pedaling in the sauerkraut. Or, in the gentler version, pedaling in the semolina. Both images show a wheel spinning uselessly in something thick, going nowhere no matter how hard you push. It means struggling to make progress, working hard for no visible result, on a project, in a conversation, wherever.

✓ « Ça fait une heure que j’essaie d’expliquer ce tableau Excel, je pédale dans la semoule. »

“I’ve been trying to explain this spreadsheet for an hour, I’m getting nowhere.”

Not one of these expressions is actually about cycling anymore. They’re about deadlines, bad meetings, and hitting a wall at 3pm, same as in any language. The French just happened to borrow the words from cycling, and they never gave them back.

If you want to hear more about cycling, I made a whole podcast episode on the Tour de France:

Got a French cycling expression I missed? Drop it in the comments.

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À bientôt et bon Tour de France !

I asked my dad about it. He pulled out a drawer of old photos: my grandfather, Jean, standing behind the president (the first one on the left).

And another, behind Lyndon B. Johnson (in the back, on his left), then Vice President of the United States.

A gendarme’s son from Calais, standing in the same frame as history itself.

In this episode, I tell you how he got there — from a farm cellar in occupied France to a rooftop under sniper fire in Jerusalem, then from a security post at the Pentagon to a NATO parade with a sitting U.S. president.

Podcast reserved for premium subcriber only.

Bienvenue à tous dans ce nouvel épisode de French with Timo.

Désolé pour la voix d’outre-tombe, je l’ai enregistré au réveil !

Ceci est le troisième épisode sur ma famille paternelle. Dans le premier épisode, je vous ai parlé de ma grand-mère Colette, infirmière pendant la libération de Paris (Podcast #4). Dans le deuxième, je vous ai raconté comment ce podcast nous a aidés à découvrir l’identité de mon arrière-grand-père, un député et ministre de la Troisième République (Podcast #25). Aujourd’hui, je continue avec la même famille, mais je change de personnage. Je vais vous parler de Jean, mon grand-père paternel —et mari de Colette— et d’une photo très spéciale de lui.

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It works… until it doesn’t.

None of those mean what you think they mean.

French people use these expressions all the time. Once you know them, everyday conversations become much easier to understand.

Let’s start with ten of the most useful ones.

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1. Ça marche !

Literal translation: “That walks!”

What it really means:
✅ Sounds good!
✅ Deal!
✅ Okay!

— On se voit à 18h ?

— Ça marche !

“See you at 6?” — “Sounds good!”

As if the plan just sprouted legs and started walking. Basically French for a firm handshake. You’re locking in the plan.

2. Tant mieux !

Literal translation: “So much better!”

What it really means:
✅ That’s great!
✅ Good for you!
✅ So much the better!

— J’ai réussi mon examen.

— Tant mieux !

“I passed my exam.” — “That’s great!”

Something got even better than it already was, apparently. You say this when good news lands and you’re genuinely happy about it, not just being polite.

3. Tant pis !

Literal translation: “So much worse!”

What it really means:
✅ Too bad.
✅ Oh well.

— Le restaurant est fermé.

— Tant pis.

“The restaurant is closed.” — “Oh well.”

Tant mieux’s grumpy sibling. The move here is to say it, shrug, and move on with your day. No drama allowed.

4. Ça y est !

Literal translation: “that is there”

What it really means:
✅ There we go!
✅ It’s done!
✅ Finally!

— Ça y est ! J’ai retrouvé mes clés.

“There we go! I found my keys.”

The sound of victory when the universe finally cooperates, after ten minutes of struggling.

5. Ça tombe bien !

Literal translation: “That falls well!”

What it really means:
✅ That’s perfect!
✅ Good timing!
✅ That works out well.

— Je suis libre cet après-midi.

— Ah, ça tombe bien ! J’avais besoin de ton aide.

“I’m free this afternoon.” — “Perfect! I needed your help.”

Like timing itself did a graceful landing. For when fate hands you exactly what you needed. Right on cue.

6. Je t’en prie.

Literal translation: “I beg you of it.”

What it really means:
✅ You’re welcome.
✅ Go ahead.
✅ After you.

— Merci !

— Je t’en prie.

“Thank you.” — “You’re welcome.”

Sounds like a plea, works like a shrug. Whether you’re saying “you’re welcome” or “go ahead,” this one’s got you covered either way.

7. Ça m’est égal.

Literal translation: “That is equal to me.”

What it really means:
✅ I don’t mind.
✅ Either is fine.
✅ It’s all the same to me.

— On mange italien ou japonais ?

— Ça m’est égal.

“Italian or Japanese?” — “I don’t mind.”

Like a tiny internal scale that never tips. The official phrase of people with zero opinions on dinner or any situation.

8. Tu parles !

Literal translation: “You speak!”

What it really means:
✅ Yeah, right!
✅ No way!
✅ Tell me about it!

— Il pense qu’il va finir en cinq minutes.

— Tu parles !

“He thinks he’ll finish in five minutes.” — “Yeah, right!”

As if talking alone were the punchline. It’s pure sarcasm, usually aimed at someone’s wildly optimistic claim. Comes with a free eye-roll.

9. N’importe quoi !

Literal translation: “No matter what.”

What it really means:
✅ That’s ridiculous!
✅ That’s nonsense!
✅ What are you talking about?

— Tu as mangé toute la boîte de chocolats ?

