In French, there is this word that doesn’t fully translate into other languages without requiring a more extensive explanation to capture its true meaning. Convivialité refers to the joy of gathering around the table and sharing meaningful moments with others. The term was first used by the gastronome Jean Brillat-Savarin in one of the foundational books of French culinary culture, The Physiology of Taste. Beyond terminology and fundamental culinary techniques, within this untranslatable word, convivialité, lies the very essence of French gastronomy, built on the ideas of pleasure, savoir-vivre, and the joy of life.
This notion resurfaced in my mind just a few days ago, when I had the chance to gather some friends around a cheese platter and a bottle of wine. I smiled as I remembered that moments like these were the very starting point of my passion for gastronomy, and the entire adventure that followed. I didn’t know it at the time, but convivialité naturally became the foundation of my personal journey. I love creating and sharing moments, experiences, and stories—both gastronomic and otherwise—with others, and the energy that flows from sharing always comes back to me, feeding my soul in return.
In stark contrast to this convivialité, I recently came across a well-written, well-researched article that hit me with the realities of contemporary society, as well as some undeniable and eye-opening statistics: between 2014 and 2018, the number of people dining alone in restaurants increased by 80%. The study focused on subjects in New York, but more broadly, another study spanning several years of research (2012-2016) indicated that 46% of Americans eat alone, even though people are dining out more than ever. The reasons behind this are undoubtedly varied, and not always within our control, but the conclusion that today’s society is connecting us in some ways (look at social media, for example) while simultaneously disconnecting us in others, cannot be overlooked. In other words, we are more connected to each other than ever, yet more isolated at the same time. Unfortunately, this is not the first study to point out such a conclusion.
The article, which raised a number of important questions about our relationship with food, was by no means an endorsement of solitude. On the contrary, it sought to demonstrate that, by nature, humans are not meant to eat alone.
In fact, the need for convivialité is felt not only emotionally but physically as well. A study conducted by Oxford Economics and involving nearly 8,000 adults revealed that those who ate alone twice a day were twice as likely to have deteriorating health compared to those who shared meals with others.
The implications of our growing disconnection go beyond just dining in restaurants. With the increasing pace of life, the effort required to prepare a meal, and the hustle of daily life, we’ve seen a rise in meal delivery services (and most of the time, orders are made for just one person). This is in sharp contrast to the growing interest in culinary shows, whether online or on TV—where we can easily imagine viewers, mesmerized by the show, digging into a meal they’ve ordered just for themselves.
I couldn’t help but think of French culture and the convivialité that I’ve found to be a recurring theme, not only in my classes but also in daily life, on the streets, in bistros, in homes—it’s an important part of the French lifestyle. I’ve written before about the French paradox and how it concretely reflects in French society, in their physical and emotional well-being, but convivialité deserves its own separate study. The difficulty of translating this term linguistically is mirrored by the challenge of translating it into concrete actions.
So, how do we rediscover convivialité? And if we can’t find it, how do we create it? Let’s take a look at the French for inspiration.
Parisians—whom I’ve come to know best—don’t go to exaggerated lengths to prepare feasts and banquets, as you might imagine. The focus isn’t so much on the menu itself, but on the very act of sharing moments of joy and pleasure with others, which means not just food, but wine, stories, music, atmosphere—in other words, convivialité. The magic of a simple cheese or charcuterie platter, paired with a good wine, can easily spark a much larger conversation that unfolds around the table. When the host prepares dinner—usually something simple, quick, and delicious, allowing them to spend time with their guests—it’s quite common for the guests to contribute by bringing dessert, for example. It’s a synergy of joy shared between friends, translated into social customs.
And when Parisians aren’t hosting moments of convivialité in their homes, they go out. You’ll find them chatting on terraces, enjoying a picnic along the Seine or on the grass at Jardin de Luxembourg, or gathering in cafes, bistros, and brasseries, savoring a kir at aperitif hour or a glass of wine at dinner. Their zest for life is contagious. Sometimes, because of the close proximity between tables, you might even find yourself striking up a conversation with a stranger about all sorts of things.
I think the most important takeaway from all this is that moments of convivialité don’t require extraordinary effort—just a little openness. Being a bit more open to sharing what we have, what we know, and what we experience becomes a quick path to a sense of well-being that can energize us, nourish us, and reconnect us. And perhaps it’s no coincidence that the word savor sounds so similar to savoir—beyond savoir-faire and faire-savoir, the French have this fundamental concept of savoir-vivre, which we can constantly draw inspiration from in our day-to-day lives.
Living—and living harmoniously, with a joie de vivre, fully aware of all the small joys life holds—is a science”worth mastering and an art to integrate into our lives. At the heart of this “science” and “art” lies convivialité: a life of taste is a life with meaning—especially when shared with others.
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