Ma Folie Française (My French Folly) (11 page)

We attended other such celebrations during our ten-year sojourn in France, but never has a speech been as highly acclaimed or well received as mine. My little discourse had broken the mould.

Village life in rural France ebbs and flows in a gentle, time-honoured rhythm, which one becomes easily accustomed to. You awaken daily to the sweet, piercing toll of ancient, church bells and in our case, to the perfumes of warm dough and baked breads, streaming from the neighbouring
Boulangerie
. Whether occupied with paying guests or not, I wandered sleepy eyed to the bakery on my daily pilgrimage for fresh bread and warm croissants. Little rituals like these are desperately hard to break and with the passing years, become exceedingly addictive.

Twice a week, on Tuesdays and Saturdays, our normally tranquil, little village woke to the boisterous throngs emanating from the market hall and neighbouring square, which by fortune, was situated only twenty paces from our front steps. Such convenience. This magnificent example of 15th century architecture had originally been constructed as
La Halle aux Grains
or ‘Grain Hall', where shire farmers would bring their grain harvest for weighing on the official shire scales and public sale.

I watched the to and fro of little
Renault
trucks, from my dining room window, as they arrived heavily laden with their bountiful fare. Our little sand-coloured Sharpei, ‘Guangzhou', adored perching on a chair by the window, only to poke his truffle coloured nose through the geranium filled window boxes. He would inspect the passers by from behind his floral camouflage, much to the amusement of the morning shoppers and camera happy tourists.

The variety and abundance of the market stall goods, altered week to week, and according to season. You would always find the freshest of farm produce at the most reasonable prices at your village marketplace.

During the spring and summer months, the timber trestles bulged with a psychedelic multitude of flower and vegetable seedlings, eagerly waiting to be planted. It was one of my favourite times, as the welcoming mass of colour and heady fragrances smothered the entire village square, creating a living, breathing work of art. After months of winter grey, this sudden cornucopia of abundance was a breath of fresh air and brought a smile to every face.

Madame Colette
, the timid ‘goat lady', sat quietly on the market steps; her little stand of freshly made, pale-yellow goat cheeses, my absolute downfall. I adored these delectable little morsels, which she sold in varying states of maturation. The freshest ‘
Cabecou
', were perfect for melting over a crisp walnut salad and the harder, more mature samples, were divine as post dinner nibbles with that final glass of
Bordeaux
wine.

Jean
and I adored them all, and never failed to buy a selection each week. My parents became obsessed with them, on their first visit, and my Italian father sulked desperately on his return to Sydney, knowing that he would have to go without. He begged me to mail parcels of the little delights to him, but I explained that they would never get past the strict, Australian customs and their trusty sniffer dogs.

There was also the jolly greengrocer, who welcomed me each week, without fail, with a wide smile, a dewy bunch of wild rocket and an informative weather report. Weather is a topic of infinite importance in the country and is discussed with an air of serious concern.

I carried my quintessential woven
pannier
and filled it with rapid enthusiasm. The charming stallholders tempted me with great ease, having learnt quickly, I was an eager and willing punter, who could be coerced into buying just about anything.

A clamber of frenzied shoppers announced the weekly arrival of the mobile fishmonger's gaily-decorated van. He would drive overnight from the Brittany coast, to deliver his fresh-from-theocean fare, here in the heart of the country. Having grown up on the largest island in the world, it was astounding to me, to see a plethora of fresh seafood available so far from the coast. The fish were shiny, bright eyed and their gills blood red. The Atlantic mussels and oysters were full of icy, salt water and were packed in attractive wooden crates.

The fishmonger's wife made the finest
Bouillabaisse
I've ever tasted, which he sold in
Le Parfait
preserve jars and I would rarely pass by their rusty orange presence without being tempted to take home a jar or two.

I chatted animatedly with my fellow shoppers, most of them faces I knew well and some of them now, good friends. Market day always drew the best from people. Country folk wandered the streets smiling to themselves and waving ‘
Bonjour
' to the passing traffic.

