A Summer In Gascony Read online

  THE GENIAL HOST

  I ENJOYED MY BREAKFASTS: CHUNKY TARTINES OF BREAD, THICKLY covered with butter, jam, honey and Nutella chocolate spread, not necessarily all at once. I loved working the honey into the butter on a slice of bread to form a smooth, sweet paste, then letting it melt on my tongue, the sweetness so intense it would sting.

  There were no alarm clocks: we woke up naturally, and it was expected that everyone would be at the breakfast table by 7.30 sharp. We had lunch at midday and dinner at six in the evening. The routine of family mealtimes was as certain as the permanent sunshine and the age-old rhythms of the countryside. There was a strict logic in how we ate and drank. Breakfast was sugary and sweet, to give us the energy for a hard day’s labour, with big bowls of strong coffee to wake us up. Lunch was usually the heaviest meal of the day. This was the end of May, so the summer was just warming up, but come July and August, when the midday air was too hot and the sun too fierce for us to work inside or out, we would have a siesta after lunch, faire la sieste. Afterwards, to perk ourselves up, we reheated the coffee left over from the morning.

  In the early evening, before the restaurant opened, we ate dinner sitting around the stone table in the courtyard. This was a good time of day, when the heat of the afternoon was just beginning to subside into a comfortable evening warmth. Everyone chatted easily and the tone was always warm and optimistic. Dinner was usually a light meal, so we remained lively through the evening. We never had coffee in the evening, and we drank enough wine to enjoy a little and help digest our meal. The pattern of consumption was perfectly suited to the working rhythms of the day and the need for a solid night’s sleep.

  As I grew accustomed to my new surroundings, I could see how every aspect of life knitted together, and how everyone had their role to play. Jacques-Henri fitted perfectly the character of the genial host, always ready to welcome people to his hostelry and give them an authentic taste of the country. The visitors who came were mostly Dutch and German, in search of escape and tranquillity in this isolated spot. Jacques-Henri was interested in meeting people from different countries and he seemed to get on with them all, no matter where they came from or whether or not he could understand a word they were saying. Whenever he thought he was being complimented on his hospitality, he would swell with pride and laugh with satisfaction.

  Jacques-Henri was entertaining, sometimes high-spirited, and sometimes obstinate and irreverent. I was occasionally unsure when he was being serious and when he was joking. He had a roguish twinkle in his eye and his head had a slight forward tilt, giving the impression he was about to do something mischievous. His mischief was usually little more than poking fun at people he liked, always done with good humour.

  The twinkle in Jacques-Henri’s eye was enlivened by secret slugs of Armagnac, which he drank by sidling off into a corner of the room and raising his arm in line with the bottle, in an attempt at concealing it while he took a draught. He would glance around guiltily afterwards to see if anyone had noticed, but everyone ignored him.

  Marie-Jeanne and Jacques-Henri were very different from each other. Marie-Jeanne was a strong, silent presence. She was taller than her husband, big framed but quite slim. She had a kindly smile and was always simply dressed. Her cooking invariably appeared on the table on time, with what looked like effortless ease. She was a woman of determination and good sense.

  Marie-Jeanne was often relieved when Jacques-Henri went off to ‘play’, as she put it, at the farm, leaving her to manage the business her way. She was in charge at the Auberge, he ran the farm. Her business head complemented his knowledge of farming and his joie de vivre. When Marie-Jeanne complained that Jacques-Henri should do a little less jollification and a little more work in the kitchen, he went quietly outside to smoke a cigar.

  The three sons, Paul, Bruno and Nicolas, were also very different from each other. Paul was easy-going. Bruno took his work at the farm and the Auberge very seriously. He was practical, and like his mother he didn’t talk a lot. Nicolas, bless him, the youngest, le petit dernier, was a natural clown who didn’t take anything very seriously at all. He rode his Peugeot mobylette every day to the school in the nearest town, Boulogne-sur-Gesse, seven kilometres away. Out of school hours and during the long holidays he worked around the Auberge and the farm, but made a mess of everything he attempted. Paul was protective of his little brother and he frequently remarked, with an ironic roll of the eyes, that with Nicolas it was nothing but cock-ups. Que des conneries! Nicolas’s clowning around was probably due to his age; his mind was always somewhere else. I think Paul took after his father, Bruno took after his mother, and I’m not sure which parent Nicolas resembled.