— N’importe quoi ! J’en ai mangé deux.

“What are you talking about? I only had two.”

Probably the most useful phrase on this list. Bad excuse, messy room, wild accusation…this one covers all of it.

10. Ça ne fait rien.

Literal translation: “That does nothing.”

What it really means:
✅ It doesn’t matter.
✅ Never mind.
✅ Don’t worry about it.

— Désolé, je suis en retard.

— Ça ne fait rien.

“Sorry I’m late.” — “Don’t worry about it.”

The gentle way of telling someone their small mistake genuinely isn’t a big deal. No lecture, no lingering awkwardness.

So the next time you hear a French person say “Ça marche !”, “Ça y est !”, or “Ça tombe bien !”, don’t translate them.

Just understand them.

That’s when French starts feeling like a language instead of a puzzle.

Which one is your favorite? Let me know in the comments.

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À vendredi pour le podcast !

Timo

Hey, I’m Timothée.

I write about the French language the way it’s actually lived: through cafés, music, awkward conversations, old expressions, cultural rituals, and all the small things textbooks usually forget.

If you enjoy learning French through stories, culture, music, and the hidden meaning behind words, you’ll probably enjoy the premium version of this newsletter.

Become a premium member and get access to full podcasts, translations, vocabulary notes, interactive exercises, and live workshops — all for about the price of a coffee each month.

Subscribe now

If you enjoyed this content but don’t feel like subscribing just yet, you can always buy me a coffee. It’ll motivate me to create more content like this!

Keep me caffeinated

Somewhere a fan turns in a room that still smells like lunch. Someone’s poured a pastis, more water than pastis really, and forgotten to drink it. And on the TV, low enough that you could ignore it if you wanted to, a man’s voice is describing a mountain, a breakaway, a peloton stretched out across a field of sunflowers.

You’re not really watching. You’re just letting it happen in the background, the way you leave a window open.

That’s the Tour de France I’ve come to love. Three weeks of French summer with the volume turned down: the heat, the stillness, a voice on TV that’s never in a hurry, describing the same roads your grandparents watched on the same channel, probably in the same kind of heat. It doesn’t ask much of you. Just to sit still and let it talk.

This episode is an invitation into that afternoon, and a way to actually understand what that voice is saying. Because if you listen to a Tour de France broadcast for five minutes, you’ll hear the same handful of sentences over and over:

Once you know them, the race stops being background noise and starts being genuinely listenable French, every single afternoon, for three weeks straight.

In today’s episode, you will:

• discover what the Tour de France actually is, and why the whole country stops for it every July

• find out why this race is one of the best free French-listening tools of the summer

• learn how the Tour actually works, the jerseys, the types of stages, and what to listen for if you’re new to it all

Already a paying subscriber? Listen to the full podcast and practice with the quiz.

Not yet? For the price of a ☕ a month, get full access to the app and blog, a seat at L’Atelier, the monthly conversational workshop, and The Honest French Guide.

Et maintenant, place au podcast.

English Translation at the end of the post.

Ce week-end, et pendant trois semaines, c’est Noël qui commence pour les fans de cyclisme. C’est ce que dit mon élève Robert, et franchement, il a pas tort.

Le cyclisme, c’était pourtant quelque chose dont j’avais pas grand-chose à faire pendant les trente-cinq premières années de ma vie. Trop long, trop compliqué, et trop de dopage aussi. J’avais déjà commencé à m’y intéresser, juste avant le scandale Armstrong, et ça m’avait complètement dégoûté.

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No subtitled video this time because the film is blocked on YouTube US for copyright reasons. But that’s actually fine. It forces you to really listen. And that’s where the work happens.

Each line comes with its analysis and a short audio recording for shadowing. And if you make it to the end, the English lesson scene is waiting as a bonus. Your chance to have a little fun at the French characters’ expense.

How to watch it

Watch the scene once just for the atmosphere. Then listen again and try to write down what you hear. Replay as many times as you need. The goal is to catch as much as possible and get a feel for the meaning. Then compare what you wrote with the analysis below. The more time you spend listening, the more you’ll get out of it.

Use the audio recordings to practise shadowing: repeat each line out loud, as close to the original as you can.

Where to watch the full film? It appears to be available on France Channel (Prime Video) and Apple TV.

If you’re in France or if you have a VPN, you can rent it or buy on Arte Boutique (the best place to find most of the French movies) : https://boutique.arte.tv/detail/le-gout-des-autres

Found it somewhere else? Let us know in the comments — legal links only, to help other readers track it down.

Leave a comment

Analyse

Vous comptez rester là encore longtemps ?
Do you plan to stay here much longer?

Compter + infinitive is the conversational way to say “to plan to do something” — more natural than avoir l’intention de. Notice the vous: these two men use the formal register with each other, even though they spend every day together.

J’sais pas.
I don’t know.

Je ne sais pas in real life. The ne drops, the je collapses to j’. You’ll also hear chais pas or just sais pas with no subject at all.

Already a paying subscriber? The rest of the analysis — plus the shadowing recordings — is waiting for you below.

Not yet? For the price of a ☕ a month, get full access to the app and blog, a seat at L’Atelier — the monthly conversational workshop — and The Honest French Guide: practical, no-nonsense advice for anyone serious about their French journey.

Parce qu’il fait un peu froid là, nan ?
Because it’s a bit cold here.

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Le Goût des autres is that kind of film. And once it gets hold of you, it doesn’t let go.

