Loose Living (2 page)

I also rush to point out that this is no paradise and that every situation has its drawbacks.

For instance, there is no video rental store in the town and consequently I'm a little starved of visual stimulation, apart from the Duc's collection of fourteenth, fifteenth, sixteenth, seventeenth, eighteenth and ninetenth century art (alas not much from the twentieth).

The Duc also has a huge library of silent movies from Spain, France and Germany which I fall back on. What I find fascinating is a great deal of documentary material from the First World War on trench life, vermin, medical treatment and wounds.

I accept that this is not everyone's idea of an evening of home movies, but I often curl up in the Duc's viewing chair, with a large 1911 Cognac and a good cheese, and watch this footage. The projector is operated by the butler's brother aforementioned, rather jerkily.

All in all, things have turned out reasonably well and I hope that my account satisfies contemporary concerns as to the democratic deficit in the new power structures of Europe and so on.

T
HERE ARE
some similarities between the French and Australian cultures.

During my first French lesson, arranged and paid for by the Duc, I was told that in France
nous
(we)
coupons
(cut)
avec
(with)
le couteau
(knife)
dans la main droite
(in the right hand)
et avec la fourchette
(
fork
)
dans la main gauche
(in the left hand).

I interrupted my French teacher at this point to tell her that I had occasionally seen a French person eating with their fork in their right hand and the knife in the left.

She muttered something about there being ‘one in every class'.

‘I suppose,' she said, ‘that in
Australie
you eat with your
mains.
' I said no, that we eat with the end of our spear.

She asked me if I knew any French at all. I explained that I went to school at Wollongong Tech (in the old Lysaght Street buildings) where French wasn't taught. I studied football, army cadets and metal work. Although, I suppose it was at Tech that I first encountered French letters.

She said, ‘And from this, your country hopes to
faire
(make) a literature?'

She asked if I knew one word of French.

I said I knew the word for yes.

She rapped the table with her ruler. ‘Say it.'

‘
Oui
,' I said, proudly.

She asked me to say it again. ‘
Oui
,' I said.

She went to the window, stood there, sighed, and then came back to me and said with great Gallic weariness, ‘
Trois
(three)
problèmes.
'

She rapped my knuckles three times with the ruler for, I think, emphasis.

‘
Encore
,' I said, momentarily forgetting myself, returning once again to the eroticism of the childhood classroom where I developed a secret penchant for the ruler (better the penchant for the ruler than for the Ruler, we always said at the Salon Kittie in Berlin before the war). And the cane. And the whip. I had a German teacher in Sydney who was better with the ruler, the cane and the whip than my French teacher. Although, in this respect, my French teacher comes highly ‘recommended' by the Duc.

When we had sorted out my
trois problèmes
in the pro nunciation of the word
oui
, she asked me to say the word for no.

I said I'd had trouble saying no since puberty.

I couldn't remember ever having said no when perhaps I should've.

She sighed again and said, ‘Another
romantique
,' and, turning to the rest of the class with an amused smile, said, ‘And upon this they,
les Australiens
, hope to build a culture.'

To learn my French, I attend the acclaimed Ecole Français for four-to fourteen-year-olds, of which the Duc is the dubious patron.

I am dropped there after a winding drive down the mountain in the beautifully polished black Citroën, driven by the butler's brother. I could do without the sniggering Gallic ‘lessons' which the butler's brother gives me during the drive.

I do not know why he thinks it ‘necessary' that I dress as a schoolchild, with a satchel on my back.

When we arrive the older children gather around the car in a most unseemly way.

Among the children, bizarre tales circulate about the Duc and this school and I seem to have inherited some of the salacious awe which the Duc has earned through his less than conventional conduct over the years.

He is, though, dearly beloved by all.

We sit on small chairs with small desks. But unlike an Australian school, you are not surrounded by hopeless drawings of houses with windows in the wrong places and endless smoke curling out of chimneys.

The French children draw wine bottles and table settings.

A typical playlunch at the school is a couple of quail in aspic and a tossed green salad, washed down with a small glass of
vin ordinaire.

My French teacher asked me what else I knew of the French language. I said defiantly that I knew only this (quoting from the French infants' standard school text), ‘
Le vin blanc et le vin rouge accompagnent des mets
(dishes)
différents.
' I said I knew that on ‘
les jours
(days)
de fête le Champagne remplace le vin
'.

I said that in the seventies under Prime Minister Whitlam in Australia every day was a fête day.

She said how is it then that Australia did not keep on with Mr Whitlam? I said that it was difficult to explain that to a French person.

She turned to the rest of the class with a wink, ‘Ah,
un mystère australien.'

The French children giggled patronisingly.

‘Oui
,' I said, sulkily.

I'd like to stop my description of contemporary France and my analysis of the European Union here and refer to something that has been bothering all of us.

Since I have taken up my position as a cultural ambassador, I know that back in Australia there has been much criticism of me for living too well in France.

