The lawyer sitting next to the baker, having a conversation
In the medieval streets and repurposed warehouses of rural France, a company called Le Canon Français has revived the ancient tradition of the communal banquet — wine, charcuterie, and collective song for thousands of young French people seeking belonging. What began as a pandemic-era wine venture has grown into a cultural phenomenon, and with it, a mirror held up to France's deepest divisions: who belongs to the national story, who funds its telling, and whether a shared meal can ever be truly apolitical in a country where the table has always been a political stage.
- Thousands of mostly young French people are paying €81 to eat, drink, and sing together at massive rural banquets — filling a hunger for community that modern life has left unmet.
- The radical left party La France Insoumise has launched a sharp offensive, alleging racist chants, deliberate exclusion of Muslims through pork-heavy menus, and covert funding from an ultraconservative billionaire with ties to anti-immigration and anti-abortion causes.
- The billionaire in question, Pierre-Edouard Stérin, holds a 30% stake in Le Canon Français — a fact that has become the sharpest weapon in the left's arsenal as national elections approach.
- Organizers insist the banquets are rooted in medieval French dining tradition, governed by signed codes of conduct, and open to all — dismissing the accusations as opportunistic election-year attacks rather than genuine concern.
- On the ground in Colmar, the atmosphere was festive and orderly, with no observed misconduct — leaving the battle lines drawn not in the warehouse, but in the press releases and parliament.
On a recent weekend in Colmar, thirty-five hundred people packed a vast hall in Alsace to eat charcuterie, drink unlimited wine, and sing together for €81 a head. It was one of dozens of such events organized by Le Canon Français — a company that has turned the communal banquet into a sweeping cultural movement across rural France, drawing crowds of predominantly young attendees hungry for tradition and togetherness.
The events have become a political flashpoint. La France Insoumise, the radical left party, has accused Le Canon Français of serving as a vehicle for right-wing ideology — pointing to alleged racist chanting, the mistreatment of immigrant workers, and menus heavy with pork, which they argue are designed to exclude Muslims and vegetarians. Their most pointed accusation concerns the company's major shareholder: Pierre-Edouard Stérin, a billionaire who funds a think tank advocating restrictive immigration, abortion bans, and the Christian heritage of France. MEP Emma Fourreau argued the company accepted his money because they share his political world.
At the Colmar banquet itself, the accusations felt remote. Guests in berets and traditional dress sat at long communal tables, observed a signed code of conduct, and sang Michel Delpech and Joe Dassin classics between courses of sauerkraut and kugelhopf. The BBC reporter present witnessed nothing offensive. Attendees, mostly in their twenties and thirties, said they came for the atmosphere, the food, the friends — and few wanted to talk politics at all.
The company was born during COVID-19, when founders Pierre-Alexandre de Boisse and Géraud de la Tour began selling wine to support a struggling vintner, then graduated to heritage fundraising events, and finally to the banquets themselves. De Boisse frames the project as a revival of a tradition stretching back to the Middle Ages — the kind of village feast that once anchored French rural life.
De Boisse is visibly frustrated by the left's campaign. He argues that pork appears on menus because charcuterie is rural French tradition, not exclusion. He acknowledges he cannot police every drunk attendee, but says the rules are clear and contractual. He claims never to have met Stérin, who he says simply recognized a profitable business. He does not deny that many of his attendees likely vote for the right or far right — but notes that is simply how rural France votes. What he cannot understand, he says, is why creating jobs and joy for people who want them must be treated as a political crime.
On a recent weekend in Colmar, a medieval town in Alsace known for its half-timbered houses, thirty-five hundred people gathered in a warehouse-like space to eat charcuterie, drink wine, and sing together. They paid eighty-one euros each for the privilege—four courses of regional food, unlimited wine, and hours of communal singing. It was the latest edition of a phenomenon sweeping rural France: the giant banquets organized by a company called Le Canon Français, or The French Cannon.
These events have become unexpectedly contentious. The radical left party La France Insoumise has begun attacking them, claiming they serve as cover for a right-wing agenda. The party points to racist chanting at some banquets, to immigrant workers being insulted, and to the prominence of pork on menus—a choice they argue is designed to exclude Muslims and vegetarians. Most damaging to the organizers, they highlight the financial backing of Pierre-Edouard Stérin, a billionaire who made his fortune in the gift-card business and now funds a think tank promoting restrictive immigration policies, abortion bans, and the Christian heritage of France. Emma Fourreau, a member of the European Parliament for La France Insoumise, framed it bluntly: the company accepted Stérin's money because they share his political ecosystem, and the goal is to bring the radical right to power.
