6. Bake in the center of the oven until the cake is deep golden on the top and springs back slowly but surely when it is touched, about 1 hour and 15 minutes. Using a knife or cake tester isn’t recommended as it always comes out looking slightly damp because of the amount of butter in the recipe.
7. Remove from the oven, transfer the cake to a wire rack, and let it cool for about 10 minutes before turning out of the cake pan. Let it cool thoroughly before serving.
8 SERVINGS
TEN
The Rug Salesman
I ANSWERED A KNOCK on the door one spring day and found a short, robust, balding man standing outside rubbing his hands together and staring at the church across the street. He turned his head slowly and introduced himself. “Bonjour. My name is Monsieur Richard Lafertin and I have a selection of rugs I would like to show to you,” he said in careful French. “I asked around the neighborhood and everyone told me to come to this house and see the Americans.”
I must have stared at him, for he repeated himself. He looked perfectly respectable, so I invited him into the entry, which at that time was still a dingy mess of plywood sheets placed over a dirt floor, stained plaster walls, and very dim lighting. His face revealed nothing as he looked around, though the sight must have been disconcerting to someone with rugs to sell. Michael emerged from upstairs where he was installing more electricity and came down to meet Monsieur Lafertin, who explained once again who he was and what he was doing. Michael laughed. “Well, you can see we’re not quite at the rug stage,” he said. Monsieur Lafertin shook his head. “This does not matter. Let me tell you about myself and my rugs,” he said, and proceeded to talk to us about the generations his family had been in the rug business, how they handled very select merchandise, how he traveled throughout Europe to get it, and was often called in by families as they divided up inheritances to evaluate and buy their rugs. We were fascinated, not only by the story, which he told seriously and with dignity, but also by the fact that he was spending his time doing so when it was obvious we weren’t going to buy rugs, since we didn’t yet have any decent flooring.
Michael and I told him we were delighted to meet him, which was true. He was absolutely charming and at another moment we might have wanted to see his rugs, since we both have a weak spot for them. But we assured him now was not the time. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “It’s just that everyone said ‘Go see the Americans,’ and of course I had to do so!”
We laughed. None of our neighbors knew us or what we were doing, and we had already suspected that they viewed us as the “rich Americans.” How could they not think that? We’d bought one of the oldest, most showy houses in town and were fixing it up. Neither one of us seemed to work. The only times anyone saw me I was leaving the house with an empty basket and returning with it full of groceries. The only time they saw Michael he was driving off in an empty truck or returning with it stacked with sheets of plywood or Sheetrock or squares of marble or loads of gravel. Of course they sent the rug salesman to us.
We looked at Monsieur Lafertin and he laughed right along with us. “One day we’ll need rugs,” I explained, shrugging. “But not right away.”
“No problem, I’m delighted to have met you and here is my card,” Monsieur Lafertin said, then with a gracious smile excused himself and left.
What a charming man, Michael and I agreed, then returned to our respective tasks and forgot him.
A year later, I answered a knock on the door. There stood a young, dark-haired, robust man who introduced himself as Monsieur Lafertin, a marchand de tapis. I stared, reaching back in my memory. “Oh yes,” I said, remembering the other Monsieur Lafertin.
“My father came to see you a year ago,” this young man said. I invited him in. He was charming, smooth, polished, and well-dressed, the way any good rug salesman should be. He looked around at the entry. It was much improved in a year’s time—the floors were now covered with clean gravel, the walls had been plastered and painted, a long wood table sat in it off to the side and the stairway had been dusted and polished so the house looked, to a casual observer, lived in and chic.
“I’ve got some beautiful rugs out in my van I’d like to show to you,” Monsieur Lafertin said in a jovial, sincere way. We explained that we still weren’t in the market for rugs. “I know, I know, my father told me all about you,” he said kindly. “But he also told me that you have an interest in rugs and I’d like to show you a couple of things that I have, for you’ll never see any like them anywhere.”
We knew we couldn’t buy any rugs and we knew we shouldn’t look at them so I explained once again, telling the young Monsieur Lafertin that I didn’t want him to work for nothing.