I stumbled onto it almost by accident last week, while searching for a bar scene for another episode of Spoken French in Films. I sat down at ten o’clock at night, thinking I’d watch twenty minutes. I watched the whole thing. By the end, I was already thinking about how to share it with you because this film isn’t just a great piece of French cinema. It’s a window into something true about how French people think, talk, judge each other, and occasionally, manage to surprise themselves.

In today’s episode, you will:

• hear the full podcast in French — slow, natural, made for intermediate learners

• discover why this film is one of the best tools for understanding real French communication

• learn key vocabulary and expressions from the world of French cinema and social life

• take on the challenge of the month — and maybe change the way you learn French forever

Whether you already know French cinema or are just beginning to explore it, this episode is a good place to start.

So find a quiet moment, press play, and let’s spend some time in Rouen with Jean-Pierre Bacri and Agnès Jaoui.

Before we dive in, watch the trailer below. Don’t worry about understanding every word, just let it set the mood. Get a feel for the atmosphere, the characters, the rhythm of the dialogue.

Already a paying subscriber? The full scene analysis and annotated transcript drop next week. But for now, the podcast and its transcription is waiting for you below.

Not yet? For the price of a ☕ a month, get full access to the app and blog, a seat at L’Atelier — the monthly conversational workshop — and The Honest French Guide: practical, no-nonsense advice for anyone serious about their French journey.

Et maintenant, place au podcast.

English Translation available at the end of the post.

Salut à tous, et bienvenue dans ce nouvel épisode de French with Timo.

Cette semaine, je cherchais une scène de bar pour un épisode de Spoken French | Films. Et en cherchant, je suis tombé un peu par hasard sur Le Goût des autres, sorti en 2000. Un film que je connaissais de nom, mais que je n’avais jamais vu. Et là, je me suis retrouvé à le regarder jusqu’au bout sans m’y attendre du tout. Vous connaissez ce moment où un film vous attrape et ne vous lâche plus ? C’est exactement ça.

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From the student bars of Lille to a tiny abbey hidden in the Belgian countryside, from the unwritten rules of the Parisian comptoir to a beer so rare the monks who brew it don’t even want you to find it, this episode is a love letter to the finest drinking culture in the world.

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English Translation available at the end of the post.

Salut à tous, et bienvenue dans ce nouvel épisode de French with Timo.

Aujourd’hui, on va parler de bière. Et il faut que je vous raconte l’ironie du mois : en ce moment, je fais attention à ce que je mange et j’ai drastiquement réduit ma consommation d’alcool. Non, je n’étais pas alcoolique, rassurez-vous, mais j’ai pris cette décision juste avant la Coupe du monde de football. Un sacrilège me direz-vous, puisqu’en France, un match de foot sans bière, ça ne se fait tout simplement pas. Il ne me restait qu’une seule consolation : écrire un article sur la bière.

Et cet article a cartonné. Des centaines de notifications par jour, plus de 1000 nouveaux abonnés en trois semaines, et des commentaires parfois plus intéressants que l’article lui-même. Ce succès arrive aussi juste après une décision plus large : j’ai mis en pause tous mes réseaux sociaux, sauf Substack — oui oui, hein, c’en est un — pour écrire plus et scroller moins, parce que l’algorithme, c’est un peu comme une deuxième bière qu’on n’avait pas prévu de prendre, on se dit “juste une”, et puis ensuite on enchaîne. Merci également à tous les nouveaux abonnés payants : plus vous êtes nombreux, plus je peux passer du temps à créer du contenu pour vous.

Bon, passons au vrai sujet, et commençons par une idée reçue qu’on entend partout : “la France, ce n’est pas un pays de bière, c’est un pays de vin.” Sauf que les chiffres racontent une toute autre histoire. En 2025, pour la première fois, les Français ont bu plus de bière que de vin — 22,1 millions d’hectolitres de bière contre 22 millions d’hectolitres de vin, selon les Brasseurs de France et l’Organisation Internationale de la Vigne et du Vin. Et ce n’est pas un accident isolé : la France est aujourd’hui le pays qui compte le plus de brasseries en Europe, avec plus de 2300 brasseries en activité. Un Français boit en moyenne 33 litres de bière par an, et 70% de cette bière est produite directement sur le territoire. Bref, la bière française existe, elle est partout, et il est temps de s’y intéresser sérieusement.

Pour comprendre cette histoire, il faut remonter un peu dans le temps. Au Moyen Âge, ce sont les moines qui brassaient déjà, dans leurs abbayes — le mot “bierre” lui-même apparaît en français en 1435. Autrefois, cette boisson houblonnée s’appelait « cervoise », comme vous pouvez le constater dans les albums d’Asterix. Au début du XXe siècle, la France comptait plus de 3300 brasseries sur son territoire : un vrai âge d’or. Et puis, les deux guerres mondiales sont arrivées, et environ 90% de ces brasseries ont disparu, faute de moyens pour se reconstruire. Le secteur s’est alors standardisé autour de trois géants qui dominent encore aujourd’hui : Heineken France, AB InBev, et Kronenbourg. Il a fallu attendre les années 1980-90, et l’arrivée du mouvement craft beer venu des États-Unis, pour voir renaître une vraie diversité — avec des pionniers bretons comme la brasserie Lancelot ou Ninkasi, qui ont rouvert la voie à des milliers de microbrasseries dans le Nord et ailleurs.

