by Peter Mayle
I had explored the original heart of the village behind the market. Richerenches had started life in the twelfth century as a commandery, or fort, built by the Knights Templars. They had followed the classic rectangular plan of military architecture, with stone walls as thick as small rooms, and round towers at each corner. Impregnable for all those centuries, the fort had now been invaded by pint-sized Peugeots and Citroëns, squeezed into spaces that would have been a tight fit for a well-fed horse.
Low archways led into dark alleys, smelling of history. The houses were small and well kept, intimately close to one another. A single rowdy neighbor could keep the entire village awake. The largest open space was in front of the church, and I went up to try its heavy nailed door. It was locked. On that particular bright Saturday morning, village devotions were taking place over the plastic bags in the truffle market.
This being a special Sunday, things would be different, I was sure, but Richerenches was in no hurry to get up and greet the day. I was the first customer in the café, just as the coffee machine was performing the opening movement in its symphony of hisses and splutters while madame, behind the bar, flicked a cloth at nonexistent dust.
Early morning in a French country café. The furniture, chosen for function rather than style, is arranged with meticulous precision, a tin ashtray centered on each table, chairs neatly tucked in. The day’s edition of the local newspaper—in this case, La Provence—lies on a ledge inside the door, its pages of regional news smooth and unthumbed. The tiled floor, swabbed down the night before with water and a dab of linseed oil, is still spotless, unsullied by the sugar-cube wrappers and cigarette butts that accumulate by the end of each day in a scuffed row on the floor by the bar. (This is normal. For some inscrutable French reason, ashtrays on café bars are rare, and smokers there are expected to drop their butts on the floor and stub them out by foot.) Bottles gleam on the shelf, practically every variety of brand-name alcohol one can imagine, with one or two local curiosities thrown in. There is always a choice of several different kinds of pastis, reflecting a thirst for the national nectar that accounts for the consumption of twenty million glasses a day.
The café smell is distinctive, and not to everyone’s taste—a mixture of strong coffee and black tobacco, with occasional piercing undertones of bleach. It’s a distinctive French smell, which I happen to like, as it reminds me of the many happy hours I’ve spent being a foreign fly on café walls. The sounds—the clash of cups, the scrape of chairs, the rasp of an early-morning cough—echo against the hard surfaces. Then there’s a boom as the next customer comes in and wishes the room a sonorous bonjour. He has the massive build to match his big voice, and he is friendly enough to offer me, a solitary stranger, his hand to shake as he passes my table. His palm feels like iced sandpaper. Standing at the bar, he sips coffee from a cup, with his little finger delicately extended. When he pays, it is with change extracted, coin by coin, from a battered leather purse no bigger than a box of matches. Does any other country in the world issue dainty purses to its largest male inhabitants?
More customers arrive, all men, regulars who know one another, and the boom level increases. That morning, in voices that could easily carry to the other end of the village, they condemned the awful weather. Nothing to be done about it, but perhaps a quick shot of red wine would help, tossed back with a shrug. At least they’d be indoors today, and the church should be warm. Some tourists trickle in. Heads turn in unison to inspect them, then turn back again, like spectators watching a tennis match.
I left the café to find more life on the street, much of it clearly not local. A television crew of fashionably razor-cropped and bestubbled young men was unloading equipment, dodging cars with foreign plates that were nosing around looking for parking spaces. Men and women with smooth pink indoor complexions, wearing elegant foul-weather clothes of Parisian cut, were hovering indecisively on the pavement. It was time to go to church, before all the pews were taken.
The rest of the world seemed to have had the same idea. The church doors were not yet open, but the small place in front of the steps was packed with truffle worshipers, some more official than others. Moving through the crowd like visitors from another century were senior members of the truffle brotherhood, the Confrérie du Diamant Noir, in full and formal regalia: black cloaks to midcalf, medals suspended from their necks on yellow- and-black-striped ribbons, wide-brimmed black hats. I watched two of them who had found a space at the edge of the crowd and were comparing truffles taken from hiding places beneath their cloaks. Each showed the other his truffle, cupped in both hands and partly concealed, presumably to prevent curious eyes from catching a glimpse of it. Their heads were tilted, close enough for their hat brims to touch as they whispered to each other. They might have been conspirators exchanging state secrets.
