Fritinancy

Saying Grace

In honor of Quatorze Juillet--Bastille Day--here are a few thoughts about the French expression coup de grâce.

I had clicked over to Heidi Swanson's 101 Cookbooks, one of the better food blogs out there, because Heidi's recipe for Salt-kissed Buttermilk Cake looked so tempting and her description, as always, was so persuasive. But I stopped short when I read this line in the recipe itself:

The coup de grace is a floppy dollop of sweet, freshly whipped cream on the side.

Now, I cooed over "floppy dollop," a charmingly evocative phrase. But "coup de grâce"? (Yes, it should have accent circonflexe.)

Here are several dictionary definitions of coup de grâce:

 

A death blow intended to end the suffering of a wounded creature

 

A French term used in English to mean a finishing sword cut.

 

The dagger stroke given to mercifully end the suffering of a wounded duelist (originally used to execute a defeated knight in heavy plate armor)

 

A finishing stroke

(By the way, the correct pronunication is coo duh grahss. Do not omit the s sound at the end of grâce.)

I left a comment noting that I felt coup de grâce was an odd choice in this context. One later commenter leapt to Heidi's defense, citing that "finishing stroke" definition.

I disagree, although I agree that my original on-the-fly suggestion for a substitution--pièce de résistance--is just as inapt. 

The problem with coup de grâce is that grâce reminds us of the everyday meaning of English "grace": "elegance," "attractiveness," "charm." But "grace" and grâce also have theological meanings of "mercy" and "thanksgiving" (which English retains in expressions like "by the grace of God" and "the grace before meals"). A coup de grâce relies on the latter meaning: it's a merciful end to suffering.

I think "grace note"--a small, decorative, unessential part of a larger piece--is closer to what Heidi may have intended; what it lacks in Frenchy finery it makes up for in accuracy, and the link with musical terminology creates a pleasing cross-sensory association.

Now, English speakers have been ringing all sorts of changes on French since the Norman invasion, and I'm sure there are those will take the descriptivist position: "If Heidi wants coup de grâce to mean delicious adornment, then I'll defend to the death her right to do so!"

But I think we need to be careful with our borrowings and redefinings. As I heard someone say on NPR the other day, "We're living in a global world"--or at least an increasingly connected one. Supoose you had a native French speaker at your table and proudly announced that whipped cream was your cake's coup de grâce. Your guest would have reason to push his dessert plate away with a murmured "Non, merci."

Finding le mot juste--like finding the perfect fleur de sel--can take a little additional time, but it's definitely worth the trouble.

P.S. I made Salt-kissed Buttermilk Cake over the weekend with fresh raspberries. Four stars. And one caveat: if you use kosher salt for the topping, halve the amount in the recipe. For the sodium-sensitive, a whole teaspoonful of kosher salt could indeed be a finishing stroke--and not a merciful one. 

P.P.S. Speaking of faux pas, right after I finished writing this post I came across this sentence in a fashion blog: "And viola!" Mais non, not unless you're introducing a member of a string quartet. The word is voilà--French for "hey, presto!", more or less. It's pronounced vwah-LAH. 

Hyperforeignism

Joseph Stiglitz is one massively impressive fellow. He got his PhD in economics from MIT at the tender age of 24 and was a full professor at Yale by the time he was 27. He was chairman of the Council of Economic Advisers during the Clinton administration and later chief economist and senior vice-president of the World Bank. He won the 2001 Nobel Prize in Economics for his analyses of markets with asymmetric information. (And no, I have no idea what that means. I'm just the typist here.)

Now Stiglitz, with co-author Linda Bilmes (no laggard herself), has published The Three Trillion Dollar War, about the true costs of the Iraq conflict. It's a relatively short book--just 192 pages--and from what I've heard and read about it, an important one. I hope to read it soon.

Meanwhile, though, I've been listening to Stiglitz and Bilmes being interviewed on various NPR programs. And on one of those programs--I think it was Forum, on KQED-FM--I heard Stiglitz commit a common verbal gaffe that I hadn't expected from a PhD/Nobelist/CEA chairman. He was talking about armaments, as I recall, and what I distinctly heard him say was "cashays of weapons."

