Ma Folie Française (My French Folly) (5 page)

BOOK: Ma Folie Française (My French Folly)
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Jean
and I break into fits of laughter, as she blushes, bewildered by our outburst.

‘How could it possibly be lighter with cream?' laughs
Jean
.

‘It slides down better,' she replies. ‘It'll help you digest.'

Spoken like a true
Normande
. Who else could make such a statement without being in a total state of delirium? We continue to giggle as I politely nibble on my tart, feeling every mouthful force its way down my throat. I heave a final sigh of relief as I inhale the delicate aroma of freshly brewed coffee coming from the next room. Miracle of miracles. Lunch is over.

We retire to the open terrace, which dominates the rose garden.
Ginette
has lowered the enormous striped awning, placing the entire area in shaded comfort. The air is dry and warm leaving us heavy lidded as we sip on our strong, black coffee. Even
Ginette
appears more relaxed after her Herculean achievements. Slumber soon overtakes us and it is late afternoon before the first of us stirs.

‘Perhaps you'd like another coffee before you leave?'
Ginette
suggests.

‘I honestly couldn't eat or drink another thing,' I reply sleepily.

‘
Marisa
's right. It was a fantastic lunch
Ginette
but we really should be making tracks.'

‘If you insist. I suppose even Sundays are busy days for you.'

‘They can be and we've really enjoyed the break and the beautiful meal. Thank you
Ginette
… I won't eat for days.'

‘Don't be silly
Marisa
. You ate like a mouse. You'll be hungry by dinnertime. You'll see,' she replied.

‘I doubt that … but thank you, once again.'

We strolled to the car, which had thankfully spent the entire afternoon in the shade. We said our goodbyes then headed off gently through the nodding barley fields and towards home.

The country slumbered silently under the late afternoon light and we seemed to be the only car on the road. I imagined the entire population still lazing under some tree or dozing merrily in an armchair.
Jean
was exceptionally quiet as he drove and it wasn't long before I noticed his pallid complexion.

‘Are you all right
Jean
? You look unwell.'

‘I don't feel too good, to tell you the truth.'

‘Do you want me to drive?'

‘No. I'll be fine,' he mumbled.

‘You look green!' I exclaimed, ‘Do you feel like throwing up?'

‘No … but I have a terrible pain in my chest … I feel like I can't breathe properly.'

‘Oh my God,
Jean
! You have to stop the car!' I cried, overwhelmed by sudden panic. I had lived through my own father's cardiac arrests and this wasn't sounding good.

‘We need to stop and get you some help… now. You're scaring me.'

‘OK … OK …,' he panted, ‘I'll stop at
Le Relais des Monédières
on the
Nationale 20
. It's no good stopping here in the middle of nowhere.'

‘All right, but if you feel any worse just stop at the next house.'

I never took my eyes from his gaunt face the entire journey. He appeared to be deteriorating fast and my own blood pressure was rising by the millisecond.

‘Thank God … we're here,' I cried, as he pulled into the crowded car park of the hotel. ‘Quick
Jean
… get out of the car and sit in the shade. I'll fetch help.'

I ran, as quickly as my alcohol and food induced stagger would carry me, through the entry to the unmanned reception desk. I called for help to no avail. Now totally panicked, I ran through the double glass doors to my right. There before me, was a bar full of half-sloshed, Sunday afternoon revellers and a blonde, middle-aged barmaid. They glanced at me in silence then went on with their bawdy conversations. Unsure of how to explain my predicament in precise and concise terms, I simply yelled.

‘
AU SECOURS…AU SECOURS!
HELP…Emergency!' To my utter amazement and total disbelief they glared at me, laughed, and then went back to their drinks. What the hell? I ran forward, shoving my face into the surprised stare of the barmaid and screamed again.

‘
AU SECOURS…AU SECOURS
!'

She looked at me as though I was an escapee from some foreign lunatic asylum, but when I remained unmoved, she eventually took notice.

‘What's wrong
Madame
?' she asked.

