Butter vs. Olive Oil: When France Splits in Two at the Table

Two fats, two cultures, and one hungry traveller caught in the middle.

I love Brittany. And I love Provence.

Which, depending on who you ask, is a bit like saying you love both snowstorms and heatwaves.

The two regions couldn’t be more different — and that’s exactly what makes them so brilliant.

Now, before I go any further, let me be completely honest: I didn’t set out to compare them.

It just happened. Somewhere between a crêpe oozing with salted butter on a rainy Breton afternoon, and a sunlit lunch in Provence where even the tomatoes seemed to sweat olive oil, the contrast hit me. Hard.

It’s not just about the food, of course. (Although, let’s be honest — it’s mostly about the food.)

It’s about two whole ways of seeing the world.

Or at least of cooking in it.

I’ve visited both regions more than once — wandered through windswept coastal towns in Upper Britanny and trailed the scent of lavender through Provençal markets where everyone seems to own a floppy hat and a small, dignified dog.

And every time, I’ve felt the same thing: I could live here. But for entirely different reasons.

In Brittany, I want to settle down, bake something, wear wool.

In Provence, I want to throw open the shutters and drink rosé before noon.

And then one day — I don’t remember exactly when — I found myself buttering a slice of bread in the north and drizzling olive oil over the same bread down south.

Two identical gestures, two entirely different emotions.

That’s when I realised: this is about more than ingredients. It’s about identity.

Anyway, that’s the start of it.

The rest? Well, let’s take it step by step. Or should I say, spoonful by spoonful.

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Two Landscapes, Two Tables

The first thing you notice is the smell.

In Brittany, it’s damp grass, seaweed, and sometimes — let’s be honest — cows.

Proper cows, too, the kind that stare at you like they’ve got opinions.

The kind that produce milk so rich it practically churns itself into butter.

Cherrueix, Brittany © French Moments

In Provence, it’s thyme on warm stones. Or crushed rosemary on the soles of your shoes.

Sometimes even the wind smells like olive oil, which I’m sure isn’t scientifically accurate, but you try walking through a Provençal grove at golden hour and tell me I’m wrong.

These aren’t just clichés. They’re olfactory facts.

The land shapes what you eat.

I mean, it has to. Brittany is green and wet and full of grass — so, logically, cows thrive. And when cows thrive, butter happens. End of story.

Meanwhile, Provence is all sun and dry hills and scrubby herbs and trees that twist like they’ve spent their lives reading philosophy.

Olives love that kind of terrain. So you end up with oil that tastes like sunshine and a bit of attitude.

Village of Ansouis, Provence © French Moments

But here's the thing that made me laugh the first time I noticed it: the whole cuisine seems to follow the landscape.

In Brittany, food is thick and creamy and comforting, like a wool jumper.

In Provence, it’s all fluid, golden, slipping across the plate — like a silk scarf caught in the breeze. (And yes, that sentence felt dramatic, but it’s true.)

I suppose you cook what your land gives you.

But after a few meals in each place, I started to realise something deeper.

You also become what your land feeds you. You start thinking in either pats of butter or glugs of oil.

And once that happens… well, your loyalties get tested.