by Marisa Raoul
Twice a week, on Tuesdays and Saturdays, our normally tranquil, little village woke to the boisterous throngs emanating from the market hall and neighbouring square, which by fortune, was situated only twenty paces from our front steps. Such convenience. This magnificent example of 15th century architecture had originally been constructed as La Halle aux Grains or ‘Grain Hall’, where shire farmers would bring their grain harvest for weighing on the official shire scales and public sale.
I watched the to and fro of little Renault trucks, from my dining room window, as they arrived heavily laden with their bountiful fare. Our little sand-coloured Sharpei, ‘Guangzhou’, adored perching on a chair by the window, only to poke his truffle coloured nose through the geranium filled window boxes. He would inspect the passers by from behind his floral camouflage, much to the amusement of the morning shoppers and camera happy tourists.
The variety and abundance of the market stall goods, altered week to week, and according to season. You would always find the freshest of farm produce at the most reasonable prices at your village marketplace.
During the spring and summer months, the timber trestles bulged with a psychedelic multitude of flower and vegetable seedlings, eagerly waiting to be planted. It was one of my favourite times, as the welcoming mass of colour and heady fragrances smothered the entire village square, creating a living, breathing work of art. After months of winter grey, this sudden cornucopia of abundance was a breath of fresh air and brought a smile to every face.
Madame Colette, the timid ‘goat lady’, sat quietly on the market steps; her little stand of freshly made, pale-yellow goat cheeses, my absolute downfall. I adored these delectable little morsels, which she sold in varying states of maturation. The freshest ‘Cabecou’, were perfect for melting over a crisp walnut salad and the harder, more mature samples, were divine as post dinner nibbles with that final glass of Bordeaux wine.
Jean and I adored them all, and never failed to buy a selection each week. My parents became obsessed with them, on their first visit, and my Italian father sulked desperately on his return to Sydney, knowing that he would have to go without. He begged me to mail parcels of the little delights to him, but I explained that they would never get past the strict, Australian customs and their trusty sniffer dogs.
There was also the jolly greengrocer, who welcomed me each week, without fail, with a wide smile, a dewy bunch of wild rocket and an informative weather report. Weather is a topic of infinite importance in the country and is discussed with an air of serious concern.
I carried my quintessential woven pannier and filled it with rapid enthusiasm. The charming stallholders tempted me with great ease, having learnt quickly, I was an eager and willing punter, who could be coerced into buying just about anything.
A clamber of frenzied shoppers announced the weekly arrival of the mobile fishmonger’s gaily-decorated van. He would drive overnight from the Brittany coast, to deliver his fresh-from-theocean fare, here in the heart of the country. Having grown up on the largest island in the world, it was astounding to me, to see a plethora of fresh seafood available so far from the coast. The fish were shiny, bright eyed and their gills blood red. The Atlantic mussels and oysters were full of icy, salt water and were packed in attractive wooden crates.
The fishmonger’s wife made the finest Bouillabaisse I’ve ever tasted, which he sold in Le Parfait preserve jars and I would rarely pass by their rusty orange presence without being tempted to take home a jar or two.
I chatted animatedly with my fellow shoppers, most of them faces I knew well and some of them now, good friends. Market day always drew the best from people. Country folk wandered the streets smiling to themselves and waving ‘Bonjour’ to the passing traffic.
Madame Simone shook her walking cane in gay salute to her neighbours, as she passed on her morning errands. She had celebrated her ninety-first birthday, yet her creamy, flawless complexion belied her age.
The sun always shone on market day and even on the bleakest of winter’s mornings there was indefinable warmth that presided over the market place and the people within it.
I strolled dreamily through the narrow ruelles (little streets), pannier in hand, intoxicated by the fragrance of the new day. As I descended the pathway leading to Lacoste’s riverside café, I spotted a group of friends taking their first aperitif on the sun-bathed terrace.
