Deep France (33 page)

A Leg to Stand On

The following week, Roger took me to the first great celebration in Salies, the Piperadère. Impressive as this is, it is only a dress-rehearsal for the town’s main
festival, the Fête du Sel in September. In the spring, Salies had woken up from its genteel hibernation with a will and was now gay with window boxes full of flowers and bustling with
tourists.

The Piperadère lasts only one evening, when a giant frying pan, so heavy that six men are needed to lift it, is dragged out of storage and used to make enough
piperade
for four
hundred people. Marquees are put up in the main square and its nearby streets, sheltering long tables, a live band and a dance floor. A bar and a serving point had been set up on every corner, and
the revellers all collected their five-course dinners, slapped into plastic trays like giant airline meals, and managed to buy their wine, all in about half an hour. At least, it seemed like no
time to me, grounded on the sidelines by my plaster.

Since the streets are pretty narrow, people were soon standing on their chairs to dance, and finally dancing on the tables. This embarrassed Roger severely. ‘I’m glad you’ve
got a broken leg,’ he joked. ‘You’d join them otherwise, wouldn’t you?’

One of the most popular rugby songs was about
piperade
, but not because it is supposed to be the breakfast of champions. The song concerns a man who’s been out
drinking and who comes home and wakes his wife up and asks her to make him a
piperade
. Well, that’s the polite way to read the lyrics. ‘
Fais moi un piperade!
’
goes the first line of the chorus. The next few lines of the chorus are all the same and a bit shorter, ‘
Fais moi un pipe!
’ This means ‘Give me a blow job!’

I guessed that Roger had not appreciated this dimension of regional culture. It seemed best to let sleeping
piperades
lie.

By the end of the month, there were a lot of long faces among the International Club. The stock market had nosedived, and although every day brought more pundits predicting that the bear market
had bottomed out, every new dawn brought tidings of fresh losses. Since many of the British ex-pats were retired people whose savings had been invested in stocks and shares, a mood of utter despair
settled in as their pensions began to dwindle below subsistence levels. Those who still had pensions. There were many who had joyfully taken early retirement a few years ago, only to fall victim to
the Equitable Life collapse. Now they commiserated grimly with the neighbours who had seemed so much luckier only a year before but had been made as destitute as they were. Having very few shares,
I could maintain a philosophical attitude.

Piperade

Piperade
is one of the keynote dishes of Basque cuisine, a redolent amalgam of eggs and peppers served as a supper dish or a starter. It is absolutely nothing like
scrambled egg. I hate to disagree with Elizabeth David, who first put this notion about and thereby turned generations off the dish, but it isn’t. In fact, most of what she has to say about
piperade
is regrettably characteristic of many British food writers who typically spend a weekend in Biarritz in a hurry and think they’ve done enough to touch base with one of the
world’s great cuisines. If you make a
piperade
in lumpy, scrambled-egg style, it just turns watery and unpleasant. The other great lie about piperade is that it’s like
ratatouille. Not really.

Piperade
should be smooth and rich, like thick, dark-red cream with shreds of sweet pepper. It’s almost always served over a thick slice of Bayonne ham, but is almost equally
good, and acceptable to vegetarians, poured over a chunk of bread which has been drizzled with olive oil and lightly toasted. The choice of peppers is up to you; personally, I like an all-red or
red-and-yellow piperade, because it’s sweeter and prettier, but if you prefer the spicy combination of red and green peppers, you have tradition on your side. There is even a version made
only with the sweet green
piments
of the Landes.

Peel and chop the onion – you want it finely chopped, and if you’re feeling lazy you can shred it in your blender. Put the oil or fat into a heavy-bottomed frying
pan over a low heat, and let the onion sweat until it’s transparent. Definitely no browning.

Deseed the peppers, slice and reserve some slices for decoration if you like. Chop the rest into fine dice about the same size as the pieces of onion. Add the chopped peppers to the pan and
continue to cook on a low heat until they are soft.

Crush the clove of garlic, add to the pan and cook another 5 minutes. Then add the tomato, and continue to cook until you have a red mush with no visible liquid.

Beat the eggs well and pour them into the pan. Keep the heat low, and keep stirring the whole mixture until the eggs are completely blended with the pepper and tomato mush, and cooked to a
smooth, creamy consistency. Season to taste with salt and pepper. Place a slice of ham or toast on each plate and pour the piperade over it. Some cooks like to grill the ham first, some prefer it
cold.

