I Ate Dinner the French Way for a Month And My Acid Reflux Disappeared

So my acid reflux disappeared and I’m mad about it.

Not mad that it’s gone mad that the solution was so stupidly simple and French women have been doing it forever while I was over here popping Tums like candy and sleeping propped up on three pillows like some kind of Victorian invalid.

Two hours. That’s it. That’s the whole thing. French women take two hours for dinner and apparently their esophaguses don’t hate them.

Quick Easy Tips

Start dinner earlier so you’re not racing the clock.

Pause between courses or bites instead of continuous eating.

Sit down for the entire meal without screens or distractions.

Finish eating at least two to three hours before sleep.

One controversial idea this challenges is that acid reflux is primarily about specific trigger foods. While foods matter, eating speed and posture often play a larger role than most people acknowledge.

Another resistance point is the belief that slow dinners are unrealistic in modern life. In France, the length of dinner isn’t about indulgence; it’s about respecting digestion as a process rather than an inconvenience.

There is also skepticism around the idea that time alone can change physical symptoms. Yet digestion is governed by nervous system signals, and rushed eating keeps the body in a stress state that undermines those signals.

Finally, this approach challenges the fix-it mentality around digestive issues. Instead of adding medications or restrictions, it removes urgency. That simplicity is often dismissed, even though it may be the most effective part.

How This Started (Or: My Digestive System’s Villain Origin Story)

I’ve had acid reflux since… 2018? 2019? Sometime around when my kid started school and dinner became this thing where I’d shovel food in my face while standing at the counter, checking homework, answering emails, and pretending to listen to my husband talk about his day.

You know the dinner. The American dinner. The 15-minute “let’s get this over with” dinner.

Antacids became my dessert. That burning chest feeling was just… normal? My doctor in the States prescribed me something that sounded like a Star Wars planet. Omeprazole. Which worked, kind of, except when it didn’t, and also apparently you’re not supposed to take it forever but nobody mentioned that part until later.

Then we moved to Spain and I met Sylvie.

Sylvie and Her Stupid Perfect French Dinners

Sylvie’s French. Lives two floors up. Moved here from Lyon with her Spanish husband who’s never home because he works in Madrid during the week. She invited me for dinner in September and I showed up at 8 PM with wine, ready to eat and be home by 9:30.

We didn’t sit down until 9.

We finished at 11:15.

ELEVEN FIFTEEN.

For a Tuesday dinner. A TUESDAY.

And here’s the thing that made me want to throw my plate at her perfect French face—she served the richest, most aggressive foods. Duck confit. Cheese that smelled like feet. Wine that could strip paint. Some kind of chocolate thing that was basically butter held together with hope.

I went home ready to die. Prepared my tower of pillows. Got ready for the 2 AM wake-up where my chest would be on fire and I’d have to sit in the bathroom eating Tums and questioning my life choices.

Nothing happened.

I slept like a baby. An actual baby, not the kind that wakes up screaming every two hours.

The Part Where I Became Accidentally French

I started paying attention to how Sylvie ate. How all the French women at the Saturday market ate. How they did dinner when I’d see them at restaurants.

Two. Fucking. Hours.

Minimum.

And not two hours of stuffing your face. Two hours of this bizarre ritual where food appears in tiny portions and you talk between bites and nobody’s scrolling their phone and there’s this weird thing where you actually… pause? Between courses?

My Spanish neighbors do this too, but different. The Spanish will take three hours for lunch and still get heartburn because they’re basically competitive eaters who just happen to take breaks to argue about politics. The French thing is more… I don’t know how to explain it.

Actually, I do know. I’m just annoyed about it.

The Actual “Rule” (It’s Not Really a Rule)

Here’s what I learned from Sylvie and then confirmed by stalking French women at restaurants like some kind of digestive system detective:

First 30 minutes: Aperitif. Just drinks and maybe some olives or whatever. Your stomach starts producing acid but there’s no food yet. Seems counterproductive but apparently it’s “preparing the digestive system” or some nonsense that actually works.

Next 20 minutes: Starter. Something small. Soup, salad, whatever. You eat it slow because you’re talking. And here’s the key part I missed initially—they PUT THE FORK DOWN between bites. Like, completely down. Not hovering. Down.

15-minute break: They just… sit there? Talking? Not eating? It’s weird. Sometimes they smoke but mostly they just exist without consuming anything and it’s deeply uncomfortable if you’re American.

Next 30 minutes: Main course. Again with the fork-putting-down thing. They chew. Actually chew. Like 20-30 times per bite which sounds insane until you realize most of us swallow food practically whole.

Another break: More talking. Maybe they clear plates. Maybe not. Time has no meaning in French dinner land.

20 minutes: Cheese. Because apparently you need more dairy after all that. But tiny amounts. Like, mouse portions.