Et le Nord, justement, mérite un détour. Le Nord de la France, c’est l’ancien pays des Flandres, et qui dit Flandres, dit houblon. Là-bas, la bière n’est pas une simple boisson, c’est une identité régionale. J’ai fait mes études de droit à Lille, et dans ma fac, il n’y avait pas un bar étudiant... il y en avait deux. On pouvait commander une pression entre deux cours de droit civil sans aucun jugement. Et tenez-vous bien : en 2021, c’est une bière du Nord, l’Anosteké, brassée par la Brasserie du Pays Flamand, qui a été élue meilleure bière blonde du monde aux World Beer Awards. Voilà qui devrait clouer le bec à ceux qui pensent encore que la France n’a rien à dire sur le sujet.

Côté marques, vous connaissez forcément les grands noms qu’on trouve partout en France : Kronenbourg et sa célèbre 1664, nées en Alsace, là où pousse le houblon Strisselspalt — mais aussi Pelforth, Fischer, Goudale, Desperados ou 3 Monts. Mais si on part en vrai tour de France des régions brassicoles, ça devient beaucoup plus intéressant. Dans le Nord, à côté de l’Anosteké, il y a La Bête, puissante mais peu amère, et Ducasse, une triple à 9 degrés qui doit son nom aux fêtes foraines locales — sans oublier la Jenlain, de la brasserie Duyck, la grande référence de la bière de garde, ce style typiquement français où la bière vieillit en cuve avant d’être mise en bouteille. En Corse, il y a la Pietra, à la châtaigne. En Provence, la Fada, brassée avec du romarin local. Au Pays Basque, l’Eguzki. Et à Paris, deux brasseries valent le détour : Demory, fondée en 1827, et Gallia, une microbrasserie de Pantin qui a repris le nom d’une ancienne brasserie parisienne disparue, comme pour réveiller cette mémoire brassicole de la capitale qu’on a un peu trop vite oubliée.

Maintenant, la question pratique : qu’est-ce qu’on commande en pression dans un bar français ? La grande majorité des bars proposent les mêmes pressions standards — 1664, Kronenbourg, ou de la Pelforth, qui dominent largement les volumes vendus en France. Si vous voulez monter légèrement en gamme sans sortir des sentiers battus, les pressions belges Leffe Blonde ou Grimbergen sont presque toujours disponibles, et restent un choix sûr. Mais si vous voulez vraiment impressionner, repensez à la phrase qu’on a vue dans l’article : “Vous avez quoi en pression ?” Dans un bar à bières ou une brasserie artisanale, cette question ouvre souvent la porte à une bière locale, parfois même brassée à quelques rues de là. C’est toujours plus intéressant qu’une 1664 de plus.

Et puis, on traverse la frontière, direction notre cousine la Belgique. C’est pour moi, sans hésiter, le sommet mondial de la bière. Une petite histoire personnelle : pendant mes années à Lille, j’ai rencontré Florent, un Franco-Belge, sur les bancs de la fac et dans les vestiaires de rugby. Chaque été, Florent recrutait toute une équipe de Français pour aller travailler sur la côte flamande, en Belgique. C’est là-bas que j’ai travaillé comme barman, puis comme serveur. Et c’est là que j’ai appris LA règle absolue, presque religieuse, de la bière belge : chaque bière a son verre. Pas “un” verre, “son” verre, avec une forme spécifique, créée spécialement pour cette bière précise. Servez une Chimay dans le verre d’une Duvel, et vous verrez un Belge changer de visage en une seconde.

Côté diversité, la Belgique reste à part. Il y a les bières trappistes, brassées dans des abbayes par des moines eux-mêmes — Chimay, Orval, Rochefort, Westmalle. Il y a les bières blanches, comme la Hoegaarden, légères et épicées. Et il y a les lambics et gueuzes, autour de Bruxelles, fermentées naturellement, sans levure ajoutée — un goût acide, presque comme du cidre, qu’on aime ou qu’on n’aime pas du tout.

Et puis, il y a elle. La légende : la Westvleteren. On dit que c’est la meilleure bière du monde — pas “une des meilleures”, LA meilleure, selon beaucoup de connaisseurs. Et là, je peux vous donner mon vrai avis, parce que je l’ai goûtée, plusieurs fois même. C’est en effet une très bonne bière, si vous aimez le style trappiste — forte, complexe, presque sirupeuse. Elle est brassée par des moines, à l’abbaye Saint-Sixte, et ces moines n’ont visiblement aucune envie de devenir riches : ils ont créé des règles très strictes pour limiter la vente. Première option, aller directement à l’abbaye, mais uniquement sur rendez-vous, avec une limite de deux caisses par personne. Deuxième option, plus simple : aller la boire dans le petit bar juste à côté de l’abbaye, le seul endroit autorisé à la servir. Pas de supermarché, pas de livraison (en fait si, c’est nouveau), pas d’exportation officielle. Juste des moines, leurs règles, et leur secret bien gardé. Et si vous vous demandez si ça vaut vraiment le coup, sachez que c’est la seule bière que — je connaisse — qui se boit à température ambiante.

Mais on n’a pas besoin d’aller jusqu’en Belgique pour vivre une bonne histoire de bar. Parfois, il suffit de se retrouver bloqué devant un stade à Paris un soir de match. C’est exactement ce qui est arrivé à Mike, un de nos lecteurs, qui a partagé ce souvenir dans les commentaires de l’article.