At around 11.30am, the ritual of the pre-lunch aperitif takes place at every bar and café in France. Some start even earlier than that, but I put that down to overindulgence. I had always been a hopeless drinker and didn’t care much for alcoholic beverages prior to sunset, but the allure of the chilled, cassis coloured wine and the ambience, which accompanied it, pulled me like a fish to the lure.
There is something intriguing about a crowded café terrace, which draws you like a magnet. I can never resist its manifest appeal and hence, have become a regular visitor to the ‘Café Lacoste’ since moving to the village. I usually amble down after lunch, Jean and Guangzhou in tow, for an espresso coffee and a bit of local gossip. Cafés are the ears and eyes of the village and if you fear you’ve missed anything at all, you can always catch up at the local.
Rural cafés are wonderfully eclectic places where you’ll find a cross section of the entire population all seated on the same sticky, vinyl chairs.
It’s a wonderful place to acquire new, colourful language skills and probably one of the few places, where it’s widely acceptable to listen in on other people’s conversations. In fact, I might suggest that it’s probably rude not to! Café goers in France are not just there for the coffee and wine, in many cases, they are lonely bachelors or merry widows, looking for a little anonymous company and idle chatter.
It is the pumping heart and soul of many townships and I fear there would be far more depressed and lonely individuals, if it weren’t for the humble corner Café.
The Café Lacoste is named after its owners Pierre and Henriette Lacoste. Pierre resembles a character from the tales of Asterix with his heavy-set physique and thick, lustrous moustache. His voice is deep and sings of its southern origins, with its melodious dips and swings. He is the quintessential Gaul with his subtle charm and natural, wry humour.
Pierre has a knack of making you feel at home in his little café, but his generous hospitality decidedly hides an ulterior motive. He would much rather be out on a grouse hunt or fishing for trout, than running the village café. So he extends a surprising autonomy to his regulars, in the hope that they will tend to themselves, leaving him free to pursue more pleasant activities.
Oddly, the Café Lacoste was one of the few places in France where you couldn’t purchase food. Even the humblest of country cafés offered a light repas of some description, a simple Plat du Jour at the very least. Not the Café Lacoste! Oh, no … Pierre had no intention, of dabbling in that part of the deal. Serving drinks was task enough for him, and his wife Henriette was keen to stay well and truly in the background and out of the kitchen.
When asked by a hungry traveller if he could put something simple together, his standard answer was ‘On fait pas de Sandwiches’ or ‘we don’t do sandwiches’, leaving the patron hungry and bewildered. Though he would go on to suggest that they purchase their bread and fillings elsewhere, then return to partake of their lunch on his sunny terrace. He would even lend them a knife and plates if need be … Pas de problème! (No problem!)
One summer’s day, it occurred to Pierre that it was due time he held one of his celebrated, terrace-top barbeques. This was an annual event for loyal patrons and friends where the bar was open and the food was on the house. For Pierre, this occasion didn’t mean throwing a few sausages on a grill, watching them turn to charcoal then bunging them into a doughy bun. To this ardent preserver of French customs and self-proclaimed bon vivant it meant quality, hand made gourmet sausages, purchased at a village butcher almost 300 kilometres away in his native Gers. It meant fresh from the sea sardines, lightly grilled and accompanied
by loads of white wine and thick, crusty loaves. No journey was too long, no task too difficult when it came to Pierre and his never-decreasing stomach.
Pierre and his co-driver Jean-Michel left before dawn the following morning. They would cover the 600 kilometre return trip to be back in time for the lighting of the coals. We awaited their return with hungry impatience, avoiding lunch that day in preparation for our gourmet, over-the-coals feast. The café terrace was brimming with famished; well-watered clients by the time the duo emerged from their smoking vehicle. They were at least two hours behind schedule and the natives were restless. As Jean-Michel’s Peugeot pulled to the curb, an explosion of voices saluted their tardy arrival.
All too soon that applause turned to stunned silence as we watched them crawl from the crippled automobile. Pierre’s cheek was scratched and bleeding, Jean-Michel limped slightly and was sporting some newly acquired bruises.
‘What happened to you two?’ the crowd enquired in unison.
