Thwarted aspirations

For a while now I've been wondering about the existence of [h] in Cajun French. Not h, mind you--all varieties of French have that. (Except creoles, I suppose.) No, an honest-to-goodness h sound like what we have in English. In some cases, it could've been borrowed from English. Even a "native" word like halle could've been reshaped to [hal] under English influence. But what to make of it in words like hache and--particularly--haut?

Then last week, in a discussion of shallow vs. deep orthographies, I came across this extraordinary claim:

in French...the "h" is no longer an aspirated H as in "la haine" which is mostly pronounced "la aine"; 20 years ago you could heard it pronounced "haine" with an aspirated H by a few educated old people and 40/50 years ago "Haine" was spoken quite often by everyone.

It's been quite some time now since I've done any reading on the phonological history of French, but my recollection was that /h/ had been lost from the standard language quite a long time ago--certainly before living memory. A bit of online research turned up this passage from description of Missouri French published in 1941:

So-called Aspirate H

As early as the sixteenth century Scaglier considered [h] inelegant because many people gave it, he said, too harsh a pronunciation. [h] disappeared from Standard French some time at the end of the seventeenth century. To-day in France it is heard only on the edge of the Germanic domain and along a part of the Norman coast. In America, it has survived in the province of Quebec, the Maritime provinces, Missouri, and Louisiana, where it is commonly heard in words such as hache [haʃ], haut [ho], haine [hɛn], hetre [hɛːtr], haïr [haiːr]. In Missouri, a parasitic [h] is often prefixed to the pronoun elle and the adverb ensemble, which are then pronounced [hɛl] and [hɑ̃sɑː̃b].

I'm not sure where in France the author of the claim above is from, but when I posted this to a discussion in another linguistics forum, a poster from Brittany confirmed that he had friends in their 30s with [h] in these and other words.

This still left one little mystery: the [h] in haut. After all, this is a descendant of Latin altus. A spelling pronunciation is, I think, out of the question, since the populations which preserve it are--historically speaking--notoriously undereducated. Another "parasitic [h]" like in the Missouri French words? No, according to French lexicographers, this peculiarity goes back to the earliest days of French. Quoth the Robert: "du latin altus, croisé avec le francique hôh, mot germanique à l'origine de l'allemand hoch et de l'anglais high." So there you have it: It's a little bastard, just like the French language in general!

Review for Rique

monshu made scallops last night ("Sort of a French stir-fry"), which reminded me that I'd never written up my experiences at La Taberna in the detail I promised. For starters, the bread they gave us was terrible. I don't necessarily expect house-baked, but it would be nice to get a baguette at least as good was what I could find at the corner grocery. This is particularly important because the most consistent failing among the dishes was that they were oversauced.

Usually when testing out a new tapas place, I begin with the tortilla española. It's simply eggs, potatoes, and onions, so it's a pure test of cooking skill; if you can't get this right, you have no business being in the kitchen of any restaurant, much less a Spanish-themed one. It also tells me right off the bat what the chef's take on the cuisine is going to be like. How generous is she with the portions? Does she understand that tapas are basically bar food or does she feel a need to overdo the presentation in order to justify inflated prices?

But Nuphy finds tortilla "boring", so we gave it a miss. (I was more than happy to, actually, since the words "Served with a chipotle aioli" told me almost everything I needed to know anyway.) I recommended he order a seafood dish, since this would answer all our questions about technique and presentation while also giving us a clue to the quality of ingredients. So we started with gambas al ajillo. It was a good-sized portion--seven large shrimp--and well cooked. The texture was excellent and the flavours a little spicier than the Spanish norm (albeit typical of what you find in the States, where it's all Latin Americans in the kitchen). But, oddly, it was served in a cazuelita that was half full of oil. This is where a good crusty bread would've been much appreciated.

We also ordered the vieiras salteadas, which everyone agreed was the most outstanding dish of the evening. In fact, Nuphy and Don Jaime both declared them the best scallops they'd ever eaten, which frankly made me a little sad; flawlessly prepared scallops--without a trace of toughness or grittiness--should not be that hard to come by. If the menu hadn't told me "Served with a creamy saffron sauce", I wouldn't have realised that was the featured ingredient, but it was a lovely accompaniment and--equally important--a moderate one, just a swirl on the plate.

