We had to make our proposal to the priest in charge, and I called around to find out which of the two who resided behind us—who were familiarly referred to as “Sandale” and “Bicyclette,” since one always wore sandals, and the other always rode a bicycle—I should contact. I sought out the “chef”—Bicyclette—and invited him over for cake and coffee. He accepted.
I was testing gâteau Breton recipes at the time and I made one for him, along with what I thought was a rich pot of coffee. I used one of our old-fashioned Helem coffeemakers—a wondrous, bulbous contraption that looks like part of a chemistry set—because that is what we use when there are more than just the two of us. I didn’t know it well enough yet to realize that it had to have boiling water put through it several times to remove a sort of reedy taste from the filter.
It was cold that day and our house was chilly, but I made sure it was tidy, and Michael and I dressed up. We were, after all, receiving the town priest. I set the buttery, golden cake on the table and brought out our best, multipatterned coffee cups and cake plates. I was nervous. We were newcomers to town and had the distinct feeling that no one was too thrilled to have us here.
The priest arrived and looked around. He made a few complimentary comments. I went to make the coffee, he stayed and talked with Michael. I relaxed a bit, thinking “This isn’t so bad.” I poured the coffee, which didn’t smell very rich at all, and cut into the cake. To my horror, it was slightly gummy in the center.
“Oh, God,” I thought, perhaps appropriately. But I served it, and we dug in. The cake tasted as undercooked as it looked, and to this day I don’t know what happened. The coffee was thin. I was dying inside.
But conversation flowed just fine. I got up to make more coffee. When I returned Michael had just explained our idea to the priest and was laying out his plan. I could tell immediately that the atmosphere had changed. The priest’s shoulders were hunched up tensely around his ears. His back was stiff. I could feel his displeasure. I offered him coffee and he refused, instead spitting out several questions about our plan, which we answered. He quickly made his excuses and was gone. Michael and I looked at each other. “Uh-oh,” we both said. “This will not be easy.”
I threw away the cake. Since then I’ve made dozens—my favorite being one with ground walnuts incorporated into the batter—and they have always been delicious. Perhaps it was divine intervention.
The priest had said he’d get back to us about our idea, and two weeks later he came to talk to Michael, who was outside trimming the rosebushes. I was in my office and could look down on them, their backs to me. As I watched I suddenly saw Michael straighten up. As surely as if smoke were pouring from his ears I could tell he was angry, and not just a little bit angry. I ran outside to intervene.
Flames licked around the eyes of the priest, Michael was opening and closing his fist. The priest didn’t waste a moment or a drop of his wrath, turning on me quickly and vehemently, telling me that he thought we were most selfish people. He said he would never allow us to build a new entry, that the situation would never change, that he would never grant his approval. I asked why. “J’ai mes habitudes.” “I have my habits,” he barked, looking me hotly in the eye.
I explained how awkward it was for us, and for those who walked through our garden. I explained how often the gate was left open, and how dangerous that was for our son, for he might run out into the busy street. I described in the most polite way I could how much better the new fence would be, and how we would pay for every bit of it, and how it would be done quickly and efficiently. He glared at me. “Madame,” he said, spitting nails. “You talk like an owner.”
Normally one calls a priest père, or father. The word stuck in my throat. I addressed him as Monsieur, which I knew came close to being an insult, but I wanted him to understand how he impressed me. “Monsieur,” I said. “I am an owner, the owner, of this house. And I want you, right now, to get off my property.”
I have often been told that when I’m angry my French is perfect. Whether or not my words were perfect or not, my glare said it all and so did Michael’s. This man disgusted me, and I didn’t try to hide it. He gave each of us an angry look and was gone.
I was shaking. I looked immediately heavenward to see if a lightning bolt was on its way down to strike me. I don’t practice my religion, but once a Catholic always a Catholic. I was sick to my stomach. I had never, ever spoken to a man of the cloth in such a way. In fact, I’ve never been angry enough to ask someone to get off my property. Michael was gray with fury. From that moment forward, he hated the man in a deep and personal way. This, I feared, was war.