At the Colmar banquet itself, these accusations seemed distant. The atmosphere was festive and orderly. Guests sat at long tables, fifty to a side, many of the men wearing berets and suspenders as a kind of uniform, some women in traditional northeastern French dress. Organizers read aloud a code of conduct that all ticket buyers had signed, emphasizing respect and decorum. Then the food arrived—sauerkraut, cheese, the traditional kugelhopf cake with butter, raisins, and almonds. Wine flowed. Periodically, diners set down their forks and sang together, mostly classics from Michel Delpech and Joe Dassin, songs from an earlier generation that the predominantly twenty- and thirty-something crowd knew by heart. The BBC reporter present saw no behavior or heard no language that could be construed as offensive.
When asked why they came, attendees gave remarkably consistent answers: atmosphere, friends, alcohol, food. Few wanted to discuss politics, though one young man from Besançon suggested the whole controversy was manufactured—that Stérin becoming a shareholder had simply given La France Insoumise an excuse to attack, especially with elections coming next year. The crowd was predominantly, though not exclusively, white, and many said they were simply happy to celebrate in a traditional way among friends.
The company itself began as a pandemic project. Two entrepreneurs, Pierre-Alexandre de Boisse and Géraud de la Tour, started selling wine online to help a struggling vintner friend during COVID-19. They then began organizing fundraising events for heritage preservation projects, and the success of those events led them to the banquets. De Boisse frames what they do as reviving an old French tradition—collective dinners with good local food that stretch back to the Middle Ages. After the French Revolution, there were republican banquets celebrating the new system. Until recently, most villages held annual popular banquets, a kind of village festival.
De Boisse is clearly irritated by the accusations from the left. He insists they are baseless. Yes, pork appears regularly on the menus because charcuterie is part of rural French tradition, but it is not the only option. He acknowledges that he cannot control the minds of everyone who attends, and occasionally someone drunk might say something stupid, but the rules are clear and written into the contract everyone signs. As for the allegation of a Nazi salute at one banquet, he says he spoke to the person involved and was told the accusation was absurd.
De Boisse describes himself as a Catholic from impoverished aristocracy and a businessman. He says it would be offensive to both his ethics and his business sense to exclude people from the banquets. Regarding Stérin, he claims never to have met the investor, who simply bought a thirty percent stake because he recognized the business was profitable. De Boisse does not deny that many, perhaps most, of his attendees are probably right-wing or far-right voters. But he points to election results: that is how people in rural areas are increasingly voting. He creates jobs, he creates happiness for the people who come to the banquets. The politicians may dislike his shareholder, may dislike his attendees, may dislike his name—but why must they attack him? Why can they not simply leave him alone?
Citas Notables
Today people spend too much time alone at home on social media. They've lost the habit of being together and talking.— Pierre-Alexandre de Boisse, co-founder of Le Canon Français
If they were acting in good faith, Le Canon Français would never have accepted Stérin as an investor. But they did, they took his money, because they share the same political ecosystem.— Emma Fourreau, European Parliament member for La France Insoumise
La Conversación del Hearth Otra perspectiva de la historia
What draws three thousand people to a warehouse to eat charcuterie and sing old songs?
The simplicity of it, I think. A table, wine, food you recognize, people around you. No screens. No one performing for an audience. Just sitting next to a stranger and talking.
But the left says these banquets are a Trojan horse for right-wing politics.
They point to the investor, to the pork, to the songs. But the organizer says he's just reviving something that used to be normal—village dinners, collective meals. That used to exist everywhere.
Is it possible both things are true? That it's genuinely about community and also attracts people with a particular politics?
Yes. That's the uncomfortable part. The banquets themselves seem orderly and inclusive in practice. But the people who come, and the money behind them, tell a different story about what France is becoming.
The organizer says he can't control what people think. Is that a fair defense?
It depends on whether you believe he's being naive or evasive. If you're creating spaces where people gather, you're shaping something, even if you don't intend to.
What happens next?
Elections next year. The left will keep attacking. The banquets will keep growing. And France will keep arguing about what it means to celebrate being French.