A new book is like an addition to the family, and Gordon and I are delighted to announce the safe arrival of Pardon My French! from Paris to the Pyrenees and back, published by New Holland a few weeks ago.
And what better way to introduce it to you than to share the opening chapter. As we have had many very wonderful trips to France, this one was both a trip of nostalgia and discovery. I was even a little anxious because shortly before leaving Australia I had tempted fate when telling friends about our planned trip to France.
“I’ve never had a bad meal there,” I asserted with apparent confidence. Fortunately they couldn’t see my fingers crossed behind my back.
So was this going to be the trip to prove us wrong?
As always, Gordon, the tireless ‘Mad Photographer’ took the wheel of our rental car and we zipped off firstly south to Burgundy and Provence then headed west across the country, swiftly dipping into Spain and even more swiftly out again, and then dawdling up the west coast via Gascony, the Dordogne and the Loire.
Among many other things we traced some of Frances major mineral waters to their sources, learned of donkeys trained to wear PJs on a remote island, toured champagne cellars, a famous cognac house and an underground chateau, and slept in an 800 year old castle.
Then one lunchtime I inadvertently sampled a mystery ingredient which turned out to be a little more than I’d planned on. I won't spoil that surprise for you!
So here’s the invitation: Please come along for the ride with us. Think of it as a ‘tour de France’ if you like – without the bikes.
Pardon My French!: APÉRITIF
“This might be it!” I whisper, opening the door. We’ve been joking about finally eating a bad meal in France, and this place certainly looks as if it might deliver.
Before leaving home I’d tempted fate when telling friends about our planned trip.
“I’ve never had a bad meal there,” I asserted with apparent confidence. They didn’t see me crossing fingers behind my back.
And it’s true. I’ve been lucky enough to dine in some prestigious Parisian restaurants where you would expect the meal to be sensational, yet even forgotten country cafes have surprised us with farm-fresh ingredients and careful attention to achieving the ideal balance of seasonings and herbs.
Once an auberge on a busy intersection delivered salmon as buttery tender, yet still rosy at the centre, as anyone could hope for in this life; at a hôtellerie in a tiny village, we gorged on hearty cassoulet and crusty bread, the product of hours of preparation yet retaining still the subtle flavours of each component; then in a chambre d’hôte high in the Auvergne the hostess served girolles, earthy and freshly harvested from the forest floor just metres away.
Yet common sense tells me that surely, sooner or later, we will be served an unforgettable and undeniably bad meal in France. Was this to be it?
It’s Monday, a day when most restaurants in France choose to close after the busy weekend, so our choice is limited. Winter has returned, it seems, so on this unseasonably cold May day, with the wind too biting for us to consider our usual baguette and cheese picnic, we are hungrily looking for a warm place that will feed us. And feed us well, we hope.
Finally we arrive at a dozen or so grimy stucco and stone houses defining a village backed by a sly grey stretch of the Rhône. I remember trees still not in leaf and those charmless buildings sooted by endless traffic.
On impulse Gordon zips into a parking space beyond a low building. Auberge de something, I think it says. Days later I learn its real name. Right now, it doesn’t matter.
‘Servez-vous dejeuner, encore?’ The appalling sentence structure and accent stills the group at the bar into a shocked tableau.
“Nicola-a-as!” In the loud silence, the frowsy blonde at the bar who has been having a cheerful beer with the lads, removes her fag just long enough to yell out in the direction of the kitchen, presumably to the chef. It’s almost two o’clock and it will be down to him as to whether or not we will eat here today.
He comes unwillingly from the kitchen, rumpled and tapping ash from his cigarette. For a moment it almost looks as though he’ll send us away, but instead he nods resignedly and points us to the empty dining room. His curly hair is greying and his eyes are an intense blue, I notice. He looks tired and I can see there have been many diners this lunchtime. His streaked apron bears the evidence.
The dining room does nothing to raise our hopes.
”Check out this place!” I whisper my criticism, although I am pretty sure no one within earshot understands English.
