Ma Folie Française (My French Folly)

by Marisa Raoul

  Salad of choice: Frisé, Oak leaf, Mesclun or other green salad.

  2 slices of good, country style bread if possible.

  A handful of walnuts per person, broken into small pieces.

  Preparation

  Place the mixed salad on the serving plate or bowl. Add vinaigrette dressing made with either olive oil or walnut oil.

  Toss the walnuts through the salad.

  Grill the Cabecous or goat’s cheese slices on the bread until toasted and cheese is very runny. YUM!

  Place toasts on top of the salad et Voilà!

  You can also add other items such as lardons (fried cubes of spec or similar), crispy bacon or other salad ingredients.

  C’est trop bon!

  CHAPTER 12

  Jour de Fête

  There’s nothing like a National Holiday or regional, Jour de Fête to bring a smile to even the most recalcitrant of citizens and the French calendar is laden to bursting point with these halcyon days.

  Not a week seems to pass, that I’m sweetly reminded by one storekeeper or another, of an upcoming Jour de Fete.

  ‘N’oubliez pas, Madame Raoul. C’est un Jour de Fête. We will be closed that day,’ they kindly inform me.

  ‘Another one. Good heavens,’ I declare in continued amazement.

  It’s never-ending and as one day of merriment rolls into another, it becomes crystal clear to me, why the French economy is booming and productivity is at an all record high. Between short working weeks and an abundance of reasons to celebrate, it’s easily explained. Outside of regular, school holiday periods, the French spend more time having official days off work, than any other nation on the planet. That is statistically official.

  Not only do they celebrate more religious holidays than the Roman Catholic population of Italy, but they also embrace every significant date or event of the two World Wars, pagan celebrations, sporting events, wine harvests and culminate with a number of obscure, regional fêtes, ensuring a final dose of calendrical equilibrium.

  The French know how to party. The terms bon vivant and savoir vivre didn’t just conjure themselves out of thin air. And don’t think for one moment that high-spirited celebrations are restricted to the major cities or population centres. Even the smallest of French villages, relishes in the preparation, of yet another, kick-your-heels-up country-dance and general booze-fest.

  Personally, I’d always thought the 14th July to be the most celebrated date of the calendar year, having watched the annual parades along the Champs Elysée in Paris, on television in Australia. However, as much as the fervent patriot is eager to celebrate this important day of Liberation, they are equally as pleased to light fireworks and make merry, on numerous other occasions throughout the year.

  My first official Jour de Fête was the annual Feu de Saint Jean or ‘Saint Jean’s fire’. Obviously, as it bears my husband’s name, I was keen to see what all the fuss was about and join in the evening’s revelry. Held on the 24th of June each year, it celebrates the Summer solstice or the symbolic start of summer and is always celebrated by a massive bonfire on the largest village square. The preparation takes weeks of cutting and gathering large logs and tree-limbs then building a monumental bonfire, which can reach up to ten metres in height. This ancient pagan ceremony was adopted by Christians in modern times and is practised in many countries around the world. It is a unique celebration, which draws upon ancient pagan ways and early Christian beliefs.

  The vast size of the fire ensures that it burns well into the summer’s night, warming its spectators and thrilling the village children with its massive flames. It’s also an occasion, which is historically regarded as the perfect opportunity for the village youth to leap into manhood, by bravely hurling themselves over the final glowing embers. Thankfully, most of today’s youth are far too interested in their appearance to be involved in such a might-singe-my-JPG-Jeans sort of sport. However, there’s always at least one, highly inebriated, village twit on hand, to entertain the masses by falling into the fire and making a total nuisance of themselves to the awaiting fire brigade and ambulance attendants alike.

  It’s all good fun, unless you’re the one waking up with a monumental hangover in a hospital bed the following morning and third degree burns to your bottom and your now sober ego.

  It’s an age-old enigma, but why do self-respecting adults turn into blithering, idiots on public holidays? Is it the sheer pleasure experienced by having a paid day off or could it be due to an overindulgence of wine and spirits? When you reside in a land famous for its Champagne and other fine beverages, over consumption is never considered as overindulgence, rather an avid and enthusiastic appreciation for the finer things in life.

