Ma Folie Française (My French Folly) (8 page)

30gr soft butter

30gr brown sugar

Juice of one lemon

Preparation

Preheat the oven to 175c

Lightly butter the tart tin or baking dish

Peel and core the apples, halve then slice into fine sections

Meanwhile, prepare a liquid caramel by melting the castor sugar, lemon juice and butter in a pan. Add a little water if necessary.

When caramel is bubbling and has turned into a golden brown remove from heat and pour into the tart tin.

Lay the apple slices in concentric circles around the pan, layer upon layer until well packed. Leave no spaces or holes.

Sprinkle half the brown sugar over the apples

Place the pastry over the apples and press firmly around the edges leaving no gaps.

Bake for 20 minutes then allow to cool slightly.

Gently flip the tart onto a serving platter uncovering the caramelised underside.

Sprinkle the remaining brown sugar over the top

Serve with a good vanilla ice cream or whipped cream to taste.

This is truly one of the most delicious dishes you'll ever make.

Its origin stems from the tales of two young women, the
Tatin
sisters. They were well known cooks and ran a little restaurant in
La-Motte-Beuvron
, not far from Paris. One day, one of the sisters made the error of forgetting to place the pastry under the apples, when baking a classic apple tart. She experimented by placing the pastry on top and thereby creating, the famous,
Tarte Tatin
.

As every woman knows, buying a new bra is an essentially, important event at any time of the year. I could have never, in my wildest dreams have conjured the events, which took place on this particular pre-Spring shop. It was destined to be the most memorable yet. At no time in the past, had I purchased such an important item of intimate apparel, in a non-English speaking country and I decided this was the moment to call on some feminine, moral support. Luckily for me, my English girlfriend Liz was in town. Liz was married to an eloquent and highly intellectual, Cambridge scholar. He was profoundly passionate about France and the
joie de vivre
lifestyle it offered them, away from their Derbyshire farm and its copious fields of mud and winter sleet. They were to move here more permanently, once their UK finances and adult children were in order.

In the meantime, they spent a good six months each year in their charming, sixteenth century home on
Place de L'église
, sandwiched between their cat loving voisine (neighbour) and the village's Catholic church. Their three-story residence lurched aloft the icy waters of the jagged
Vezère River
and its
Ancien Pont
(ancient bridge). We enjoyed many a boisterous soirée in their company, catching up on juicy village gossip over countless glasses of
Bordeaux
wine and some rather odorous, local cheeses, which Albert in particular devoured with gusto.

Liz was bashful by nature and due to the fact that her knowledge of French was desperately lacking, she avoided too many outings on her own. She was a bright, intelligent woman with a long-suffering patience that astounded me. Her dear husband, Albert, appeared to overwhelm her at times and kept Liz constantly busy, as he strived to obtain,
la belle vie en France
. There was a military-like correctness to his character, which made it undeniably obvious why he made such a successful college Dean. However, find Albert after a few red wine and tonics, which he loved to our greatest dismay, and he was as gentle and accommodating as the proverbial teddy bear. He is the only man I know that knits better than most women and is a genius at creating his own patterns from scratch.

When I suggested an entire, girl's day out in
Brive-la-Gaillarde
, Liz was quick to jump at the chance, leaving Albert to retire to the attic with his knitting needles and best friends Wagner and Mozart.

I explained the chief purpose of our little trip and she blushed at the prospect of being dragged through a myriad of French lingerie boutiques. I convinced her that I needed no physical help, just good, old-fashioned moral support. I've always found bra shopping unnerving. I've never enjoyed the persistent, eagerness of the shop assistants in their attempt to fit you personally, whilst fiddling with your wobbly bits. I'd rather choose who does or doesn't get access to my wobbly bits, if you don't mind!

I know they're just trying to be helpful, but I would prefer if they just left that part of the process up to me. I'm a grown woman and I feel perfectly capable of fitting my own bra, thank you very much.

I prayed to God, that French shop assistants were not as eager to please as the ones back home. Perhaps they'll remain pleasantly aloof, I hoped, as we approached the elegant façade of
Frou-frou Désire – Lingerie Feminine
located in the main pedestrian thoroughfare, of the cobble-stoned city centre.

