French Fried: one man's move to France with too many animals and an identity thief

by Chris Dolley

  And if so, would we, as representatives of England, be called upon to cast the first burning faggot?

  oOo

  On the day of the fête we strolled down the hill just before noon. The sun was high overhead, the air still and the temperature soaring.

  As the church steeple came into sight we wondered what a French village fete would be like. Would there be raffles and stalls? Would we be fined for not bringing our boules?

  The first sounds wafted towards us as we neared the church. But from where? We’d expected the meal to be held in the village square. The word ’square’ being used here in its loosest term, a more accurate description would be the space between the church and the road. But square or space, the adjective ’empty’ was undoubtedly the correct one to apply.

  We followed the noise around the church walls and into a place we didn’t know existed. A cleared area behind the church which was now full of trestle tables, benches and about two hundred people.

  It looked idyllic, an island of bright crushed stone leading down to a meadow and a small meandering river. Over the river, tree-lined hills rose majestically from the valley floor, the hillside flecked with occasional stone buildings, farmsteads and barns, shining off-white in the sun and capped with the uneven reds, pinks and pale yellow of the old clay roof tiles.

  And the fête had started.

  We soon realised our mistake in not arriving earlier. All the shaded seats were taken. Most of the village crowded around a bar area underneath a huge tree, a few sat on shaded benches, no one sat in the full sun.

  Which beat down upon the scene with a growing power. Luckily we’d brought our hats, we’d both had enough of sunstroke that year.

  The bar was interesting – quite unlike anything I’d seen at an English fete. No beer, no lager, no cider. This was strictly an aperitif bar – plenty of Ricard, muscatel and port. But mainly Ricard. Which, from what I could see, could either be green, red or cloudy – none of which appealed. I find something intrinsically off-putting about drinking something bright green. We stuck to the port. Unadventurous but safe.

  We were soon found by three English people. There must have been something instantly recognisable about us – the lost look of an English couple abroad. Within minutes we were being introduced to a bewildering number of locals who all seemed to be interrelated. It was quite surprising. Everyone seemed to be someone’s cousin or married to someone’s cousin or sometimes both. It was like one big extended family celebration.

  And very confusing. All the names and faces blurred into one.

  By half past twelve a general consensus erupted and, like a flock of birds, the village turned as one and descended upon the benches. We lost our fellow nationals in the rush but found ourselves sat next to a family we later discovered to be our neighbours – they lived about a mile away but farmed the fields adjoining ours. We both had difficulty introducing ourselves. He became the-man-with-the-black-and-white-cows, a fine old Indian name if ever I’ve heard one, and we became Les Anglais.

  And the wine flowed.

  And a myth burst.

  I had heard, probably from the same French lesson that introduced priorité à droite, that even the humblest paysan was at heart a connoisseur of the grape and would insist upon a fine bottle of wine to accompany dinner.

  But I recognised the wine being handed out. Not from its label – detailing its chateau and year – but from the embossed stars on the glass. Six étoiles, the brand we bought, six francs a litre and a franc back on the bottle. It was cheaper than water.

  And there would be a tidy sum collected on the bottles from what I could see. Litre bottles of red and rosé alternated along the centre of every trestle table – one bottle between two people. And that was just the start, there were plenty of full crates stacked up for later.

  It was interesting to note the lack of white wine. In fact I can’t recall ever being offered white wine at any fête or communal meal since coming to France. It seems that in the Sud, if you want something white to drink it has to be Ricard.

  Or water. Which Shelagh quickly ordered.

  I’m a very moderate drinker as a rule, but I do have an occasional weakness when it comes to refusing a drink. I have been known to stop off at the pub for a swift half, and three pints later I’m set in for the night and destined for a curry.

  So I was under strict orders: moderation and plenty of water. Which might have worked if it hadn’t been for the friendliness of our neighbours. Who kept filling my glass – even when it was three-quarters full. It was like a magic glass, I’d take a sip, struggle over the odd sentence of French and by the time I looked back my glass was full again.

  Which made counting glasses extremely difficult.

  And laid waste my plan of having two glasses of water for every glass of wine – nobody was interested in keeping my water glass topped up. This was France after all.

  With the important business concluded – the distribution of the wine – next came the bread. Armfuls of flutes – the larger, fatter version of the baguette – were plucked from sacks stacked in the church porch and handed around. Then platefuls of various cured meats, jambon, paté and gherkins.

  Then the hats.

  Which was quite unexpected, suddenly large sun hats of all description were being passed amongst the tables. I never found out where they all came from. Whether a selection of headgear was kept permanently in the church for just such an occasion or a band of Mexican tourists had just been mugged outside the village.

  The sun rose higher and burned the shade into smaller and smaller islands. Even with my hat I could feel the sun ablaze on the back of my neck. I had to keep putting my hand there to cool it down – it was either that or a piece of jambon. And I wasn’t sure if the jambon would cook in its own fat and who wants to become known by his neighbours as the man who cooks bacon on his neck?

  I tried moving my neck out of the sun by craning my head or leaning back but Shelagh kept giving me strange looks. Was I developing some strange affectation or about to pass out before the arrival of the second course?