  Such is the excuse of our friendly, neighbourhood Vet, Laurent. A jovial, young man with a sensational sense of the ridiculous. Forever playing tricks on unsuspecting friends and clients and quickly gaining himself the reputation of village comedian in residence.

  We’ve started socializing with Docteur Laurent and his wife, Stephanie, on a fairly regular basis and enjoy his unhinged wit and her delicious cooking immensely. Laurent works long, tiresome hours, often travelling vast distances over wild country lanes, for the pleasure of finding himself elbow-deep up a horse’s arse. Being a rural Vet isn’t all ‘coochy-coo’ with primped and pampered pooches or thirty-second worm injections of forced-fed felines. More commonly, he finds himself knee deep in merde de vache (cow shit) or saving Monsieur’s prize merino ram at some God forsaken hour. He’s a hard working young man whose favourite escape is a good night out or in, as long as it includes good food and plenty of liquid refreshments. He never declines a social invitation, even if that means carrying his beeper in his pocket, in case Madame’s pussycat has an epileptic fit or Monsieur’s cow goes into premature labour. He enjoys nothing more than a soirée of thirst-quenching buffoonery and no creature great or small, will impede his emphatic pursuit of merrymaking. Of course, he rarely recalls half of the previous night’s antics and as loyal, duty-bound friends we take great pleasure in reminding him.

  On the 15th August, La Fête des Eaux, or ‘Festival of the Waters’ is held. This festival takes place on the religious occasion of the ‘Assumption’, therefore making this late summer’s day, a doubly significant motivation for mass celebration. I don’t see the correlation between celebrating water and the Virgin Mary but who am I to question French logic. Over the years, Treignac has placed itself high on the list of must-visit villages for this long weekend, by creating an annual Lakeside festival, to rival all others. This year, the spectacular ‘Spectacular’ is to include laser light shows, fireworks displays, floating islands with dazzling water nymphs and very loud, live music. Knowing that it attracts up to fifteen thousand visitors each year, we’ve made plans to arrive early and take up prime viewing positions on the beach. Everyone has made tracks to Laurent and Stephanie’s house for pre-festival cocktails and char-grill steaks. It’s a balmy evening and thankfully, there’s not a flea-riddled dog or mangy cat in sight. Laurent is his usual jocular self and with every chilled Stella Artois he consumes, his unbridled conviviality grows.

  By the time we’re ready to hit the road, Laurent is well and truly ‘off with the pixies’. Incapable of driving, we shoehorn him into our little Renault Twingo with three other friends. Thibault is also here, in the company of his new girlfriend and witty, twin brothers.

  After the short drive to Lac des Bariousses, we take deliberate measures to ensure the cars are parked in ‘departure mode’, ready for a quick exit at the close of the ‘spectacular’. We don’t intend on driving home behind the other fifteen thousand or so holidaymakers who are expected to attend, so parking in the correct place and correct direction, is vital, Thibault instructs us.

  Laurent manages to slither off the back seat onto the grassy verge then staggers clumsily towards the beach perimeter. We laugh and tease him as we follow his maladroit swagger down the bank.

  ‘You can’t go down there La
urent. It’s out of bounds.’

  ‘Putaing … c’est la plage, non? Je suis un citoyen libre et je vais nager! (Bloody hell … it’s the beach, isn’t it? I’m a free citizen and I’m going swimming!)’ Then awkwardly proceeds to pull off his clothes.

  ‘Nooooooo,’ we scream, the gathering masses taking great amusement from the antics of our inebriated, half-naked friend.

  ‘Get back here Laurent. T’es complètement cinglé! (You’re screaming mad!)’ Jean yells, jumping the orange boundary ropes, dragging the heavily intoxicated Laurent by the belt and up the slope out of public view.

  ‘Putaing … you bloody Australians, you’re no fun,’ he giggles, landing in a heap by our feet.

  ‘Tais-toi! (Shut up!) Please behave Laurent. Everyone will know it’s you,’ Stephanie pleads, half smiling, half humiliated.

  And for a while, the beast lies dormant.