‘My Husband … outside … heart attack!' I panted, thumping my chest.

‘
Mon Dieu
!' she yelled. ‘Quick, call the Doctor,' she screamed to the closest onlooker. Finally someone was taking me seriously.

‘Hurry,' I called as I ran from the saloon and down the entrance steps only to find
Jean
slumped on the gravel drive, gasping for air.

‘It's okay darling. The Doctor is on his way … try to relax.'

Thankfully, the barmaid had reacted swiftly once she realised I was no common lunatic and had grabbed a tea towel packed with ice, which we placed on
Jean
's forehead. He was perspiring profusely and his complexion was insipid green. The
Medicin local
arrived promptly, though on viewing
Jean
, seemed to slow his pace. His now, nonchalant disposition was driving me to desperation. It was as though he had already made his diagnosis before he even uttered a word. He bent over
Jean
, holding his wrist for a pulse.

‘What have you eaten today,
Monsieur
?'
Jean
failed to reply, fighting to catch his breath.

‘He had quite a large meal …
foie gras
, salmon and caviar, cheese, and dessert,' I replied on
Jean
's behalf.

‘Wine?'

‘Yes, several glasses. But he's not drunk,' I replied sternly.

‘No…he's not,' he grinned. ‘Don't worry
Madame
, your husband will be just fine. He is suffering from a
Crise de foie carrabinée.
'

The gathering of spectators from the bar chuckled at the doctor's diagnosis.

‘What's that?' I asked annoyed ‘Are you sure he's okay? He looks terrible to me.'

‘He needs to rest here for a while and drink some water. He won't have such a good appetite for a few days but he'll be just fine. He is having a “Liver attack”,' he smiled. ‘It's quite common really … especially amongst tourists'

‘We're not tourists … we live here.'

‘Well … congratulations,' he grinned, ‘but you're obviously not yet adjusted to our local cuisine.'

‘I'm not, but
Jean
is French … he's never been sick before.'

‘Well. He's apparently out of practise, my dear
Madame
.'

Jean
, though still unwell, was visibly relaxed having heard the prognosis.

‘I've never heard of such a thing. I don't think the equivalent exists in the English language.'

‘Perhaps because they have no need for such a term. I've never heard of the English eating
foie gras
by the kilo on a hot summer's day. You know the heat has a lot to do with it,' he replied. ‘Look, there's not much more I can do to help, so I'll be off. Stay here in the shade until it passes.'

‘Yes of course Doctor. We're so sorry for any inconvenience … especially on a Sunday.'

‘At your service
Madame
,
Monsieur
,' he smiled warmly, as he collected his medical satchel and strolled to his vehicle. It didn't occur to me until later, that he never asked for a single Franc in payment for his attendance.

As
Jean
regained a state of normality his demeanour changed and his complexion returned to a more pleasing hue.

‘I was so worried about you darling. You really scared me,' I said, kissing his cheek.

‘I really scared myself. I can't believe I had a
crise de foie
.' The French are always going on about their livers and gall bladders. I thought it was a big joke. I suppose the Doctor was right … it's obviously a French condition. It could only happen in a country where the general population is so obsessed with food and wine.'

‘So much for
Ginette
and her “cream will make it lighter theory”,' I laughed.

‘I honestly don't know how she does it. Did you see how she buttered her bread with a centimetre of farm butter before adding a slice of cheese?'

‘I know. Her cholesterol count must be through the roof.'

‘She probably doesn't have cholesterol … that's the whole point. Her body is naturally immune.'

‘Lucky her. So my darling … I suppose you won't need any dinner tonight?' I chuckled.

‘Oh … you never know,' he grinned, ‘maybe just something light … some
Camembert
and bread … a glass of
Côte du Rhône
…'

‘You French … you're bloody unfathomable'

LES TOURTOUS

Buckwheat (sarrazin) Flour Crêpes

Ingredients

1 kg of buckwheat flour

2 litres of warm water

¼ litre of milk

2 pinches of rock salt

A large nut of baker's yeast (available from bakeries)

Preparation

Dissolve the yeast in a warm glass of water and add the salt

Put the flour in a bowl and add the tepid water slowly, mixing the paste with a wooden spoon. When ready, the mixture should be a like a pancake mix but not too soft or runny.