Final 20-30 minutes: Dessert and coffee. But not American coffee. Tiny coffee. Doll-sized coffee cups that somehow take 20 minutes to drink.

Why This Actually Works (I Googled It)

Look, I’m not a doctor. I’m someone who spent way too much time on medical websites at 2 AM while my chest burned. But here’s what I found out:

When you eat fast, you swallow air. Air causes bloating. Bloating pushes stomach acid up. Up is bad.

When you’re stressed while eating, your body’s in fight-or-flight mode. Digestion basically stops. Food sits in your stomach like a brick. Brick food causes acid.

The French women (and Spanish, and Italians, and basically everyone except Americans) treat dinner like an event, not a task. Your parasympathetic nervous system—hold on, let me check if I spelled that right—yeah, that system kicks in when you’re relaxed. That’s the “rest and digest” mode.

Two hours forces you to slow down. You can’t shovel food for two hours straight unless you’re training for competitive eating. You have to pace yourself.

Also, and this is the part that really pisses me off because it’s so obvious—when you take two hours, you usually stop eating when you’re full, not when the plate’s empty.

My Deeply Unscientific 30-Day Experiment

Fine. I decided to try it. Not because I believed it would work, but because I wanted to prove Sylvie wrong.

Week 1: Absolutely miserable. Do you know how long two hours is? It’s forever. It’s eternity. I ran out of things to say to my husband by day three. We just sat there, staring at each other, chewing slowly like cows.

My kid asked if we were getting divorced.

We weren’t. We were just bad at conversation without the TV on.

But—and I hate this—my reflux was already better. Not gone, just… quieter?

Week 2: Started eating dinner at 8:30 instead of 6:30 because two-hour dinners at 6:30 means you’re sitting at the table until practically bedtime and that’s insane. Spanish schedule made more sense suddenly.

The neighbors probably thought we’d lost our minds. Americans eating dinner at Spanish time? What’s next, taking siestas? (We’re not taking siestas. Yet.)

Reflux down to maybe twice a week instead of every damn night.

Week 3: Something clicked. The rhythm of it. Aperitif (just sparkling water with lemon because I’m not actually French). Starter. Pause. Main. Pause. Sometimes skip cheese because we’re not made of money. Tiny dessert. Tiny coffee.

My husband started telling actual stories instead of just work complaints. My kid started staying at the table instead of inhaling food and running off to YouTube.

Reflux happened once. ONCE.

Week 4: I became insufferable. Started telling everyone about two-hour dinners. Became that person. You know the one. The one who discovers something and won’t shut up about it.

But also—no reflux. None. Zero. Zilch.

The Parts That Are Actually Hard

You can’t do two-hour dinners with little kids. I mean, you can try, but they’ll either die of boredom or burn your house down while you’re discussing the soup course. Mine’s 13 so he just complains and then gives up.

You can’t do it every night if both parents work. We don’t. We do it maybe 4 nights a week. Weekends for sure. Some weeknights. When we can’t, we at least try for one hour. Even that helps.

Your American friends will think you’ve joined a cult. “Two hours? For dinner? What do you even talk about?” I don’t know, Janet. Life? Dreams? Whether that weird smell in the kitchen is coming from the drain or the trash? Normal stuff, just slower.

The food budget goes up because you start buying better ingredients. Can’t serve crap for two hours. Well, you can, but why would you? We’re not eating more, just better. Bread from the actual bakery. Tomatoes that taste like something. Cheese that costs more than wine.

What I Actually Eat Now (Since You’ll Ask)

Monday night this week:

• 8:30: Gazpacho (bought from Mercadona, don’t judge me)
• 8:50: Grilled chicken with the good olive oil and those little potatoes
• 9:20: Just sat there talking about whether we should get the car fixed or just buy a different car
• 9:35: Cheese and five grapes (five because the grapes cost €8/kg this week, highway robbery)
• 9:50: One piece of dark chocolate and a thimble of coffee
• 10:15: Done

That’s… actually kind of boring written out. But it didn’t feel boring. It felt like dinner in a way that American dinners never did.

The Unexpected Stuff That Happened

Lost six pounds without trying. Wasn’t counting calories, wasn’t exercising more. Just… eating slower somehow means eating less? My jeans fit again. The good jeans, not the emergency jeans.

Sleep better. No more 2 AM acid wake-ups, but also just better sleep? Maybe because I’m not going to bed with a stomach full of quickly-eaten food? Maybe because that tiny coffee is somehow perfect? I don’t know.

My husband and I actually talk now. Like, really talk. Not logistics talk. Not schedule talk. Actual conversation. It’s weird. Good weird, but weird.