  The Cazagnacs were, it seemed, the most hospitable Gascon family you could hope to meet, with a strong sense of belonging to their land and yet open to welcoming visitors. Jacques-Henri only had one bête noire, a chink in his armour of geniality: Parisians! A Parisian couple came to stay at the Auberge. The number plate on their car ending with 75 for Paris signalled trouble as they drew up. The man in the driver’s seat had a haughty, disdainful look about him. The woman, elegantly dressed, got out and opened a back door of the car. The air of attentiveness and pride in her manner led us to expect her to bring out a small, well-dressed child, but instead out jumped an elaborately clipped white poodle wearing a sparkling diamanté collar. This was going too far!

  ‘They come down here with their fancy poodles,’ muttered Jacques-Henri under his breath. ‘How would they like it if I went for a walk down the Champs-Élysées with a sheep?’

  MAIGRET OR MAGRET?

  I HAD TO LEARN TO DRIVE THE CITROËN 2CV VAN, SO THAT I could shuttle backwards and forwards between the Auberge and the farm as and when I was needed. Just because I could drive a car didn’t mean I could drive a 2CV.

  The Cazagnac’s battered old cream-coloured van with corrugated side panels, known as une fourgonnette, had seen a lot of service and really shouldn’t have been on the road. The handbrake didn’t work, so when it was parked, to stop it from rolling away it had to be driven up against a wall, a wooden block or a bank of earth. This hardly mattered: the bumper was already bent and one of the front headlamps was twisted downwards, so that from the front the van looked like a battered featherweight boxer trying to wink. A bash to the hinges on the driver’s door had wedged it permanently shut, so we had to climb in and out of the passenger side. The door windows on all 2CVs fold outwards and upwards, as anyone familiar with the vehicle knows. The window catches on the Cazagnac’s van were broken, so when it went round corners or over bumps the windows flew out like an elephant’s ears.

  Paul gave me a driving lesson. The gear lever was a handle below the dashboard that had to be pushed and pulled and twisted, like an uncooperative umbrella handle with a car attached. The rest of the controls were minimal. The flap below the windscreen opened for air-conditioning; a mesh strained out the insects, highly effectively judging by the number of dead flies stuck in it.

  I started the 2CV and thrashed it up through the gears to top gear as quickly as possible, which was the only way to get it to pick up any speed. The engine chugged uncomfortably for some distance before it found its rhythm. What was frustrating was that it seemed to go at just one speed – slow – whether I pressed the accelerator lightly or floored it. I leant forward, willing it to go just a little faster, but it didn’t take any notice of me.

  The popular myth about the Citroën 2CV is that it was originally designed to carry two peasants and a basket of eggs across a bumpy field without breaking any of either. The soft suspension meant that on winding roads it rolled all over the place, and when it came to a sudden stop it bobbed about like a drunken Space Hopper.

  This underpowered glorified eggbox on wheels had real difficulty with steep hills. Midway between Péguilhan and the farm there was a steep dip and a bend in the road. The only way to get the van up the hill was to fling it down into the bend as fast as possible – it leant over at a truly alarm
ing angle, seeming as if it might topple over – and use the excess speed to carry it up the hill. It was great fun as the van slewed into the bend, tilting sideways, then climbed the hill, going slower and slower, until it had almost stopped as it reached the top and the engine caught up with it again.

  I’d only just got the hang of this reckless manoeuvre when hurtling out of the bend, with Paul in the passenger seat, we met an oncoming herd of cows. I slammed on the brakes and we screeched to a halt, just a couple of metres from the lead animals. The 2CV lurched forward on its soft springs as it came to a stop. We weren’t wearing seat-belts. I held on to the steering wheel as firmly as I could; Paul pressed his hands on the dashboard. Then we slumped back in our seats. Paul gave an ouf of relief. Merde, that was close. I was stunned. The cows in front of the van stood stock-still and looked at us, unperturbed, hardly blinking a long-lashed eyelid in the face of the danger they’d so narrowly escaped. We had to sit and wait until they’d all ambled slowly by, in their own time. One of them mooed deeply as it passed, I think to remind us this was their bit of road.