Sulphur-yellow walls throw a sickly glow over the unlit room. Someone, in a brave yet ineffective attempt at décor, has stuck some unframed calendar pictures onto them at various heights. Our long boarding school-style table is shielded by thick green and white plastic cloths of indeterminate vintage. Two of them, one disguising the other. Seated at the far end of it, my heart sinks. Oh well, even though the room is unheated, at least we are out of that wind.
A waitress thumps navy-blue vinyl-covered folders into our hands. We choose the cheapest menu – three-courses for 11.50 euros. Even if it’s dreadful, I reason, that’s not too much wasted. After all, what sort of food will we get for so little? And in this place?
It’s impossible to tell what to expect from the vague menu options:
assiette campagnade
ou
salade composée
..
canard confit
ou
dinde escalope
…
fromage blanc
ou
dessert de jour
Even then we need to ask the translation for dinde, which turns out to be turkey. The other dishes are obvious: a country plate, salad, duck confit, white cheese and dessert of the day, whatever that might be.
We hear Nicolas in the kitchen thumping pans, shouting at his assistants, revving up the kitchen again. I hope he has put the cigarette somewhere safely.
Then with a flourish he emerges, deftly flicking open a folding side table and placing it at the end of ours before bringing out dishes from which we will serve ourselves.
”Bon appétit!” he booms.
My assiette campagnade looms on the plate, two thick slices – no, make that hunks, of ham – and two robust sausages, more than enough for us both. What’s more Nicolas has delivered a rustic terrine still in its white ceramic dish so I can carve slices for myself, as I see others have done already.
There will be no help with all of this from Gordon. His own choice, the salad, is immense, studded with wedges of hardboiled egg and tomato chunks and glistening with a rich mayonnaise. There’s a side dish of pickled vegetables, gherkins and cabbage, too, for us both to share, along with the basket of crusty bread and a pichet of nameless, yet very good, local red wine. It’s already a quantum leap from our aborted picnic fare. I spread some of the chunky terrine on bread and begin to eat hungrily.
The sheer scale of even this first course defeats us, and when the waitress, her kind face surmounted by a tower of lacquered black hair, sees we are done with our first course, she clears it away, returning almost at once with the next instalment of the meal. This arrives bubbling in individual copper pans, and for good measure – it seems Nicolas doesn’t want anyone to leave his table hungry – she places an impromptu dish of spinach ravioli almost hidden in a rich cheese sauce on the table beside us.
My pan holds a confit leg of duck, its glistening gravy studded with black olives and mushroom chunks. The skin has been crisped lightly, the rest is meltingly tender, with flesh falling in perfect agreement from bone as my fork touches it. What’s more I discover that the fragrance and salty tang of hot olives, and the soft relief of mushrooms provides the right subtle accents. By the time I can remove my attention from this and serve a spoonful of tender ravioli, drawing it up and spinning the cheesy threads onto my plate, I swear I am almost in love with Nicolas.
By now a couple of workmen who had been in the bar when we arrived take their seats at the end of our table. They must have ordered earlier, as pans of casserole and scalloped potatoes, ravioli and vegetables appear almost at once and immediately silence them as they begin the impressive task of demolishing their own massive meal.
I know how they feel, and weakly manage only a serving of fromage blanc – plain yoghurt-like fresh cheese sprinkled with sugar – as a chaser before calling a truce with the generous bounty.
It seems that the dining room’s sunny yellow walls smile on us as we reluctantly leave. Nicolas, now sans apron, is at last relaxing at the bar when we pay. Dejeuner is over, at last, for today.
“Merci! Merci beaucoup, chef,” we say, and I long for better French. I want to thank him properly, and express our delight. I want to tell him he represents multitudes of people in his profession all over France who will never earn a Michelin star – not that their cooking skills are lacking – but because, simply, they are hidden away in hundreds of humble auberges and restaurants in small villages throughout this amazing land, patiently, repeatedly, daily, turning out dishes that could earn them fans and fulsome acclaim in most cities around the world.
But, to Nicolas, all that probably doesn’t matter. His brilliant blue eyes light up in delight at our evident appreciation of his food, and he shakes Gordon’s hand warmly, then edges his way past the barmaid and around the bar to kiss me soundly on each cheek and wish us well.
“Bon continuée,” he tells us. Keep on travelling well.