‘Oh, putaing!’ Pierre slurred. ‘We had a bit of an accident.’
‘Are you all right? The car doesn’t look too good.’
‘Ca va, ça va but the Peugeot, she is hurting,’ he replied and proceeded to recount their little misadventure.
‘We had collected the sausages and were on our way back when we realised it was lunchtime. We’d been on the road since dawn, so we pulled into a nice little relais in Gourdon for something to eat. We were pretty thirsty by that stage and we probably had a little bit too much to drink. Anyway, about ten kilometres out of Gourdon we missed a sharp curve and ended up in the bushes. Luckily the oak trees stopped the car from rolling down the hillside.’
‘Mon Dieu, Pierre. You two could have been killed!’
‘You don’t know the best part,’ Jean-Michel interrupted. ‘Once I had staggered from the car I searched everywhere for Pierre. I must admit I was a bit “out of it” and when I finally found him he was holding the ropes of sausages in the air, declaring with a grin, “Putaing! J’ai sauver les saucisses! (Bloody hell! I saved the sausages!).” As sore as I was, I fell on the ground in a hysterical heap. Bloody hell … Pierre and his sausages. As long as the sausages had survived, nothing else mattered!’
The entire assembly roared. We could easily envisage Pierre and his sausages staggering up the slope to safety. Fortunately, a passing tractor had managed to pull them from the bushes and the Peugeot had held on courageously for the final leg.
‘Bon! On va cuisiner ces putaing de saucisses ou pas? (So! Are we cooking these bloody sausages or not?)’ Pierre chuckled, pushing his way towards the grill.
The crowd cheered, raising their glasses to Pierre and Jean-Michel’s health. Henriette, Pierre’s long-suffering wife, simply shook her head in disbelief as the aromatic fumes from the charcoal grill wafted high into the balmy night.
We arrive at the café post-siesta the following afternoon, to Pierre’s musical ‘Salut! Tu vas?’ Then, knowing perfectly well we are accomplished coffee makers, he disappears into the dimly lit back room, to watch his beloved foot (soccer) and nurse his battle scars from the previous day’s excursion.
As other regulars like Jeannôt, the old bloke from the Maison de Retraite (retirement home), arrive for their tipple, we serve them, leaving Pierre happily glued to his TV screen.
He trusts us with his customers and his cash till. I find his faith amazing and deeply touching. There are few places left in this world where occurrences such as these take place and I realise I am blessed to be part of this microcosm of good, old-fashioned humanity.
Jeannôt sits at his usual table and calls for a wine. He is a rugged, worn individual, whose face bears the scars of a hard and battled life. He drowns his years in a rough red, house wine and we shout him un petit coup (a little glass) whenever we meet.
He has always bewildered and bemused me. He is obviously uneducated yet sports a brilliant, quick wit and a memory like an Asian elephant. He recounts his wartime efforts willingly and manages to add a comical spin to every story. He has been through more strife and terror than any of us wish to believe and yet, he is still here, every morning, ‘bright as a button’ and without due complaint.
Now, that’s not completely true. He detests being forced by his carers at the retirement home to shower, as he admits he can’t stand getting wet. Actually, I believe it’s the undressing part he detests the most. I’ve often seen him stroll happily in the rain, soaked to the skin.
Equally, he has been known to rant and rave when faced with the prospect of running short of cigarettes or his wine allowance. Deny him that and all hell breaks loose. He’ll then claim his keepers, worse than the Germans SS.
Old Jeannôt is always full of surprises and on one occasion had us writhing in the aisles with his pre-Christmas anecdote of Bernadette. Madame le French President’s wife or Madame Bernadette Chirac, as she is better known, acknowledges the older folk of the region, with her yearly, pre-Christmas visitations. Her entourage trucks into town, bearing boxes of prettily packaged, gift hampers for the residents of the regional retirement villages and hospitals. Bernadette, herself, hands out these delicious bundles of Christmas cheer, to the curious awaiting crowds.
