Not so fast

LA TOUR-DE-SALVAGNY, France - When he discovered American-style fast food had invaded his home, French chef and father of two Philippe Gauvreau decided to fight back.

His battle plan: Get kids hooked on the subtle flavors of traditional French cuisine before they develop a taste for assembly-line burgers and greasy pizzas.

So, once a month, Gauvreau opens his two-Michelin-star La Rotonde restaurant in Lyon to a clientele not typical of restaurants of this caliber - would-be foodies ages 5 to 13.

The monthly cooking lessons see some 30 children decked out in paper chef's toques descend for three-hour in-depth lessons followed by a "degustation," or tasting.

On the menu during the November lesson: A stuffed white sausage called boudin blanc and a delicate layer pastry of banana and chocolate.

This is the kind of cuisine Gauvreau says is under siege by the likes of McDonald's, Pizza Hut and KFC, which have mushroomed throughout France, helping to change the way the French eat. He also blames school cafeterias for turning youngsters off traditional dishes, saying they use often cheap, low-quality ingredients.

Gauvreau is one of a growing number of chefs, doctors, parents and politicians sounding the alarm about France's fast-food invasion and its disastrous effects on health. France is McDonald's leading market in Europe, and Turkish take-out joints serving shawarma sandwiches and fries are everywhere, too.

Changing lifestyles also have contributed to France's expanding girth, with families cooking and eating together less, and kids increasingly forsaking the playground for the video game console.

Child obesity is on the rise, now affecting 1.5 million children in France, a study by France's state health insurance authority found. And one in six children is overweight, a rate that is twice that of 10 years ago, according to a French pediatric association.

In response, the government has banned vending machines from public schools and required TV commercials for sweet and fatty foods to carry a disclaimer warning against snacking, while recommending at least five daily doses of fruits and veggies.

But Gauvreau thinks more needs to be done. He insists it's time to return to the terroir, or soil - the source of the wholesome, farm-fresh ingredients that are the foundation of French cuisine.

"We get kids here who don't know that a carrot comes from the ground, and who've only seen meat in plastic-foam packaging," he said.

Gauvreau started the classes - which cost the equivalent of $59 - five years ago, after his eldest child developed a taste for pizzas and hamburgers at the school cafeteria. Most of his students are children of regulars at La Rotonde, which is in a suburb of Lyon.

"It's not by lecturing kids that you're going to change things," said Jacques Poncet as he dropped off his 10-year-old son for the lesson. "You've got to expose them to real food so they can judge what's good themselves."

During the lesson, chickens that were to be ground into sausage lay - intact - on the stainless steel counters, their unplucked necks bent at an alarming angle. The younger children blinked in disbelief as Gauvreau deftly relieved a chicken of its appendages: Off came the claws, the wings and finally, with a flourish of the glinting knife, the white feathered head.

Brandishing severed drumsticks, he explained how to distinguish healthy chickens from hormone-filled factory farm varieties.

If the meat sticks to the bone, it's a free-range bird that built muscle through exercise, not hormones, he said. He passed around a leg and the kids pushed and pulled. The meat resisted their prodding.

For Gauvreau, such awareness is more important than teaching techniques for chopping onions or whisking cream.

"We're giving the kids the tools they need to make decisions about what to put onto their bodies," he said.

Gauvreau doesn't dumb down his repertoire for his young students, and there are no simplified, kiddie variations on his recipes: He and his assistant chefs teach the children to prepare the dishes just as they would for the restaurant's clients.

And it can get complicated. Boudin blanc sausage requires dozens of steps, and one misstep can turn a dessert's caramelized bananas into a sweet goo.

Perhaps it's for the best, then, that lessons are taught in the old-school French style: The instructor demonstrates and pupils look on. Gauvreau delegated certain tasks - separating egg whites, grinding bread into crumbs, slicing chicken breasts into food-processor-friendly chunks - but the show remained decidedly his.

Still, most of the children were transfixed throughout the long sausage-making process. They squealed with horror and delight when Gauvreau squeezed creamy chicken and onion paste into a strip of cow intestine to form the sausage.

"Who wants to help?" Gauvreau asked. All hands shot skyward.

After the lesson, the young chefs tucked into the meal they helped prepare, washing down the sausages and dessert with sparkling apple juice served in plastic Champagne flutes. All but a handful of plates were clean in a matter of minutes.

Twelve-year-old Victoria Roure, a regular at Gauvreau's class, said she loved the boudin and planned to make it at home.

"I might even try to cook boudin noir," or blood sausage, she said. "It's really a classic dish." *