French Lessons

by Peter Mayle

  Some of these illuminating notes, however, do nothing to allay the innocent customer’s fears and suspicions. Wine, for instance, which we’ve learned should not be consumed by pregnant women operating heavy machinery, has now owned up to another dark secret, at least in America. Almost every bottle, we are informed by a label on its back, contains sulfites.

  Sulfites, according to my dictionary, are salts or esters of sulfurous acid, and can lead to severe allergic reactions in susceptible individuals. Their use as preservatives of fruit and vegetables was banned by the United States Food and Drug Administration in 1986. And yet there they are, those sulfites, brazen as can be, bobbing around in your Chardonnay. A sobering thought indeed, and one that caused me to make a few apprehensive inquiries. It seems that I needn’t have worried; all is well for the vast majority of wine drinkers. The exceptions are usually asthma sufferers—but only very few of them—who might find themselves allergic to sulfites. For the rest of us, a glass or two a day will do more good than harm.

  Very little is allowed to escape the current passion for disclosure, and we cannot be far from the day when restaurants will follow the trend to come clean and provide us with more complete information about their specials of the day. Menu writers, of course, will be obliged to extend and amplify their seductive vocabularies: prime aged steak, enhanced with free-range hormones; French beans and garden peas, genetically modified in God’s clean fresh air; roast leg of lamb, cloned with loving care; veal chops, with a tasty hint of steroids. And all of it will be prepared by the most sanitary of chefs, wearing rubber gloves and a surgical face mask. No wonder we’re growing taller and living longer.

  Interest in food and concern about its life before reaching the table are also beginning to have increasing influence over our social behavior. I read some time ago that a celebratory evening of foie gras at the Smithsonian Institution had to be canceled because of protests about the way in which the livers of ducks and geese are fattened. This led me to think about another bird, eaten by millions every day, but reared for the most part in conditions of carefully maintained obscurity: the chicken.

  In many countries, chicken is no more than a commodity with an enviable reputation—bland, versatile, easy to prepare, inoffensive to even the most delicate of palates; invalids’ food, as harmless as a vegetable, a healthy alternative to heavy red meat. I wonder how long that enviable reputation would survive if more of us were familiar with the methods used to raise some of these unfortunate creatures. Here is a brief extract from an article written by André Giovanni, editorial director of Santé, a French magazine devoted to questions of health. While it is true that the French pay closer attention to the origins of what they eat than many other nationalities, it’s easy to understand Giovanni’s distaste and alarm when he describes the typical life cycle of mass-produced chickens:

  Squeezed into batteries, fed on products containing polluted animal matter, stuffed with antibiotics, their beaks cut off, living their entire lives without seeing daylight.

  And then they’re slaughtered and passed along to us. Under these barbaric but cost-effective conditions, one man can oversee the rearing of 280,000 chickens a year (compared with a mere 25,000 a year if more humane methods are used).

  No doubt this horrific regime exists in France, as in the rest of the civilized world. But at least in France and, I hope, elsewhere, there is a choice—or rather, a range of choices—that provides a better life for the chicken, and a better chicken for the consumer. You might call it a pecking order.

  At the bottom is the plain old farmyard chicken, raised—en liberté, as the French say—in the open air in the traditional way, allowed to feed on whatever nature provides. Then we have the biological or organic chicken, with a controlled diet that is guaranteed free of any chemical seasonings. And finally, there is the ultimate chicken, the only chicken to have its own appellation contrôlée, the chicken from Bresse.

  I had endured several lectures about the glories of the Bresse chicken from my friend Régis, who for some years now has been instructing me as to what I should and shouldn’t eat and drink. But his eulogies, or what I could make sense of when he wasn’t busy kissing his fingertips and moaning with remembered pleasure while describing some past feast, were confined to taste and recipes. He was vague on detail, as to why the flavor was so elegant, so delicate, so exquisite, so typically French (his words, not mine). And so when I heard that the most important event of the chicken year was taking place just before Christmas, I persuaded him to go with me to the town of Bourg-en-Bresse for the annual celebration known as Les Glorieuses.