Il y a quelques années, Mike et ses amis étaient venus à Paris pour assister au match Angleterre-France au Parc des Princes. Problème : impossible d’entrer dans le stade. Direction le centre de Paris, rue Saint-Denis, à la recherche d’un bar avec une télé. Ils finissent par trouver un endroit un peu particulier — un bar avec, dans un coin, un système de paris sur les courses de chevaux — donc, en fait, un bar PMU — et des habitués qui suivaient les courses en vociférant.

Ils commandent plusieurs tournées à une table. À l’heure du coup d’envoi, ils demandent au barman de changer de chaîne pour le rugby. Ce qu’il fait. Consternation chez les parieurs. Mais le barman hausse les épaules et montre les nombreux verres vides sur la table du groupe — puis jette un œil aux habitués, qui, eux, ne consommaient pas grand-chose.

Le match commence. La France domine. L’ailier Émile Ntamack inscrit deux essais. Et peu à peu, les habitués se laissent embarquer par le jeu, devenant supporters du XV de France le temps d’une soirée.

Ils sont repartis bien plus tard, sous les sourires et les poignées de main, surtout celles du barman.

C’est exactement ce genre de situation — commander au bon moment, lire la salle, comprendre les codes — qu’on va travailler ensemble le mercredi 24 juin, lors d’un atelier en direct, réservé aux abonnés payants. On y verra les vraies interactions du bar français : comment commander sans passer pour un touriste, comment gérer une tournée entre amis, et comment demander l’addition — parce qu’en France, elle n’arrive jamais toute seule.

Si vous êtes déjà abonné payant, retrouvez le lien dans le chat des abonnés. Et si vous voulez nous rejoindre, c’est le moment parfait pour passer à l’abonnement premium.

Click below to get the access to the workshop in the subscriber chat:

Voilà pour cet épisode. La bière, en France et en Belgique, ce n’est jamais juste une boisson : c’est une région, une histoire, parfois même une religion. Merci à tous pour votre soutien ce mois-ci, et comme on dit au comptoir : à la tienne !

📖 Glossaire — La bière et le bar

Essential words from this episode, organised by theme.

La bière — Beer

• Le houblon — the plant that gives beer its bitterness and aroma. No hops, no beer.

• La pression / la bière pression — draft beer, poured directly from the keg and served at the bar. This is what you order at the counter.

• Le fût — the large metal barrel that holds the beer in reserve, connected to the tap.

• La tireuse — the tap system behind the bar used to serve draft beer.

• Un demi — a 25cl glass of beer. The standard size in France.

• Une pinte — a 50cl glass. Note: in France, une pinte is 50cl, not 56cl as in England.

• La mousse — the white foam on top of a glass of beer. A good barman knows exactly how much to pour.

• Une bière de garde — a typically French beer style from the North, aged in tanks before bottling. The Jenlain is the most well-known example.

• Une bière trappiste — a beer brewed by monks in a Trappist abbey. Chimay, Westmalle, and Westvleteren are classic examples.

• Un lambic / une gueuze — a Belgian beer fermented naturally, without added yeast. The taste is sour, almost like cider — you either love it or you don’t.

• Brassé(e) — brewed. Cette bière est brassée à Lille — this beer is brewed in Lille.

• Une brasserie — either a brewery where beer is made, or a restaurant-bar that serves food alongside drinks. Context changes the meaning entirely.

• Une microbrasserie — a small craft brewery, usually local and independent.

• Artisanal(e) — made in small quantities, with care, often locally. The opposite of industriel.

Le bar — The bar

• Le comptoir — the bar itself, the long wooden or zinc surface behind which the barman works. Drinking au comptoir is cheaper than sitting at a table.

• Le barman — the person serving drinks behind the counter.

• Une tournée — a round of drinks, paid for by one person for the whole group. C’est ma tournée ! — It’s my round!

• L’addition — the bill. In France, it never arrives on its own — you always have to ask for it.

• Un habitué — a regular. Someone who comes to the same bar so often they have their own spot at the counter.

• Un pilier de bar — literally “a bar pillar.” A vivid expression for someone who spends so much time at the bar they’ve practically become part of the furniture.

Expressions utiles — Useful expressions

• Cartonner — to be a huge success. Mon article a cartonné — my article went down a storm.

• Clouer le bec à quelqu’un — to shut someone up by proving them wrong. Literally “to nail someone’s beak shut.”

• Lire la salle — to read the room. To sense the atmosphere without anyone spelling it out for you.

• À la tienne ! — cheers, when drinking with one person. Plural: À la vôtre ! General: Santé !

  ---

🌾 D’où vient la bière ?

La bière est l’une des plus anciennes boissons du monde. On en retrouve des traces il y a plus de 5000 ans, en Mésopotamie — l’actuel Irak — où les Sumériens brassaient déjà une boisson fermentée à base d’orge. Ils avaient même une déesse dédiée à la bière : Ninkasi, dont le nom signifie littéralement “celle qui remplit la bouche”. Un signe que la bière, dès l’origine, était bien plus qu’une simple boisson.

Le mot “bière” lui-même a une histoire plus complexe qu’on ne le croit. Il viendrait du latin médiéval biber, qui signifie “boisson” ou “action de boire” — lui-même issu du verbe latin bibere, boire. Le mot apparaît en français pour la première fois en 1435, sous la forme “bierre”.

