Remember when French cars were chic? Not only chic, but original, eccentric, even sexy?
Consider the sharky Citroën DS, a style icon every bit as evocative of Gallic esprit as a Breton top or a smouldering Gitane. A favourite of 1960s policiers, the 1965 DS 19 Pallas is the car Alain Delon steals in Le Samouraï, no doubt persuaded as much by its revolutionary self-levelling hydropneumatic suspension as by its sleek good looks. And if you believe that, you’ll believe n’importe quoi.
More stylish still, I have a soignée friend who owns a pristine 1973 Citroën SM, the one with the Maserati V6 engine. That might be one of the most beautiful cars ever built, with its swivelling headlamps and its number plate protected behind glass, as if an exhibit at the Louvre.
Less nimble, but lovable all the same, is the off-white Citroën Ami my mother drove throughout the 1980s. You could hear her coming from two towns away and in the winter the Ami was so draughty that my brothers and I sat in the back with hot-water bottles on our laps. My mum cried when it finally gave up the fantôme. But that was the thing: French cars had personality.
Hard to believe now, when for so long the once-distinctive French marques have been producing humdrum also-rans: generic crossover SUVs, underpowered compacts, bland budget blobjects overtaken with ease by more innovative and appealing family cars from Asia, Scandinavia and Germany.