“No problem,” he said. “Let me bring them in anyway. It will be a pleasure for me.”
We looked at each other. We shrugged. Monsieur Lafertin left to get his rugs.
Within minutes he was back, humping an impossible number of rugs over his shoulder. He eased in through the narrow front door and set them down gently, like eggs, on the floor. I glanced above him at Michael. What were we in for, I wondered.
He proceeded with the polish of a ringmaster to unroll his treasures, talking all the while about their origins, their beauty, their quality, and how we would never see anything like them anywhere. He smoothed and caressed each rug.
And the rugs were gorgeous. Mostly from Iran, they were all sizes, from two by three feet to large area rugs, to hall runners. The colors, all natural according to Monsieur Lafertin, were spectacular, the designs unusual, intriguing. Monsieur Lafertin treated each rug gently, turning over a corner to show us the tight, artful weave, the quality, the expert workmanship, stroking the fringes, pinching the tight pile. He spoke moderately and thoughtfully, pausing now and then after whispering, “Can you imagine the work this involved,” or “These were made by a family and they were meant to be hung in a mosque,” or “This, this is from a mountain tribe and was used to cover the floor of a tent,” or “This, you see, this rug with the double signature means it was made by two families.”
We were impressed, and not just by the rugs. This young man’s performance was masterful, award-winning. He had the right mix of confidence, charm, and humor.
There was one rug in particular that kept calling to me. Smallish, it was an alluring deep rose with touches of turquoise and salmon. Its wide border was filled with subtle and complex designs and its center was a green-gray geometric pattern. I could tell Michael was intrigued by it, too. We said nothing, but such was the skill of Monsieur Lafertin that he kept placing that rug on top of the others, showing it to us in one light then another, in one direction then another. “You see how it changes color depending on which way you set it on the floor,” he said. “It is magnificent.”
Finally we ran out of things to say and I asked him about prices. He looked at the one we both preferred. “This is the one you like the best, is it not?” he asked. When we agreed he looked at it, long and thoughtfully.
“I know you don’t have much money, but I know how much you love rugs, and particularly this one,” he said, then mentioned a figure. “Because I understand what you are doing and because you are new clients.”
The sum he mentioned was between expensive and astronomical. I already knew we didn’t have the means to buy any rugs—we were still weighing the cost of flooring, paint, electrical wires, and Sheetrock—but I had been sorely tempted by the beautiful rug at my feet and urged on by Monsieur Lafertin’s epic performance. However, his price made it easy. I refused him, then he looked at Michael, who refused him, too. Then he looked back at me and cut the price in half. I was shocked. That made the rug a decent deal. As we looked at the rug and struggled with our decision (which we knew we really shouldn’t have been considering at all), Monsieur Lafertin explained further about the tribe who had made it, how he’d obtained it, and how, though he was making an extreme sacrifice, he was happy to do it so we would be the owners of the fine rug.
I
t’s not that we believed he was making a sacrifice for us. It really wasn’t that which made us cave in. It was the fact that the rug would be exquisite in our bedroom.
Monsieur Lafertin was naturally delighted, promising us we would be forever happy with the rug, that it was such a good investment we’d never be sorry. He offered us whatever terms we wanted and when we decided on postdated checks he pocketed them, rolled up all his rugs except the treasure he’d sold us, and beamed at us.
“I will be on my way. Do not worry, if there is any problem you just call me, I will return your checks and take back the rug, I promise you,” he said. “And if ever you decide to sell this rug you call me and no one else. I must be the one to buy it back from you.”
With that last, artful assurance he was gone. And we were left with an absolutely beautiful rug that we couldn’t afford but would cherish, I was certain. Not only that but we felt positively wonderful for having acquired it.
Since that first visit Monsieur Lafertin has stopped by our house regularly three or four times a year, always with new stories about his hunt for merchandise, and always with different rugs. As each new room in our house is completed we adorn it with a rug or two from Monsieur Lafertin’s seemingly endless supply. He appears to live in a whirlpool of rugs as he buys, sells, buys back, and sometimes resells rugs to the families who have sold them to him in the first place.