Leave the
crêpe
mixture to rest in a warm room for at least 2 hours or until it has doubled in size. The mixture is ready when little bubbles appear at the surface.

Take a large pancake skillet or pan, preferably cast iron, and oil it. Cook the tourtous as you would any other
crêpe
.

Please note:

The pan or skillet must be hot but not to the point of smoking. Also this mixture is stickier than a normal
crêpe
mixture, so you should spread it around the pan as quickly as possible, so as to not let it stick.

As these type of
crêpes
are darker and more on the savoury side, they lend themselves to heavier dishes rather than sweet desserts.

My favourite ways of serving
Les Tourtous

Cold- with a rillettes or paté (goose, duck or pork). Rolled and cut into little, cigarette lengths.

Warm – with homemade jam or chestnut paste

As an accompaniment to a dish with a rich sauce (instead of bread) With soft cream cheeses, melted
Cabecous
(goat's cheeses) or
fromage blanc

A
Corrèzien
specialty is to crack a fresh, free-range egg into the centre of the
tortous
whilst still cooking, so that egg cooks through. You then flip the sides of the
tourtous
inwards, towards the egg, forming an exterior square. Lastly sprinkle a little grated
Swiss Emental
cheese on top. This is a popular light lunch and is often served in local restaurants.

Jean's personal favourite:

A warm
tortous
rolled around a chunky pork sausage with Dijon Mustard.

Ginette's speciality
TARTE AUX NOIX
Walnut Tart

Ingredients

Pastry

200g of wholemeal flour

80g of butter

50g raw sugar

Filling

250g Crème fraiche (available in most supermarkets) 200g of crushed walnuts

50 -70g of raw sugar

A pinch of cinnamon powder

Preparation

Mix the flour, butter and sugar with your fingertips. Add a pinch of salt and a little water, mixing until dough if formed.

Leave the dough to sit 1-2 hours, then roll it and place into a 24cm round baking tin, which has been greased and floured.

Pour the cream into a large mixing bowl, adding the sugar, walnuts and cinnamon powder. Mix together then place mixture evenly over pastry in baking dish.

Bake for 40 minutes in a moderate oven (180degrees)

This tart lasts well for 2 to 3 days and even better the day after cooking.

Serve with thickened cream to taste.

Don't forget, as
Ginette
would say, the cream makes it lighter.

Bon Apetit!

CHAPTER 5
The Man Who Never Was

By our second year of operation, I had grown so comfortable in my own shoes, that even the most disagreeable, obnoxious or opinionated of guests couldn't ruffle my tail feathers. Please, don't misunderstand me. They are, thank God … few and far between but every now and then, these rare examples of human existence are thrust into your presence, through no fault of your own.

One deliciously warm, July evening we awaited the arrival of our final guests for the weekend. Having eaten earlier, we were relaxing happily on the sofa, a glass of chilled
Côte de Provence
in hand, when we heard a knock at our lounge room door. Thinking it one of our current guests, I rushed to the door, only to find a complete stranger glaring from behind the glass panels.

‘Bonsoir
Monsieur
. How can I help you?'

A tall, swarthy man stood planted in my entrance hall, an air of steely determination in his stance.

‘
Bonsoir Madame. Je m'apelle Monsieur Pichon.
(I am
Monsieur Pichon
). I have rezerved zee room for my wife, daughter and myself for two nights.'

‘Yes, of course
Monsieur Pichon, Bonsoir
… I was just surprised to see you inside the house. I didn't hear the doorbell ring.'

‘It didn't. Zee door was unlocked, so I came in.'

‘Right … I see … Well, that's fine,' I said, a little rattled. ‘Please, let me show you to your room. Are your wife and daughter here?'

