My Twenty-Five Years in Provence

by Peter Mayle

  Her summer day has started with an inspection of her part-time team. Are their fingernails and clothes clean? Are any explicit tattoos covered up? And while a little cleavage is good for business, some modesty must be observed. With these basics checked out, the morning’s work can begin. And here, Annie’s eye misses nothing. If a table has been left uncleared for too long, the delinquent waitress will be notified by a jerk of the head to indicate the problem, and a nod to encourage its fast solution. If a passing village dog has chosen to irrigate the leg of an unoccupied chair, Annie will order the prompt delivery of mop and bucket. If an absentminded customer has just left without taking her shopping bag, the most fleet-footed waitress will be delegated to run after her and return the bag. There is always something to be done to ensure that the dozens of customers who pass through every day have had a pleasant few moments in the café, and Annie is there to make sure that everything is done correctly, nipping at the heels of her waitresses like a sheepdog with an unruly flock.

  Elsewhere in France, it is a sad fact that the number of cafés has been dwindling as the fast-food industry expands and as habits have changed. There is a distinct danger, for example, that the cell phone will one day replace face-to-face conversation, and that the figatelli will give way to the monsterburger. But for the moment, the traditional café is safe, at least in Provence, and, I imagine, in other parts of rural France. Long may that continue. It would be a tragic loss if this unique and delightful institution were to go the way of so many other victims of modern life.

  Fifteen

  Snapshots

  My wife, Jennie, is an indefatigable photographer, with a good eye for a quirky subject, and during the years we have lived in Provence she has filled everything from shoe boxes to industrial-sized cartons with her photographs. You can see a very small selection in these pages—unposed and unretouched, often taken on the run and, as she herself says, never going to compete with the highly polished efforts of the professional photographer. They are instead her informal record of moments and memories, and a glimpse of daily life in rural Provence. I hope she never stops.

  OUR NEIGHBORS

  Here we have an advance guard of the sangliers, or wild boar, that live in the forest above the house. In summer, they come down looking for water, and they have discovered that we have a pool. It hasn’t happened yet, but it’s only a matter of time before we find one of them taking his ease in the shallow end.

  This would be a well-deserved consolation in his otherwise difficult life.

  In the summer, he has to walk miles to get a drink; in winter, he has to be constantly on the lookout for hunters, with their dogs and their guns. Despite this, the sanglier doesn’t seem to harbor any ill will toward humans, preferring to avoid them rather than make a nuisance of himself, which is more than one can say about some neighbors.

  THE GARLIC BOUTIQUE

  In Provence, it is not enough merely to cultivate great things to eat. They must be displayed in a way that does them justice. And garlic, which my friend Monsieur Farigoule describes as “one of nature’s jewels”—or, if he’s in a less poetic mood, “the stinking rose”—is a fine example of edible art.

  What you see here are heads of garlic. Inside each head are the cloves that are used for cooking. Depending on the type of garlic, there can be anything from half a dozen cloves to thirty or more per head. Intense and powerful, they are known for their pungent and long-lasting effect on the breath. What is perhaps not as well known is that garlic is extremely good for you, with vitamin C, vitamin B1, Vitamin B6, calcium, iron, and potassium among the elements that keep a body healthy. In the hands of a good cook, it makes food taste delicious. And it is claimed to add a certain je ne sais quoi to the male sex drive. Not bad for a stinking rose.

  A FIELD OF FLOWERS, PROVENCE STYLE

  One of the joys of traveling along the back roads of Provence is the extravagant show that nature puts on for most of the year. Even in deep winter, the orderly rows of naked vines that seem to stretch for miles promise a greener, more luxuriant future. When spring comes, fields that have been flat and empty are, almost overnight, it seems, under a carpet of growth, with young leaves and shoots, and crimson splashes of poppies. And the drab winter clumps of lavender begin to show traces of the glorious color that blooms in high summer.

  But nothing compares with the spectacular, almost shocking arrival of the sunflowers, acre upon acre of brilliant yellow, a sight that made van Gogh reach instantly for his brush. However, there’s more to a sunflower than just a pretty face. Some years ago, I was told by Jerome, a wise old peasant, that he could tell me the approximate time of day by looking at a field of sunflowers. Their heads, which face east in the early morning, turn in the course of the day to follow the sun as it travels west. This is called solar tracking. Or phototropism. Or, as Jerome puts it, un miracle.

  THE SMALLEST GUEST

  This photograph marks a turning point in the gastronomic habits of the red-breasted robin—the morning he gave up his customary breakfast of worms for the delights of Jennie’s cornflakes.

  DIGGING FOR GOLD

  When truffle hunters get together, the conversation often turns to the eternal question: Who makes a better sniffer—the pig or the dog? Supporters of the pig are convinced that the porcine snout is superior to the canine nose when it comes to detecting truffles, able to pick up that distinctive scent from far, far away. Nonsense, says the dog lobby. A good hound, properly trained, can outsniff a pig every time.

