My Twenty-Five Years in Provence

by Peter Mayle

  “Here’s a little something to go with dinner,” they said, presenting us with half a dozen of the most elegant bottles we’d seen for months—graceful, amphora shaped, and filled with a delicately colored rosé. This had come, so we were told, from the Ott vineyards in Bandol. It was subtle and it demanded attention, in a different world altogether from the rough-and-ready rosé we had tried in the past. As our friends said, “This is a real wine.”

  That was more than twenty years ago. Since then, the Ott influence has spread inland from the coast, and today there are dozens of vineyards throughout Provence that produce first-class rosé. Here in France, restaurant wine lists now have a separate rosé section. And this is not confined to Provence. America, Corsica, Australia, Italy, Spain, even England—they all have their own rosé. I still treasure the bottle of Great Wall Chinese rosé that we were given some years ago. The world seems to have gone pink, perhaps one small sign of an increasing desire for simplicity when we sit down to eat and drink.

  Nine

  The Weather Is Here. Wish You Were Beautiful.

  It is one of the few certainties in life: If you are fortunate enough to live in a lovely part of the world with a predictably excellent climate, guests will descend on you. Some will have been invited. Others will have invited themselves. They can be generous and entertaining, delighted with their surroundings, loudly appalled at the high prices they come across, keen to explore or content with a book by the pool, fascinated by the local inhabitants or irritated that they don’t speak English, ready at a moment’s notice to throw off their clothes and suck up the sun or to lurk in the shade and dodge the heat, amused by the Provençaux and their funny little ways or exasperated by those same funny little ways. In the course of many summers, we’ve seen them all.

  The first signs of the guest season appear early in the year—often as early as January, when gray English weather, combined with the aftereffects of a surfeit of Christmas, make the thought of blue skies and sunshine irresistible. Our phone rings.

  “Just thought I’d give you a call and see how you are. Surviving winter, I hope—it’s bloody awful here.” I look out of the window. The sky is, as usual, blue.

  Now that the social niceties are over, the caller gets to the purpose of the call. “What are you up to this summer? Any plans for July?”

  We don’t have plans for July. We never do. It’s too hot. We move slowly, eat the wonderful melons of the season for breakfast, enjoy long dinners outside in the cool of the evening, and stay at home. I pass this on.

  “Oh, great. Because we’re going to be driving down to the coast for a couple of weeks in July, and we’d love to drop by and say hello.”

  Experience has come to show us that “dropping by” is an elastic concept that can include as little as drinks and lunch or as much as a stay of several days. But back then we were still innocent in the ways of would-be guests. And the caller, if not exactly a close friend, is an acquaintance of some years’ standing. It is agreed that he will call again when he has a date.

  The months pass by, and that January call is forgotten. But then the phone rings again.

  “Hi! We’re just leaving Lyon. If the traffic’s not too bad, we could be with you by lunchtime. Is that okay?”

  I check with the long-suffering and infinitely kindhearted Jennie, who nods her agreement. She has a more philosophical attitude toward guests than I do. She considers them a natural annual event, as much a part of summer as the heat. I once made the mistake of suggesting that you could say the same about mosquitoes. She didn’t find that funny.

  Shortly after one o’clock, the guests arrive, filled with horror stories about the perils of sharing the autoroute with lunatic French drivers. They have been on the road since getting off the cross-Channel ferry at the crack of dawn, and they are hot. And they are thirsty. Boy, are they thirsty. And they are anxious to make a few calls home (these being the distant days before cell phones). By the time they have attended to a bottle of rosé and their phone calls and taken a swim and a shower, it’s almost four o’clock before we sit down to lunch.

  Over coffee, we ask where they’re going and where they’re staying. The coast, they say, and they hope to find somewhere nice when they get there. They say they are “spur-of-the-moment” people.

  You can guess the rest. We tell them that July is not the month for spurs of the moment. The coast is fully booked, and has been for months. Consternation sets in, and by now it’s five thirty. Inevitably, it’s agreed that they had better stay the night. One night stretches on to more nights. This, you might think, is an extreme example, but it has happened often enough to make us a little wary of spontaneous visits, although it’s only fair to say that we’ve enjoyed most of them.

  In complete contrast, there are the highly organized guests who like to plan ahead. They do their homework, and their calls usually begin several weeks before they’re due to arrive, with detailed questions about the temperature, the program of local festivals, wardrobe hints, and the availability of remedies for upset stomachs. There are often thoughtful inquiries about what treats we would like them to bring over from England—tea, digestive biscuits, pork sausages, single-malt Scotch, a Harrods picnic hamper. These kind suggestions make us realize how thoroughly our tastes have changed after years of living in Provence, where a Harrods hamper is as rare as snow in August.

  When our organized friends arrived, it was literally within minutes of when they said they would, and this punctuality set the tone for their stay. Their vacation was planned down to the last day, and on their first evening we heard all about it. A trip to Arles, to see a variety of marvels: the 100-foot-long Roman boat that was dredged up after spending two thousand years on the bed of the Rhône River, and which has been beautifully restored; a marble bust of Caesar, not surprisingly balding and wrinkled after his two thousand years underwater; the magnificent twenty-thousand-seat amphitheater, built in the year 90 as a setting for chariot races and gladiatorial contests, and now used for bullfights and concerts—the list went on and on.