When I cooled down I tried to talk with Michael about it. He had nothing but unprintable things to say about the priest. I called a friend who is actively involved in the church to find out who was above this priest so we could talk with him. I got a name and tried to call, but never got a response. I heard through the grapevine that even as far away as évreux, the county seat and headquarters of the parish about twenty minutes from Louviers, there was a certain prejudice against us.
The priest came through our garden more often than ever, usually accompanied by several people, for protection I guessed. Michael was often working on walls, or paving, or in the garden outside so he had to face them. While the situation bothered me it became an obsession with him.
We decided to consult a lawyer. We didn’t want to go to court, but we did think a letter from a lawyer, outlining what we wanted to do and why and directed to the right person, might help. After all, our idea was sensible—it would hurt no one and help everyone. After hearing our story, the lawyer agreed with us. She knew our property—everyone in Louviers does—and she was incredulous at the priest’s position.
She agreed to help us and threw herself into our cause. She came to the house several times to look at what Michael was proposing. She met with church officials and talked to influential Catholics in Louviers. All we had expected from her was a well-written letter to the parish in évreux. Instead, we got her full attention.
After a year, during which the traffic continued, she arranged a meeting with the priest and a representative of the bishop in our garden.
We were nervous. We knew this was do or die. If we didn’t get an okay from the bishop today we never would. The lawyer was pretty sure of herself, but she was straight with us, too. “It could go either way,” she said. “But I’ll do my best.”
I prepared another cake and coffee—making sure they were delicious—and everyone met in our garden at 9 A.M. on a beautiful morning. The priest avoided our gaze. The bishop’s representative gave us each a hearty, warm handshake and the lawyer began a soliloquy about the case, explaining elegantly just what we wanted, and why. Caught up in her speech, she portrayed us as ambassadors of our country, come to France to restore a piece of historic Louviers, doers of good. It was terrific. Michael and I swelled with pride.
We walked the boundary of the property as Michael explained where he would put in the new entry, and how it would work. We talked. It was very congenial, except for the silent presence of the priest.
When the tour was finished we all stood outside the house in the shadow of the cathedral, while the lawyer succinctly described, once again, just what we proposed—to build an esthetic entry, at our cost, so those destined for the parish hall would have direct access and we would have tranquility. When the lawyer was finished, the bishop’s representative looked at the priest. “I don’t see anything wrong with this plan,” he said. “It makes perfect sense.” The priest didn’t look up.
We’d won. The bishop’s representative looked at us. “It’s a good idea. You have my permission, and the permission of évreux. Go ahead,” he said.
I was weak with relief and I could tell Michael was, too. The bishop’s representative shook our hands and, with the deflated priest, quickly went on his way.
It took a good month for Michael to build the path from the sidewalk to the parish house, and c
ut a hole in the fence and fashion a gate. I didn’t tell anyone else what had happened unless they asked, but when they did I told all. Meanwhile, Michael finished up the new gate, installed a lock, and presented a key to one of the helpers at the parish hall, as required. Then, he cut a large piece of metal to fit across our gate to afford us some privacy.
We planned a gate-locking ceremony and invited a few friends. It was summer and sardines were in season, so I prepared several dozen to grill and Michael built an impromptu brick fireplace in our courtyard, for a barbecue. I made gazpacho with cucumber ice sorbet for a first course, and a simple nectarine tart for dessert. Michael opened a bottle of champagne and, glass in one hand and key in the other, went to lock the gate. Our friends had all been privy to the two years of discomfort this whole process had caused, and they all cheered with us as he turned the key in the lock.
Not twenty minutes later we saw the priest emerge from the church and head for the gate. We saw the handle turn, then saw the yank, then the priest’s red face as it popped above the gate. He looked at us there enjoying our meal, turned on his heel, and stomped away.
For the first time since we moved in we felt at home in the garden. The headaches were over. Michael could breathe more easily, and return back to work on the house. We could look forward to many Sunday breakfasts and evening meals in our garden, undisturbed.