  The elite chicken zone of Bresse, about eighty kilometers north of Lyon, forms a rectangle roughly one hundred kilometers long and forty wide (sixty miles by twenty-five miles). To the west, just the other side of the autoroute, are the illustrious names and vineyards of Burgundy, and as we started seeing road signs to Fleurie and Juliénas and Mâcon, Régis began to fidget.

  “It so happens,” he said, “that I know a couple of wonderful addresses we could try, not far from here.” He tapped his fingers on the car’s dashboard and began to hum in his rather pleasant light baritone as he waited for me to reply.

  I had heard that hum before from Régis. I don’t think he even knows he’s doing it, but it comes out every time he looks at a menu or a wine list. There is clearly a direct line between his vocal cords and his stomach, and the hum is like a radar beep, a signal that something delicious cannot be too far away.

  My watch showed 10:30. “A bit early for lunch, isn’t it?”

  He turned an innocent face toward me. “Wine, mon vieux, wine. We could slip over to Chiroubles and fill up the car with Beaujolais. A detour, nothing more.” He thought for a moment. “Although there is the Auberge at Fleurie if we should find ourselves nearby at lunchtime.” He glanced at the map lying open on his lap, and pretended to be surprised. “Which we would. What a piece of luck.”

  “Well, perhaps we could stop on the way back. I don’t want to miss the chickens.”

  Régis emitted a gusty sigh (and I’d heard plenty of those before, too). “The trouble with you English,” he said, “is your reluctance to enjoy yourselves, your distrust of pleasure. What could be more agreeable than a dégustation followed by a little light lunch?” The humming resumed.

  I ignored criticism of my fun-loving countrymen. “Régis, you forget. I know you.”

  “So?”

  “You haven’t had ‘a little light lunch’ in years. We’d stagger out of the restaurant at three-thirty, looking for somewhere to lie down. This is supposed to be a working trip. We’re here to see chickens.”

  “Pouf,” said Régis, and sulked in silence all the way to Bourg.

  The greatest chicken show on earth was taking place at the Parc des Expositions on the outskirts of Bourg. Here, in a modern complex of enormous exhibition halls surrounded by acres of parking space, you would normally expect to find business conventions of one sort or another, or trade shows promoting the latest in combine-harvester technology. It was a long way from the rolling meadows of the countryside, and it seemed an incongruous setting for farmers and poultry.

  As we made our way to the information office, Régis was still wearing the doleful air of a man cheated out of his divine right to a long lunch. A brisk, helpful woman brought us up-to-date on the details of the event. This afternoon, she told us, would be mainly devoted to the opening formalities, with a panel discussion among various movers and shakers from local industries. And in the evening, bien sûr, there was the official dinner.

  Régis looked sideways at me and then, in a tone of icy politeness, turned to the woman. “And chickens, madame? When might one expect to see chickens?”

  Madame passed him a folder. “It’s all in there,” she said. “The chickens being exhibited will be arranged in the halls between four-thirty and seven tomorrow morning. The jury convenes at six-thirty and will start judging at seven. Doors will be open to the public at ten. T
hen, monsieur, you will see your chickens.”

  “Ah, bon,” said Régis, looking at me again. “Ten o’clock tomorrow morning before we can see any chickens. Merci, madame.”

  I have spent more convivial afternoons than the one that followed. My companion was a model of reproach, fortunately mostly silent. But he didn’t need to speak; the missed lunch—the needlessly missed lunch—loomed between us like an unwanted third person. In an effort to distract Régis from thoughts of the flesh, I took him to see a local landmark on the outskirts of town, the sixteenth-century church at Brou, a marvel of Gothic architecture, only to find it closed for renovation. It wasn’t until we crossed the road to look at the menu posted outside a restaurant, the Auberge Bressane, that a very faint hum hinted at a return to good humor. I thought it was time to make amends.

  “I’m sorry about this morning,” I said. “Bad planning. The least I can do is buy you dinner this evening.”