I swear this spicy meat stew was the forerunner of chilli con carne. Think about it. The Basques got to the new world first. They grabbed the exotic hot peppers and added them
to their traditional meat stews; then the Mexicans added the beans and created a one-pot meal ideal for cowboys. Subtract the beans, and there’s your
axoa
.

Axoa
is usually made with meat from a shoulder of veal. The better the cut you use, the tenderer the
axoa
will be. If you have to use ready-chopped stewing veal (a last resort)
it may include tougher meat from the shin, in which case it will need to cook for longer.

Peel and chop the onion and the garlic. Deseed and chop the peppers. Cut the meat into small cubes, about the size of sugar cubes.

In a heavy-bottomed casserole, heat the oil or fat over a medium flame and brown the meat quickly, stirring to make sure it is sealed on all sides. Then add the onion, garlic and peppers and mix
with the meat. If you have used a good cut of veal, then add the
bouquet garni
and allow to cook briskly for 7 minutes, then slowly for another 7 minutes, then cover
and leave to simmer for a final 7 minutes more. If you’re using stewing veal, don’t try this; cook for 5 minutes, then add the herbs and enough stock or water to cover the
meat and simmer, uncovered, for an hour, stirring occasionally.

Axoa
shouldn’t be watery, so if there is too much liquid in the casserole when the meat is cooked, carefully pour it off. Transfer the red-white-and-green stew to a serving dish.
Traditionally
axoa
is served with boiled or sauteed potatoes. You can also cook the potatoes in the same pot, adding them, cut into lin chunks, for the last 15 minutes of cooking.

Tuna
Kaskarote

Skin the tomatoes, discard the seeds and chop into quarters. Deseed the peppers and slice across into strips. Peel and chop the onion and garlic. Put a little oil in a large
sauté pan and gently cook the onions, garlic and peppers for about
15 minutes, until they are soft and the onion is transparent. Add the tomatoes, the seasoning and the
herbs and spices, and cook for another 5 minutes.

Dust the tuna steaks with flour and saute them gently in oil in another pan, turning to make sure both surfaces are sealed. When the fish is nearly cooked – probably in about 15 minutes
– slide the steaks into the pan with the vegetables and allow them to cook together for 15 minutes more, until the fish and sauce have thoroughly exchanged flavours. Pick out the herbs, and
transfer to a serving dish, or serve from the sauté pan.

Empress Eugénie – perfect Romantic icon

La Mer

No race on earth caricatures itself as magnificently as the French on the beach in August. Those who know only the international meat rack of the Riviera have never seen the
full, adorable absurdity of a French family enjoying their
grandes vacances
, complete with candy-striped beach huts, shrimping nets, muscular lifeguards, yelping lap dogs, daft beach games
and matelot sweaters for everyone.

The phenomenon reaches perfection on the Atlantic coast, all the way from Brittany to the Côte Basque, where the great ocean rollers crash on the endless silver sands and the whole scene
sparkles with magical pale light reflected from the ocean. In the normal way, I would have been right there jumping the surf with them, but this year, with my ankle in plaster, I had to sit the
summer out in various beach bars and watch the fun.

The fathers lead the way, striding out for the sand with the same show of authority as they had put on in their offices only the day before. On that first weekend of summer holidays, which the
French have designated
le grand exit
, the breadwinners haven’t yet slowed down. The fathers, strutting determinedly towards the beach, irresistibly recall Jacques Tati in M.
Hulot’s Holiday
. Even if they’re short, fat and bossy, whereas the great comic actor of the Fifties was tall, gangling and apologetic, you know they are all equally
vulnerable to the slapstick accidents of a day at the seaside, and in the fullness of time their dignity will be punctured by the nip of a crab or the unwary step on a slimy bit of
sea­weed.

After the father come the children, skipping with excite­ment at the multiple treats ahead: swimming! ice-cream! Papa! Finally, the mothers dawdle at the rear with the designer towels, the
coordinated beach mats, the bats and balls, the fishing nets, the suncream and the rest of the family impedimenta. While the children scamper off to the water’s edge, the mothers stare around
disdainfully, flicking sand off their T-shirts, fiddling with the straps of their costumes, thinking up a morning’s worth of little services which they can ask their husbands to perform for
them.