  I stretched my arm out of the window to touch a cow that was passing close on my side. Paul warned me not to.

  ‘Don’t touch,’ he said, with matter-of-fact severity. ‘If it kicks the van its hoof will go right through the door panel.’

  The farmer brought up the rear of the herd. He was old and wiry, but with a spring in his step. He wore traditional blue work overalls and a beret, and was carrying a long stick to herd the cows. Recognising Paul he grinned at us, then with a friendly gesture rapped his stick on the bonnet of the van, just as he would thwack a cow on the rump.

  ‘Salut, les gars!’ he shouted. Hello guys.

  ‘Salut!’ Paul shouted in return, then as soon as the old farmer was out of earshot, added ‘Et merci!’ sarcastically.

  We set off again, arriving safely at the farm where we set about the different tasks that needed attention – sheep, cows, machinery, watering – and then returned to the Auberge in the afternoon.

  That evening I was given a new test: cooking. Not just for the family, but for guests in the restaurant. I enjoy cooking, but I knew nothing about traditional fare in Gascony.

  Marie-Jeanne told me I was going to cook magrets on the outdoor grill. At first I thought she was talking about Inspector Maigret, the fictional detective character.

  ‘No, not Maigret, magret. It’s one of our specialities here, magret de canard,’ Marie-Jeanne explained, slightly amused.

  A magret de canard, as we prepared it à la Cazagnac, was a breast of duck scored in a criss-cross pattern on the fatty side, grilled in a wire cage over a wood-burning grill set in an alcove in the stone wall of the courtyard. I must have passed the first test well, because I went on to cook a lot of magrets that summer – I can’t even guess how many, but it was a lot! It was my most elevated culinary duty. During the high season in July and August, I cooked magrets almost every evening.

  When the restaurant was expected to be busy, I had to set the wood burning a couple of hours before we opened, so it would be reduced to glowing charcoal when it was time to start grilling. I cooked the fleshy side first, to allow the fat to seep into the meat from above. The duck sizzled as the fat dripped, spitting and spattering, into the smoking embers. The smell was always tantalising and the smoke gave a rich, woody flavour to the meat, but I frequently had to step back from the alcove, coughing, to breathe in the open courtyard. It was dirty work, what with the smoke, the ash and the hot grill cage becoming encrusted with fat, yet miraculously the magrets remained pure and glistening in the middle of it all.

  There were different degrees of grilling a magret de canard. The first was une cuisson bleue: just cooked on the outside and quite raw inside. The second degree was rosé: cooked a little more but still quite pink. The most popular choice at the Auberge was à point, medium rare. A magret could also be well done, bien croustillant, nice and crisp – the way I preferred it.

  The guests really appreciated their food, so I had to be sure the magrets were done to perfection. With two or three on the go at once, each being grilled to a different degree, I quickly had to get to grips with the mental alertness required for restaurant work.

  There would be a shout from the kitchen: ‘Is that magret ready yet?’

  ‘Which one?’ I would shout back.

  ‘The à point.’

  ‘Nearly.’

  ‘Good. We need two more, one rosé, the other à point.’

  When the magrets were ready, I leant round the kitchen door to pass them to Marie-Jeanne, who finished them off with a sauce. Creamy garlic was the basic sauce, but rich, tangy cherry was a better accompaniment, the sharpness of the fruit cutting through the fattiness of the duck.

  NEW ARRIVALS

  I SPENT THE MORNING PAINTING THE GÎTES IN THE CONVERTED stables behind the Auberge. Farm work may have been new to me, but I’d always helped my parents painting when was growing up, and I was a dab hand, as my father put it, with a paintbrush or a hammer. It was a Saturday and Nicolas was off school. He was ‘helping’ me. I’d rather he hadn’t. If he wasn’t wobbling the stepladder while I was standing near the top, he was drawing rude pictures on the bare walls before I painted over them. He still insisted on calling me Monsieur Martin. I saw what Paul meant about his little brother: Que des conneries! I was relieved when Marie-Jeanne came and called Nicolas to go to the station with her. Nicolas put down his paintbrush in mid-composition and left excitedly to meet the new stagiaire at Saint-Gaudens, just as they’d done for me.

  I’d been at the Auberge for nearly a fortnight. I was looking forward to another stagiaire arriving. I would no longer be the only stranger.

