Ma Folie Française (My French Folly) Read online

  It’s often the shy and unassuming that are the most raucous behind closed doors and often times, it was only as I made beds and vacuumed carpets, after my guests had departed on their daily jaunts, that I would giggle my way through the remnants of passion-strewn, lacy g-strings, or X- rated, battery powered toys. This could prove to be an educational experience, as well as immense fun, I decided.

  Ah, the joys of the hospitality business. They are many and varied and in our case, wonderful, comical relief from the humdrum. It’s not all glamorous. It’s ugly and smelly and hideous at times. There are baffling events and bizarre occurrences that you’d be unlikely to impose on the even the worst enemy.

  You see the best and the worst of human nature every day, in full, living colour. I have observed otherwise conventional human beings, turn into primordial beasts over the breakfast table. I mean to say, how much jam, can one person consume in the course of a continental breakfast? Well, allow me to draw you a sketch … enough to have it oozing from your fingers, down your wrists, until you finally lick it from your elbow joints, just before it attacks your armpits, and really does some damage. Believe me, it happens.

  I’ve had pampered, thoroughbred poodles pee in my corridor, rubber-legged fishermen, stomp soggy-footed through my lounge and jodhpur-clad horsemen, walk manure-riddled boots over my off-white Berber carpets.

  Then there are those odd individuals who prefer the verbal form of attack. Who for no manifest reason, shout verbal abuse or foul language whilst managing to slurp on their Yoplait yoghurts. It’s extraordinary. Tell me, who in their right mind chooses to discuss the significance of the religious wars or American politics, over aromatic Pain au Chocolat and freshly brewed Arabica? Quel sacrilège! (It’s sacrilegious!) It should be illegal and so should discussing one’s bowel movements, whilst buttering tartines of warm baguette.

  I can’t believe the diplomatic tact I’ve acquired. I have found the perfect inflection or reply for every mention of constipation or biliousness.

  I’ve become the Queen of all things below the belt. The Comtesse of the coffee machine. The Princesse of the ironing press and the Marquise of mayhem.

  CHAPTER 4

  Force-fed Livers

  It was a sweltering July weekend and my in-laws had invited us to lunch. That sounds simple enough, you say. You obviously haven’t met my mother-in-law. She is, in fact, my step mother-in-law, as she is Jean’s adoptive mother. His real mother died when he was only a toddler and his relationship with his father’s second wife has never been one of deep affection.

  It’s a long, sad story. One which I don’t wish to delve into, at this point in time but now that we reside in France, we have taken it upon ourselves to mend bridges and bury hatchets, so to speak.

  Dédé and Ginette live on a quaint, rural property about fifteen kilometres from Treignac. Their hamlet is a dear, little farming community named Le Puy Grand and the fields that surround their homestead are laden with swathes of golden barley, oats and lush grazing pastures. Theirs is a modern home, built in the 1970’s and has all the creature comforts, although both Dédé and Ginette are loathe to make use of them.

  Ginette is ‘Normande’. The daughter of a stonemason; she was raised in the Normandy township of Saint Hilaire du Harcouet and was sent to work as a housemaid at the tender age of twelve. She is rake thin and yet, she manages to devour kilo upon kilo of high fat, cholesterol-laden dairy, as any genuine Normande can. Normandy is the land of milk and butter, oozing Camembert and 45 Proof Calvados. No true Normand recipe would be authentic without lashings of saturated fats and smotherings of thick, creamy sauces. Lactose intolerants beware!

  We have therefore prepared our minds and stomachs for today’s onslaught. A light breakfast and lots of water to counteract, if possible, the toxic effects of Ginette’s ‘cordon bleu’ repas.

  She is an extraordinarily talented cook. She makes up for any other faults of character by being a wizard in the kitchen. Her adept and innate knowledge of the culinary arts is wonderment. Having grown up during bleak wartime conditions, one is surprised by the lavish richness and elegance that her dishes bear, befitting of any Michelin star establishment. Indeed, her lacklustre youth has only made her more determined to engage in supremely decadent gluttony as an adult. Her appetite is voracious and her ability to devour unheard of quantities, astonishing. Her pantry is an Aladdin’s cave of every nameable conserve and delicacy. What it doesn’t contain simply doesn’t exist. On one of Jean’s rare visits to his father’s house, whilst still living in Australia, he was shocked to see the only shower cubicle in the house being used as cold-storage for dozens of free-range eggs.

  Jean’s father must have been instantly besotted by Ginette’s gourmet skills as a young widower, for she is sadly devoid of good looks or soft, feminine charms. The time-honoured adage of winning a man via his stomach stands victorious and well proven within this couple.