Our friend Jeannôt, is a long standing resident at the local establishment, and has become familiar with Bernadette’s visits over time. She chooses to visit our village, as it’s a convenient ten-minute drive from her family’s country enclave, or Chateau Bitty as it is formally known.
This Christmas past, like every other, Jeannôt waited patiently in queue with his elderly comrades, for his package of gourmet goodies. As Bernadette approached, she smiled widely, recognising her old pal Jeannôt and held out her hand in warm recognition.
Jeannôt, bold as brass, grabbed her well-manicured hand and proceeded to inform her of her evident weight-gain over the last twelve months and how much older she was looking these days. Madame Chirac remained elegantly poised, and thanked Jeannôt warmly for his compliments, wishing him good health and happiness for the coming year. Well, that’s what she said to his face … who knows what she mumbled beneath her presidential breath.
‘You didn’t Jeannôt! You can’t say things like that to the President’s wife,’ I said horrified, yet equally amused.
‘Bien Sûr! Of course I did, it’s the truth …she looked terrible, so I told her,’ he replied a matter-of-factly.
‘Oh Jeannôt … I’m sure she was happy with you.’
‘Why shouldn’t she be? If she looks bad … she looks bad,’ he declared unmoved.
We roared with laughter as we imagined the gasps of horror from her entourage and the reaction of the retirement home staff.
Jeannôt retains a childlike innocence, regardless of his difficult life and lonely existence. His world is this village and his view on people is an egalitarian one. We are all the same and we all deserve the same treatment. In other words, President’s wives are not exempt from Jeannôt’s critiques or witty remarks.
He once offered me the use of his brand new umbrella, noting that a downpour was imminent and I had complained of leaving mine at home.
‘You can have mine,’ he insisted.
‘Where is it Jeannôt? I’ve never seen you with one?’ I asked.
‘Well, it’s not here, but if you go to the Collet’s farmhouse and look behind the kitchen door, it’ll be there. Just take it … it’s yours.’
‘That’s kind of you Jeannôt, but I don’t know the Collets … I can’t just turn up at their house and demand your umbrella,’ I laughed.
‘Oh, t’inquiète pas. No problem … they’re all dead. The farm is abandoned but the umbrella will still be there for sure,’ he replied.
‘When did you leave it there Jeannôt?’ I asked, now extremely curious.
‘Um … err … in about 1954,’ he replied.
We broke into fits of laughter, much to his annoyance. He couldn’t quite grasp why we found his story so amusing and eagerly described the object to me, should I st
ill decide to go.
‘It’s a bright red umbrella and it has never been used. Good quality too, as I recall.’
‘Merci Jeannôt, I’ll be sure to remember that, next time I need one,’ I giggled, as I opened the door, feeling the rush of wet, cold air on my cheeks. ‘A bientôt.’
‘Salut!’ he replied, taking a final swig from his glass and wiping his mouth with a stained chequered handkerchief.
As I wander through the village passageways or coupe-gorges (cutthroats) as the locals refer to them, the stories of the past and present rush at me from within the crumbling, dry-stone walls and hidden, courtyard gardens. I envisage the swashbuckling cavaliers of ancient times riding through these narrow streets, on their way to bloody battles or perhaps, on romantic missions to save maidens in distress. I hear the sound of clomping hoofs on the cobbled ways and smell the pungent odours of earlier days. I stop to drink from blessed, miraculous fountains, where the icy, clear waters have run freely for centuries.
And then, I’ll bump into a smiling face and realise that life continues in much the same way as it did back then. The 21st century has brought change and alteration, for the best in many respects but it hasn’t broken the heart of the place. The soul of the medieval township presides in the preciously guarded traditions and the pure, relentless patriotism of the French people.
I thank God for their unfaltering faith and passion for their country and know how blessed I am to be here, sharing it with them.
Our favourite summer salad
SALADE DE CHEVRE CHAUD AUX NOIX
Warm goat’s cheese and walnut salad
Ingredients
2 Cabecous (as fresh as possible) per person. If unable to obtain, use a log of goat’s cheese cut into centimetre thick slices.