by Peter Mayle
Vittel and its visitors were in luck. The morning started bright and sunny, and it was almost hot by the time I reached the Palais des Congrès just before nine. While I was waiting in line to register, I was handed a list of the confréries that were putting in an official appearance to give fraternal support. There were fifty-seven of them altogether, most of them from various parts of France, some with highly impressive titles, like the Chevaliers du Brie and the Companions of the Black Sausage. The rest of Europe was represented by confrères from Portugal, Switzerland, Belgium, and Holland—but, as I had already discovered, nobody from Britain but myself.
The idea of a convivial association based on the enjoyment of gastronomic specialties seems to hold no great appeal for the British, and I wondered why not. It may be true that we don’t produce as many edible treasures as the French, but we have our moments. Why aren’t they officially marked? Where are the Companions of the Fish and Chip? The Honorable Brotherhood of Yorkshire Pudding? The Noble Order of Cheddar? The Commanders of the Winkle and the Whelk? The Friends of the Jellied Eel?
“Bonjour,” said a voice from below me. “You’re the Englishman.”
I looked down, to find that I’d reached the head of the line and the check-in desk. A smartly dressed man smiled up at me, introduced himself as Jean Pierre Roussel, and told me that I couldn’t have a drink until I’d answered a few questions about my background and signed on as a future confrère. With these formalities over, he nodded me over to the bar.
Alcohol with breakfast is dangerously pleasant. My first experience of it had been some years before as a guest of the mayor of Bouzy, a village in the Champagne region. There had been two different wines to accompany the food, and politeness obliged me to sample them both. They were cool and invigorating, slipping down easily despite the earliness of the hour, and I was in a happy haze by 9:00 a.m. Lunch—and more wine, naturally—had been served just in time to prevent a return to sobriety, and I ended the day in disgrace after falling asleep at dinner. Since then, I’ve done my best to stick to coffee in the morning.
The area in front of the bar was crowded with men and women I took to be confrères. At this stage, they were still wearing civilian clothes, except for a blond Labrador, very chic and apparently quite comfortable in a well-cut waistcoat of royal blue satin, that was standing guard below a dish of croissants in case one should fall from the table. According to his owner, the Labrador was an old hand at these events. The waistcoat was part of the regalia of another distinguished order, and this was to be his third time as a confrère. I asked if he liked frogs’ legs.
“Monsieur,” said his owner, “he is a Labrador. He likes everything.”
By now, there were signs of preparation among my future colleagues, who were starting to line up before taking their turn in the cloakrooms. Men and women of conservative appearance went in. Peacocks came out.
The frog contingent wore caps and cloaks of a bright and froggy green, edged with yellow, but this was one of the more sober outfits. I saw cloaks trimmed with silver and something that looked very much like ermine, cloaks of silk, and cloaks of velvet. Official decorations were worn, massive medals that clanked against one another as they bounced up and down on the wearer’s sternum. And hats. My God, what hats—troubadours’ floppy berets, tricornes, fedoras of medieval design, which were pierced with great swooping feathers, straw bonnets, and one creation of truly outstanding frivolity, more of a giggle than a hat. It consisted of what looked like two small pillows made from pink plush that hung from a purple headband so that they covered the ears and rested on the shoulders of the wearer (a gentleman who was probably a highly respectable judge or tax inspector in real life). The hat was worn with a purple cloak, baggy Elizabethan-style bloomers, and tights. It will give you some idea of the mood of the morning, as well as the variety of sartorial treasures on display, when I tell you that this extraordinary apparition attracted no particular attention.
With a final swig of Riesling and one last adjustment to the tilt of a hat or the drape of a cloak, the assembled confrères moved outside to form up in lines of three abreast for the opening event of the proceedings. This was a parade that would take us through Vittel for a rendezvous with the mayor. He had invited us all to join him for a drink at the mairie, an alcoholic bridge between the wine at breakfast and the wine at lunch.
