“Au revoir,” said the grocer.

“Au revoir,” said the man in chic little canvas shoes. He had a bottle of champagne under one arm, and a bottle of “C’est la vie” chardonnay sauvignon blanc in hand. One elbow cradled a three-foot baguette. With an artful little pirouette, he piloted his cargo out the door.

Elsewhere in the little shop, customers were picking up blood sausages and Roquefort cheeses. Two men were debating the merits of the vacuum-bagged quiches. Or at least I thought so: Like nearly all the other customers, the men spoke with luscious French accents to match their fashionable outfits—a tableau that makes an American like me feel both linguistically and sartorially schlubby.

Such is life for an expat: Making foreigners feel like unsophisticated rubes is as French as tarte aux pommes. Of course, I’m not an expatriat in France. The scene took place 100 paces from my apartment in Hong Kong.

In 19th-century France, China represented the leisure, artistry, and wisdom their country had lost in its race to modernity. In modern China, it's France that represents the same idealized image.

As anyone who has visited Hong Kong lately can tell you, the city is teeming with Frenchy things. Certain areas of the island have become Little Frances, with French schools, wine shops, and boulangeries. My tiny neighborhood, Sheung Wan, is the newest of them: By my last count, we have two French groceries, two cafes, a rotisserie, a bakery, a wine shop, a creperie, a French kindergarten, and at least three French restaurants. In certain establishments, I am as likely to be greeted with “Bonjour” as “Hello” or “Lei ho.”