Mais pendant longtemps, ce qu’on buvait en France ne s’appelait pas encore “bière”. On disait cervoise — une boisson fermentée à base de céréales, mais sans houblon. C’est d’ailleurs ce mot qu’on retrouve dans les albums d’Astérix, où les Gaulois boivent de la cervoise autour du feu. Le houblon, lui, n’entre dans la fabrication de la bière qu’au Moyen Âge, vers le IXe siècle, introduit par les moines dans leurs abbayes. C’est cette plante qui va transformer la cervoise en bière telle qu’on la connaît aujourd’hui : plus amère, mieux conservée, et surtout, bien meilleure.

Un dernier détail amusant : le mot “cervoise” vient du latin cervesia, lui-même probablement lié à Cérès, la déesse romaine des moissons et des céréales. La bière, depuis le début, est une affaire de dieux.

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🍺 Where to drink a good beer in Paris?

Jean’s firsthand observations — a longtime friend and beer specialist who has lived in Paris for over 15 years.

Before sharing his recommendations, Jean wants to flag something few tourist guides ever mention. In the North of France — in Lille, in Flanders, in craft breweries — bars systematically and regularly clean the lines that connect the keg to the tap. It’s a habit, almost a ritual. In Paris, that’s not always the case. And the consequences are real: when a bar switches beers without cleaning the lines, the flavours mix. The previous beer leaves residue in the lines, and the new one arrives with an unwanted aftertaste.

Jean experienced it himself: he ordered a Jenlain in a crêperie in Paris, only to find it had a cidery aftertaste, because the tap lines hadn’t been cleaned between the two.

So how do you avoid it? Simple: look for specialist beer bars: places where beer is the whole point, where staff know their equipment and actually take care of it.

Jean’s recommendations:

Quartier Latin

• Le Mayflower — a neighbourhood institution, English pub feel, well-maintained taps.

• Le 2 Bis Café — a low-key beer bar with a good selection and staff who know what they’re talking about.

Near Canal Saint-Martin / 10th arrondissement

• Le Château d’Eau — genuine local atmosphere, well off the tourist trail.

Montparnasse

• Le Falstaff, rue du Montparnasse — a reliable choice, recommended by Jean for the consistently good quality of its draft beer.

My own recommendations:

Paris has more to offer than most people think, you just need to know where to look. These three places are worth the detour.

• Hoppy Corner — one of the best craft beer selections in Paris, with a constantly rotating tap list and a team that genuinely loves what they serve. If you want to discover French microbreweries without leaving the city, start here.

• La Fine Mousse — a landmark in the Parisian craft beer scene. Both a bar and a bottle shop, it’s the kind of place where you can spend an hour just reading the menu. The staff will guide you without making you feel judged for not knowing every brewery by heart.

• La Ruée vers l’Orge — the name is a play on la ruée vers l’or, the gold rush — except here, the gold is in the glass. A warm, unpretentious spot with a serious selection and the kind of regulars who actually know what they’re drinking.

Between Jean’s addresses and these three, you have no excuse to ever settle for a mediocre pression in Paris again.

J’espère que cette épisode vous a plu et je vous promets que je reviendrai bientôt avec un épisode sur le vin dans les prochaines semaines.

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À bientôt,

Timo

English Translation:

Hi everyone, and welcome to this new episode of French with Timo.

Today, we’re talking about beer. And I have to share the irony of the month: right now, I’m watching what I eat and I’ve drastically cut back on alcohol. No, I wasn’t an alcoholic, don’t worry — but I made that decision just before the Football World Cup. Sacrilege, you might say, because in France, watching a football match without a beer simply isn’t done. My only consolation: writing an article about beer.

And that article was a huge hit. Hundreds of notifications a day, over 1000 new subscribers in three weeks, and comments that were sometimes more interesting than the article itself. This success also comes right after a bigger decision: I put all my social media on pause — except Substack, which, let’s be honest, is a social network too — to write more and scroll less. Because the algorithm is a bit like that second beer you didn’t plan on having: you tell yourself “just one,” and then one leads to another. A big thank you also to all the new paying subscribers: the more of you there are, the more time I can spend creating content for you.

Right, let’s get into the real subject — and let’s start with a misconception you hear everywhere: “France isn’t a beer country, it’s a wine country.” Except the numbers tell a different story. In 2025, for the first time, the French drank more beer than wine — 22.1 million hectolitres of beer against 22 million hectolitres of wine, according to the Brasseurs de France and the International Organisation of Vine and Wine. And it’s not a one-off: France is now the country with the most breweries in Europe, with over 2,300 active breweries. The average French person drinks 33 litres of beer a year, and 70% of that beer is produced right there on French soil. In short: French beer exists, it’s everywhere, and it’s time to take it seriously.

To understand this story, we need to go back in time. In the Middle Ages, it was monks who were already brewing, in their abbeys — the word “bierre” itself first appears in French in 1435. Back then, this hopped drink was called cervoise — as you can see in the Asterix comics, where the Gauls drink cervoise around the fire. At the start of the 20th century, France had over 3,300 breweries: a true golden age. Then the two World Wars arrived, and around 90% of those breweries disappeared, without the means to rebuild. The industry then consolidated around three giants that still dominate today: Heineken France, AB InBev, and Kronenbourg. It wasn’t until the 1980s and 90s, with the arrival of the craft beer movement from the United States, that real diversity returned — led by Breton pioneers like the Lancelot and Ninkasi breweries, who paved the way for thousands of microbreweries in the North and beyond.