  Régis pretended not to have heard. “I see they recommend frogs’ legs to start with.” The hum returned, a little louder than before. Things were looking up. “It would be interesting to compare their taste to that of the chicken—one must have chicken when in Bresse, don’t you think?” It seemed that all had been forgiven.

  We spent what was left of the afternoon exploring Bourg. I was all for buying a chicken to take back with me, but Régis advised waiting until the next day, when, as we’d been told, there would be no shortage of prime fowl to choose from.

  So we went shopping for postcards instead, finding that Bourg-en-Bresse takes its role as chicken capital of the world very seriously. Almost everywhere the tourist sets foot nowadays, from Miami to Monte Carlo, the postcard of choice seems to be a panoramic view of six perfectly formed, perfectly bronzed buttocks belonging to three young ladies clad in G-strings and wishing we were there. I suppose it makes a change from more traditional scenery, but it does little to convey the true spirit of a place (with the possible exception of Miami). In Bourg, however, there is no doubt what the visitor is expected to send home: a poultry card. The favorite is a graphic illustration of three fine and brightly colored birds—one blue, one white, one red—with a prominent reminder that Bresse chickens are the recipients of an AOC, or appellation d’origine contrôlée, a distinction that not even those three well-rounded young ladies could claim.

  The honor was officially confirmed in 1957, nearly four hundred years after an entry in the archives of Bresse noted that the local chicken enjoyed a “belle notoriété.” This has developed over the centuries into a renommée mondiale, or worldwide reputation, and it is a reputation that is jealously protected.

  Qualifications are extremely strict. First of all, every chicken worthy of its appellation must possess a patriotic external appearance, in colors that happen to repeat the tricolor of the French flag:

  • Blue feet. But not any old blue; the feet must have the pale gleam of blue steel. And around the left ankle, there must be an aluminum ring marked with the name and address of the farmer responsible for raising that particular chicken.

  • Entirely white plumage, with no hint of the common chicken’s dowdy brown tinge.

  • A bright red crest. In the case of the cockerel, the indentations on the crest must be sufficiently well developed to achieve that desirable look of jagged virility.

  In addition to the blue-white-and-red ensemble, every bird must possess a fine skin, delicate bone structure, and, in the official phrase, unctuous flesh. (I am sure that Bresse is teeming with men who specialize in judging unctuous flesh.) There are even rules about minimum weight: 1.5 kilos (3.3 pounds) for the standard chicken, 2.1 kilos (4.6 pounds) for the poularde, or more matronly chicken, and 3.8 kilos (8.4 pounds) for the capon.

  These statistics and many others were in the folder that we had picked up at the exhibition hall, and which we were going through over a drink before dinner. I could tell that the information was having an uplifting effect on my friend’s disposition. “You see?” Régis kept on saying as he discovered more and more evidence that his beloved France led the world in chicken de luxe. “The care, the attention to detail, the refinement. Is there anything like this in Britain? In America?” He didn’t give me a chance to answer. “Of course not.”

  I can imagine that many people might find Régis and his relentless chauvinism a little hard to take, but I like his enthusiasm, biased though it is. I’ve never met anyone else who combines passion and knowledge—not to mention shameless greed—when it comes to the correct degree of rot in a cheese or the ideal temperature at which to serve tripe. At the same time, his dismissal of what he considers to be inferior food and cooking (that is, almost everything not French) is inventive and often very funny, even if it is highly prejudiced. To hear him denouncing the cheeseburger, or the English way with brussels sprouts, is to hear a talented gastronomic assassin in full cry. I’ve often thought he would make a wonderfully savage restaurant critic. That night, however, criticism was far from his mind. His mood had improved to such an extent after two glasses of champagne that it was a distinctly benign Régis who took his place opposite me in the restaurant, humming as he looked around.