‘Yes I'll just fetch zem now,' he replied, running downstairs to his car, where his family sat waiting patiently.

‘Oh, here you are,' I said as he entered, wife and daughter in tow. ‘
Bonsoir Madame, Mademoiselle. Bienvenue à Treignac
. (Welcome to
Treignac
).'

‘
Bonsoir Madame
,' the bedraggled, little woman replied, no sign of delight on her deeply tanned face. Her child was solemn and grey, her dark eyes fatigued and circled.

‘Please follow me,' I indicated to the morbidly dull threesome, as I mounted the stairs to the upper level suites.

Everything seemed to go well enough. They appeared satisfied with their accommodation, though their mundane expressions were difficult to interpret. I hence, explained the breakfast arrangements, handed them their keys, and bid them a warm goodnight, hoping their mood would lift after a good night's slumber.

‘It was the
Pichon family
… they're an odd lot,' I said to
Jean
on my return.

‘Here,
Chérie
, have a glass of wine. Everyone's here now, you can relax,' he said, as he cuddled up to me on the leather sofa.

‘Phew! Thank heavens for that,' I replied, kissing him tenderly.

It had been a difficult summer for me so far. My physical being was still learning to cope with the daily routine of rising early and retiring late. It took all the strength I could muster, some days, just to make the beds. I had even resulted to crawling on hands and knees to finish my chores some days.
Jean
was a treasure, helping me as much as he could, though his working hours often didn't teeup with mine. Life wasn't perfect quite yet, but it was improving day by day. That was, until this evening.

Moments later, having finally settled in for the evening movie, a rattling at the dining room door, again interrupted us.

‘Who could that be this time?' I grumbled, as I shuffled to the door.

To my surprise, it was the swarthy
Monsieur Pichon
, his wooden expression peering at me through the glass panes.

‘Yes,
Monsieur Pichon
. How can I help you this time?'

‘I've come to watch zee football on zee television,' he replied directly.

‘I'm sorry. What exactly do you mean?' I replied bewildered.

‘Zee television. I have come to watch zee television. Zere is zee big match tonight. It is allowed,
non
?'

‘No … not really. I'm afraid this is our private lounge room,
Monsieur Pichon
.'

‘So you are not going to allow me into your lounge room?' he asked, a threatening edge in his tone.

‘I'm sorry
Monsieur Pichon
, if you have misunderstood the arrangements here, but as a Bed and Breakfast, we are welcoming you into our home, yes that's true. However we do have rooms that are for our personal use only. At night, we require a little privacy after a long day. I'm sure you understand,' I explained gently, with a smile.

With that,
Monsieur Pichon
thrust a copy of the ‘
Gîtes de France
-Bed and Breakfast guide to France' under my nose. He had hidden it behind his back, prior to this, in stealthy anticipation. He cleared his throat then proceeded to quote a phrase from the back cover.

‘I quote, You will be welcomed into a family home, where you will be received as one of the family… etcetera, etcetera and so forth,' he read. When finished, he looked me straight in the eye and questioned, ‘So, you will not receive me like one of your family?'

‘
Monsieur Pichon
, I have welcomed you as I welcome all my guests. You are more than welcome in our home, but I must insist on keeping a certain amount of privacy. Our facilities are all well documented within the guidebook, if you would just allow me …,' I persisted, incredulous of his hostilities.

‘So, you are not keeping to the rules?'

‘Yes, I can assure you I am adhering to every rule in the book,' I replied, my blood pressure on the boil. This man was undoubtedly the most obnoxious individual I had the displeasure of dealing with.

‘I will report you for this!' he exclaimed. ‘You are not welcoming me like you should, and I won't have it!'

By this stage,
Jean
had become suspicious of my prolonged absence and having overheard raised voices, arrived by my side, to
Monsieur Pichon
's dismay and complete surprise.

‘Is there a problem,
Chérie
?' he asked, glaring poker faced into the eyes of the indignant
Monsieur Pichon
.