Madame Simone
shook her walking cane in gay salute to her neighbours, as she passed on her morning errands. She had celebrated her ninety-first birthday, yet her creamy, flawless complexion belied her age.

The sun always shone on market day and even on the bleakest of winter's mornings there was indefinable warmth that presided over the market place and the people within it.

I strolled dreamily through the narrow
ruelles
(little streets),
pannier
in hand, intoxicated by the fragrance of the new day. As I descended the pathway leading to
Lacoste's
riverside café, I spotted a group of friends taking their first aperitif on the sun-bathed terrace.

At around 11.30am, the ritual of the pre-lunch aperitif takes place at every bar and café in France. Some start even earlier than that, but I put that down to overindulgence. I had always been a hopeless drinker and didn't care much for alcoholic beverages prior to sunset, but the allure of the chilled, cassis coloured wine and the ambience, which accompanied it, pulled me like a fish to the lure.

There is something intriguing about a crowded café terrace, which draws you like a magnet. I can never resist its manifest appeal and hence, have become a regular visitor to the ‘
Café Lacoste
' since moving to the village. I usually amble down after lunch,
Jean
and Guangzhou in tow, for an espresso coffee and a bit of local gossip. Cafés are the ears and eyes of the village and if you fear you've missed anything at all, you can always catch up at the local.

Rural cafés are wonderfully eclectic places where you'll find a cross section of the entire population all seated on the same sticky, vinyl chairs.

It's a wonderful place to acquire new, colourful language skills and probably one of the few places, where it's widely acceptable to listen in on other people's conversations. In fact, I might suggest that it's probably rude not to! Café goers in France are not just there for the coffee and wine, in many cases, they are lonely bachelors or merry widows, looking for a little anonymous company and idle chatter.

It is the pumping heart and soul of many townships and I fear there would be far more depressed and lonely individuals, if it weren't for the humble corner Café.

The
Café Lacoste
is named after its owners
Pierre
and
Henriette Lacoste
.
Pierre
resembles a character from the tales of
Asterix
with his heavy-set physique and thick, lustrous moustache. His voice is deep and sings of its southern origins, with its melodious dips and swings. He is the quintessential Gaul with his subtle charm and natural, wry humour.

Pierre
has a knack of making you feel at home in his little café, but his generous hospitality decidedly hides an ulterior motive. He would much rather be out on a grouse hunt or fishing for trout, than running the village café. So he extends a surprising autonomy to his regulars, in the hope that they will tend to themselves, leaving him free to pursue more pleasant activities.

Oddly, the
Café Lacoste
was one of the few places in France where you couldn't purchase food. Even the humblest of country cafés offered a light
repas
of some description, a simple
Plat du Jour
at the very least. Not the
Café Lacoste
! Oh, no …
Pierre
had no intention, of dabbling in that part of the deal. Serving drinks was task enough for him, and his wife
Henriette
was keen to stay well and truly in the background and out of the kitchen.

When asked by a hungry traveller if he could put something simple together, his standard answer was ‘
On fait pas de Sandwiches
' or ‘we don't do sandwiches', leaving the patron hungry and bewildered. Though he would go on to suggest that they purchase their bread and fillings elsewhere, then return to partake of their lunch on his sunny terrace. He would even lend them a knife and plates if need be …
Pas de problème!
(No problem!)

One summer's day, it occurred to
Pierre
that it was due time he held one of his celebrated, terrace-top barbeques. This was an annual event for loyal patrons and friends where the bar was open and the food was on the house. For
Pierre
, this occasion didn't mean throwing a few sausages on a grill, watching them turn to charcoal then bunging them into a doughy bun. To this ardent preserver of French customs and self-proclaimed
bon vivant
it meant quality, hand made gourmet sausages, purchased at a village butcher almost 300 kilometres away in his native
Gers
. It meant fresh from the sea sardines, lightly grilled and accompanied by loads of white wine and thick, crusty loaves. No journey was too long, no task too difficult when it came to
Pierre
and his never-decreasing stomach.

