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We had been introduced to our new neighbors by the couple from whom we bought the house, over a five-hour dinner marked by a tremendous goodwill on all sides and an almost total lack of comprehension on our part.
The effect of the weather on the inhabitants of Provence is immediate and obvious. They expect every day to be sunny, and their disposition suffers when it isn’t. Rain they take as a personal affront, shaking their heads and commiserating with each other in the cafés, looking with profound suspicion at the sky as though a plague of locusts is about to descend, and picking their way with distaste through the puddles on the pavement.
Also my life partner’s outlook on less-than-ideal weather
We sat back, thankful that we had been able to finish, and watched with something close to panic as plates were wiped yet again and a huge, steaming casserole was placed on the table.
We have found that there is nothing like a good lunch to give us an appetite for dinner.
But of course, he said, it is well known that the English kill their lamb twice; once when they slaughter it, and once when they cook it.
We should have been warned by the complications attached to the purchase of the house. We wanted to buy, the proprietor wanted to sell, a price was agreed, it was all straightforward. But then we became reluctant participants in the national sport of paper gathering.
(Our driver’s licenses, plainly addressed, were judged to be insufficient; did we have more formal evidence of where we were living, like an old electricity bill?)
We must wait until the check had been cleared, a delay of four or five days, even though it was drawn on a local bank. Could we go together to the bank and clear it immediately? No, we couldn’t. It was lunchtime. The two areas of endeavor in which France leads the world—bureaucracy and gastronomy—had combined to put us in our place.
Pierrot had told us that the table would weigh between six and eight hundred pounds. It looked heavier. He called that evening. “Are you pleased with the table?” Yes, the table is wonderful, but there is a problem. “Have you put it up yet?” No, that’s the problem. Did he have any helpful suggestions? “A few pairs of arms,” he said. “Think of the Pyramids.” Of course. All we needed were fifteen thousand Egyptian slaves and it would be done in no time.
We took the only reasonable course of action open to us, and sought inspiration in front of the fire with a glass of wine.
Our architect, an expatriate Parisian, had warned us that building in Provence was very similar to trench warfare, with long periods of boredom interrupted by bursts of violent and noisy activity, and we had so far experienced the first phase for long enough to look forward to the second.
These unspoken disclaimers, which seem to be instinctive and therefore more revealing than speech, are occasionally reinforced by the magic word normalement, a supremely versatile escape clause worthy of an insurance policy.
Truffles are sold by weight, and the standard unit is the kilo. At 1987 prices, a kilo of truffles bought in the village market cost at least 2,000 francs, payable in cash. Checks are not accepted, receipts are never given, because the truffiste is not anxious to participate in the crackpot government scheme the rest of us call income tax.
Comparison with London is a sure way of justifying any minor extravagance in Provence.
Outside the café, three cars had converged and were growling at one another. If one of them had reversed ten yards, they could all have passed, but a French driver considers it a moral defeat to give way, just as he feels a moral obligation to park wherever he can cause maximum inconvenience and to overtake on a blind bend.
Reassured, he drove off into the sunset with the sound of Bruce Springsteen bellowing from the car stereo.
As usual, our good intentions to have a quick and restrained lunch disappear with the first jug of wine, and, as usual, we justify our self-indulgence by telling each other that today is a holiday.
“We shall see,” said Menicucci. “We shall see.” He looked with suspicion at the nozzle before it was placed inside the tank, and the fuel man wiped it ostentatiously on a filthy rag. The filling ceremony was accompanied by a detailed technical discourse on the inner workings of the burner and the boiler which the fuel man listened to with scant interest, grunting or saying Ah bon? whenever his participation was required. Menieucei turned to me as the last few liters were pumped in. “This afternoon we will have the first test.”
Did he change the spelling of this man's name...?
IT HAD taken me some time to get used to having a separate purpose-built room devoted exclusively to wine—not a glorified cupboard or a cramped cavity under the stairs, but a genuine cave. It was buried in the bottom of the house, with permanently cool stone walls and a floor of gravel, and there was space for three or four hundred bottles. I loved it. I was determined to fill it up. Our friends were equally determined to empty it.
Dégustez nos vins! Never has a invitation been accepted with more enthusiasm.
THE DAYS were warm enough for swimming, the nights cool enough for fires, Indian summer weather.
“Usually a lot of murders after Christmas.” He said it as though he was looking forward to a favorite television program, a bloody sequel to the Mistral suicides.
We dipped our bread in it, bathed our lettuce in it, and even used it as a hangover preventative. (One tablespoon of oil, taken neat before drinking, was supposed to coat the stomach and protect it against the effects of too much young pink wine.)
Have definitely heard people say this
But what would happen, I asked him, if the certificate had been burned with the house? He hadn’t thought of that, and I think he was grateful to me for suggesting another disastrous possibility. A connoisseur of woe needs fresh worries from time to time, or he will become complacent.
We had worked out that if everyone came there would be twenty-two people, all with good Provençal appetites. And, as it was so close to Christmas, they would be looking for something a little more festive than a bowlful of olives and a few slices of saucisson. My wife started making lists of provisions, and terse footnotes and reminders were scattered throughout the house: Rabbit terrine! Gambas and mayonnaise! Individual pizzas! Mushroom tart! Olive bread! How many quiches?—the scraps of paper were everywhere, making my one-word list—champagne—look sparse and inadequate.
Love the idea of your whole shopping list for a dinner party being “champagne”
There was no doubt about the most important ingredient in a Provençal Christmas. Judging by the window displays, the queues, and the money changing hands, clothes and toys and stereo equipment and baubles were of incidental importance; the main event of Christmas was food.
