Louis and I recently pondered over a glass of Bordeaux how the French got their reputation for being sort of, how you say, pretentious. It came up in conversation when he began the process of ordering the wine – he scrutinised the menu carefully, as if answering a crucial multiple choice question that had many seemingly right answers. I’d marvel and scoff at the theatrics of it all – a drill he pulled off effortlessly and earnestly – the curation, the swirling, the whiff, the careful sip and the commentary after. As I listened to his critique, I noticed how the wine lingered on our tongues for only a few seconds, leaving me with little time to form an opinion – but for him, the notes seemed to instantly crystallise into thoughts, memories, a funny story it reminded him of.

It surprised me how nuanced his preferences were for someone who wasn’t even a self-declared connoisseur. How someone who had no formal training or special interest in wine could have a palate discerning enough to have such a passionate opinion on, well, grape juice.

“God, I sound like a prick” he laughed. “Actually no, I just sound French” he corrected himself, looking pleased – this was a joke he loved to tell.

“How did the French get this reputation?” I asked him

“It’s because we spend lots of time at the dinner table discussing wine” he offered. “Not just at a fancy restaurant, but at home too. At family gatherings, we sit around the table and discuss the food and wine in great detail. It’s how we bond. Everyone contributes, and at the end of it, the hours have magically flown by and we have managed to have a perfectly enjoyable dinner without having to go into politics or religion. It’s a wonderful system really. So, when you go your whole life listening to passionate opinions on wine, it’s almost impossible not to form your own. I don’t claim to know what good wine is – but I know what I like and don’t like, and sometimes, when I take a sip, I have this natural urge to offer my humble opinion. Have you ever considered that my unsolicited critique of the wine is quite the opposite of being pretentious?” He laughed “Maybe it means I consider you family – and need to find ways to avoid talking politics with you”

It occurred to me that France’s love for aged grape juice might not be too different from India’s love for mangoes. Few Indians can claim to be experts on mangoes, but when it is mango season, we are a country of passionate mango critics.

In summertime, it is common to see my family at the dinner table discussing the day’s haul. Each of us have our preferences – Amritha thinks Alphonsos are overrated. Vivek thinks she says that just to be alternative. My mother dabbles in all, but is always peering into stores to ask for Imam Pasands. My diabetic grandmother would allow herself dessert only when Malgovas were in season. `And my father has a clear bias for the Mallikas from his farm and we try not to criticise them because they are his. Despite these differences, like most South Indian families, we are firmly united in our love for the tartness of vadumanga pickle and raw mangoes rubbed in salt-and chilli powder, seasoned again by the sea breeze.

In summer, India’s streets and grocery stores are a kaleidoscope of mango varieties and tastes, reshuffling into different but equally stunning choices as the season ripens with time. And every week, millions of us embark on a treasure hunt for new mangoes to devour and carefully debrief with our loved ones. It’s a ritual that fills in countless hours of conversations across the country – the Indian palate developing to be so discerning, so as to allow a simple fruit to crystalize on our tongues into a carnival of thoughts, memories, and if we’re lucky, a funny story.

I imagine that if Louis saw how careful my mother is to not leave any flesh behind on the skin when she’s cutting a mango, or how my grandmother gently examined each one before shortlisting them, or the time we spend discussing them during meals, he’d find it surprising, almost pretentious, that we have a palate so discerning as to have such a passionate opinion on, well, a mere tropical fruit.

Maybe, like the French, we’re all snobs for the few things we hold dear. Of things we believe we’ve had the privilege of knowing so intimately, we speak on them with loving authority. Not as an expert, but just an old friend who has been around for years. And maybe if you look closely, that French (and Indian) pretentiousness is just a cocktail of nostalgia, pride, longing and belonging, And maybe that feeling is universal, and precious, and should be protected.

God, I sound like a prick.