There is an image—spread by the leading Australian chef, Chef Bilson, after our 1000 Great Restaurants of Europe Tour, a hard slog (more later)—of me sitting on the
terrasse
munching ortolans and sipping fine burgun dies and a belief that if, through my writing, I hope to be the voice of my people I should be with them in their time of recession.

It's not an argument to which I am deaf. But maybe David Malouf (winner of the French
Prix Femina
for best foreign book) could be the voice of the Australian people and I could be the stomach of Australia? Or maybe David would like to be another part?
Certain writers could choose the part they wanted to be.

On second thoughts, maybe the idea needs more work.

I can only say that not to live well in France would be taken as an insult to their culture. I am forced to live well, and believe me, one can become quite tired of banqueting.

I hope everyone understands that.

La cuisine française est réputée
(celebrated)
dans
(in/throughout)
le monde entier
(entire world).
En France généralement
,
nos
(our)
repas
(meals)
durent
(last)
plus longtemps
(longer)
que
(than)
dans
(in)
d'autres pays
(other countries).

Again interrupting the lesson, I said that, on the contrary, certain Australians I knew, Richard Hall for example, a Prince of his City, took longer over their lunch and dinner than even the French.

In Australia, I had known the two meals to run together with breakfast. But that was in the days before the recession.

The French teacher again said to the other students, young protegés of the Duc, ‘One in every class.'

She said that as interested as everyone was in the patriotic observations of
l'auteur
about his country, the purpose of the class was to learn French, not travelogue or
nostalgie.

On went the lesson, with myself and the four-year-olds chanting, ‘
La fermentation du Champagne produit du gaz carbonique.
'

And upon this they hope,
les Français
, to build a new Europe.

To sum up on Europe I will leave you with a thought from Hume.

In so far as we as humans have no self, that is, we are only discrete states of consciousness succeeding each other, and in so far as our memories are constantly revised distortions of what might or might not have happened, so with nation states: they are forever reforming themselves, are forever in transition, with only misty, unreliable memories of how they once were.

A
REND
L
IJPHART
, in his book
The Politics of Accommodation: Pluralism and Democracy in the Netherlands
, examines those democracies which are an association of interest groups each with the power to initiate or veto any joint action—that is, democratic governments which do not accept simple majority rule.

The UN Security Council is such a case. So is the Netherlands, Switzerland and, to a lesser extent, the European Union.

Some people think it might eventually be the type of government suitable for Northern Ireland. Leadership is rotated among the interest groups.

The problems of consociation are the maintenance of civic stability and the avoidance of damaging stalemate, but it must be remembered that the groups associated together originally to advance their mutual welfare and therefore have a vested interest in making the system work, rather than in wrecking it by shortsighted use of their veto.

Which brings me to the European Court of Justice in Luxembourg and the true story of the trouble that Chef Bilson and I had in Europe during our 1000 Great Restaurants of Europe Tour.

It was a useful experience of the new Europe and I have no complaints about the fairness or procedures of the court.

We were charged with Gross Gastronomy, with minor counts of Loose Living.

Chef Bilson was let off with a caution and sent back to the kitchen and I was placed in the custody of a Swiss Gross Living Clinic. Interestingly, F. Scott Fitzgerald and Zelda had been patients there in the thirties and, more recently, quite a few well-known Australians.

I believe there are still other charges pending against us in some parts of Europe, nothing serious—Extravagant Table Conduct (in the UK) and Politically Incorrect Eating (in Germany). We were stopped at a few road blocks and underwent random cholesterol tests but just scraped in under the limit. No charges are pending in Italy.

The charges arose because of Chef Bilson's mouth. Travelling with Chef Bilson's exquisite palate can be trying. I am not complaining. I went into the Tour with my own eyes (and mouth) open and I am as responsible as he for what happened.

As may be expected, Chef Bilson was recognised wherever he went. This meant that the Great Chefs of Europe would insist that we take the
menu gastronomique.
That was manageable.

But Chef Bilson sometimes found fault with a dish—often minor things—and would fly into a rage and send it back. This caused consternation in the great kitchens of Europe. The usual response was
that the European chef would try to win back Chef Bilson's approval by plying us with other dishes, trying desperately to please. Honour would demand that we eat these supplementary dishes.

The afternoon would pass, night would fall and we'd still be eating lunch, with Chef Bilson humming and hawing and pushing away food with a shake of his head while processions of waiters carried dishes to the table and lo! it would be time for dinner.

Chef Bilson had another practice which I found mildly dismaying. Because it was, for him, a research tour, he would sometimes order four or five dinners and lunches between the two of us so that he could sample the range of a particular chef's art.

I understood the professional need for that. But he would say that he needed to keep his palate ‘clean' and would hand the dishes across to me to finish so that the chef wouldn't be offended by our leaving of uneaten food. I was, in fact, Chef Bilson's goat/plate wiper/sweeper/pig.