  Florence was French and came from a farm up north in the Loire Valley, near Tours. She was always impeccably polite. We did the correct double kiss – la bise – when we were introduced. She was 22, dark-haired, gamine, almond-eyed, quite Gallic looking. In the Loire Valley they speak ‘proper’ French and Florence’s accent was much clearer than the Cazagnacs’. I wondered why she’d come to work on a farm in the southwest when she already lived on a farm. This certainly wasn’t going to be an new experience for her. I thought she’d either come to get ideas about turning a farm into a more profitable concern, or else – and this seemed more likely – she’d come to find a farmer husband.

  Florence immediately took charge of some tasks in the kitchen.

  ‘Elle a l’air d’être bien dans sa peau ici,’ Marie-Jeanne remarked. She seems very much at ease with herself here. Marie-Jeanne was pleased to have female help around the Auberge, living as she did in a family of men.

  David was the next stagiaire to arrive, the day after Florence. Marie-Jeanne and Nicolas collected him from the station. He walked into the dining room, a thin, gawky Englishman, looking bemused and surprised to find himself there. He shook hands with everyone, or rather everyone shook hands with him; he was very standoffish. His French was quite dodgy.

  At dinner on his first evening, we asked David questions about himself. He said he was going to read philosophy at Cambridge in the autumn. He was very serious and bookish. He wore a black polo-neck sweater, even in the summer heat.

  In his poor French, David said he wanted to talk about contemporary French intellectual currents, post-structuralism or something. This was not the place!

  Jacques-Henri scowled. ‘Bof! Intellectuals,’ he said, looking around the table. ‘For all their clever ideas,’ he asked, ‘can they tell me why the shell of one species of snail spirals one way and the shell of another species spirals the other way?’

  Then, without waiting for an answer, he made a dismissive puff with his top lip and smiled at the fundamental truth of what he’d just said.

  David looked taken aback.

  ‘This isn’t a pavement café in Paris, you know,’ Jacques-Henri reminded him. And with that, he took down a big green book from the shelf, Encyclopédie de la Nature, and plonked it on the table. ‘This is all the
book learning you need,’ he said.

  David was painfully out of place at the Auberge. When things were being explained to him he stroked his chin carefully, as if to help stimulate his thought processes.

  Mealtimes with David were bizarrely entertaining. The Cazagnacs, like other southern French families, ate all the courses of their meal from the same plate, wiping it clean with a hunk of bread between dishes. Picture the sequence at dinner. We would have a plate of potage, thick vegetable soup with small pieces of duck. We sopped up the soup with bread. Then we might have a slice of tart, with salad and peppery green Puy lentils. We cleaned our plates again with bread. Finally, as the culmination of the meal, we ate our gigot of lamb.

  Jacques-Henri told David from the start to eat up and wipe his plate clean with a piece of bread. David stroked his chin and nodded, but whether he understood was another matter.

  David did not enjoy his food, he just picked at whatever was on his plate. He didn’t finish his soup, he left a piece of bread floating in it; put his slice of tart and lentils in the soup, so that the tart went soggy; and then he balanced the gigot of lamb on top of it all. We watched silently, in disbelief, as the food piled up and mixed together on his plate. David prodded the heap disinterestedly with his fork.

  He seemed oblivious to what was going on around him, and he’d no idea even of the performance he was giving at mealtimes.

  Jacques-Henri just shrugged his shoulders at the English eccentric, more deserving of pity than contempt, and carried on tucking into his gigot of lamb with gusto.

  The German stagiaire was the last to arrive. Marie-Jeanne and Nicolas had gone to collect her at the station. Brushing the floor in the dining room, I heard the car draw up outside. The shutters on the front window were closed in the midday heat. The new arrival walked down the steps from the front door. The sunlight streaming through the doorway behind her shone like an aura through her pale gold shoulder-length hair. She was wearing a red top with white polka dots and little puff sleeves, her blue jeans turned up at the ankles and carrying a pink canvas rucksack. At first her face was in shadow against the light, then as she stepped down into the room I saw her features clearly. Her eyes were a striking clear blue. She looked around her with an air of hesitant curiosity, her manner sure and calm. She leant forward to put down her rucksack, which had a little toy Babar the Elephant dangling from the front buckle.