And the North, in particular, deserves a closer look. The North of France is the old land of Flanders — and where there’s Flanders, there’s hops. Up there, beer isn’t just a drink, it’s a regional identity. I studied law in Lille, and at my university, there wasn’t one student bar… there were two. You could order a draft beer between two civil law lectures without anyone raising an eyebrow. And here’s the thing: in 2021, it was a beer from the North — the Anosteké, brewed by the Brasserie du Pays Flamand — that was named the best blonde beer in the world at the World Beer Awards. That should silence anyone who still thinks France has nothing to say on the subject.

On the brand side, you’ll certainly know the big names found everywhere in France: Kronenbourg and its famous 1664, born in Alsace where the Strisselspalt hop grows — but also Pelforth, Fischer, Goudale, Desperados, and 3 Monts. But if you go on a real tour of France’s brewing regions, things get much more interesting. In the North, alongside the Anosteké, there’s La Bête — powerful but not too bitter — and Ducasse, a triple at 9% named after the local fairground festivals. And then there’s the Jenlain, from the Duyck brewery, the benchmark for bière de garde — that typically French style where the beer ages in tanks before being bottled. In Corsica, there’s the Pietra, brewed with chestnut. In Provence, the Fada, made with local rosemary. In the Basque Country, the Eguzki. And in Paris, two breweries are worth the detour: Demory, founded in 1827, and Gallia, a microbrewery in Pantin that revived the name of a long-lost Parisian brewery — as if to reawaken a brewing memory the capital had too quickly forgotten.

Now, the practical question: what do you actually order on draft in a French bar? The vast majority of bars offer the same standard options — 1664, Kronenbourg, or Pelforth, which dominates volumes sold in France. If you want to step up slightly without straying too far, Belgian drafts like Leffe Blonde or Grimbergen are almost always available and are a safe bet. But if you really want to impress, think back to the phrase from the article: “Vous avez quoi en pression?” — “What do you have on draft?” In a beer bar or craft brewery, that question often opens the door to a local beer, sometimes brewed just a few streets away. Always more interesting than another 1664.

Then we cross the border — into Belgium. For me, without hesitation, the world capital of beer. A personal story: during my years in Lille, I met Florent, a Franco-Belgian, on the university benches and in the rugby changing rooms. Every summer, Florent would recruit a whole team of French people to go and work on the Flemish coast in Belgium. That’s where I worked as a barman, then as a waiter. And that’s where I learned THE absolute rule — almost a religious one — of Belgian beer: every beer has its glass. Not “a” glass — “its” glass, with a specific shape designed exclusively for that particular beer. Serve a Chimay in a Duvel glass, and you’ll watch a Belgian’s face change in an instant.

In terms of variety, Belgium stands apart. There are the Trappist beers, brewed in abbeys by the monks themselves — Chimay, Orval, Rochefort, Westmalle. There are the white beers, like Hoegaarden — light and spiced. And there are the lambics and gueuzes, from around Brussels, fermented naturally without added yeast — a sour taste, almost like cider, that you either love or absolutely don’t.

And then there’s her. The legend: the Westvleteren. Said to be the best beer in the world — not “one of the best,” THE best, according to many connoisseurs. And here I can give you my honest opinion, because I’ve tasted it — several times, in fact. It is indeed a very good beer, if you enjoy the Trappist style — strong, complex, almost syrupy. It’s brewed by monks at the Saint-Sixtus Abbey, and those monks clearly have no interest in getting rich: they’ve set very strict rules to limit sales. Option one: go directly to the abbey, but only by appointment, with a limit of two cases per person. Option two, simpler: drink it at the small bar right next to the abbey — the only place in the world officially authorised to serve it. No supermarkets, no delivery, no official exports. Just monks, their rules, and their well-kept secret.

But you don’t need to go all the way to Belgium for a great bar story. Sometimes all it takes is being locked out of a stadium in Paris on match night. That’s exactly what happened to Mike, one of our readers, who shared this memory in the comments of the article.

A few years ago, Mike and his friends had come to Paris to watch the England-France match at the Parc des Princes. Problem: no way to get in. So they headed to the centre of Paris, Rue Saint-Denis, looking for a bar with a TV. They ended up somewhere rather unusual — a bar with, in one corner, a horse racing betting setup, and a crowd of regulars glued to the racing screens, shouting loudly.

They ordered several rounds at a table. When kick-off time came, they asked the barman to switch to the rugby. Which he did. Consternation among the betting crowd. But the barman just shrugged, pointed to the large number of empty glasses on the group’s table — then glanced over at the regulars, who weren’t really drinking much at all.

The match started. France dominated. Winger Émile Ntamack scored twice. And gradually, the regulars — many of whom were of West African origin — were drawn into the game, becoming France supporters for the evening.

They left much later, to smiles and handshakes all round — especially from the barman.

That’s exactly the kind of situation — ordering at the right moment, reading the room, understanding the unwritten codes — that we’re going to work on together on Wednesday 24th June, in a live workshop reserved for paying subscribers. We’ll cover the real interactions of a French bar: how to order without looking like a tourist, how to handle a round of drinks with friends, and how to ask for the bill — because in France, it never arrives on its own.