  Our friend Regis, whom you see here hard at work, is convinced that his dog Flip has the most successful nose in Provence, capable of earning a small fortune each winter. In 2016, good truffles were selling for $1,200 per pound, and so dogs like Flip, who can make a few thousand dollars during the season, are highly prized. Regis has even thought of putting Flip out to stud in the summer, but decided against it, thinking romance might go to his head and confuse his sense of smell.

  ESSENTIAL EQUIPMENT FOR GRAPE PICKERS

  This is perhaps the most picturesque item of agricultural equipment in the Provençal farmer’s arsenal. Examples of the parasol start to appear early in September, when the vineyards are beginning to deliver what they have been growing all summer—ripe grapes, ready for the bottle. Picking them is hot, slow work, and attempts have been made to use machines instead of people. But, as with so much in Provence, old habits die hard. When it comes to your precious grapes, you trust the people you know rather than a complicated piece of machinery. This is why friends and members of the family are often promoted to the important post of grape picker, forming small groups scattered among the vines.

  Although separated by distance, the pickers see no reason not to speak to one another, and their loud, cheerful conversations lend a convivial air to the vineyard. Lunch is taken in the shade of one of the parasols, and what could have been a boring chore is transformed into a pleasurable, sociable day. Who needs mechanical grape pickers?

  ON YOUR MARK, GET SET…GOAT!

  August 15, in Bonnieux, is a great day in the sporting calendar of the village, a day when normally peaceful streets become the setting for a duel between ten highly competitive contestants: the goat race, sponsored by the Café César.

  As far as I know, this is a unique event. The goat, after all, is known more for his bizarre eating habits than for his speed on the racetrack. But these goats are different. Each of them has a coach, or driver. These specialists have trained their goats over the long months preceding the event, feeding them like champions, trying to teach them the skills of overtaking and cornering at speed, and generally ensuring their match fitness.

  The race is scheduled to start at ten o’clock, and we arrive early, to find the village already in a high state of excitement. The ten drivers, burly men for the most part, are calming their pre-race nerves with beer. Their goats, busy nibbling at the café flower bed, are seemingly unconcerned that their athle
tic prowess is about to face a brutal test.

  The start is slightly delayed so that the goats who are still nibbling can be turned to face the right way, and then they are off, their drivers running by their side to provide verbal encouragement and the odd helpful shove.

  As we make our way up to the finish line, we can hear the cheers of the crowd mixed with laughter. The winning driver comes into view, panting, sweating, red-faced, and furious. Somehow or other, his goat has given him the slip.

  SNOW? IN PROVENCE?

  It happens. Not often enough to rate an annual snowfall statistic, but it certainly happens. And when it does, it gives us some of the most beautiful days of the year. If the snow has fallen overnight, the mornings are magical, with bright sunshine and dense blue skies. The countryside is dazzling white and unnaturally silent. After the dogs’ morning walk in the forest, their whiskers are stiff with snow. Trees and bushes look as though they have been carefully decorated, and the heron who comes to paddle in our pond looking for breakfast is clearly puzzled to find that the surface is now a sheet of ice.

  Down in the village, the snow has brought out seldom-used and often vintage articles of clothing: Grandpapa’s fur hat; an ex-army greatcoat that dates back to the First World War; boots, stiffened by time, that creak with unaccustomed exercise—anything that keeps out the cold, and to hell with fashion.

  The chilly temperature will often turn warm overnight, and we will wake up to find the snow gone. But for the moment, it’s like living in a Christmas card.

  ONE FOR THE ROAD

  Village markets in Provence are usually restricted to one day a week. What is here today, bustling and crowded, is gone tomorrow, to become once again the half-empty village parking lot. This creates a serious problem for the thirsty marketeer, since village parking lots rarely have bars.

  He need suffer no more, thanks to the mobile wine bar, provided by the Cave Vinicole du Luberon, which serves many of the local markets. Convenient, and fully stocked with red, white, and rosé, it is always well attended. Wives park their husbands there while they do their shopping. This frequently leads to husbands breaking the habit of a lifetime by volunteering to come and share the weekly market chore, in a supervisory capacity, of course, where they might well run into other equally considerate and thirsty husbands.

  ADVANCED GARDENING

  Every spring, some fields that have lain idle during the winter are transformed into future vineyards, and I am always impressed by the perfectly straight, perfectly spaced lines of young vines that are planted by the farmer and his tractor. How is it, I wonder, that the tractor driver, often with his back to what he’s planting, can achieve this kind of immaculate symmetry? Does he have some kind of sophisticated device fitted to the tractor?

  Not exactly. In fact, he has something better: his wife, she who must be obeyed as she walks a few paces behind or in front of him offering adjustments and instructions. It’s a wonderfully simple and effective system, and it seems that there is no shortage in Provence of wives who are gifted with the all-seeing eye that helps to place the vines exactly where they should be, and where they will be for decades to come. Bravo les femmes!

  THE FIRST OF THE YEAR

  In Provence, you can eat according to the seasons, rather than what the supermarket has dug out of the deep freeze, and perhaps the best season is May and June. At this time of year, the fresh-food addict is spoiled for choice, with new garlic, broad beans, chives, spring peas, and strawberries on the market menu. But for most of us, the season really begins with the arrival of what Monsieur Farigoule calls “that noble weed,” otherwise known as asparagus.