  The Auberge Bressane sits at the upper end of the scale between the simple bistro and those more elaborate establishments festooned with stars by the Michelin guide. The lighting is soft, the table linen thick, the atmosphere relaxed and comfortable; a man can take off his jacket and tuck his napkin in his shirt collar without fear of provoking a sniff and a raised eyebrow from a sartorially sensitive headwaiter.

  After a few minutes of pleasant indecision, we both chose the same dishes: frogs’ legs, followed by chicken, with white and red Burgundies from just the other side of the autoroute. When the bottles were brought to us, I noticed there were no warnings about the presence of sulfites.

  “Good God, no,” Régis said. “Not here in France. Not in Burgundy. Mind you, one never knows what the law says they have to add when they send it over to America.” He held his glass up to the light and studied the pale shimmer of the Meursault. “Which reminds me …” He chewed on a mouthful of wine before reaching into his pocket. “I cut this out for you,” he said, smoothing a newspaper clipping on the table in front of him and passing it over to me. “I thought it was a sign of the times.”

  It was an advertisement. A grizzled gentleman dressed as a typical cowboy—work shirt, large hat, picturesque wrinkles—was remarking on the fact that McDonald’s, that most American of institutions, was now serving only homegrown French chicken in its restaurants in France. The timing of the advertisement was significant: There had just been a major scandal in neighboring Belgium involving tainted food, some of it chicken, while across the Channel, the English, perfidious as always, were taking France to court for refusing to accept their beef for fear of la vache folle, or mad cow disease. All in all, these were trying times for the country of Brillat-Savarin and Escoffier, and extra vigilance was needed to make sure that crafty foreigners didn’t succeed in foisting suspect food on the trusting French public. The cowboy was there to reassure McDonald’s addicts that correct Gallic standards were being maintained.

  I asked Régis if he’d ever been to a McDonald’s. He looked at me as though I were deranged, then shook his head.

  “Moi?” he said. “I wouldn’t go, as a matter of principle. Do you know the average time taken to eat a McDonald’s meal? Seven and a half minutes! And they’re proud of it! It’s an affront to the digestion. No, you’ll never catch me in McDonald’s—although, to be fair, I have heard good reports about their pommes frites.” I saw his nose twitch, and he turned his head. “Ah, here come the frogs’ legs.”

  The essentials were arranged in front of us: two well-filled plates, still sizzling; finger bowls; a basket of bread. The tiny aromatic legs had been sautéed with garlic, then dusted with chopped parsley. After refilling our glasses and warning us that the plates were hotter than hot, our young waitress wished us bon appétit. Régis bent over to inhale the s
cent and, using a piece of bread, maneuvered his first leg to the side of the plate, picked it up with careful fingers, and examined it.

  “The English don’t know what they’re missing,” he said, stripping the flesh off the bone with his teeth. He chewed for a moment. “Or are they worried about mad frog disease?” He dabbed his mouth with his napkin and nodded. “That must be it.”

  With the assurance that comes from being an official member of the brotherhood of thigh-tasters of Vittel, I dealt with my first few legs—moist, almost crisp, with the clean flavor of parsley coming through the garlic. Delicious. Why don’t the English eat them? We certainly have the ideal climate for frogs, damp and cool. But then the thought occurred to me that perhaps we have a national aversion to eating things that hop or slither.

  “We’re not too keen on snails, either,” I said.

  “Ah, the snail is different.” Régis sucked a thighbone thoughtfully. “His purpose in life is to be a vehicle for garlic—good enough, in his way, but he lacks the finesse of the frog.” He wiped his plate with a scrap of bread, rinsed his fingers in the small bowl, and poured more wine. “Do you think all these people are here for the show?”

  I looked around to see if I could spot any obvious poultry tycoons, with the odd feather still clinging to their clothes, but it seemed a fairly typical French mixture of friends and families out on a Saturday night. Several children were there, polishing off their grown-up food with adult dexterity, and I was struck, as I often am, by the good behavior of French children when they are taken to restaurants: no squawks, no tantrums, no earsplitting demands for three courses of ice cream. And their patience never fails to amaze me. Two hours or more at the table must seem like an eternity to a seven-year-old.