French Lessons (10 page)

“Ah,
there
you are,” I heard, and turned
to see Régis propped up against the counter of a stall, glass in one
hand and a slice of sausage in the other. “I was getting worried about
you. I thought you’d been dragged off by one of those turkeys. Big
brutes, aren’t they? Here, have a glass of wine to settle your
nerves.” He put a hand on my arm. “And for God’s sake,
don’t start looking at your watch. You’re not in England
now.”

I can’t help it, even after all these years.
It’s the guilty English reflex, formed in the days of licensing laws,
when pubs had restricted opening hours and drinking was permitted only at the
government’s discretion. “Maybe just the one,” I said.
Régis shook his head as he slid a glass of Beaujolais along the counter,
and we drank in silence for a few moments, watching the crowd.

The clog
dancers, rosy-faced from their exertions, had taken a break. On a platform set
up in the middle of the hall, a panel of chicken-fanciers took turns at the
microphone, discussing plumage and unctuous flesh and reminding us all that the
winner of the
grand prix
would be receiving a vase of Sèvres
porcelain, donated by the president of France. In return, the president would
be sent a capon, which, according to Régis, would undoubtedly be awarded
the Légion d’honneur, posthumously, of course. “And why
not?” Régis added. “They gave one to Jerry
Lewis.”

I could see signs that Régis was ready to settle
in for the rest of the morning, his elbow cocked comfortably on the bar, his
hand moving hopefully in the direction of another glass of Beaujolais. It was
now or never if we wanted to see the rest of the show. With a sigh of
reluctance, he allowed himself to be led off to the hall of the dead.

It was a stunning sight. Row upon orderly row of immaculate
corpses—something over a thousand, we were told—were lying in state
on tables stretching from one end of the hall to the other. Members of the
public filed past quietly, much in the style of mourners at a ceremonial
funeral, their voices hushed and reverential as they commented on the
extraordinary care and skill that had gone into the presentation.

Each
chicken had its own shroud of what looked like fine white muslin, its feet
folded beneath its stomach, the muslin sewn tightly, so that the body resembled
a smooth oval cushion, but a cushion with a difference, having a neck and head
protruding from one end. The neck feathers were left unplucked to form a
handsome snowy ruff, and the resulting work of art—for that’s how
it looked—had been placed on its own white pad.

The birds had
been decorated according to sex and racial status. Chickens wore slim ribbons
of pale pink, tied with a bow around the breast; capons wore blue; turkeys
sported a broader scarlet sash. All of them displayed the blue-white-and-red
medals of Bresse. No mummy of ancient Egypt could have been more elegantly
prepared for the hereafter than these birds, and I found it difficult to
imagine eating them. They were more suitable for framing.

At a smaller
table set apart from the others, a silver-haired lady with a dead chicken on
her lap and astonishingly nimble fingers was demonstrating the finer points of
making the ultimate outfit. She emphasized to us that the sewing she was doing
so deftly was
“comme le lacement d’un corset,”
or,
for those of us unfamiliar with the lacing of corsets, cross-stitching. Once
she was satisfied with her needlework, the chicken would be immersed in cold
water. This, she told us, has the effect of shrinking the cotton to achieve an
even snugger fit, at the same time squeezing the body within, which apparently
does wonders for the texture of the skin. Not for the first time, I was amazed
at Gallic attention to detail in service of the stomach.

That
afternoon, as we were driving back from Bourg, Régis took what I thought
was rather unnecessary pleasure in describing, with many chauvinistic asides,
what we had just seen. Nowhere else in the world would one find such noble
chickens, so nobly treated. Once again, French supremacy had been demonstrated.
How fortunate I was, a mere foreigner, to be living in God’s own country.
And so on and on and on.

After half an hour of this relentless crowing,
I’d had enough, and I thought it was time to remind Régis of a
legend that, so far at least, the French have been unable to suppress.