I’d been told to bring a truffle with me, and I checked to make sure that the precious foil-wrapped lump was safe in my pocket. Suddenly, there was the sound of iron grating against iron, followed by the regular hollow clang of the bell, causing alarm and temporary deafness among a flock of pigeons that erupted from the belfry. I felt the pressure of the crowd, like a huge animal, pushing me closer to the steps of the church. Then the doors were opened. With as much decorum as they could manage while jockeying for positions with a good view close to the altar, the members of the congregation nudged and jostled their way inside. The French have never taken to the Anglo-Saxon habit of the orderly queue, which they consider far too inconvenient for everyday use.
The church was warm and bright and in noticeably good condition—the pale stone arches unmarked and smooth, the woodwork polished, fresh flowers arranged around the altar. The choir rustled its hymn sheets and discreetly cleared its throat. A current of air brought a distinctive smell to the nose: not incense, not dust, not even sanctity, but an earthy hint of the reason we were all gathered here. On the lace-trimmed pulpit, set out like a row of arthritic black fists, were six of the largest truffles I’d ever seen, each one a quarter-pounder at least, brushed clean of every speck of mud. It was a sight to warm the cockles of a gourmet’s heart.
There was none of the hush you would expect to find before the start of a religious service. Some of my fellow worshipers might have been keeping their conversations to a whisper, but they were outnumbered by others who were in full voice—calling out to friends, commenting on the flowers, the satisfying magnificence of the truffles, and the size of the crowd, which by now had spilled onto the steps outside the church. I could hear the clack of camera shutters and the pop of flashbulbs above the buzz of talk as press photographers jostled with the television crew for the best angles.
The arrival of the presiding priest, Père Gleize, brought a semblance of calm. He looked as every man of the church should look—a halo of silver hair, the face of a mature cherub, an expression of good-humored tranquillity. With a smile of great sweetness, he made us welcome, and the service began.
As the mixture of prayer and singing filled the church with words and music that had hardly changed in a thousand years, the modern world seemed far, far away—that is, as long as you kept your eyes closed. Open them, and there was no doubt that you were in the twenty-first century, although the television crew was trying its hardest to be unobtrusive. Another contemporary touch was displayed by the altar boy, well scrubbed, fair-haired, and altogether angelic, with the pneumatic snouts of his Sunday-best sneakers poking out from the bottom of his traditional white vestments.
The sermon began. Père Gleize had chosen to deliver it in lengo nostro, “our tongue,” or Provençal, and to my ignorant ear very little was familiar. It is said there are traces of Latin and Greek to be found in the dialect, but the overall sound is like a more orotund version of French, filled with wonderful rolling words: escoundoun and moulounado and cauto-cauto. Apart from amen, there was only one word in the entire sermon I could identify for sure. It was, not surprisingly, rabasse, the truffle, and it was making its presence felt
more and more strongly throughout the church as collection baskets started going up and down the rows. A basket was passed to the man next to me. He held it in both hands like a chalice, lowered his head, and took a deep sniff before unwrapping the aluminum foil from his own contribution and popping it into the basket with the other truffles.
To encourage us in our giving, the choir performed a chant to Saint Antoine. And he was left in no doubt about what was being asked of him:
Bon Saint Antoine, donne-nous
Des truffes en abondance
Que leur odeur et leur bon goût
Fassent aimer la Provence.
In other words, Give us truffles. Lots of truffles.
This was not the simple cry of greed that it might appear to be. If Saint Antoine had done his stuff, there would be plenty of truffles in circulation. And the more there were, the more the house of the Lord would benefit, because, following tradition, the truffles collected would be auctioned off after the service, with all proceeds going to charity and the church.
The donations were taken back to be counted. Those baskets that I could see looked comfortably prosperous, filled with an extravagant salad of truffles and large-denomination banknotes. With God now having been served by mammon, the congregation rose, and the choir sent us on our way with Handel’s “Hallelujah Chorus.” Outside, the rain had held off—“Divine providence,” I heard one pious old truffler mutter as he looked up at the sky—and the auction could take place as planned in the open air, outside the Hôtel de Ville.