  After Arles, there was Cavaillon, for the fête du melon—banquets, parades, and the running of Camargue horses through the town with, naturellement, street-corner melon tastings. And, once the melon has settled down, a short evening drive over the Luberon to the Lourmarin music festival, a program of classical music, opera, and jazz, which runs all through the summer in the local fifteenth-century chateau.

  This list, exhausting enough on its own, was far from complete. There were food festivals, wine festivals, the local weekly markets, the antiques colony and flea market at L’Isle-sur-la-Sorgue, and a healthy selection of restaurants. If our friends achieved half of what they had in mind, they were going to need a vacation afterward. Off they would go early each morning, returning home in the evening bursting with reports of what they had seen. They were, in many ways, ideal guests. They loved Provence. They entertained themselves, and later, with their descriptions of the day’s discoveries, they entertained us. We look forward to having them back again.

  It would be wrong to suggest that everyone has such a positive view of their time here. Critics and their criticisms have their moments, too, as can be seen from our list of the top ten guest gripes:

  “It’s so hot.”

  “Do the crickets always make so much noise at night? Or is it those damned frogs?”

  “I think someone’s put garlic in the marmalade.”

  “I can’t get over how much people drink here. Do all the guys have beer for breakfast?”

  “Why does everybody speak so fast?”

  “The milk tastes funny.”

  “Why do those hunters have to start shooting so early on Sunday mornings?”

  “Do they have to park their cars on the sidewalk?”

  “Dogs in restaurants! Don’t they know that’s a hea
lth hazard?”

  “It’s so hot.”

  And yet, despite all this, these gluttons for punishment are planning to come back next year.

  It usually takes only one visit during the high season to persuade our guests that their timing could perhaps be improved. Quite apart from the heat, July and August have suffered from years of overpopularity. These are the months when the French en masse are on vacation, and each year it seems that most of them have chosen the South of France. The crowds start in Paris and the north. They pile into their cars and converge on the southbound autoroutes, where multi-mile traffic jams and irate drivers are the rule rather than the exception. Eventually, they arrive, fractious, exhausted, and desperate for peace.

  This is not always easy to find. Villages that for ten months a year are known for their sleepy charm have been transformed. The streets are jammed. People squabble over seats at café tables. Restaurants struggle to accommodate the midday rush, and the increased risk of being trodden on makes the village cats look for relief by crouching underneath parked cars.

  For two-legged villagers, summer crowds can provide generous compensations. During these two hectic months, cafés, restaurants, and boutiques make their profits for the year. Landlords increase their rents. There is standing-room-only in the village pharmacy, with queues lining up in search of remedies for too much sun, too much food, and too much alcohol. The local artist sells his entire production of sketches and paintings in a couple of weeks. Wherever you look, business is booming.

  Then comes the last weekend of August, and the sudden, almost instant change back to normality. The tourists have gone. The village breathes a sigh of relief, and sleepy charm returns. Villagers can once again stop to gossip in the main street without being run over by someone taking a selfie.

  For us, September is the best month of the year. The temperature drops to a more comfortable level, although it’s still warm enough to swim, and to eat outside in the evening. There’s always a table free on the café terrace, or in our favorite restaurant. And Mother Nature, who has been busy all summer, is at her prolific best. The markets are overflowing with fruits and vegetables and lettuces that have been gathered early that morning. There are promising signs of activity in the vines. Normally, there will be a few welcome days of rain, to settle the dust and brighten up the green of the hillsides. In some ways, it feels like a second spring.

  How lucky we are.

  Ten

  A Midsummer Night’s Treat

  For most of the week, it’s nothing special, an old coopérative fruitière, where local producers used to sell what they had produced. A large area originally used for parking trucks and tractors, bordered by L-shape stone buildings, it’s a good example of the kind of light-industrial architecture often found in rural parts of Provence—practical, no frills, and, until recently, no people. Now, thanks to a forward-looking mayor and some high-tech enthusiasts, it has become an IT center known as La Fruitière Numérique.

  Each Tuesday evening between May and October, technology gives way to gastronomy in the form of a marché nocturne, an evening market with a difference. It has the great advantage of being just across the road from the center of Lourmarin, one of the prettiest and most popular villages in the Luberon. This in itself is enough to guarantee a good turnout. Tourists and residents alike, having spent a tough day in the sun, can find shade and relief from the heat, enough wine to provide relief from thirst, a generous choice of fresh produce, and an introduction to some of the finer points of professional cuisine.

  These are offered by a different local chef each week, often assisted by the mayor of Lourmarin, who acts as master of ceremonies, introducing the chef and his chosen subject. There are nine of these kitchen heroes, who take a break from their restaurants to demonstrate some of the tricks of their trade. One week it might be the secrets of a perfect pasta, made with local cherry tomatoes, local olives, and local olive oil. The next week could feature a sublime strawberry dessert. The menu is long, varied, fascinating, and simple. The audience, sitting on wooden benches, is rapt.