But first, there was the length of the town to negotiate in correct ceremonial order. The procession was led by a small but impressively loud marching band, their brass instruments gleaming against the red and black of their uniforms. They were followed by Les Majorettes de Vittel, encouraged in their twirlings and baton tossing by a watchful coach—from the look of her, an ex-twirler herself—who hovered alongside hissing technical advice. “Haut les genoux!” Lift those knees!
And then came the confrères. Foreigners had been given precedence, and I found myself at the front of the procession, among a group of Portuguese, Belgians, and Dutch. We congratulated each other on the sunshine, a contrast to some parades of the past, when rain had caused headgear to wilt and dispositions to droop. Today was perfect, bright and breezy, with the sound of the band and the sight of the majorettes to sustain us on our way.
For the first few hundred yards, all went well, and a brave sight it must have been, feathers and cloaks fluttering, medals twinkling, and the uniformed Labrador—now wearing a cap to match his waistcoat—receiving much encouragement from the crowd. We were managing to maintain a disciplined marching order that would have done credit to Napoléon’s troops, when suddenly there was a crise de baton. One of the majorettes attempted an overambitious toss, and the baton went astray, ending up among the spectators. The majorettes came to a sudden stop. Ahead of them, the band marched on, unaware of the enforced halt. Behind them, the procession of confrères contracted like a human concertina. We waited while the baton was retrieved, a pause just long enough for my neighboring confrère to unscrew his ceremonial staff and hand me the hollow top. “Do you like pastis?” he asked, tipping up the staff and filling the top. “I make it myself.” The top was passed around, emptied, and screwed back on while the majorettes resumed formation, and off we went again, on the double this time to catch up with the distant band.
The end of the march was marked by a ribbon stretched across the street, with Monsieur le Maire waiting on the other side, smile and scissors at the ready. The band played a suitably triumphant piece, cameras clicked, and the ribbon was cut. It was time to move on to the next and perhaps most important part of the program: the initiation of new thigh-tasters.
The town hall was fragrant with the scent of freshly cooked frogs’ legs, and I saw my fellow confrère the Labrador stop for a long and thoughtful sniff as he came through the door. He seemed completely at ease in his cap and waistcoat, wagging politely to his neighbors as he took his place in the front row, reserved for VIPs.
Up on the stage, Monsieur Roussel, the master of ceremonies, made final adjustments to the microphone while senior members of the order lined up behind him next to the president, Monsieur Loisant. Expressions were serious, befitting the solemnity of the moment, and the spectators did their best to assume an expectant hush as Roussel opened the proceedings.
Solemnity didn’t last long. The ritual of initiation starts with some brief and not always flattering comments about each of the new confrères, the more embarrassing the better, and Roussel had done his homework. One after the other, he called his victims up onstage to describe their backgrounds and achievements, their follies and idiosyncracies, even their physical appearance (with a special emphasis on the state of their thighs). The confrère was then asked to eat a small dish of frogs’ legs, drink a glass of Chardonnay, and swear fidelity to the frog before receiving his medal and retiring to welcome obscurity at the back of the stage.
An hour or so passed, until the only remaining new confrères were myself and the Labrador. He behaved with the aplomb you would expect from a dog that had already been hon
ored twice before—scampering up on the stage and polishing off his frogs’ legs in two great gulps, his performance only slightly marred by turning up his nose at the Chardonnay. And then it was my turn. I made my way onto the stage, feeling very dowdy in my jacket and flannels, among the robes and velvet caps. Even the Labrador was better dressed for the occasion than I was.
Roussel dealt with me gently, possibly because he hadn’t had the chance to discover anything truly incriminating about me. In any case, my nationality was enough to give him plenty of material, since the French and the English have enjoyed saying appalling things about each other for several hundred years. Curiously enough, they’re often the same appalling things. For instance, each accuses the other of arrogance, bloody-mindedness, unashamed chauvinism, and barbaric eating habits. The French say the English are cold-blooded and untrustworthy. The English say the French are hotheaded and untrustworthy. But, as Roussel said, close neighbors are often a little hard on each other, and he let me off with no more than a passing rap across the knuckles for having ignored one of the great delicacies of France—the frog—for most of my adult life.