If you’re already a paying subscriber, you’ll find the link in the subscriber chat. And if you’d like to join us, now is the perfect time to upgrade to a premium subscription.

That’s it for this episode. Beer, in France and in Belgium, is never just a drink — it’s a region, a history, sometimes even a religion. Thank you all for your support this month, and as they say at the bar: à la tienne! Cheers!

It was a summer evening in July 1998. I was at a scout camp in the Jura mountains, which meant I had spent most of the previous month completely disconnected from what was happening in France — namely, the World Cup (la Coupe du Monde), which France was hosting for the first time and which had the entire country in a state of collective delirium.

I had missed almost everything. The games (les matchs), the goals (les buts), the drama. Then, on the evening of July 12th, somebody organized something extraordinary: hundreds of scouts gathered in a field in front of several giant screens to watch the final (la finale). France vs Brazil. La France contre le Brésil.

That was my first real football match. Not in a stadium — in a field. With strangers, in the dark, surrounded by people who cared enormously, giving the context. France won 3–0. I became, overnight, what the French call a footix.

A footix is someone who only shows up to care about football when France is winning — a fair-weather fan, a bandwagon jumper. The term was coined mockingly during that exact 1998 World Cup, when suddenly millions of French people who had never watched a match in their lives were declaring themselves lifelong supporters. I was one of them. I am not ashamed. I was 11. It’s fine.

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Why the World Cup is a French lesson in disguise

The World Cup does something strange. Every four years, people who haven’t thought about le football in months suddenly become experts.

Predictions appear, arguments start, group chats become tactical analysis forums — and if you’re learning French, you quickly discover another problem.

You need to talk about countries. Lots of countries.

You need to talk about players.

You need to talk about :

And that’s when French starts making things complicated.

Because nationalities (les nationalités) change depending on gender. And countries (les pays) have genders too. And unlike football, the rules aren’t always obvious.

Nationalities in French

When you describe a player by their nationality, the adjective changes depending on whether you’re talking about a man or a woman.

• A Brazilian male player → un joueur brésilien

• A Brazilian female player → une joueuse brésilienne

• The Brazilian team → l’équipe brésilienne

Most nationalities simply add an -e in the feminine form. After a few matches, it becomes surprisingly natural.

Countries have genders — and it changes everything

The real challenge comes with the countries themselves.

Every country in French has a gender. This isn’t a minor detail. It determines which preposition you use — and getting it wrong sounds immediately off to any French speaker.

The basic system:

• Feminine countries → en (en France, en Espagne, en Allemagne)

• Masculine countries → au (au Brésil, au Canada, au Japon)

• Plural countries → aux (aux États-Unis, aux Pays-Bas)

Here’s a first look at how it works in practice:

The pattern is clean — feminine countries end in -e, masculine countries generally don’t.

Except French wouldn’t be French without exceptions.

Le Mexique ends in -e and is masculine. Le Cambodge too. Le Zimbabwe too. There are about half a dozen countries like this.

Knowing them cold is the difference between hesitating mid-sentence and just talking — confidently, fluently, without doing mental grammar gymnastics while everyone else has moved on.

They’re all in the PDF, alongside 50+ nationalities, the full en / au / aux system with every exception explained and a vocabulary sheet for watching matches in French. Find the PDF in the Paid Subscriber Chat:

A few phrases to use this summer

Try these out loud. You’ll sound better than you think.

Literally: we’re going to eat them alive.

De ouf is verlan — French backslang — for fou, meaning crazy or insane. The highest compliment. Its evil twin: un match de merde, which explains itself.

Les Bleus — the Blues — is the nickname of the French national team, after the color of their jersey.

One last thing

Before the next match, ask yourself: do you know how to say in Netherlands? In Haiti? In Qatar? If you hesitated on any of those — that’s exactly what the PDF is for.

The 2026 World Cup runs through mid-July. 104 matches, 48 teams, spread across the US, Canada, and Mexico. Pick a team. Learn one player’s name. Try saying quel match! when something incredible happens.

And if you find yourself in a bar with other French people, all of you suddenly very interested in football, all of you cheering for les Bleus with a passion you can’t quite explain — congratulations. You’re a footix now.

Welcome to the club. It’s a good one.

Timo

In the previous part, the bush delivered on its promises: a dead snake, a lynching, an old woman muttering words I couldn't understand. That night, my body decided it had had enough. This week : Nietzsche, a Marseillais with foie gras, and a book that changed everything.

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Je me souviendrai toujours du regard de Fidèle quand il vint me rendre visite. Il s’arrêta dans l’encadrement de la porte, me regarda, et ne dit rien. C’était suffisant.

Il faut dire que le tableau n’inspirait pas la sérénité. Allongé sur un lit dont je préférais ne pas imaginer l’histoire, dans une pièce sans fenêtre ou presque, des aiguilles dans les deux bras, les perfusions suspendues à un cintre scotché au mur faute de potence, la médecine de brousse improvisant avec ce qu’elle a. Trois jours déjà. Ils m’avaient paru une éternité. Et à en juger par son silence, je n’avais pas bonne mine.

Ce que j’ignorais, c’est à quoi je ressemblais exactement. Pas de miroir dans cette chambre ni dans le reste de l’hôtel. Pas de lunette sur les toilettes, pas de couvercle non plus. Détail qui m’avait semblé anodin à l’arrivée mais qui avait cessé de l’être très vite.

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