The priest still held and exercised his droit de passage, or legal access through our garden, at least once a week, entering through a small wooden door in the wall next to the gate, which we left open at all times. A priest appointed after Michael built the new entry also walked through, but they were the only traffic we saw.
We did many other things to create privacy for ourselves. Not allowed, by the terms of our deed, to build a wall on the property line between our land and the parish hall, we instead planted espaliered apple trees—two Cox’s Orange Pippins and two reines de reinettes, both luscious old varieties. Required to leave a passageway through the yard for the priest we planted rosebushes along part of the boundary, leaving just enough room for him to get through. The first time he walked through after they’d been planted he bellowed to Michael about scratching his feet on the thorns. Needless to say, Michael’s sympathy was limited.
Many of our French friends hadn’t really understood the problem. “Just lock the door and build a wall, don’t worry about it,” they had advised. “That’s what we would do. It’s not like anyone would ever make you change anything.”
That is where being foreigners makes us different. Having not been brought up in France, we don’t inherently understand the elasticity of the law. When we read that we can only let our trees grow to a certain height, we trim them once they get to that height. When a deed indicates we can’t lock our gate, we don’t lock it. Even our immediate neighbors are astounded at our adherence to the law. “But you must lock your gate,” Mme Bruhot, our elderly neighbor, said. “It’s unthinkable to leave it unlocked at night.” When I mentioned the deed, this upstanding and respected member of the town simply shrugged.
We are learning to be more French about these things. It has been two years since the priest has walked through our garden. It must have ceased to be an amusement to him. We’ve relaxed a bit, as well. The rosebushes have grown wide and tall—though there is still space to get through if one steps carefully enough—and our apple trees are at just about five feet, higher than specified in our deed. We realize there won’t be any repercussions for these minor breaches.
We see the priest often, sailing by on his bicycle. He’s active in the parish but now there’s another priest we see much more often, closer to the type I recall from my childhood. Albert Dedecker, or simply Albert as everyone calls him, appears to be a bon vivant, a cheery soul who has instituted many changes, most of them seemingly for the better. He loves bells, and they ring with abandon all the time. He has begun a prayer service in the parish hall behind our house, so that on certain nights we look into the windows and observe the faithful in a room lit only by candles that surround a large statue of the virgin. It’s a beautiful, peaceful sight.
GAZPACHO WITH CUCUMBER SORBET
GAZPACHO AU SORBET DE CONCOMBRE
This delightful chilled soup with its cloud of cucumber sorbet in the center is an inspiration of Parisian three-star chef Alain Passard, who makes the gazpacho in summer when tomatoes are ripe and filled with summer’s warmth, cucumbers are crisp and flavorful, and bell peppers are bursting with sweetness. I added the cucumber sorbet as a further way of cooling off when the temperature soars. Serve this with a lightly chilled rosé. Salad burnet has a flat, round, serrated leaf and a fresh cucumber flavor.
6 medium (about 11/4 pounds/600g) ripe tomatoes, peeled, seeded, and diced
3 ounces/90g diced red bell pepper
1 large (about 8 ounces/250g) cucumber, peeled and diced
1 small garlic clove
1 small/21/2-ounce/75-g onion, quartered
4 ounces/120g fresh fennel, coarsely chopped
1/2 cup/125ml extra-virgin olive oil
1 tablespoon freshly squeezed lemon juice
Pinch of fine sea salt
FOR THE CUCUMBER SORBET:
2 large cucumbers (about 1 pound/500g each), peeled and diced
8 fresh mint leaves
2 tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice
1/4 teaspoon fine sea salt, or to taste
FOR THE GARNISH:
18 chive tips
Salad burnet leaves, optional
1. To make the soup, place the tomatoes, bell pepper, cucumber, garlic, onion, and fennel in a food processor or blender and process to a coarse purée. Transfer the mixture to a nonreactive fine-mesh sieve placed over a bowl and refrigerate for 2 to 4 hours.