The center of operations was a table in the square, and with the crowd beginning to gather, the auctioneer climbed up to stand on top. He was one of the confrères, a gentleman who would certainly have walked off with the grand prix for the most impressive mustache of the day. It was an altogether-splendid appendage: luxuriant, with a fine upward, gravity-defying curl, its wingspan almost as wide as the brim of his confrère’s black hat—a virtuoso among mustaches.
Rumors of the day’s collection began to pass through the crowd, and the news was not good. Buyers were going to have to dig deeply into their pockets, because the contents of the baskets reflected this year’s disappointing crop. There were barely three kilos (not quite seven pounds) of truffles. Last year there had been seven kilos (more than fifteen pounds). Prices would therefore be high. But according to Monsieur Escoffier, the octogenarian confrère, it would be money well spent. “La truffe,” he was heard to say, “ça rend les femmes plus gentilles et les hommes plus galants.” The bonus of kinder women and more gallant men was surely worth a little extra.
Giving each side of his mustache an upward flick with the back of his hand, the auctioneer got down to business. With the aplomb of a veteran from Sotheby’s, he prepared his audience for an expensive morning. “Rain didn’t come in the summer when it should have,” he said. “And so truffles are scarce. Extremely scarce. Now, as you all know, the cost of rarity is high. But”—he spread his hands, palms up, and shrugged at the crowd—“you can always economize on your wine.”
He held up the first truffle for all to see, and a bid of nine hundred francs came from the front of the crowd. The auctioneer peered at the bidder with an expression of scornful amazement. “Can I believe what I hear? A miserable nine hundred francs? This monster weighs two hundred and twenty grams. And it’s spotless, ready for the omelette. Not a trace of earth on it.” He looked down from his elevated position on the table at the faces around him, one hand raised hopefully to his ear. A thousand francs were bid. Not enough. He brought out his secret weapon, a sales incentive Sotheby’s would kill for: God was on the side of the auctioneer. “Do you want to be saved, you band of sinners? Come on! Pay up!” Encouraged by thoughts of salvation, bidders pushed the price to fifteen hundred francs (two hundred dollars), and the hammer came down.
The auctioneer’s patter continued, liberally sprinkled with references to the Almighty and recipe hints, until the last truffle had been sold. With the cash that had already been donated, the morning’s total was announced and greeted with applause: The sum of 24,700 francs had been raised. But the auctioneer, still in the grip of sales fever, hadn’t quite finished. One of the empty collection baskets caught his eye and tickled his imagination: “This is worth a fortune,” he said. “It’s been blessed!” Sure enough, the basket fetched a thousand francs. The magic figure of 25,000 francs ($3,600) had been passed. One way or another, we had all earned our lunch.
There is nothing like the combination of cold weather and good deeds to sharpen the appetite. And the highlight of the menu being served at the Richerenches village hall was omelette aux truffes, an inducement that has never been known to fail in France. Rarely have I seen a crowd move with such speed and purpose, and by the time I looked up again after scribbling a few notes, I had the place practically to myself.
The hall was a scene of amiable chaos as everyone moved among the tables looking for their names on slips of paper that identified reservations. I found my place and shook every hand within reach during a blur of introductions. My neighbors were local, jolly, and thirsty.
On occasions like this, I have always found that it is a social advantage to be foreign. Wine is pressed upon you, and not only wine. Advice of every kind is also offered—whether you ask for it or not—since it is assumed that your education is probably lacking, and that you need a little help in matters that only a Frenchman fully understands.
There is the truffle, for instance, the Tuber melanosporum, also known as “the divine tubercule.” How would I, coming from England, a country that this delicacy has chosen to avoid, know that the truffle cannot be cultivated? It grows where it pleases, defying all attempts at artificial production. That is why crops and prices vary so much from year to year. My instructor across the table nodded, as though he personally had played a part in the natural order of things.