‘We're here,' I declared cheerily, as we stood admiring the frilly, pastel knickers in the window display. ‘A neighbour told me that this was the best shop in town.'

‘Will I come in with you?' Liz asked timidly.

‘Please … I need the company. You don't need to say anything. Just look at all the pretty things and I'll try to be quick.'

‘Okay,' she replied. ‘That sounds painless enough.'

We both took a deep breath as we entered the lavishly stocked realm of delicately-fine silks and intricate, frothy laces. It bore the most sumptuous plethora of intimate garments that Liz or I had ever had the pleasure to admire, and the
Chanel
scented interior reeked of elegance and expensive taste. I was glad to have the use of my recently acquired, French credit card as I felt a substantial spend looming.

Thankfully, the boutique was relatively empty and the sales lady was otherwise occupied with another customer. Our only remorse, on further inspection, was that this particular client had apparently decided she also needed moral support, but had done so by bringing along her husband. That's all I need, I thought, a bloody man in the lingerie shop. Why couldn't he pace the pavements, smoke a
Gaulloise
or sit in a café with his
Pastis
, like a real bloke?

Oh well, never mind. We are in France and that's obviously what happens here. Husbands assist their wives in the purchase of intimate apparel. I just hope they don't assist them with the trying on bit. I'm extremely open minded, but I don't think I could bear that. I could see from Liz's expression, that she was imagining exactly the same scenario as me; her cheeks flushing to a brighter shade of crimson.

‘
Bonjour Mesdames. Puis-je vous aider
? (Good day ladies, may I help you?)' asked the rather proper and perfectly attired
Madame
.

‘Oh, er …
Oui
,' I stuttered, taken by surprise. ‘
Je cherche un soutien gorge, s'il vous plâit
. (I'm looking for a bra, thank you.)'

‘
Soutien gorge
' is the French translation for bra. It's a weird term, isn't it? Neither the English or French words hold any true meaning when it comes to their genuine purpose. Bra or
brassière
doesn't explain a thing and the words,
Soutien gorge
, literally mean, something holding up your throat. It's preposterous really, especially in my case, where it serves to hold up, a hell of a lot more than my throat.

The sculpturally coiffed
Madame
, led me towards a rack of deliciously seductive ensembles, all pitifully small and desperately lacking in support of any description. These ‘barely there' morsels of silken finery were made for more delicately formed creatures than I.

‘I don't think so
Madame
. They're truly beautiful … but I don't think they're my size,' I replied nervously.

‘What iz your size,
Madame
?' she asked, staring awkwardly at my camouflaged bosom.

‘I take a 12DD in Australian sizing,' I replied. ‘I suppose that's about a 42DD in France.'

‘
Bon!
(Well!)' she replied, a look of mild irritation on her face, ‘I don't have a great choice in zat size I'm afraid. They will not be in pretty colours.'

I had imagined as much. I mean, have you ever noticed how petite and small-breasted the average French woman is? It's a national disgrace. Yes, I know… that's just green-eyed jealousy talking. I really wish I could fit into all this gloriously flimsy, paraphernalia but I'm destined to the under-wired, lift and separate–whilst minimising when possible–breed of apparel.

Madame
the shopkeeper consequently led me to the fitting room at the rear of the boutique with two, nondescript, cream models in tow.

‘
Voilà Madame
, perhaps you would like to try these to start?' she gestured, pulling back the satin curtain of the fitting room and handing me two cream-coloured items.

‘
Merci
,' I replied, pulling sharply on the shimmering fabric, carefully blocking the entrance to my private little sanctum.

After minutes of pulling and prodding, stretching and straining, I realised that the French DD was not as generous as its Anglo cousin. How humiliating. I couldn't possibly ask for an E. It would be unheard of in provincial France, for certain. I could see it now … Madame the panty- seller, gossiping with her petite, triple A cup,
Bourgeois
girlfriends, over the mammoth sized tits of the young, brown-eyed foreigner.

I'm glad
Jean
gets a kick out of my heavier than average bust, because at this very moment, I was wishing them to the plastic surgeon's scalpel.

‘How are they?' she called from behind the curtain. My moment of shameful truth had arrived.

‘They don't quite fit, I'm afraid,' I admitted self-consciously.

‘
Très
bien
. Perhaps you need the size down from zat?' she inquired, grinning hopefully.