  Paella is a strange dish. However much you eat there always seems to be more left on the plate than when you started. All those shells and various pieces of marine detritus that seem to build up out of all proportion to the meat consumed. I’ve always considered it a dish to inspire new scientific theories on the conservation of matter. Far more potential than apples. Apples fall off trees – so what? Name a tree fruit that doesn’t. But Paella? Not only could it feed the five thousand, it could house them afterwards. Pretty little houses made from shell fragments and bits of claw.

  I was definitely getting too much sun and wine. Some people know when to stop when the room begins to rotate. Me, I wait until not only can I see housing estates made out of crayfish but I make an offer on the one on the corner.

  I wasn’t quite there yet. I think its roof needed attention.

  It was about this time that I made my big mistake.

  As we ran out of things to say about black and white cows and the weather, I started thinking about sport.

  Not a good idea.

  For many years I’d greeted the arrival of a new soccer season with the thought that perhaps this year I’d give it another go. Take it up seriously again, dig out the boots and get back into training.

  And a few weeks later I’d think of a good reason why not to. It was cold or there was something I wanted to watch on TV or I felt a muscle twinge. And after all, there would always be next year.

  A promise that gained less credibility as the years progressed.

  But wine has the ability to rejuvenate – the mind, if not the body. I wasn’t that old. I could still a play a bit, if I put my mind to it.

  Strange things began to happen around me. People became excited and fetched other people who became even more excited.

  Did I want to play football, they asked? Of course I did, I replied, I love a kick about.

  And the wine flowed a
nd the fromage arrived and glazed apple tart and more wine. By the time the eau de vie made its rounds I would have agreed to anything. Unfortunately it appeared I already had.

  I was sure I had said, “I had professional trials when I was fifteen.” However, I began to have a nasty suspicion it had been interpreted as, “I was a professional footballer for fifteen years.” A subtle difference.

  And as I later found out, I hadn’t been invited to a kick about either. There would be no sweaters rolled up for goalposts on the village green. I’d signed up to play for Racing Club, the local team. With my forty-first birthday fast approaching and not having kicked a ball for four years, and then not particularly well, I was about to make my league debut in French soccer.

  But with the warm glow of red wine and general bonhomie abounding, what did I care? I loved football and there was plenty of time to get fit for the new season. And there were definite advantages – Racing Club were having a fête next week in Cassagne and we were both invited.

  My memories of the latter stages of the fête start to fade at this point. I remember the coffee coming round and something to do with sugar lumps. Unfortunately Shelagh remembers it all. And frequently fills in the gaps.

  I blame it all on the eau de vie.

  Which is a kind of home-brewed schnapps. And amazingly legal. It’s a strange quirk of French law – undoubtedly Napoleonic – that certain French families were given the right to distil liquor. A right handed down through the generations, so that most communities have an eau de vie man. Who can generally be recognised by a certain dissolute appearance and a large number of friends.

  I am told I had eau de vie in my coffee. Followed by eau de vie neat. And finally eau de vie on sugar lumps – which apparently is the traditional way of taking it. A bit like tequila with salt and lemon, I suppose.

  Shelagh tried to stop me but when her own coffee was threatened with topping up she was distracted long enough for the damage to be done. It’s amazing how quick people can be with a doctored sugar lump.

  We didn’t stay for the boules. I remember zigzagging up a hill but had to be told about collapsing through the front door.

  The next thing I remember was being woken up that evening by a set of blaring car horns. I’d been happily negotiating the purchase of an end terrace crayfish when suddenly the street exploded in a wall of sound. I staggered to our bedroom window half asleep and peered out at two cars and a drive full of people.

  Shelagh called up, “it’s for you,” and promptly disappeared into the lounge with Gypsy. I don’t think I had yet been forgiven for the excesses of the afternoon.

  But I was sobering up fast. There’s nothing like two car loads of strange men appearing unexpectedly at your house to flush the alcohol from your brain.

  I opened the door, not sure whether this was the boules committee on a dusk raid or a team of Joan of Arc’s hit men. I was ready to deny all knowledge of ever owning coloured plastic boules – Ce n’est pas moi, I was ready to shout. But I didn’t have to. It was the football team. They’d come to fetch me. The bar was open and festivities underway.

  I was dragged off.

  As I said, I’m not very good at refusing a drink. And even worse in a foreign language.

  I thought I heard the words ’Oh God’ emanate from the lounge as the car pulled away.

  The church square had been transformed since the afternoon. For one thing it was darker. On a more substantive note, the trestle tables had gone, the bar pulled away from the shade of the tree and enlarged considerably. A small stage had appeared with speakers and microphones and someone had lit a bonfire.

  Oh my God!

  I might have known. I’d seen the film. The newcomer feted, given food and drink and asked to join the football team and then just when he’s starting to enjoy himself – it’s human sacrifice time. And I had been cast as this year’s Joan.

  As we approached closer, I could see figures running – or were they dancing – around the bonfire. There was so much noise and so many people in the way it was hard to tell. I was just wondering what the French for coven was when a woman burst into our group and grabbed the face of the man next to me. When she took her hands away his cheeks had turned black.