What he meant of course, was caches, which rhymes with "mashes." A cache--from the French cacher, to hide--is a hidden supply. Cacher has a second meaning, "to press," which gave rise to cachet, a seal or impression--and by extension any distinguishing characteristic. Cachet is pronounced the way Stiglitz said it, rhyming with sachet. However, weapons are not hidden in cachets, only in caches.¹

Now, I'm willing to bet Stiglitz uses cache and cachet correctly in writing. And, as I said, he's a total whiz at asymmetric information and numbers containing many, many zeros. Still, like a lot of Americans, he fell prey at least on this occasion to the temptations of hyperforeignism in speech.

Hyper-what-what? Here's how Headsup: The Blog explains it:

Hyperforeignization is the tendency to make sure that a foreign-looking word sounds foreign, even if the result is farther from an "accurate" pronunciation than you'd get by just sounding the thing out in your own language. Usually, it borrows rules from an unrelated language that makes recognizably "foreign" noises[.]

And most commonly on these shores, that unrelated language is by default French, or something resembling French.

Headsup gives the example of Israeli Prime Minister Ehud Olmert, whose name is often pronounced "ohl-MEHR" on U.S. radio and television, as if the final T were silent. "That'd be fine if the parliament at issue had been the French one," notes Headsup, "but it isn't. It's the Israeli one, and Olmert is a native." And his name is pronounced ohl-MEHRT.

Other common mis-Frenchifications include:

Beizhing for Beijing. As Language Hat points out, "There is no /zh/ sound in Mandarin Chinese."

Tazh Mahal for Taj Mahal. No /zh/ sound there, either.

Onchilada and On-ree-kay for the Spanish word enchilada and proper name Enrique. In French, "en-" sorta-kinda sounds like "on," but not in Spanish, where there's no funny business allowed with vowels.

Coo day grah for coup de grâce. The correct version, meaning "finishing stroke," ends with a word whose finishing stroke more or less rhymes with moss. As Mr. Verb points out, the preferred American pronunciation would translate to "a blow of fat."

Pree fee for prix fixe (pronounced pree feeks). Mr. Verb again: "Famously, people think French drops final consonants."

Hyperforeignism also shows up in spelling errors, such as avante-garde instead of the correct avant-garde. Famously once again, people think French adds superfluous final vowels.

By the way, if you're hyperinterested in hyperforeignism, you'll definitely want to read "Systematic Hyperforeignisms as Maximally External Evidence for Linguistic Rules," which Mr. Verb calls "one of the coolest linguistic papers around," although he doesn't provide a link. Guess he wants it to maintain its cachet.

P.S. I devoted four posts last year to the more general topic of false friends--words frequently confused with each other--including this one on cache/cachet.

___

¹A weapon can have cachet, though (note: no article before "cachet" in that construction). For instance: "Oooh, can I touch your Glock?"

False Friends IV: A Bewilderment of Words

This is the fourth in a series of posts on word pairs that frequently get confused, abused, or misused in written and spoken English. Thanks to everyone who has sent in False Friends suggestions; if you don't see your contributions here, look for them in a future installment.

• Ambiguous/Ambivalent: The two words share the Latin prefix that means "both," but they are used to describe different states. Ambiguous applies to situations; it  means "unclear" or "undefined." Ambivalent is used with people; it describes the condition of being torn between two (and generally only two) opposing views. Here's a somewhat contrived example to illustrate the distinction: "Our policy on recycling is ambiguous, and the CEO says she's ambivalent about whether or not to clarify it."
• Perspective/Prospective: Perspective is a noun that originally meant "the science of optics"--a useful mnemonic, because perspective relates to vision. A perspective may be an outlook, a point of view, or the ability to perceive things in context ("Let's try to keep our perspective during this transition"). Prospective is an adjective that refers to the future, or one's prospects: You pitch an ad campaign to prospective clients, or send fundraising letters to prospective donors.
• Nonplussed/Nonchalant. These words are non-synonyms, but nonplussed--which means "bewildered" or "unable to go further" (non + plus = no more)--is frequently misused to mean unperturbed or unfazed or even calm. Those latter meanings are properly attached to nonchalant, from French words meaning "not heated"--that is, cool. Chalant is related etymologically to calorie, and that's your mnemonic. No-calorie emotion is nonchalance. When your mind is boggled--plus!--you're nonplussed.
• Oral/Verbal. When I hear "Could you deliver that verbally?" I'm always a bit, well, nonplussed--especially when I learn that the questioner wants me to speak, not write. Oral means "spoken by mouth" (its origin is Latin os or or-, meaning mouth; think of an oral themometer). Verbal means simply "in words." (In grammar lingo, it means "with verbs," as in "a verbal suffix.") The confusion stems from the fact that verbal has indeed been used over the centuries to mean spoken. When there's a possibility of ambiguity (not, I hasten to add, ambivalence), use oral to mean spoken and verbal to mean more generally "associated with words," as in "a verbal distinction" (not associated with content or ideas) or "a verbal confrontation" (without fisticuffs or weapons).
• Hark/Hearken: Hark and hearken are nearly synonymous (both come from Middle English harken) but are used differently. Hark back means "to return to a previous place in a narrative": "Her use of blog entries harks back to older forms of the epistolary novel." Hark!--used as an imperative verb--is a quaint way to say "Listen!" And so is hearken, although not as an imperative. (I learned the difference between hark and hearken by associating the "e" in hearken with ear.) Hearken back is incorrect, and harken (in an email from Springwise: "At Grom, gelato flavours based on seasonality harken back to times when storing perishable ingredients wasn't feasible") is a non-word.
• Comprise/Compose. Let's make this simple: Avoid saying or writing "comprised of" and you'll be fine. Comprise is closely related to comprehend in the sense of include. Here's your mantra: The whole comprises the parts. A team comprises its members--it isn't "comprised of" them. It's also OK to say "A team is composed of its members." For a whole lot more on this subject, from a bona fide linguist, see Michael Covarrubias's post on his blog, Wishydig. 

