Why can't they just leave us alone?
Across provincial France, thousands gather at long tables to eat, drink, and sing together — a revival, its organizers say, of the communal banquets that once stitched French village life into something whole. Yet what presents itself as a feast of belonging has become a contest over who France belongs to, with the radical left seeing in the menus, the money, and the atmosphere not nostalgia but a political project dressed in berets and charcuterie. The question France is now asking of these gatherings is the oldest one a shared table can raise: who is truly welcome, and who decides?
- Thousands of mostly young, mostly white provincial French are paying €81 a head to eat, drink, and sing old standards together — and the events are growing fast.
- La France Insoumise has documented alleged racist chanting, Nazi salutes, and pork-heavy menus they say are designed to exclude Muslims, triggering a police investigation in Caen.
- The presence of hard-right billionaire Pierre-Edouard Stérin as a 30% stakeholder has given critics a concrete line of attack, linking festive nostalgia to a broader ideological agenda.
- Organizers deny any political intent, insisting the charter attendees sign enforces respect and that the investor's stake is purely commercial — but the reputational damage is mounting.
- Local authorities in Quimper have already blocked one banquet, and the question of whether other towns follow suit may determine whether the movement expands or fractures under scrutiny.
On a weekend in Colmar, thirty-five hundred people packed a hangar at the edge of town to eat charcuterie, drink unlimited wine, and sing Michel Delpech songs together. For €81, they got four courses and hours of what the organizers called camaraderie. This was a banquet géant, one of dozens now staged across provincial France by Le Canon Français — and it had become, unexpectedly, a political flashpoint.
The company was founded by two entrepreneurs who began selling wine online during the pandemic and drifted into staging events for heritage causes. Co-founder Pierre-Alexandre de Boisse describes the banquets as a revival of France's republican banquet tradition — the village feasts that once anchored community life. "Nowadays people waste so much of their time alone, on social media," he said. "What gives us the most pleasure is when we see the lawyer sitting next to the baker, chatting away."
But the radical left party La France Insoumise has seized on the events as evidence of something darker. They allege racist chanting, insults directed at immigrant workers, and menus deliberately designed to exclude Muslims and vegetarians. Their sharpest line of attack is financial: billionaire Pierre-Edouard Stérin, who owns a 30% stake in Le Canon Français, also runs a think tank promoting hard-right positions on immigration, abortion, and France's Christian identity. For LFI's Emma Fourreau, the connection is unambiguous — these are not innocent dinners but far-right politics wrapped in nostalgia.
At the Colmar event itself, the crowd was predominantly white and in their twenties and thirties, and no one wanted to discuss politics. One attendee suggested the controversy was manufactured, invented only once Stérin became a shareholder and gave the left an election-year weapon. The BBC observed no offensive behavior on the night, though a police investigation is underway in Caen over separate allegations of racial provocation at another banquet.
De Boisse responds with frustration. He says he has never met Stérin, that the investor bought in because the business was profitable, and that occasional drunken remarks cannot be policed away. He does not deny that most of his attendees probably lean right — "But look at the elections," he said. "That is how more and more people in the countryside are voting." LFI has already convinced authorities in Quimper to block one event. Whether others follow may determine whether these banquets remain a growing cultural phenomenon or collapse under the weight of what they have come to represent.
On a weekend in Colmar, a medieval Alsatian town known for its timber-framed streets, thirty-five hundred people gathered in a cavernous hangar at the edge of town to eat. They sat shoulder to shoulder at long tables, fifty to a side, and consumed platters of charcuterie, local cheeses, and kougelhopf pudding while wine flowed and servers circulated. Periodically the crowd would set down their forks and sing together—old French standards from Michel Delpech and Joe Dassin, songs their parents knew. Many wore berets and braces, a kind of uniform that had emerged around these events. For eighty-one euros, they got four courses, unlimited wine, and hours of what the organizers called camaraderie. This was a banquet géant, one of dozens now staged across provincial France by a company called Le Canon Français, and it had become, unexpectedly, a political flashpoint.
The phenomenon began modestly. Two entrepreneurs, Pierre-Alexandre de Boisse and Géraud de la Tour, started by selling wine online during the pandemic to help a struggling vintner. They moved into staging events to raise money for heritage projects. The banquets grew from there, drawing thousands, becoming a sensation in the countryside. De Boisse describes what they are doing as a revival of an old French tradition—the banquets républicains that marked the arrival of democracy after the Revolution, the annual village feasts that once anchored community life. "Nowadays people waste so much of their time alone, in their homes, on social media," he said. "What gives us the most pleasure is when we see the lawyer sitting next to the baker, chatting away."