2. Remove the soup from the refrigerator. Transfer what remains in the sieve to a medium-size bowl. Discard the juice in the bowl. Stir in the olive oil and the lemon juice, then season to taste with salt. Return to the refrigerator.
3. To make the sorbet, purée the cucumbers in a food processor, place in a nonreactive fine-mesh sieve placed over a bowl, and refrigerate for at least 2 hours. Just before freezing the sorbet transfer the cucumber pulp to a medium-size bowl. Mince the mint leaves and stir them into the cucumber pulp, along with the lemon juice and the salt. Taste for seasoning, transfer to an icecream maker, and freeze according to manufacturer’s directions.
4. To serve the soup, divide it among 6 chilled, shallow soup bowls. Using 2 soup spoons, shape the sorbet into an elongated oval (quenelle) and place it in the center of each bowl of soup. Garnish the soup with the chives and the salad burnet leaves and serve immediately.
6 APPETIZER SERVINGS
ROSEMARY GRILLED SARDINES
LES SARDINES GRILLÉES AU ROMARIN
Summer means eating outside in the courtyard at the foot of Notre Dame. I stuff meaty sardines with rosemary and grill them over a wood fire and serve them with fresh green salad from our garden, or freshly made tomato and pepper salad, and a full-flavored rosé.
About 16 fresh sardines or small mackerel, cleaned
Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
4 tablespoons/60ml extra-virgin olive oil
16 sprigs fresh rosemary
Fleur de sel, optional
1. Light a small fire in the barbecue.
2. Carefully rinse the sardines and cut down along their backbone from the inside and rinse them again, to remove any blood or impurities inside that might make them taste bitter. Pat them dry and lightly season them inside with salt and pepper. Rub each fish on the outside with olive oil, using about 2 tablespoons (30ml). Place a sprig of rosemary inside each fish, and set them on a platter in the refrigerator.
3. When the coals are red and dusted with ash, set the grill about 3 inches (71/2 cm) above them. When it is hot, carefully lay the fish on the grill. Cook the fish until they are opaque, about 3 minutes per side. If the fire is too hot and starts to flame, simply put a cover on the b
arbecue, which will result in slightly smokier fish.
4. Carefully transfer the sardines to a platter and drizzle with the remaining 2 tablespoons (30ml) olive oil and sprinkle lightly with fleur de sel, if desired. Serve the sardines either hot or at room temperature.
SERVES 4
WALNUT GTEAU BRETON
GTEAU BRETON AUX NOIX
This is my variation on a traditional butter cake from Brittany. Its dense, rich, and very buttery flavor is amplified by the lightly toasted walnuts, which give it a whole other dimension. In Brittany this cake is served for an afternoon snack, with coffee, or after a meal. I sometimes put it on the breakfast table as well.
1/2 cup/60g walnuts, lightly toasted
11/4 cups/250g sugar
7 large egg yolks
16 tablespoons/250g salted butter, melted
2 cups/265g unbleached, all-purpose flour
1. Preheat the oven to 300° F/150° C/gas 3/4. Butter and lightly flour a 9-inch/23-cm cake pan.
2. Place the walnuts and 2 tablespoons (30g) of the sugar in the bowl of a food processor and grind so that most of the walnuts are finely ground but not anywhere near a paste.
3. In a large bowl, whisk together 6 of the egg yolks and the remaining sugar until the mixture is blended, just a few minutes; there is no need to use an electric mixer here. It will be thick and yellow but shouldn’t form a ribbon. Slowly whisk in the walnuts and sugar, then the butter. Sift the flour over the mixture and whisk it in just until the mixture is homogeneous. Don’t overmix the batter or the cake will be tough.
4. Whisk together the remaining egg yolk and 2 teaspoons water to make an egg glaze.
5. Turn the batter, which will be quite stiff, into the prepared pan and smooth it out. Lightly but thoroughly paint it with the egg glaze. Using the back of the tines of a fork, deeply mark a crisscross pattern in the top of the cake, going three times across it in one direction, then three in another. (The marks in the cake will fade, leaving just their trace on the top of the cake.)
On Rue Tatin Page 16