  I was no longer interested in the French for coven.

  I was desperately trying to remember the English for that flesh-eating bug that was all the rage a few years back. Didn’t that eat people’s faces and turn them black?

  Or was that a film I’d seen about zombies?

  As the woman turned towards me with her hands outstretched, I waited for my life to flash in front of my eyes. But my life had to wait as it was elbowed aside by fleeing alcohol molecules. Two car loads of strange men may sober a person up fast but a head-grabbing woman turning peoples’ faces black has the edge every time.

  Two hands fastened upon my cheeks. Still no sign of past events or bright white lights. How long did it take to die? How many more alcohol molecules were there?

  As the last droplet of intoxication waved goodbye, I plucked up the courage to ask what was happening. I’d been initiated, apparently. As had everyone else around me, it being the local custom to blacken everyone’s face with ash from the bonfire. This may have been something symbolic about the ashes of Joan of Arc. Or, possibly, the last vestiges of Al Jolson worship in continental Europe. My French was not good enough to enquire further.

  I was given a beer and introduced to Racing Club’s captain, possibly to discuss tactics for the coming season, but seeing as neither of us could understand what the other was saying, nothing of great import was decided.

  I rued my lack of French. And vowed to do something about it. Perhaps getting involved with the local team would be the catalyst I needed.

  And I suppose I should have used the opportunity to clear up any misconceptions. But the alcohol had established another beachhead and I was starting to look forward to playing again – after all it had been a dream for a long time. And I wasn’t likely to be given another chance.

  And besides, I didn’t see myself as forty. Like most people I had an inner clock which ran much slower than chronological time. I had been seventeen for ages, twenty-three for about six years, clung on to twenty-eight during most of my thirties and was now settling down to a young thirty-five. What were a few games of football to a young thirty-five year-old?

  And there was bound to be a couple of weeks of training sessions to iron out any problems. If I wasn’t good enough, I’d know, and the door to my boot cupboard could be nailed shut forever.

  I staggered back up the hill. Not so many zigzags this time. Above me the stars shone bright and the cicadas hummed Al Jolson medleys.

  Climb upon my knee – chirrup – sonny boy – chirrup, chirrup.

  I turned into the drive of the little crayfish cottage on the corner and disappeared inside.

  oOo

  At Cassagne’s Football Fête, I was under strict orders – one glass of wine and no Al Jolson songs.

  Life can be tough.

  But it does have its compensations. As a joueur, I wouldn’t have to pay a penny; all the food and drink was free.

  And there was shade; a grove of huge horse chestnut trees provided a thick green canopy over the picnic area – a much more sensible arrangement.

  Otherwise it was very similar to the fête at Tuco: masses of food and drink, the whole village decked out in their summer clothes and a grassy riverbank nestling in folds of fields and hills.

  It was strange seeing such a diverse assembly of people at a football function. A football meal in England would have been a lad’s night out. The more liberal might have invited wives and girlfriends. But here, everyone was invited – the whole village, young and old. And, just as at Tuco, everyone sat down together, everyone enjoying themselves, not caring if they were sitting next to a stranger, a toddler or a grandparent. No sullen groups of teenagers sulked in the corner, wishing they were somewhere else. Everyone mixed in together; all ages, all
social backgrounds. If the village had been called Stepford, I’d have panicked.

  And, if anything, the food was even better than at the Tuco Fête. A huge cauldron of cassoulet gently simmered on the edge of the picnic area as the early courses came and went. Wine flowed, flutes and dishes were passed around: cured meats of every description, a huge green salad that had just about everything imaginable in it, more wine.

  It was a brilliant fête.

  Although I couldn’t help but feel a mite self-conscious as I overheard scraps of conversation about the English professional who’d been signed up for the coming season. Expectations of certain promotion mixed with incredulous stares and the occasional “C’est Bobby Charlton?”

  And then along came the cassoulet, ladled from cauldron to tureen and passed around the tables. And passed around again a few minutes after that. I had a feeling that no one would be allowed to leave until everyone had taken at least three helpings – it was the regional dish, after all.

  I was just spooning the last haricot when a brightly-coloured mountain of a man appeared by my left shoulder. After a frenzied bout of hand shaking that somehow managed to involve the occupants of at least four tables – handshaking being contagious in France – we were introduced.

  He was Remy, the club’s chef.

  “The team has a chef?” I asked incredulously. Surely I’d misheard, what kind of team has its own chef?

  A French team, of course. And Racing Club had Remy, who cooked the after-match meal.

  “After every match?” I was amazed.

  “And after training as well.”

  I was doubly amazed. Most English teams I’d played for disappeared straight down the pub after a game – and six pints and a packet of peanuts later, we all staggered home. But a sit-down meal? And after training as well?

  This was definitely the team to play for.

  And this was definitely a chef who liked his food. If you can imagine a giant rugby forward fed on lard for a fortnight and then surgically implanted into Bermuda shorts and a T shirt, then you have some idea of the kind of figure that Remy cut that afternoon.