But the radical left party La France Insoumise has seized on the banquets as evidence of something darker. They say they have documented racist chanting at the events, insults directed at immigrant workers, and deliberate menu choices designed to exclude Muslims and vegetarians. They point to the financial involvement of Pierre-Edouard Stérin, a billionaire who made his fortune in experience gift vouchers and who now owns a thirty percent stake in Le Canon Français. Stérin has established a think tank promoting hard-right positions—rolling back immigration, restricting abortion, emphasizing France's Christian heritage. For La France Insoumise, the connection is clear: these are not innocent dinners but vehicles for a far-right agenda, masked in nostalgia. Emma Fourreau, an LFI member of the European Parliament, put it bluntly: "If they were in good faith, Le Canon Français would never have accepted Stérin as an investor. But they did—they took his money. And that is because they share the same political ecosystem, whose aim is to bring the far right to power."
At the Colmar banquet itself, such accusations were dismissed. The crowd was predominantly white, mostly in their twenties and thirties, and when asked why they came, people gave the same answer: atmosphere, friends, alcohol, food. No one wanted to discuss politics. One attendee from Besançon named Quentin suggested the whole controversy was manufactured—that it only became an issue once Stérin became a shareholder, giving the left an election-year cudgel. The BBC observed no offensive behavior or language at the event, though the party's allegations include claims of Nazi salutes at other banquets and a police investigation underway in Caen into allegations of racial provocation.
De Boisse has responded with frustration and denial. He says the accusations are unfounded, that the charter all attendees sign commits them to respect and decorum, that occasional drunken remarks cannot be policed away. On the question of pork dominating the menu, he acknowledges it appears regularly—because charcuterie is part of French country tradition—but insists it is not exclusive. He has never met Stérin, he says; the investor bought in purely because he saw the business was profitable. De Boisse describes himself as a Catholic from impoverished aristocracy, an entrepreneur, and says it would violate both his ethics and his business sense to exclude people. "I create jobs, I create happiness for the people who come to the banquets," he said. "Why can't they just leave us alone?"
La France Insoumise has had some success in pushing back. They convinced local authorities in the Breton town of Quimper to block a banquet. But in much of rural France, the events continue to draw crowds. De Boisse does not deny that most of his attendees probably lean right or far right. "But look at the elections," he said. "That is how more and more people in the countryside are voting." The banquets have become a mirror held up to a widening political divide in France—one side seeing them as a wholesome revival of communal tradition, the other as a Trojan horse for exclusion and far-right ideology. What happens next depends partly on whether authorities in other towns follow Quimper's lead, and partly on whether the allegations of racist behavior can be substantiated or dismissed as political theater.
Citações Notáveis
If they were in good faith, Le Canon Français would never have accepted Stérin as an investor. But they did—they took his money. And that is because they share the same political ecosystem, whose aim is to bring the far right to power.— Emma Fourreau, La France Insoumise member of the European Parliament
Nowadays people waste so much of their time alone, in their homes, on social media. They've lost the habit of being together and talking. What gives us the most pleasure is when we see the lawyer sitting next to the baker, chatting away.— Pierre-Alexandre de Boisse, co-founder of Le Canon Français
A Conversa do Hearth Outra perspectiva sobre a história
Why did these banquets suddenly become controversial? They seem to have been running successfully for a while.
They weren't controversial until Stérin bought in. Once a billionaire with a documented far-right agenda became a major shareholder, the left had a concrete target. Before that, they were just big dinners.
But the organizers say Stérin is just an investor, that he saw a profitable business. Is that plausible?
It's plausible on its face. But the timing matters. You don't have to believe in conspiracy to notice that a company reviving "traditional" French culture suddenly gets backing from someone whose think tank is explicitly pushing a nationalist agenda.
The BBC reporter saw nothing offensive at the Colmar event. Does that settle it?
Not really. One event, one afternoon. The allegations are about patterns—chanting, insults to staff, the deliberate exclusion through menu choices. You can't disprove those with a single observation.
What do the attendees actually want from these dinners?
They say the same thing over and over: to be together, to eat well, to sing old songs. They're not thinking about politics. They're thinking about belonging to something.
And that's what makes this so difficult, isn't it?
Exactly. You can't dismiss the genuine appeal of community and tradition. But you also can't ignore who's funding it and what they're trying to build.