I didn't say anything at the time but it was a little unfair and brought me the heavier sentence from the European Court.

The judge in his summing up actually referred to me as the ‘goat/plate wiper/sweeper/pig'. I think, though, that I rose in the estimation of the court by not pointing the finger at Chef Bilson and by my humility and deference to the court.

It was gratifying that on so many occasions on the tour, the staff—including the waiters, kitchen
hands, stove hands, washers-up, cheese-makers, wood-cutters, charcoal-burners, herbalists, goatherds and huntspeople—had read my books.

They would respectfully queue while I, napkin under my chin, would pause from eating to sign their tattered and well-thumbed volumes.

My only regret is that I often left greasy finger marks on their much-loved copies of my books.

But I think I rose in their estimation by never being aloof or arrogant and I always inquired into their humble lives, showing an interest in the work they did and in their ancient crafts.

We had only eight weeks in which to do the 1000 Great Restaurants, which meant that things were a bit rushed. The trouble started when we attracted the attention of a Correct Living Inspector in Holland—probably because of our colourful Olympic Games blazers as much as for our incorrect eating behaviour.

My dirty palate may have attracted some attention also, and the fact that we ran from restaurant to restaurant.

This Dutch person followed us and noted that we ate more than one lunch and dinner and often had many, many courses (although Chef Bilson did more sniffing of the food than eating, as I have outlined).

The Swiss Gross Living Clinic was interesting and, frankly, something of a relief.

It resembles an Australian health farm although, delightfully, is much stricter. Towards the end of the 1000 Great Restaurants Tour, I was tottering, rather
than running, from one restaurant to another, fanning myself with my Akubra hat, and helped by a team of young volunteers who had been recruited from among my readers in France.

The sentence from the European Court was curious. The first part of the sentence was fourteen days of simple living at the clinic with six hours a day strapped to a mechanical exercise machine which threw me around the room somewhat. I was weaned off
haute cuisine
and my weight reduced to a point where I could walk in the garden unassisted.

Another fourteen days of my sentence I served out in an IKEA Contemporary Living Laboratory, which the Swedes have established to create living arrangements, furniture and household objects for tasteful, normal, healthy living. In a sense, I was under IKEA house arrest which was very tasteful. Fortunately for me, given the dazed state I was in, nothing in the IKEA environment was breakable, there were no sharp edges, and all materials were non-toxic and non-flammable.

I was placed in the living laboratory with an IKEA Model Family of a husband and wife, two children and a dog and a cat, a bird in a cage, and a fishbowl.

I scamper to point out that they also have single-parent family laboratories and laboratories for other alternative living arrangements, some of which I had never contemplated, including one where children raise themselves.

It was explained to me that the aim of this punishment was to help me adjust to normality after
the 1000 Restaurants Tour and the decadent influence of Chef Bilson; to remind me of how ordinary, decent people lived.

I suppose it was therapeutic and it did remind me that there is more to life than Grand Hotels (we stayed in those hotels listed in the guide to Grand Hotels and Restaurants of Europe).

At the IKEA laboratory I got to test tasteful ergonomic rocking chairs on beautifully designed suicide-proof balconies, which reminded me of what it was like to be at peace with myself and what it was like, perhaps, to be a grandfather.

Thankfully I didn't have to work on designing and testing the tasteful kitchens or dining rooms. I spent time testing nurseries and playrooms for tasteful children, which brought home to me that children really do have a place in our lives and that life isn't only about menus and the timing of the courses.

Through testing the IKEA
valet de nuit
, I learned to hang up my clothes instead of expecting a wise and attentive human to pick up after me.

When I was discharged from IKEA house arrest I was rather sorry to go. I could have lived happily with the IKEA Model Family but, as they pointed out, I didn't really fit in there. I had to find my own way in life.

I think I rose in their estimation by my efforts to behave in a ‘sound' way while in their company and by not flaunting my knowledge of food and wine. I like to think that I came through, finally, as a reasonable
sort of person. I restrained myself, for instance, from cooking their gold fish
au bleu.

The third and final part of the punishment was a forced march through the Alps and the Jura accompanied by a poodle which wore a surveillance collar so that the Food Police would know where I was. I think I rose in the poodle's estimation as it watched my alpine camp-craft each evening.

I pause here to pass on something of the different attitudes of the French and Swiss to nature.

The French see the Alps as a giant exercise machine designed by God to create an appetite. The French walk or stand and breathe deeply while looking at the mountains between meals, to ‘work up' an appetite or to assist in the eating process. Hence the
promenade digestif.

The Swiss, on the other hand, see the Alps as a treadmill installed by God to punish over-indulgence. They eat huge lunches and then force themselves to take painfully long postprandial walks as punishment for having enjoyed themselves at table.

However, the unintended and joyous outcome of it all was that I found my way to the
château
of the Duc de Berry.