  The surround-sound music kicks off to giant applause and instantly the usually placid lake is transformed into a kaleidoscope of coloured lasers, exploding fireworks and flashing lights. It truly is ‘spectacular’ just like the promotional posters had solemnly promised. We ‘Ooooh’ and ‘Aaaaah’ in unison, with the other fourteen thousand-plus spectators, who have surrounded the lake. Colourful picnic rugs smother every, square centimetre of shoreline with surging and swaying humanity.

  With our attention drawn skywards, hypnotised by psychedelic eruptions and holographic images, Laurent takes this opportunity to sneak on all fours onto the otherwise deserted beach and in true delirium-induced, artistic fashion, performs a unique rendition of the dying swan solo from the ballet, ‘Swan Lake’. A raucous applause explodes from the surrounding crowds, full of woof whistles and howls of encouragement.

  ‘Bravo! Encore! Vas-y! (Go for it!) Regardez, c’est le Veto! (Look, it’s the vet)’ they scream, whilst we in turn fall about in a state of complete hysteria and Stephanie cowers at the sight of her semi-naked, toe-pointing spouse.

  ‘Thank God he left his pants on!’ She winces, burying her head in her hands.

  Regardless of threats from officials and the local Gendarmes, Laurent completes his solo act to a standing ovation. It is only then, that the boys manage to drag him kicking and screaming from his admiring audience and into the arms of his mildly mortified wife.

  ‘Quick, let’s make a dash for the cars,’ Thibault announces; as the final clash of symbols vibrates across the lake’s surface. ‘If we don’t move now, we’re “scood”.’

  ‘The word is screwed Thibault, but we get your drift, so to speak,’ I call.

  ‘Quoi? (What?) My drift? Never mind… Jean, grab Laurent. I’ll take Stephanie in my car.’

  ‘Thanks a lot Thibault. I suppose that’s just in case he decides to lose his dinner on the way home,’ I joke.

  ‘Très bien Marisa. You know you are more beautiful and more intelligent every time I see you,’ he proclaims cheekily.

  The men manage to hoist Laurent and his soggy, sand-laden trousers up the shore and back to the cars. At this stage, we are well ahead of the general throng and after our well-planned exit and drive back to the village, we find the café terraces still full to brimming and envisage the festivities continuing well into the wee hours.

  Unfortunately, for our dying swan Laurent, his fifteen minutes of fame and glory have passed into oblivion and we drop him home in a drunken stupor. He achieves a slurred ‘Bon Nuit, les copains’ (Goodnight mates) and waves precariously as he staggers indoors, his lanky weight pressing on the slender yet solid shoulder of a sniggering Stephanie.

  ‘What a night. That was sensational, Jean. Treignac did itself proud.’

  ‘Wasn’t bad for a little village full of peasants,’ he jests. ‘We French can really put on a show, take Laurent for example. What a performance.’

  ‘What a lunatic. It’s a blessing he won’t remember much of it tomorrow. I suppose we’ll have to remind him as usual?’

  ‘I think Stephanie might have something to say to him, before we get a chance,’ says Jean grinning.

  ‘I think you might be right. She was so embarrassed, poor thing. She’s so reserved and proper in comparison. Anyway, I had a great time and I can’t wait for the next jour de fête.’

  ‘Well, you won’t have to wait long Marisa. There’s always another fête just around the corner.’

  He was right, no sooner did late summer days fade into autumn and the much-awaited mushroom and truffle season, grape harvests and foie gras periods commenced. Of course, these events neither warranted a public holiday nor a long weekend, but tell any average, hot-blooded French citizen that they may not celebrate the arrival of the new Beaujolais or they should not take the day off to go mushroom hunting and chances are, you might just launch a second revolution.

  Beaujolais nouveau is a young wine made from the grapes of the same year’s harvest. Its arrival on the market shelves and into the awaiting glasses of its connoisseurs is anticipated with thirsty fervour. There is a standing tradition that no merchant or barman, may sell or serve a glass of this much anticipated drop until 0.00hours of the third Thursday of November, no matter where in the world they might be. Therefore, if you’re absolutely desperate, your best bet is to fly to New Zealand, sit in a wine-bar and wait for the first official bottle to open. It’s almost unfair that someone rather than a Frenchman on French soil doesn’t savour the first drop, but that is the time honoured tradition dating back to 1951 and there is no sign of it altering.