  We arrive under a blistering, white sky. The air is breathlessly still and the straw-coloured fields shimmer lazily under the midday sun. Jean’s father, Dédé, awaits us, aperitif glass in hand under the welcoming shade of an ancient Cherry tree. It’s the perfect setting and I giggle to myself as I realise the pure, unadulterated typicality of the scene before me. The ruddy faced French farmer, beret, baggy blues and checked shirt, hand-rolled Gaulloise in one hand, ‘Kir’ in the other, idly resplendent and picture-postcard perfect.

  ‘Salut les enfants ça va? (G’day kids. How’s it going?)’ he calls.

  ‘Ça va, Papa. (Fine, Dad.),’ Jean replies, ‘though it’s bloody hot.’

  ‘Eh, Oui … la chaleur! (Oh, yes…the heat!) I’ll get you both a cold drink,’ he says, calling to Ginette who is apparently behind the stove, ‘L’apéro. Les enfants sont arrivés … (they’re here).’

  Ginette rushes from the back kitchen door, brushing a stray wisp of hair from her humid brow and wiping her sticky palms upon her cotton apron. She is flushed pink and slightly agitated in her manner but she jumps to his command. After kissing us both several times, she sits us under the tree and runs back to the house to fetch our drinks.

  ‘Can I help?’ I call, feeling somewhat guilty.

  ‘No, no Marisa. Ginette has it all under control. Here, Chérie, rest in the shade a moment,’ Dédé replies, patting my arm in complete ignorance of his wife’s discomfort.

  ‘Voilà, les enfants. Drink up,’ she says as she places a plastic tray of icy, raspberry coloured beverages before us. There is also a large plate of her famous Normandy style tourtous or buckwheat flour Crêpes, which she smothers in goose rillettes (a type of pâté) and rolls into cigar shape canapés. Here goes the waistline, I think, as I tuck into the first of many.

  ‘I hope you haven’t gone to too much trouble Ginette. These alone would be enough for us,’ I say, observing a trickle of sweat on her throbbing temple.

  ‘Mais Non! Just a light summer lunch … besides it’s cool in my kitchen so the heat hasn’t bothered me at all.’

  ‘That’s good,’ I reply, totally unconvinced.

  We chat for half an hour under the verdant shade of the wild cherry and I admire the melodious melting pot of mid-summer colour, which envelops us. They are both avid gardeners, although I suspect Ginette is the true green thumb and the delightful hotchpotch of plantings is pure bliss to the senses. The strawberry plants are a mass of mighty red globes oozing with sugary sweetness and as I raise my eyes, I am overwhelmed by the profusion of deep red fruits hanging heavily above me. The pungent perfume of cinnamon-scented tea roses wafts by us, now and then, ignited by the intense midday heat. It’s like a daydream. So perfect. So serene. So entirely French.

  ‘I must check on my salmon,’ gushes Ginette, as she scrambles for the kitchen door.

  ‘Can I help you?’ I ask again.

  ‘No, Marisa. Drink your Kir. Lunch won’t be long now,’ replies Dédé.

  I turn awkwardly to Jean, a questioning in my gaze. He shrugs, shakes his head and I rema
in where I am, compliant to my Father-in-law’s wishes.

  Within minutes of us having almost devoured the entire plate of canapés, Ginette calls us to dine.

  ‘A table…à table…c’est prêt. (To table…to table…it’s ready.)’

  ‘Allez…à la bouffe!’ jests Dédé, using his Parisian slang to invite us to eat.

  We enter the shuttered comfort of the large dining room. Our eyes take moments to adjust from the extreme glare of the garden to the shaded cool of the interior. The table is dressed in all its finest apparel. Ginette has even brought out her gold plated Christofle cutlery, I note with a nod of appreciation. She knows how to lay a table and she has exquisite taste in her choice of linen and glassware, for such a simple peasant’s daughter. This setting would sit comfortably in the great dining halls of the Versailles Palace and I find it hard to imagine that a simple summer lunch is to be served in the presence of such refinery. I suddenly feel quite underdressed.

  ‘What a wonderful job you’ve done Ginette. The table looks divine.’

  ‘Merci Marisa,’ she blushes, I thought I might as well bring out the good stuff. What’s the use of keeping it locked away? Did you know Dédé gave me the Christofle cutlery for Mother’s Day last year?’

  ‘How generous,’ I reply stunned.

  ‘Oui (yes) … it costs 40,000 Francs.’

