Ressentiment in Europe
How dare you share pictures of your delicious vegetables!
A while ago the Substack algorithm presented me with a lengthy screed by an American who lives in Europe, complaining about other, wealthier Americans in Europe who can afford nice food and have the audacity to write about it. The long and short of it was, “You shouldn’t talk about how far your money goes here. It’s vulgar and it makes people feel bad. Neither I nor the locals can live as well as you do.”1
This kind of ressentiment is nothing new. People who enjoy a higher standard of living abroad have often been portrayed as an invasive species. Here is an example from Hans Ostwald’s book about life during the Weimar Republic, A Moral History of the Inflation, pp. 122-125 (my translation):
Many of us witnessed first-hand the stark contrast between our own lives and the way that foreigners were able to live. But not everyone can describe it as clearly as some writers and members of the press have done. For years people had to make do with inadequate war rations and the meagre amounts of meat and fat that were only available in exchange for coupons. They had to choke down soggy potato bread, hardly able to remember what a simple but well-provisioned dining table looked like. On their tiny domestic pensions, they could only peer into the places where foreigners dined.
These restaurants with their rows of tables were particularly striking right after the war — the rising rate of inflation was already obvious, and we sat there unable to buy imported food with our shabby local currency. In his book Hinterland, published by Rowohlt, Alfred Polgar paints a very clear picture of the sumptuous meals that the victorious foreigners used to order for themselves during those days, and how downright provocative and depressing it was for us:
In the hotel’s little extra dining room there is a table that is not like the others — there is a little flag with stars and stripes placed between the flowers in the vase.
A bowl full of the whitest, wheatiest bread sits upon the table, resplendent. The slices are piled high, and some fine butter shines golden yellow from beneath a glass dome. Tins and jars, round and square, bear the deliciously colourful labels of previously unheard-of brands, and they are bound to contain something tasty. The fragrance of food, condiments, and gravy emerges from the various containers.
The locals gather around the table and gaze reverently upon the culinary still life.
This is where the victorious dine — the Americans. All honour to them! Thanks to their participation in the war, we have peace (albeit with fourteen sore points),2 bundles of dollar bills, democracy, and food to eat. We love America.
So the locals stand at the table and blink in awe at the mysterious tins, jars, pots, and gravies.
Two of the victors enter the room. Dressed in white summer suits, they are young, handsome, and lean. They take no notice of the locals. We, in our wrinkled clothes, look at their smooth faces with shy envy — their faces have not been permanently pinched by humility or deprivation.
The waiter, standing half bent over with his curved napkin hanging down his arm like the tail of a faithful dog, wagging with devotion and obedience, takes the order and hurries away. The hotel manager is bent over three-quarters of the way, and his greasy face melts with deference as he bids them welcome.
A blonde Viennese lady sits down at the table. Is she the victor’s plunder? Is she Briseis to this Achilles?
A young man in a naval uniform appears, probably the head of the party. He sits down without saying a word, reaches for a dish of egg whites, and uses his spoon to beat them into a thick foam.
Why is he doing this, why is he doing it here, and why is he doing it himself? Who can understand the workings of this foreigner’s mind?
The American beats the egg whites for ten or twenty minutes. The spoon rattles loudly against the dish, and the room turns to look at the noise. The locals blanch and cower. For them, it is like the sound of victory drums over their heads.
Do American gentlemen noisily beat their own eggs in crowded hotel dining rooms when they are at home too? That must be lovely music — a balm to the nerves, like one of John Philip Sousa’s marches.
The next American arrives at the table, dragging a Doberman behind him. It is an excellent, daring, bold animal. He has not been licked by servile European culture; he licks everything instead. The American carries a whip. He lowers his eyes to meet those of the unruly dog, and the training session begins. The dog howls from its gaping jaws, and the whip whistles down. The dog does not yield, and neither does the American. Chairs tumble, the fire screen falls over, waiters and locals flee. The hotel manager, with a face as white as his tablecloths used to be, tries to calm the panic by assuring people that the Doberman does this every day and has never caused a serious accident, and that in America everyone brings his dog to crowded dining rooms.
And the victors — who are not here for their own sake, but for ours — why should they not dispense with local traditions, food, and customs in a conquered city?
The dog yowls, the whip sings, and the young man in the naval uniform clatters his spoon as he beats his eggs. The blond woman learns Yankee Doodle from her neighbour. Everyone enjoys a lovely meal...
For my part, I encourage Americans to follow previous generations and come up to Montreal, where your dollar is worth $1.38 CAD. Come and live la dolce vita like gods in Nouvelle-France.3 Dump as much money into the local economy as you please. It’s a beautiful place and fairly cheap in comparison to other large cities. There are plenty of cafés, museums, and parks. The jazz festival is wonderful. Our bicycle network is outstanding and we have a good public transit system (when they’re not on strike). Just don’t post photos of the fresh vegetables you bought at Marché Jean-Talon — apparently that really upsets people.
The author’s name escapes me. I think the title of the piece was “Hey Everybody, Look at Me! I’m Not an Ugly American, I’m Immersed and Authentic!” but I could be wrong.
A reference to Woodrow Wilson’s Fourteen Points.
In German, if someone is living luxuriously you might say he is living wie Gott in Frankreich, like God in France.