‘No
Madame
. I'm afraid I require the size above. You don't have an E cup, I suppose?'

‘
Mon Dieu! Oh… pardon Madame
,' she apologised, ‘I can hardly believe you need an E cup. Surely not?'

‘
Oui
Madame
,' I replied, now a little annoyed. It wasn't my fault if the French bras were skimpier than the ones back home. I'd never needed an E cup before and my breasts hadn't grown due to the pure, French country air.

‘I'll see what I can find,' she said, rushing off into the depths of the storeroom where outlandish sizes for hefty busted foreigners were concealed from general viewing.

‘What's happening?' whispered Liz from behind the curtain.

‘I need an E here. Can you believe that?' I laughed from behind the relative safety of the satin drop.

‘Goodness' she exclaimed. ‘I bet they don't stock many of those!' she laughed in return.

‘I think I've sent
Madame
into a spin. It's obviously a first,' I whispered, realising that the grey-haired gentleman in the velvet armchair, seemed desperate to eavesdrop on our conversation.

‘I'll leave you to it,' Liz said quietly, stepping back into the store as
Madame
returned to the scene.

‘I have found two E size garments for you
Madame
. I hope they fit,' she exclaimed in desperation.

‘Me too!'

When I eventually exited the fitting room, bras in hand, a tangible air of expectancy hovered throughout the entire boutique.
Madame
, who was busily processing the French lady's purchases, dropped her workload immediately, checking my facial expression. The nosey, grey haired husband and his elegant, petit wife both glanced my way.

I smiled reassuringly as I approached the sales desk, though my stomach churned with discomfort. I stood to one side, waiting my turn, whilst chatting quietly with Liz. It was then, that I noticed something hilariously funny take place.

I jiggled my elbow gently at Liz's ribs to gain her attention. The gentleman, who now stood beside his wife at the counter, was busy eyeing her purchases of sexy, triple A brassieres, whilst fingering their silky texture. I could only imagine the vision he had conjured in his mind's eye, the dirty old man. Suddenly he noticed the two bras I had placed, on the far end of the glass counter. His eyes shot to and fro, from the miniature morsels of fabric before him, to the giant, melon-catapulting weapons at my end. His hands jittered as they mentally sized up the triple A cups, and then simultaneously compared their size, to my generous purchases. After several stolen glances, he gazed at me, his eyes twinkling then smiled widely. Admiration? Wonderment? Dare I say … titillation? I could hardly control my amusement and as soon as the couple were out of sight, Liz and I doubled over in hilarious abandon.

‘Iz everything all right,
Madame
?' the sales lady asked quite bewildered.

‘Absolutely perfect,' I giggled, handing over my credit card for the final shock.

‘
Bien
.
Merci beaucoup Madame
. I'm glad you eventually found what you needed. That comes to a total of 800 Francs,' she smiled.

Holy cow! I'm really paying for every last centimetre of fabric, aren't I
? I swore under my breath.

Madame
, still flustered by my dubious demeanour remained silent.

‘
Merci beaucoup
!' I replied, taking my receipt and card. ‘
Au revoir
,' I called, as I stepped into the fresh air of the city streets, Liz hot on my heels.

‘Can you believe that? That cheeky sod was comparing hand fulls. From triple A pinches to E size
arm-fulls.
'

We laughed so loudly that several passing shoppers stopped to see what all the fuss was about. I dragged Liz by the sleeve giggling, as we stumbled up the cobbled passage towards
Place de L'Eglise
.

‘Poor sod really,' I declared sarcastically, ‘probably never imagined you could get so much more for your money. I mean her tiny little bits of lace were probably twice the price of mine and he gets a lot less to play with.'

‘Stop it or I'll wet myself,' Liz giggled. ‘I haven't had this much fun in ages.'

‘You need to come out with me more often,' I replied grinning.

‘I need a strong coffee,' she said. ‘My shout.'

‘You're on,' I replied. ‘I couldn't afford one anyway, after those bras.'

We enjoyed recounting our delirious shopping adventure to
Jean
and Albert that evening, who both found the entire incident extremely amusing. We all laughed so hard, I thought my sides would split, but I couldn't afford to let that happen while I was wearing such expensive lingerie, now could I?