Contrast that to the ceviche de gambas which came drowning in tomato sauce. Not chunks of tomato, as is typical, but a thick purée more appropriate to a shrimp cocktail. It tasted house-made and only slightly sweet, but there was simply so damn much of it that I couldn't stand to finish the dish. Around the same time, Rique gifted us a plate of pan con tomate with shaved manchego. Don Jaime declared it unlike any he'd ever had in Spain, but tasty all the same. (None of us is stickler for authenticity as long as the food is good.) I'm not a big fan of pa amb tomàquet, as I prefer to call it, so my vote was neutral.

Both were enthusiastic for patatas bravas, so it's good that we got such a generous portion. Again, well cooked (good and firm, the way I like my bums) and--in keeping with stateside standards--rather spicy. I shot down Nuphy's attempt to order queso de cabra because I'm not paying $7 for an appetiser anyone can make easily at home and instead steered him toward the empanadas de picadillo (in truth empanaditas). Unfortunately, this was not a good choice to end on. I can understand the desire to use puff pastry (most likely frozen and commercial) instead of real empanada dough, but it was a serious miscalculation. No matter how well you bake or fry them, the saucy filling instantly turns them soggy, and a dollop of mousse on top only exacerbates the problem.

So, in sum, good ingredients married to good technique but undercut by a surfeit of dressing. Plus I thought there was some conceptual confusion. As I said, we're none of us purists, but just reading the names on the menu you get the impression it's all fairly orthodox Spanish. Then the dishes arrive and each has a pronounced Latin American spin. Not surprising given where you are, but I wish the restaurant would signal that better. As I explained at table, a dish that is fantastic in its own right will be disappointing if you really had your heart set on something else. Rique's eclecticism is one of his strengths, he should be putting that front and centre like he did at his last restaurant.

Even the decor misleads you. Half the dining area is lined with absolutely hideous pictures in the style of great Spanish artists such as Picasso in Miró; I deliberately took a seat on the banquette so I wouldn't have to look at them. Other than that, it's a nice space--open and bright, but sure to be noisy as anything when even close to full. I didn't see anything Spanish at the bar (I thought I'd have a nice anís del mono but they didn't even stock bloody Pernod) so I went with the curiously-named mojito Valencia. When you think of Valencia, you think of oranges, not blueberries and ginger! But it's a superior version of the ginger-blueberry mojito monshu makes every summer, so I was happy. And the old men had good things to say about their sangrías (although Nuphy switched to what I was having for his second drink).

Bíonn an dea-Ghaeilge deacair

The other night, I found myself wondering what the Irish would be for "wait for". I knew the verb would be fan, but to my surprise none of my learning materials--not even my dictionary--told me which preposition to use. One possibility, I thought, might be do which sometimes translates "for" even though its core meaning it really "to". But we also say "wait on" and the usual translations of "on" is ar.

So I did what I habitually do in such cases--I googled the possibilities and compared the results. Almost immediately I found this helpful advisory:

A very common error made by learners and L2 speakers in general is to use a calque of the English and say "Táimid ag fanacht ort". In fact, "ag fanacht ar" means "sticking to, adhering to, abiding by (one's word, a promise, your version of events etc.) So, "táimid ag fanacht ort" actually means "we are sticking with you".

So if it's not "to" and not "on", what preposition do you use?

Le. That's right--"with"! This is doubly confusing because the core meaning of fan is actually "stay" so táim ag fanúint leis looks like it should mean "I'm waiting with him" rather that "for him". (I tried googling the phrase with leis expanded to in éineacht leis "together with", but from what I can tell the meaning is still "wait for" rather than "wait along with".)

So then what do you when you want to express "I stayed with him for a few days"? Naturally you use ag "at", i.e. D'fhanas aige ar feadh roinnt laethanta. And here I thought learning the German distinction between Ich warte auf ihn "I'm waiting for him" and Ich warte auf ihm "I'm waiting on top of him" was challenging!