Read False Friends the First.

Read False Friends the Second.

Read False Friends the Third.

And for a comprehensive survey of frequently confused word pairs, as well as some eggcorns such as "calm, cool, and collective," see Paul Brian's Common Errors in English Usage.

Even More False Friends

Third in a series on words that are frequently confused or misused.

• Palate/Palette/Pallet: Palate is the roof of the mouth or, by extension, the sense of taste; it derives from Latin palatum. A palette is the board an artist uses to mix colors. You'll find a pallet in a warehouse: it's a large, flat, portable tray that's used with a forklift to move loads. Pallet and palette were once interchangeable (from Latin pala, a spade), but after their meanings diverged, around 1921, it became important to distinguish between them.
• Flesh/Flush: You flesh out an outline or an idea by adding "flesh" to its skeleton. You--perhaps accompanied by your faithful terrier--flush out a criminal from his lair or the birds from their nest. Flush out derives from the language of the hunt; it means "to frighten from cover" or "to drive out into the open." (For other meanings of flush--a very interesting word that can also mean "level," "to turn red," "in the money," and much more--see The Free Dictionary.)
• Horde/Hoard: Homophones with distinct derivations, these two words are frequently confused, as in this sentence from the San Francisco Chronicle: "In 'The Rape of Europa,' an Army doctor named Leonard Malamut, who was on hand when American soldiers discovered Hitler's vast horde of loot..." Horde comes from a Turkic word (urda in Tatar, ordu in Turkish) that means "army." Hoard comes from an Old English word meaning "treasure" or "vast store." True, both words signify aggregations, but one refers to people, the other to things. The Chronicle writer should have used hoard.
• Parlay/Parley: Spelled with two a's, the word means "to place a certain kind of bet" (the original wager plus its winnings) or "to maneuver to advantage." (It's what corp-speakers should be using instead of the verb to leverage.) It comes from paroli, a term in the card game faro. Parley, on the other hand, comes from French parler, "to talk." As a noun, it means "discussion" or "conference"; as a verb, it means "to discuss"--in particular, with an enemy.
• Foreword/Forward: The clue here is in -word. A foreword is a written passage--a series of words--that comes before the first chapter of a book. (An afterword appears, logically enough, afterward.) The suffix -ward indicates direction (as in toward or backward or windward). Forward means "near the beginning" (the forward part of a ship) or "advanced" (retailers love to talk about styles being "fashion forward"); as a verb it means "to advance" or "to send." In sports, a forward plays in the front line of offense. In general, be careful with fore- and for-; a forebear is an ancestor, whereas to forbear is to refrain from. Forego means "precede, come before"; forgo means "to relinquish." When in doubt, look it up.

Read False Friends the First.

Read False Friends the Second.