  We gladly made our way to Lacoste’s for the opening day’s celebrations. It was one of those rare celebrations when Pierre would allow the merchants to decorate his bar with posters, streamers and red balloons. The atmosphere was intoxicating, with talk of this ‘youngster’s’ bouquet, ‘perhaps passionfruit or cherry’, like last year’s, being the only topic of conversation. Jean and I never let a season pass without purchasing a case or two, to mark the occasion and it was consumed, as it should be, before the winter arrived.

  With winter, no sooner had we stopped discussing cèpes, truffles noirs and that year’s grape harvest, that new conversations of Christmas, New Year and recent snowfield reports, besieged us. As the year had started, so again it would end with yet another celebration or Jour de Fête.

  ‘Free-days in France’

  11 paid Public holidays

  104 weekend days

  25 paid work-holiday days

  And they’re just the official ones!

  VIVE LA FRANCE!

  CHAPTER 13

  High Tea à la Française

  Agnes was a beautiful woman whom I’ll always remember. We had become steadfast acquaintances during my early months in Treignac and she always took an avid interest in our progress and the comings and goings at La Maison de la Coquille. Agnes and Vincent, her elderly husband, lived on the opposite side of the market square and we would inevitably bump into each other on market day or on our daily trips to the René’s Boulangerie.

  Agnes was originally from the northeastern region of Alsace Lorraine and her married children were now scattered between L’Alsace and La Régionne Parisienne (Paris and its outer suburbs). Corrèze was her husband’s choice of locale, as it was here that his ancestral roots were deeply planted. They had moved to his childhood home as a young couple and had resided in the same house on the square ever since.

  Agnes was a woman of great eloquence and poise, which instantly attracted me. She spoke, what I thought to be perfect French and in her company, I hoped to improve upon my own language skills. In the early days, we were rarely alone in our conversations as her beloved Vincent was never far from her side. They were the perfectly devoted couple and seldom apart. I was quick to notice that my outwardly happy and confident friend, Agnes, was in actuality completely dependent on Vincent for her personal happiness. It pained me to observe my friend’s entire loss of self when the day of poor Vincent’s demise arrived. She was consumed with grief and this fragile soul was going to need all the support and love, we a
s a community, could muster. Her children visited as often as physically possible during this period of mourning but their work commitments and the sheer distances they had to cover to reach her, made it a virtually impossible situation for all concerned.

  Her eldest son, Jerôme, insisted she move to Alsace to be under his watchful eye but Agnes’ nostalgia for her family home in Treignac was too strong a bond to break. She decided to stay on, live where her beloved Vincent had wished to live out his days, no matter how challenging it would prove to be.

  I admired her courage and decided I would encourage and support her to my best abilities.

  I would often find her at home alone, her pale blue eyes wet with tears and her previously rosy complexion, grey with sorrow. I would drop in for tea every so often and gradually our affection and admiration for each other blossomed. Agnes loved to impress me with her collection of English, fine-bone china, which she had received as a wedding gift so many years ago and it soon become a ‘secret ritual’ that once a month we would meet at her house for High Tea à la Française (French style).

  She adored the age-old Anglo custom of high tea. Fine china, excellent teas and delicate finger food served in her gracefully furnished surrounds. With each visit I witnessed her poise and confidence return. Her complexion regained a gentle glow and she smiled more frequently and under less duress.

  I cherished my visits with Agnes, not only for her generous cups of Orange Peking and pleasant company but for the many wonderful stories she would share with me. Although at times shy in company, she was a natural raconteur and the memories of her youth and the resistance were an awakening to me. I had never discussed the wars in France with anyone until now. Jean had occasionally spoken of his father’s youth during World War 2 and I knew a little of his sufferings by the German’s hands. Even my own parents who had grown up in war-torn Europe had only ever recounted slithers of their lives to me over the years. Never had I experienced these atrocious events through such clarity of thought and detail or with such bittersweet memory.