While our relationship with Monsieur Lafertin is clearly one of buyer and seller, we’ve grown very fond of him. We don’t always buy from him but we always drool at his selection, and he remains accommodating in every way. Once we bought a very expensive rug, then realized, almost as soon as he’d walked out the door, that we might crash into bankruptcy if we actually tried to meet the payments we’d set up. I called and told him we had changed our minds. Within a few weeks he was back with our uncanceled checks and no rancor.
Monsieur Lafertin often seems to stop by on a Wednesday, when Joe is home from school. Since he has three young children of his own he knows how to talk to kids, and he has won over Joe, too, who gets down on his hands and knees to look at the warp and weft and the knots in the rugs, and to peer at the colors. He always wants all of them and often comes up to me, his back to Monsieur Lafertin, and mouths, “Mama, we HAVE TO KEEP THIS ONE!”
One day when Joe was home from school to participate in the affair we decided on two rugs. At the conclusion of the deal Monsieur Lafertin looked at Joe. “I have something for you,” he said, and went out to his van. He returned with a lovely, vividly colored rug. “This rug was made to use in a tent; here is the color turquoise, which represents the city it was made in, and it is made of goat hair,” he said, turning it over so Joe could see the weave and having him feel the tufts of goat hair that bordered either end of it. “It is a beautiful rug and it is yours, jeune homme,” he said.
Joe has that rug at the door of his bedroom and beware anyone who tries to move it elsewhere.
Monsieur Lafertin is also an incorrigible gourmand who loves to talk about food. We always know he’s going to launch into a food story when he pats his considerable bulk, looks down at his highly polished and very expensive shoes, and shakes his head mournfully. “You know,” he says each time, “I love to eat and my wife, my wife, she is a wonderful cook.”
One day he eyed a crusty loaf of bread that Michael had just brought from the oven. He didn’t say anything but his eyes were drawn to it repeatedly, hungrily. I offered him a piece and to my surprise he accepted, for he has never eaten or drunk anything at our home. But that piece of bread broke down a barrier. He left that day—after selling us a rug—with half the loaf of bread in a bag, as happy as if we’d given him gold bricks.
Monsieur Lafertin loves to hunt, too, and many of his gastronomic stories involve hunting with his band of friends. Frenchmen always hunt in bands and there are never, at least that I know of, any women involved, neither in the hunting nor in the subsequent feasts that follow, which sound opulent. While I have a hard time relating to the actual hunt, the food these men prepare and eat afterward is the stuff of medieval banquets, as haunches, shoulders, and ribs are all served and duly sauced and spiced, and the wine flows like a river.
I love watching Monsieur Lafertin as he talks about food; his brow develops a sheen and he uses enthusiastic and forceful hand gestures. After one particularly lively description he stopped suddenly and said, “I will bring you something from my next hunt, yes, this is what I will do.”
While we like Monsieur Lafertin very much, we suffer no illusions. He is a terrific salesman, the best we’ve experienced. We know the rugs he has are valuable, but we also know we are paying good prices for them. We are not always sure that when he tells us they are unique they truly are, but we don’t care. What we care about is their quality and that we love them. The rest of his performance we simply enjoy, so when he promised to bring us some fresh game I didn’t think much about it, just chalking it up to a good sales technique and the fervor of the moment.
I underestimated Monsieur Lafertin, for not a month later he came by, a small package in his hand. “I promised you I would bring you something from the hunt and I have; I’ve brought you some côtes de biche, or deer chops,” he said. I opened the package to find a delicate little rib roast which, as Monsieur Lafertin advised, would be wonderful roasted whole and even better grilled over the coals.
“Oh, and I’ve got some beautiful rugs, too. Just let me show you one or two; I know you’re not in the market to buy any,” he said, hurrying out the door to get them.
He brought the rugs in and, as usual, they were stunning. We resisted, however, and he left, reminding me as he walked out the door how to cook the deer.