More False Friends

Word pairs to approach with care:

• Premier/Premiere: In French, both words mean "first" (masculine and feminine, respectively). But they're not interchangeable in English. Premier the adjective means "first in rank": our premier ["very best"] jewelry collection. Premier the noun means a prime minister or chief administrative officer. Premiere can be a noun--"the first public performance"--or a verb--"to present the first performance." Only snobs and New Yorker editors put the accent grave in première when they're writing in English.
• Carat/Karat: Another pair that originated in a single word, Arabic qr, "the weight of four grains," from Greek kertion. But spelled with a c the word refers only to diamond weight (remember the diamond industry's "four C's" mnemonic: cut, color, clarity, carat). With a k it refers only to the proportion of pure gold in an alloy: one karat equals 1/24 part. Gold that is 50 percent pure is 12 karat, usually expressed 12k.
• Cavalry/Calvary: I sometimes wish the cavalry would ride in and lasso the copy editors who get this one wrong, as in this article in Lucky magazine cited by one of my favorite fashion bloggers, Wardrobe 911. "Calvary" pockets? Uh-uh. Calvary is the hill on which Jesus was crucified; it's an Anglicization of Aramaic gulguta, "the place of the skull," sometimes transcribed as Golgotha. Cavalry is a horse of a different color: it comes to us from Middle French cavalerie, which is related to modern French cheval, meaning "horse." A cavalry is an army on horseback, and its uniform--coats, boots, and pants--is cut cavalry style.
• Advise/Advice: The first is a verb; the second is a noun. Take my advice and don't confuse them. The origin of both words was the French phrase ce m'est à vis ("it seems to me"). Both words were originally spelled avis in English; the d was added in the fifteenth century to make them look more Latin-y, and the c was substituted for s in the noun form (a) to distinguish the two words (nice try) and (b) to more closely represent the word's pronunciation. Advise is pronounced as though the s were a z.
• Vise/Vice: Not only are these words unrelated to each other, they're not related to advise/advice, either. (Ain't English grand?) A vise is a device (not a devise) that clamps two objects together; it comes from Latin vitis, the tendril of a vine. A vice is an immoral practice or habit; it comes from Latin vitium, an offense or blemish. Vicious derives from vice, and vice squad made its first appearance in 1905.
• Cache/Cachet: The first is pronounced cash, the second is pronounced cashay (rhymes with sashay). Both come from French cacher, but only cache reflects the modern French meaning "to hide." A cache is a hiding place or the goods stored therein. Cachet comes from an older meaning, "to press," and means "a mark of distinction or quality"--from the seal of authenticity that was pressed into a document. Confusion between the two words leads to slightly surreal exchanges such as the one I heard on NPR between an American GI and a BBC reporter in Baghdad (paraphrased here): BBC: And did you find anything? GI: Yeah, we found a cachet of weapons. BBC: So you discovered a cache of weapons, did you? GI: Yeah, a cachet.

Read False Friends the First.

False Friends

Students of Spanish learn about falsos amigos--words that appear to be English equivalents but in fact are "false friends." Embarazada, for example, doesn't mean "embarrassed"; it means "pregnant."

English has its own false friends. Here are some word pairs that frequently get confused or are incorrectly assumed to be synonomous.

• Fortuitous/Fortunate. Fortuitous means "accidental." Fortunate means "lucky." The two words have a common Latin root, fors, which means "chance," which explains the confusion. When in doubt, use a simpler synonym.
• Invoke/Evoke. Invoke means "to call upon; to appeal for help." Only human beings can invoke something; a landscape can't "invoke" memories of a happy childhood. For inanimate objects and processes we must invoke evoke, which means "call something up in someone's mind."
• Loose/Lose. Yes, I know that lose should rhyme with those and close, but it doesn't. (This is English, remember? Abandon logic, ye who enter here.) And loose should, or could, rhyme with choose. But lose--the opposite of find--rhymes with bruise (and, yes, choose) and loose--the opposite of tight--rhymes with caboose. The participle of lose is losing, as in "I'm losing my marbles over this usage lesson!" Use a mnemonic if you must: lose has lost the extra "o" in loose.
• Select/Selected. "Save 50% on select T-shirts!" I doubt it. Select--the adjective, not the verb--means refined, discriminating, or of special quality. What copywriters usually mean here is selected--chosen from among the larger group.
• Advance/Advanced. "Advanced tickets $35." As opposed to beginning or intermediate tickets? The correct word here is advance, "made or given ahead of time."

One more thing: I'm picky about artful when it's used to mean artistic--I'd rather reserve artful to mean crafty or deceitful, as in the Artful Dodger--but most usage guides accept the broader definition, so I grumpily yield. But you won't find me writing "an artfully designed room" unless said room has a trapdoor.