The story goes that the bounties of France were deeply resented by her
neighbors, the other Europeans. Eventually, jealous of such an overprivileged
country, they got together in a rare moment of unity and decided to send their
representatives to God in order to protest.

“You have given
France the best of everything,” they said. “The Mediterranean Sea,
the Atlantic Ocean, mountains and fertile valleys, southern sunshine and
romantic northern winters, a supremely graceful language, cooking rich with the
finest butter and olive oil, the most varied and productive vineyards on earth,
more cheeses than there are days in the year—everything, in fact, that
man could desire, and all in one country. Is this fair? Is this divine
justice?”

God listened to their complaints, considering them
carefully. Thinking it over, He was obliged to admit that the protesters had a
point. It was possible that He had been rather generous—perhaps
overgenerous—to this blessed patch called France. And so, to make up for
all those unfair advantages, God created the French. The other Europeans went
home happy. Justice had been served.

Régis sniffed, one of those
eloquent, disdainful French sniffs. “Very droll,” he said. “I
suppose that would appeal to the English sense of humor.”

“Actually, it was a German friend who told me the story. He thought
it was funny, too.”

Another sniff. “What do you expect from
someone who likes dumplings and sauerkraut?” He pushed back his seat and
composed himself for sleep. Even his snores had a faintly supercilious sound
about them. I don’t know why I like him so much.

Love at First Sniff

Contrary to popular belief, the way to a man’s
heart is not necessarily through his stomach. His nose can be equally
susceptible, and for proof, one has to look no further than my friend Sadler.
Like me, he is an Englishman who has chosen to live in France. Like me, he is a
writer. And like me, he has a weakness for all things French, particularly
those that come in a glass or on a plate.

Our story starts in the port
of Dieppe. The cross-channel ferry had just docked after arriving from England,
and a tall, purposeful figure hurried down the gangplank. It was Sadler,
delighted to be back in his adopted country and in the mood to celebrate. But
how, and with what? Striding through the streets of Dieppe, stomach rumbling
gently, his eye was caught by a voluptuous display of cheeses—a bevy of
them, reclining, nude—in the window of an
épicerie fine.
The rumble rose to a crescendo. Feeling an overwhelming desire for a true taste
of France, he decided to investigate.

There are, so they say, more
cheeses in France than there are days in the year—every texture, from
crumbly to almost liquid, every degree of flavor, from razor-sharp to the
subtle mildness of cream; cheeses from cows, goats, and ewes; cheeses seasoned
with herbs, prickled with pepper, marinated in olive oil, aged on beds of
rushes. To choose a single cheese from among hundreds is, for most of us, one
of life’s minor challenges. But not for Sadler; or at least not this
time. Once inside the shop, his nose began to browse through the invisible but
aromatic mist that hung above the assembled cheeses. Head lowered, eyes
half-closed, nostrils aquiver, he found himself drawn as if by destiny itself
toward a particularly assertive bouquet. It came from a plump disk, rusty
orange in color, its ample girth contained by five bands of sedge grass: a
cheese from Livarot, known to its admirers as
le colonel
(because of
the five stripes), and reputed to be one of the most pungent cheeses in the
world.

Sadler fell in love. He bought the cheese, took it out to lunch,
and then traveled with it in his car all the way home to Paris.
Le
colonel
made its presence increasingly felt with every passing kilometer,
but it was music to Sadler’s nose, and it may even have inspired the
fantasy that we will come to later.

Last year, this encounter with the
cheese was recorded in a memoir Sadler wrote about his experiences as an
Englishman living in Paris, and it wasn’t long before he received a phone
call from Livarot. A gentleman highly placed in the local cheese hierarchy had
read the book, and he was delighted to discover someone who was such an
outspoken supporter of Livarot’s pride and joy. And since the book had
been written in French and had appeared on the French best-seller lists,
nationwide publicity for the town was assured. It was a coup for Livarot, and
one that deserved official recognition. Nothing less than the highest honor
would do. Would the amiable Monsieur Sadler agree to be the sponsor of the
annual Livarot cheese fair, and become a specially elected
chevalier de
fromage
?