‘Well, darling,
Monsieur Pichon
isn't exactly happy because I won't let him watch TV with us,' I replied smiling. ‘I have tried to explain the situation to him, but he doesn't want to understand.'

‘He what?' A hot-pink tinge was rising above
Jean
's shirt collar.

‘
Monsieur
, your wife has not welcomed me, as she should. She will not welcome me as one of the family,'
Monsieur Pichon
declared indignantly.

‘
Monsieur Pichon
, my wife is the sweetest and most welcoming individual I know … unlike myself. I do not believe for one moment, that you have not been greeted, as you should.'

With that, the now red-faced
Monsieur Pichon
proceeded to wave the back cover of the now infamous guidebook under my husband's nose for inspection.

This was a major error in the making.

‘Look. Here,' he said, his finger tapping impatiently at the cover. ‘It says …,' he tried to continue but was abruptly interrupted by
Jean
, who was quickly burning his short, French fuse.

‘
Ecoutez Monsieur Pichon
, if you are not happy with the welcome you've received, I suggest you leave … NOW!' he shouted, kicking off his cotton espadrilles in readiness for a physical battle if necessary.

My hero!

‘
Monsieur Raoul
, we have reserved for two nights in your establishment.'

‘I couldn't care less if you'd reserved three rooms for a month. You'll just have to find somewhere else, won't you? Goodnight and
Adieu
!'
Jean
replied out loud; standing his ground with fists now firmly planted on hips. In my mind,
Monsieur
would be wise to back off, as I could clearly envisage
Jean
snapping at any moment and slapping
Monsieur Pichon
squarely across his swarthy and less-attractive-by-the-minute
visage
(face).

‘
Bien
, but you will hear about this!'
Monsieur Pichon
replied, a look of utter shock on his face, I will write letters to all the appropriate authorities.'

‘Very well
Monsieur Pichon
,' I said sweetly, ‘Write to whomever you wish, I'm not that concerned. Now I suggest you fetch you wife and child, and leave before my husband really loses his temper and throws you out.'

Jean
walked away in disgust, perhaps a little dismayed by his opponent's lack of gusto. ‘Well…
ça alors
!' he shouted aghast, then mumbled numerous, French obscenities beneath his breath as he ran up the stairs to his room.

I waited in the entrance hall, now keen to see him leave, although I admit feeling rather sorry for his desperately timid wife and tired child. They trudged down the stairs, their unpacked suitcases in hand.
Monsieur Pichon
never looked my way as he angrily banged his suitcases against the entrance walls, but his petit spouse glanced back at me as she followed him through the entrance door.

‘
Je suis désolée Madame
(I'm sorry
Madame
),' she murmured timidly, a mask of pure embarrassment and resignation on her face.

She's sadly accustomed to this, I thought, the poor, pitiful individual. How many times had she been ejected from hotels or other establishments through the sheer, stubborn stupidity of her spouse?

As I heard the screech of car tyres depart from the square, I shook my head in disbelief and disappointment.

It was a rare occasion that we felt obliged to evict guests from our home. Rare, but it occurred, none the less. It is a pathetic situation, when someone makes such a nuisance of themselves, that you feel impelled to throw them to the gutter. I'm a diplomat not a fighter but I won't tolerate bullies or fools, and my feisty, French husband, even less. Our eight years spent in the realms of service to others, was tiresome at times, hideous at others but at the close of the day, was enthralling and memorable.

We made wonderful friends over the years, with many of our
hôtes
(guests) and many have welcomed us into their homes, on our pleasurable jaunts throughout France. The intimate exchange of space and personality experienced in the realms of a Bed and Breakfast creates a particularly fragile situation, which not everyone can enjoy or understand. But, when you finally ‘click' with a perfect stranger over the breakfast table, it is a rewarding and priceless experience, the memory of which remains solidly imprinted in the corridors of your mind.

BOOK: Ma Folie Française (My French Folly)
3.37Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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