I ate my thighs, I drank my Chardonnay, and then I bowed my head to receive my medal. I had become an official member of the Confrérie des Taste-Cuisses de Grenouilles de Vittel, the first organization I had belonged to since the age of eleven, when I left the Boy Scouts under a cloud after a personality clash with Leaping Wolf.
And now, as if the various tipples of the morning hadn’t been enough, the moment had arrived to have a drink with the mayor. This time, no attempt was made to form up in an orderly line. The spectators, who hadn’t been dosed with Chardonnay up onstage and were pawing the ground for something wet to settle the dust of all those speeches, led the charge over to the mairie. His Honor, supported by the Pastis 51 lobby in their red coats, received us with open bottles and yet another speech, while confrères loosened their cloaks and flexed their medals. The cheerful atmosphere provided no hint of the drama that was about to unfold on the very steps of the mairie.
In fact, it was some time before those of us who had drifted back to the Palais des Congrès, where lunch was to be served, had any idea that a drama had actually taken place. But as we found our seats and deliberated over the choice of aperitif, it became clear that all was not well. Whispered conversations were taking place in corners, with much glancing at watches. Waitresses had to be restrained from descending on us with the first course. Looking around the room, I saw that every seat was taken—except one. Loisant, thigh-taster in chief and our esteemed president, was missing.
What could have happened to him on the five-minute stroll from the mairie? Rumor and theory spread from table to table with the speed of a brush fire, but nothing prepared us for his eventual appearance. He came through the door looking like a man who’d just lost an argument with a hammer, his forehead bruised and swollen, his right eye puffy and half-closed, black stitches visible against discolored skin.
The presidential sense of humor, however, was uninjured, and as he took his place at the head of the table, he explained that he had been wounded in the course of duty. Coming out of the mairie, he had been ambushed by a snail—un perfide escargot—which was lying in wait on one of the steps. He remembered hearing two crunches—one as his foot crushed and then skidded on the snail’s shell, the other as his head cracked against the stone. But after a trip to the hospital for repair work, he claimed to be as good as new and hungry as a lion.
“I have heard,” said the lady sitting on my left, “that although the frog is not popular in your country, the English have a fondness for eating toads.” She shuddered. “How could you possibly eat a toad?”
This put a stop to all other conversation at our end of the table. Heads turned toward me as I tried to describe the only toad recipe I’d ever heard of—crapaud dans le trou, or toad in the hole, a leaden dish that I had been made to eat once or twice in my youth. As I remembered the recipe, a large ball of sausage meat is concealed inside a thick coating of rubbery batter before being thoroughly overcooked. The result is not unlike a booby-trapped Yorkshire pudding—heavy, stodgy, and highly indigestible.
“Ah,” said the lady, “so it is not a veritable toad.”
“No,” I said. A veritable toad would probably have tasted better.
“Nor is it, strictly speaking, a hole.”
“I’m afraid not,” I said.
She shook her head at the peculiarities of traditional English cuisine and we went back to studying the menu. In honor of the occasion, this offered not only the list of dishes—including, of course, sautéed frogs’ legs—but some artistic nourishment as well, in the form of a poem specially composed by Roussel—“Ode à Mesdames les Grenouilles.” Written with tongue firmly in cheek, it was couched in the language of romance: “Tendre grenouille de nos étangs,” it began, and then flowed into the springtime song of love and the arrival of Prince Charming before the inevitable occurred and our heroine was summoned to meet her fate in the kitchen. Even here, she was not just cooked but also transformed by the poet into “the queen of our plates,” which I hope was some small consolation to her.
The unfortunate Prince Charming also came to a sticky end, according to one version of frog legend. Once upon a time, so the story goes, a beautiful princess came across a frog by the side of a pond. Said the frog to the princess, “I was once a handsome young prince, until an evil witch put a spell on me. But one kiss from you and I will turn back into a prince. Then we can marry and move into the castle with my mother. You can prepare my meals, scrub my clothes, clean up after me, bear my children, cook for my friends, and live happily ever after. Just one kiss, and all this will come to pass.” That night at dinner, the princess smiled to herself. Not bloody likely, she thought as she tucked in to a dish of frogs’ legs.