The kid complains less about dinner. He still complains, he’s 13, but less. He even tried squid last week. Hated it, but he tried it.

The Part Where I Sound Like a Lifestyle Blogger (Kill Me)

I know how this sounds. “I moved to Europe and discovered the secret of French women!” Gag. I hate myself for writing this. But also, it fucking worked and I’m angry about it.

It’s not actually about being French. Sylvie says her cousin in Paris eats dinner in 20 minutes while checking Instagram and has terrible reflux. It’s not genetic. It’s not magic. It’s just… time.

Time to digest. Time to chew. Time to realize you’re full before you overstuff yourself. Time to let your stomach do its job without cramming more into it.

The Spanish do it different—louder, later, longer. The Italians turn it into theater. The Greeks don’t even start until 10 PM. But they all take time.

We’re the weird ones, scarfing dinner in 15 minutes while standing at the kitchen counter watching Netflix on our phones. We’re the ones taking prescription antacids like vitamins. We’re the ones who turned eating into a chore to get through instead of… I can’t believe I’m saying this… an experience.

Ugh. I sound like I own healing crystals now.

Things That Definitely Don’t Work

I tried the French breakfast thing too. You know, just coffee and a croissant. Nearly died of hunger by 10 AM. Some things are too French even for me.

Wine with every dinner doesn’t help. It makes it worse actually. Alcohol relaxes the esophageal sphincter (horrible phrase) and makes reflux more likely. Sylvie drinks wine anyway because she’s French and doesn’t care. I stick to water mostly. Sometimes wine on weekends. I’m not trying to be a hero.

Eating two-hour dinners at restaurants is expensive as hell. We tried it once. €150 for two people and the waiter kept trying to clear our plates while we were still “pausing.” Spanish restaurants are better for this—they expect you to stay forever.

The Actual Science (I Found Some)

There’s this study from—actually I can’t find the study now but I swear I read it—about how eating speed affects acid reflux. Something about the vagus nerve and gastric emptying and… look, I’m not a scientist.

What I DO know is that every European over 60 I’ve met here takes maximum one medication. Meanwhile, my American friends back home have medicine cabinets that look like pharmacies. Connected? Maybe. Probably. Who knows.

My doctor here (who barely speaks English and I barely speak Spanish so our appointments are basically charades) said “más despacio” (slower) when I told him about my reflux. That was his whole advice. Slower. I paid €60 for “slower.”

He was right though.

The Thing Nobody Warns You About

You’ll become annoying. You’ll be that person who can’t eat fast anymore. Business lunches become awkward. You’ll catch yourself putting your fork down between bites at McDonald’s (why are you at McDonald’s?). You’ll judge people who eat standing up.

You’ll start saying things like “In Europe…” and your friends will want to murder you.

You’ll plan your whole evening around dinner. 6 PM activities? Can’t do it, that’s when aperitif starts. Late movie? Nope, still digesting.

You’ll turn into one of those people. The ones who care about “digestive health” and “mindful eating” and other phrases that would have made you roll your eyes two years ago.

But Seriously, The Reflux Is Gone

30 days. That’s all it took. 30 days of forcing myself to sit at a table for two hours every night (okay, most nights) (fine, like 5 nights a week).

No more Tums. No more propping myself up on pillows. No more 2 AM googling “can acid reflux kill you” (it can’t, apparently, it just feels like it can). No more avoiding tomato sauce, citrus, coffee, chocolate, everything good in life.

I eat duck confit now. DUCK CONFIT. Do you know how much fat is in duck confit? All of it. All the fat. And my stomach doesn’t care because I take two goddamn hours to eat it.

The Realistic Version for Normal People

Look, you probably can’t do two hours every night. I can’t even do two hours every night and I work from home in Spain where dinner at 10 PM is normal.

But you could do one hour. Maybe. Even 45 minutes is better than 15.

Put your phone in another room. I know, I know. But do it anyway.

Put your fork down between bites. This is the hardest part. Your hand will float there, hovering, ready to shovel. Put it down. On the table. Let go.

Chew. Actually chew. Count if you have to. 20 times minimum. Your jaw will get tired at first. That’s how you know you haven’t been chewing enough.

Don’t eat standing up. Don’t eat in your car. Don’t eat at your desk. Sylvie would literally die if she saw someone eating a sandwich while walking. Actually die.

Have a conversation. About nothing. About everything. About whether birds get cold feet (they don’t, apparently). Just talk. Or don’t talk. But sit there anyway.

There’s probably a book about this. “French Women Don’t Get Reflux” or something equally terrible. Don’t read it. Just eat slower.

That’s it. That’s the whole secret. Two hours. Or one hour. Or just… slower than whatever you’re doing now.

My acid reflux is gone and I’m angry that the solution was this simple and this annoying and this… French.

But it works.