I asked him what he thought about the genetically modified food that was very much in the news at the time, and he reared back in his chair. I might have insulted his grandmother or, perhaps worse, his local soccer team. Tampering with nature, he said. No good can come of it. It is nothing but a plot to prevent the process of reproduction, so that farmers have to buy new seeds every year. A scandale, promoted by men in white coats, agricultural bandits who never get their hands dirty. He looked set to rant for hours, if he didn’t choke on his wine first.
He was silenced by the arrival of an omelette, steaming and fragrant and generously speckled with crunchy black slivers of truffle. It was a vibrant bright yellow, the yellow that only comes from the yolks of eggs laid by free-range hens, and the consistency had been exquisitely judged by the chef, just on the firm side of runny. The technical term for this is baveuse (which sounds much more appetizing than its literal translation—dribbling), and it is a texture that has eluded me for years.
My omelettes, no matter how solicitous I am as I hover over them, are never any more than scrambled eggs with pretensions. They don’t even travel well, usually falling to pieces during their brief journey to the plate. I have never been able to achieve the plump, moist, soft-skinned golden envelope that slides so cleanly from the pan. I asked my neighbors at the table if they knew the secret. How does one make the perfect omelette?
The ensuing debate lasted for most of lunch, as I should have known it would. There is never a single, simple answer in France to any question concerning food. Ask how to boil an egg, and there will be a dozen different opinions, because there is nothing the French enjoy more than arguing about food while they’re at the table. Part of this, I’m convinced, is the opportunity it offers to use the accessories of eating for dramatic gestures. Brandishing a knife is far more satisfying than wagging the conventional index finger; setting down a wineglass (empty, one hopes) with a decisive thump has the emphasis of an exclamation mark; the maneuvering of pepper pots, mustard jars, saucers of olives, and crusts of bread can often help to demonstrate a complicated theory to the simpleton sitting opposite you. Today’s simpl
eton, of course, was me.
My closest neighbor picked up his side plate and placed one end of his fork on the rim. Holding his creation in one hand, with the fork acting as a makeshift handle, he swirled it around energetically. “With the omelette,” he said, “l’essentiel is the correct pan, which must be made of cast iron.”
“No, no, no,” said the woman sitting next to him. “Copper, lined with tin, is in every way superior to your cast iron; it’s lighter, and a copper bottom is a better conductor of heat. Therefore, cher monsieur”—she paused to poke a finger in his chest—“your omelette is more evenly cooked. Voilà.” She nodded as she looked around the table, obviously feeling she had delivered a mortal blow to any misguided supporters of cast iron.
Already I could see where I might have been going wrong. My omelette pan was made from a newfangled nonstick aluminum alloy. I’d bought it in America, unable to resist the salesman. “What you have here is space-age technology,” he had told me. “If this baby sticks, you come and see me, and I’ll give you your money back. Every cent.” Sure enough, it never did stick. But it never made much of an omelette, either. Even so, I decided to try the idea on the experts. “My pan is a kind of aluminum,” I said. “What do you think about that?”
Monsieur Cast Iron and Madame Copper Bottom forgot their differences and closed ranks, united in their derision. Shakes of the head, clicks of the tongue, smiles of pity. Non. Jamais.
Lunch continued, as did the omelette lesson: A new pan must be seasoned two or three times with oil to seal the surface. Before putting in the eggs, the pan must be preheated until it is hot enough to make a drop of water bounce. The pan must never be washed after use, just wiped with a paper towel. On these basic points there was general agreement.
Major differences of opinion, marked by knife waving, glass banging, and head shaking, started when the lesson moved on to the actual cooking process. Someone insisted that no omelette was complete without a drop of good Madeira wine, stirred in with the eggs before they went into the pan. Pas du tout, said a purist—Madeira wasn’t necessary; just salt, pepper, and a walnut-sized knob of butter. Ah, but don’t forget: The butter should be almost melted before it is allowed to meet with the eggs. Then there is the other knob of butter, which is already in the pan, turning brown. Mais attention! It must never smoke, or become too brown; otherwise, the omelette will have a burned flavor. And one must always use a wooden spoon to stir the eggs.