Wine and conversation flowed, the courses came and went, and I was treated to a demonstration of the French genius for the gastronomic marathon, the ability to spend as long at the table as other nationalities spend watching television. The size of French appetites never fails to impress me, nor does the Frenchman’s ability to absorb vast amounts of alcohol without falling headfirst into the cheese. The physical effects of a river of wine are evident in flushed complexions and loosened collars, in louder voices and more risqué jokes, but I’ve never seen any ugly or argumentative behavior. Perhaps the secret is years of practice.
By now, the accordion band was starting to limber up with a few exploratory riffs, and I saw that Loisant and his master of ceremonies, the poetic Roussel, had left their table to take up positions at the edge of the dance floor. Chairs were pushed back, glasses were refilled, and the microphone was switched on. It was the moment of truth in the contest to see who had the most delectable thighs in Vittel.
The judging criteria, so I had been told, were more or less the same for Miss Grenouille as for a frog. Any thigh with half a chance had to be long, but not skinny, and shapely, but not fat. Tone and texture were of crucial importance, and the judges were not to be influenced by any fashionable embellishments such as tattoos. A smooth, unmarked sweep of thigh was what they were looking for, and it was clear from the president’s confident manner that this exemplary specimen had been found.
“Mesdames, messieurs!” Roussel had our attention, and I half-expected him to burst into verse, despite the difficulties of finding words to rhyme with cuisses. Instead, he confined himself to a brief introduction that ended with a stirring drumroll as Miss Grenouille herself was announced and came tripping across the floor to receive an enormous bouquet from the hands of the president. Amélie was her name, and a delightful young lady she was, too, smiling and rosy-cheeked from the applause. Alas, the prize-winning thighs were encased in tight black toreador pants, and therefore more hinted at than revealed. I think there might have been a murmur or two of disappointment from some of the gentlemen connoisseurs in the audience.
But all thoughts of frogs and thighs were now put aside. T
here was dancing to be done, and the French take their dancing seriously—above all, the paso doble. This stately maneuver, somewhere between a fox-trot and a tango, is a particular favorite, possibly because it accommodates the Gallic fondness for expressive use of the upper body. Three or four gliding steps are taken in one direction, and then—with a twist of the shoulders, the hint of a shrug, and sometimes the flick of a heel—the dancers change course. Movements are smooth and unhurried; correct form is everything. Heads are held up, backs are kept ruler-straight, and elbows are cocked out at right angles. And I noticed that several of the older men had preserved the tradition of extending the little finger of the left hand as they steered their partners in courtly zigzags across the floor. It was a fine sight, and could only have been finer if the dancers had still been dressed in their cloaks and feathered hats. In this way, Sunday afternoon passed into Sunday evening, and lunch threatened to spill over into dinner. The frog had been well and truly celebrated.
By the following morning, there was little trace of the great weekend des grenouilles. The fairground rides and shooting galleries were gone—dismantled, packed up, and shipped out overnight. The flow of free pastis had dried up with the departure of the gentlemen in red jackets. Restaurants were revising their menus to make them less frog-heavy. Miss Grenouille was back at her job, the president’s wound was mending nicely, the confrères were on their way home, and the yellow bicycles were being pedaled sedately along the paths of the park. Peace had returned to Vittel.
Aristocrats with Blue Feet
Over recent years, we have become more and more curious about what exactly it is we put into our stomachs every day—where it comes from, what it contains, what it does to us. We are hungry for information, and the response from those who supply our food and drink has been voluminous. They have swamped us with nutritional facts and analyses, guarantees of goodness, testimonials from dieticians, proof of genuine identity: These assurances are attached to almost everything edible, from those indigestible little stickers on apples and pears to the longer and more learned texts on the back of cereal boxes.