That night I cut apart the chops and quickly grilled them over the coals in Michael’s newly rebuilt fireplace in the dining room, with just a bit of salt and pepper. Tiny, delicate little things, they cooked in minutes and emerged crisp and lightly smoked, delightfully tender and juicy. Along with a green salad from the garden, a simple chocolate cake, and a bottle of Burgundy they made an elegant meal. It was the first time I’d cooked in the fireplace, after dreaming of doing so throughout the year it was under construction, which added to the meat’s exquisite flavor.
Another time Monsieur Lafertin brought a haunch of very small wild boar. “I had a good week,” he said, then proceeded to tell me exactly how to cook it. I’ve noticed that when I receive a gift of food in France, whether it be a piece of wild animal or a half dozen eggs, it is never given without a litany of directions on how to care for and cook it. I sort of followed his recipe—he likes a lot more cream than we do—and it was delicate and delicious.
His most recent visit—which involved the purchase of yet two more rugs, one of them from Chechnya that is filled with such joy and spirit in both its color and its design that we immediately felt our house and our lives would be less without it—was notable for the discussion about wine. Monsieur Lafertin is, naturally, a connoisseur. “I have many clients in the wine business,” he said. And he went on to cite the names of their wines, which are among the best France has to offer.
Monsieur Lafertin has become a fixture in our lives, and we are somewhat astonished at the good fortune that first brought him our way. We are also somewhat astonished at our willingness to entertain him, for what is more of a cliché than a traveling rug salesman? But when he arrives we enjoy ourselves, knowing all the while that we are participating in one of the oldest sorts of commerce, and that we are being taken for a very entertaining ride.
ROASTED LEG OF WILD BOAR
RÔTI DE CUISSE DE SANGLIER
Wild boar isn’t an everyday meat, though since we’ve lived in Louviers we’ve had a regular supply. Once October dawns and the hunting season begins, Jean-Pierre Dubosc, our friend, farmer, and restaurateur, takes to the woods with his rifle, his camouflage clothing, and his band of camarades and spends the day leisurely tracking sanglier, usually in his own woods that surround his farm. Whoever gets
an animal shares it with the group. If they get two they have more than they can eat and they share the excess with friends, which is where we enter the picture.
The boar here range in woods and fields and feed on acorns and whatever they can steal, and their meat is lean and flavorful. (They are anathema to farmers, which is one reason Jean-Pierre takes delight in hunting them.) If you don’t have a ready supply of wild boar, try this with a pork shoulder or haunch. Serve it with an elegant Burgundy.
One 6-pound/3-kg leg of wild boar
1/4 cup/50g coarse sea salt
1/4 cup/30g coarsely ground black pepper
1 bottle/1 liter hearty red wine
4 dried, imported bay leaves
80 sprigs fresh thyme, rinsed
40 black peppercorns
12 cloves
1 medium carrot, trimmed, peeled, and cut in 1/4-inch/.7cm chunks
1 medium onion, cut in eighths
1/4 cup/60ml best-quality red wine vinegar
TO ROAST THE WILD BOAR:
20 whole cloves
2 to 3 tablespoons/30–45ml olive oil
FOR THE SAUCE:
2 cups/500ml chicken or veal stock
3 tablespoons/45g red currant jelly
Flat-leaf parsley, for garnish
1. Rub the leg of wild boar all over with the salt and the pepper. Place it in a shallow dish, cover it loosely, and refrigerate it for 36 hours.
2. Bring the wine, half of the herbs and the spices, and the vegetables to a boil in a medium-size saucepan over medium-high heat and cook for about 3 minutes. Remove from the heat and let cool to room temperature. Strain and whisk in the vinegar. Discard the herbs, spices, and vegetables.
3. Quickly rinse the salt and pepper from the boar to remove most but not all of it. Pat it dry and place it in a shallow dish. Stir the remaining herbs and spices into the cooled marinade and pour it over the boar. Return it to the refrigerator, loosely covered, and let it marinate for 36 hours, turning it at least four times.
On Rue Tatin Page 17