  Before the turn of the chef, the market starts to become busy and, in high summer, the setting for an informal fashion show, featuring an abundance of cooked flesh. Among the ladies, shorts seem to get shorter and dresses more diaphanous every week, and the display of hats is enough to make a milliner swoon. Recently I saw, among the sea of Panamas, a vintage trilby, a couple of turbans, and what I imagine was an Australian sombrero, with one side of the brim pinned up in the style of a bush hat.

  The dress code for men varies. At one end of the style spectrum, there is the occasional aging hippie, with gray ponytail (they’ve become increasingly popular), silver bracelets, and tattoos. At the other end are the Parisians with their sartorial guard down—suits replaced by well-pressed shorts, polo shirts, and suede moccasins, all spotless. They mingle in a swirl of relaxed humanity, with no visible pushing and shoving, and this politesse helps to create an unusually good-humored atmosphere. I have rarely seen such a well-behaved crowd, and they all seem to be enjoying themselves.

  If you get to the market early enough, around six, you can not only choose your spot, but furnish it. Tin tables of various sizes have been placed well away from the food stalls, and there are plenty of folding chairs. But never quite enough, because there are always more bottoms than seats. With organized couples, this frequently leads to a division of responsibilities. The husband occupies the table, lays claim to two chairs, and guards the bottle of wine and two glasses while his wife goes short-distance shopping around the stalls, coming back to the table from time to time to have a quick sip and drop off provisions before returning to the stalls to carry on with her noble task.

  She is spoiled for choice, but there are a couple of horrors she won’t find. First, there is no trace of shrink wrap, bubble wrap, or any other form of plastic supermarket packaging: the growers like you to see what you’re going to eat without any artificial trimmings. They are proud of what they’ve grown, whether it’s fat white asparagus, fragrant peaches, or bouquets of chard. The sell-by date is this evening, just a few hours after the produce has been picked.

  The second welcome absence is that dangerous vehicle, the supermarket cart. There is no risk of suffering a glancing blow or squashed feet after being run over by a cart whose pilot is too busy consulting her cell phone to look where she’s going. The only shopping aid on wheels I’ve seen was what appeared to be an oversized, mechanized roller skate, driven by a German gentleman. The front and back wheels were joined by a short platform on which the driver stood. Steering was by a set of waist-high handlebars, and power came from a tiny noiseless engine. I watched as this ingenious contraption glided silently through the crowd and stopped at two or three stalls before returning to the driver’s table with bulging shopping bags dangling from the handlebars. This was repeated several times, totally accident-free.

  For those of us on foot, a tour of the stalls can take a very pleasant half hour, often more. Sausage lovers can find several varieties to nibble on. There are cheeses soft and hard, quiches large and small, and a selection of home-baked treats that varies from week to week. There are jams, and there are olive oils. The produce is displayed on tray upon tray, fruits and vegetables and herbs, all of it just picked; some, like the deep purple eggplant, are polished to a high level of gloss. Nothing contains preservatives, artificial colorings, or additives of any kind. In other words, nature has been left alone.

  Browsing through the garlic is, as you can imagine, thirsty work, but the market organizers have come to the rescue: there’s a bar. Small and simple it may be, but it is extremely well stocked with wine of all colors, on sale by the glass or, for advanced cases of dehydration, by the bottle. It was at the bar that we saw something I’m sure could only happen in France. A young girl, maybe nine years old, barely the height of the bar counter, waited patiently until her turn came. With impressi
ve self-assurance, she ordered two glasses of Muscat, and slid a ten-euro note across to the barman, who brought her the wine. I assume that he thought she was just another customer, although shorter than most. At no time did he ask who the wine was for. I can’t imagine this kind of nonchalance in an English pub or an American bar, where the very idea of an underage person getting anywhere near alcohol is cause for consternation and alarm. The barman, of course, knew that the girl was being a good and dutiful daughter, taking the wine to her parents.

  Around seven thirty, the market begins to look like a sprawling self-service café. Most of the shopping has been done, and it’s time for further refreshment—wine, of course, with a slice or two of cheese, sausage, or whatever else has just been bought from the stalls. The mood is cheerful, the heat of the day has given way to a pleasantly cool evening, and nobody is in a rush to leave. Indeed, nobody is in a rush to do anything except enjoy the moment, and it is often nine thirty or so before the last customers are gone, some of them having eaten everything they have just bought. Never mind. There’s always next Tuesday.

  The whole evening has been a pleasure rather than a chore. If there is a more civilized way to go food shopping, I have yet to find it. And you will never need a can opener to help you enjoy the food you’ve chosen.

  Eleven

  Lunch Break

  Lunch is taken very seriously in Provence, as we quickly discovered. Local shops close between noon and two p.m. Business appointments, except those that include lunch, are rarely arranged if they conflict with the two sacred hours devoted to the stomach. There is a noticeable decrease in the amount of traffic on country roads, and the cafés fill up as the working day pauses for refreshment. A most civilized habit.