How could he refuse? To be rewarded for eating is a dream
that comes true for very few of us, and Sadler was quick to accept. He called
me with the news.

“It’s the cheese hall of fame,” he
said. “I’m getting a medal. The town will spend the whole weekend
celebrating. The streets will be running with wine and Livarot. Pack your bags.
I need you there to hold my coat.”

Which is how I found myself on
a hot Saturday afternoon in August driving past the half-timbered houses and
endless orchards of the Normandy countryside. This region of France, padded
with green fields, rich in cows and apples, steeped in cream and Calvados, was
the home of the warriors who invaded England under William the Conqueror. (A
man who, despite his aggressive behavior, was evidently a caring and generous
father. When he died in 1087, he left Normandy to his eldest son, Robert. To
another son, William Rufus, he bequeathed England. Luckily for the boys, there
were no inheritance taxes in those days.)

The current invasion is
coming the other way, with the English settling in to Norman farms and manor
houses, bringing with them their marmalade and their addiction to those
indispensable aids to civilization, British newspapers. As I walked down the
crowded main street of Livarot, I heard an English voice—a loud, peevish
English voice—complaining about the price the local newsstand had just
charged for yesterday’s edition of
The Times.
Somehow, I
couldn’t imagine a Frenchman in a small English country town complaining
about the price of
Le Monde.
But then, he would never be able to find
a copy of
Le Monde
in a small English country town. We remain an
insular bunch. The ghost of my old boss Jenkins is with us yet.

I had
been told to meet Sadler in the hotel at the bottom of the main street. Knowing
my man, I made for the hotel restaurant, and there he was, still at the table,
preparing himself for greatness with a final glass of wine and scribbling on
the back of an envelope.

“I thought I ought to give a
speech,” he said, tapping the envelope. “Here”—he
pushed a sheet of yellow paper across the table—“take a look at the
program while I finish my notes.” He resumed scribbling. I studied the
sheet.

Everything one could hope to find at a cheese fair of this
importance was there: an
apéritif concert,
a marching band,
cheese tastings, cider tastings, Calvados tastings, barbecue stands, a
fairground, and a grand Saturday-night ball. There were, as well, two other
attractions I hadn’t been expecting. That very afternoon, there was to be
a sealed-bid auction of forty
amouillantes,
or cows that were in calf.
And the following afternoon, a speed-eating competition under strict Livarot
rules to establish who could consume the most cheese in a specified time period
and take the title of
le plus gros mangeur.

Sadler finished
his notes with a flourish of the pen. “There. I’m the event that
comes after the pregnant cows,” he said. “And when the
ceremony’s finished we’re going to do a little work. A book
signing.”

“We are?”

“Certainly.
We’ll be at a table just up the street, with full authors’
comforts—choice of cider or wine. It’s all arranged. You’ll
love it.”

Before I had a chance to reply, one of the fair’s
official organizers arrived to make sure Sadler was ready for his moment of
glory, or to restrain him from ordering another bottle of wine. I wasn’t
sure which. The future
chevalier de fromage
allowed himself to be led
away, and I decided to pay my respects to motherhood: A quiet interlude among
the cows was necessary before the high drama of the afternoon’s main
event.

I like cows. There is something very soothing about them. It is
rare to see them hurry. At a distance, they radiate serenity, moving slowly,
tails flicking, placid and picturesque. At close quarters, you notice their
eyelashes, the steady oval motion of their jaws as they chew their cud, and,
usually, the fact that they are caked in muck from chest to hoof. These cows,
however, had come straight from the bovine beauty parlor. They were arranged in
a long, immaculate line, groomed to a whisker. Their tan-and-cream coats
gleamed, their hooves were buffed to a dark sheen, their eyes were bright.
Pregnancy agreed with them.