  Everyone seems to have a favorite way of preparing this supremely versatile vegetable. It can be baked, roasted, pickled, or fried; used in risottos and countless different salads; chopped, shaved, and puréed.

  Or, you can do what we prefer to do, and keep it simple: drizzle the asparagus with olive oil, add a little grated Parmesan, and pour yourself a glass of rosé. Heaven.

  PICTURESQUE SHOPPING

  The supermarket is a wonderful invention—efficient, convenient, virtually unlimited choice, and everything squeaky-plastic clean. But even its most ardent fans would admit that it has precious little charm.

  Here you see a delightful alternative: the weekly market in the village of Cucuron, where the stalls are set out around the shimmering rectangle of one of the biggest bassins in Provence. It’s true that you won’t find here several of the essentials of modern life. This isn’t the place to come for canned and deep-frozen products, dishwashing liquid, pre-packed dinners for two, or deodorant.

  But if your shopping list includes fresh fruits, fresh vegetables, local cheeses, the odd curious kitchen gadget, a variety of sausages, ham on the bone, and wine from the village marchand de vins, you won’t be disappointed. And even if you buy nothing except a cup of coffee in the market café, you will have spent the morning in lyrical surroundings you won’t forget for a long time.

  AH, SPRING!

  Winter has ended, with January just a chilly memory. Little by little, the days become longer and lighter. And then, sometime toward the end of March, spring arrives, seemingly overnight. Trees that had been gray and skeletal are suddenly smothered in blossom. The sun is hotter.

  In the undergrowth, nature’s orchestra, led by the frogs, begins tuning up for its summer performance. It’s still too early for the stars of the show, the cigales, but even without them the sound is evocative, promising long, warm evenings spent outside.

  The village becomes busier. Café regulars, who have spent winter hibernating inside, are now installed outside on the terrace. The markets are overflowing with spring treats—fruits and vegetables in dazzling abundance, and the hero of the moment, spring asparagus, the noble weed itself, is carefully laid out in tempting rows.

  Spring is a wonderful season; not too hot, not too crowded, with the prospect of four or five months of sunshine to come. And asparagus for dinner.

  ANOTHER UNEXPECTED GUEST

  There she was one morning, standing on the roof enjoying the view, a classic specimen of the Provençal hunting dog. She didn’t seem at all surprised to see us, but was clearly interested in our two dogs, and made her precarious way down from the roof to say bonjour. She was to be part of our lives for several weeks.

  We lured her inside, where it soon became obvious that she had never been in a house. But she quickly worked out that the best place to be was the kitchen, where all kinds of good things were almost within reach, and she learned to hover optimistically at Jennie’s feet.

  In many ways she was like a docile wild animal, and it wasn’t until the early evening that the wild instinct took over and she disappeared into the forest, where she would spend the night, only to be back on the roof in the morning, ready for breakfast.

  We tried to find out where she had come from, but she had neither a collar nor a tattoo, and none of the local hunters came looking for her. And so it began to seem that we now had three dogs, even if one of them was only part-time.

  Sadly, instinct was stronger than the comforts of domesticity, and she couldn’t resist the forest. We haven’t seen her now for months. But we still check the roof every morning, just in case.

  AN EXTREMELY LARGE BACK GARDEN

  Provence has more than its fair share of beautifully barbered and manicured formal gardens. These fine examples of neatness and order, in which even the leaves and twigs appear to have been precisely placed, are greatly admired. Lifestyle magazines feature them. Proud owners open them to the public for scheduled visits, and they are generally considered to be among gardening’s major achievements.

  However, they have an irresistible competitor, proving once again that man cannot win against nature. Throughout Provence, sometimes in the most unlikely spots, you will come across magnificent displays that have not been planted, watered, arranged, or primped into perfe
ction. This huge field of poppies is a spectacular example. All too soon, the poppies will be gone. But they’ll be back, to remind us of what nature can do if she’s left alone to do it.

  Sixteen

  The Weather Forecast: More to Come

  The English in Provence are generally well received, even though they speak a curious, illogical language and have a dangerous tendency to drive on the wrong side of the road. But these are minor oddities when compared with their obsession with the weather, their deep distrust of meteorological predictions, and their conviction that if it isn’t raining today, it will certainly come down in buckets tomorrow. This climatic distrust is reflected in their holiday habits, and it is the cause of great amusement among the Provençaux.

  There is plenty to amuse them. For example:

  On a rare gray day, when the atmosphere in the village is noticeably subdued, the Englishman can be heard encouraging the villagers in the café to cheer up with a phrase that is used to take the sting out of all kinds of calamities, from a drop in the value of the euro to an outbreak of swine fever in the Luberon. “At least it isn’t raining,” he will say to his bemused audience, with a jolly smile and an apparently genuine belief that this will make all well with the world.

  In August, on a crowded beach reserved for serious nudists, there is one sure way of identifying the Englishman: he is the only sunbather to have brought along his trusty black umbrella. When this attracts attention, and a few incredulous questions, he will look up at the cloudless sky, shake his head, and say, “Well, you never know—very changeable thing, the weather.”