Pierre
and his co-driver
Jean-Michel
left before dawn the following morning. They would cover the 600 kilometre return trip to be back in time for the lighting of the coals. We awaited their return with hungry impatience, avoiding lunch that day in preparation for our gourmet, over-the-coals feast. The café terrace was brimming with famished; well-watered clients by the time the duo emerged from their smoking vehicle. They were at least two hours behind schedule and the natives were restless. As
Jean-Michel's Peugeot
pulled to the curb, an explosion of voices saluted their tardy arrival.

All too soon that applause turned to stunned silence as we watched them crawl from the crippled automobile.
Pierre
's cheek was scratched and bleeding,
Jean-Michel
limped slightly and was sporting some newly acquired bruises.

‘What happened to you two?' the crowd enquired in unison.

‘
Oh, putaing!
'
Pierre
slurred. ‘We had a bit of an accident.'

‘Are you all right? The car doesn't look too good.'

‘
Ca va, ça va
but the
Peugeot
, she is hurting,' he replied and proceeded to recount their little misadventure.

‘We had collected the sausages and were on our way back when we realised it was lunchtime. We'd been on the road since dawn, so we pulled into a nice little
relais
in
Gourdon
for something to eat. We were pretty thirsty by that stage and we probably had a little bit too much to drink. Anyway, about ten kilometres out of
Gourdon
we missed a sharp curve and ended up in the bushes. Luckily the oak trees stopped the car from rolling down the hillside.'

‘
Mon Dieu, Pierre
. You two could have been killed!'

‘You don't know the best part,'
Jean-Michel
interrupted. ‘Once I had staggered from the car I searched everywhere for
Pierre
. I must admit I was a bit “out of it” and when I finally found him he was holding the ropes of sausages in the air, declaring with a grin, “
Putaing! J'ai sauver les saucisses!
(Bloody hell! I saved the sausages!).” As sore as I was, I fell on the ground in a hysterical heap. Bloody hell …
Pierre
and his sausages. As long as the sausages had survived, nothing else mattered!'

The entire assembly roared. We could easily envisage
Pierre
and his sausages staggering up the slope to safety. Fortunately, a passing tractor had managed to pull them from the bushes and the
Peugeot
had held on courageously for the final leg.

‘
Bon! On va cuisiner ces putaing de saucisses ou pas
? (So! Are we cooking these bloody sausages or not?)'
Pierre
chuckled, pushing his way towards the grill.

The crowd cheered, raising their glasses to
Pierre
and
Jean-Michel's
health.
Henriette, Pierre
's long-suffering wife, simply shook her head in disbelief as the aromatic fumes from the charcoal grill wafted high into the balmy night.

We arrive at the café post-siesta the following afternoon, to
Pierre
's musical ‘
Salut! Tu vas?
' Then, knowing perfectly well we are accomplished coffee makers, he disappears into the dimly lit back room, to watch his beloved
foot
(soccer) and nurse his battle scars from the previous day's excursion.

As other regulars like
Jeannôt
, the old bloke from the
Maison de Retraite
(retirement home), arrive for their tipple, we serve them, leaving
Pierre
happily glued to his TV screen.

He trusts us with his customers and his cash till. I find his faith amazing and deeply touching. There are few places left in this world where occurrences such as these take place and I realise I am blessed to be part of this microcosm of good, old-fashioned humanity.

Jeannôt
sits at his usual table and calls for a wine. He is a rugged, worn individual, whose face bears the scars of a hard and battled life. He drowns his years in a rough red, house wine and we shout him
un petit coup
(a little glass) whenever we meet.

He has always bewildered and bemused me. He is obviously uneducated yet sports a brilliant, quick wit and a memory like an Asian elephant. He recounts his wartime efforts willingly and manages to add a comical spin to every story. He has been through more strife and terror than any of us wish to believe and yet, he is still here, every morning, ‘bright as a button' and without due complaint.