  ‘Mon Dieu! (My God!)’ gasped Jean. ‘I hope it’s insured.’

  ‘Oui, Oui (yes, yes) … photographed and insured,’ she replied proudly.

  For a woman who bore no children of her own and who never truly raised her stepchildren, she has done exceptionally well with the Mother’s Day gifts. I ponder on how bizarre the situation is and see the look of discomfort on Jean’s face, as we seat ourselves around the table.

  Ginette then rushes from the room returning with an entrée of thickly sliced Foie gras de canard. It lies generously upon a Royal Limoges porcelain platter and is accompanied by still warm, wafer thin toasts and a chilled, sweet Monbazaillac wine. My own liver quivers in joyous anticipation.

  ‘My favourite,’ I declare smiling.

  ‘Good. Then eat up … there’s plenty.’

  ‘My goodness Ginette … we’ll never eat all that.’

  ‘It’s only light,’ she replies in typical Normand fashion.

  Maybe she’s right, I ponder. Maybe it’s all in the mind, I think as I jealously glance upon her slender limbs and narrow hips. Who am I to say what works and what doesn’t?

  We eat in semi-spiritual silence and total appreciation of the delicate, smooth flavours. No sooner have we placed our pâté knives upon our plates and Ginette jumps to her feet, eager to present her next course.

  ‘Doucement Ginette. Il n’y a pas le feu! (Slowly Ginette. There’s no fire!),’ says Dédé, whilst sipping on the honey coloured wine.

  ‘Oui, I know … but my saumon is ready and I would hate it to spoil.’

  ‘Okay … please yourself,’ he replies unmoved. ‘She’s an excellent cook you know,’ he adds, grinning as he affectionately pats his well-rounded belly.

  ‘Yes, she’s marvellous,’ I reply, ‘I admire her natural savoir faire.’

  ‘Ah, Oui. She was known as la Fée du Chateau, the fairy of the castle, where she used to work. Not a thing that woman can’t do.’

  ‘Really … that’s quite a compliment,’ I add, suddenly feeling quite sorry for the all-doing, all-achieving Ginette.

  Ginette returns, arms weighted heavily with an enormous fish platter. She has poached an entire, Atlantic salmon and it now rests in glorious splendour amidst Tahitian lime, fresh herbs and shiny balls of red caviar.

  ‘Bravo!’ We cheer, applauding in genuine appreciation.

  ‘C’est rien … it’s nothing really,’ she says with a beaming smile as she places the platter centre stage. She has also whipped up an unctuous, aioli or garlic mayonnaise to accompany the delicious pink flesh. There’s enough fish to feed a table of twelve and I hope to God, that she doesn’t expect us to finish it off.

  Dédé passes a newly opened bottle of wine to Jean. Its chilled, white Burgundy, which he says, will descend beautifully with the salmon. I begin to gauge myself, knowing too well the results I’ll suffer, if I pass the point of no return. The heat of the day doesn’t help and I feel my interior temperature rising, despite the cool interior of the room.

  ‘Don’t overdo it Marisa,’ says Jean, as if reading my mind. ‘You know you’ll suffer later.’

  ‘Let her eat Jean. She’s enjoying herself,’ declares Dédé.

  ‘I know my wife and her digestive system,’ replies Jean adamantly.

  Jean has a healthy appetite, as I believe all French do and he can digest copious amounts when pushed. However, having resided for many years abroad, he has become a lighter, more health conscious eater. His French DNA seems to allow him the pleasure on overindulging on whim, with no apparent consequences. I’ve never seen him truly drunk or known him to be ill after a hefty meal, despite his consumption.

  ‘I’m just fine Jean … really,’ I add.

  Any French meal would not be complete without a pre-dessert serving of delicious cheeses and today’s lunch is no exception. No true Normande woman of good repute would allow a meal of any description devoid of cheese. Ginette buys her cheeses in bulk size slabs. An entire shelf of her refrigerator is devoted to these varied, hand-wrapped chunks of gourmet dairy. A rich Bordeaux has been decantered in anticipation of this very moment. I feel ready to explode by this stage and smile at my intuition of having worn a cool, floral shift. It camouflages my ballooned stomach perfectly. My God, I look pregnant under this, I think to myself as I smooth the fine cotton over my extended tummy. Dédé catches my eye and winks.

  ‘You look lovely Marisa,’ he says smiling, ‘don’t worry. It’ll all go down soon enough.’

  ‘Of course,’ I reply smiling, hoping it goes down and moves along quickly, before it grabs hold of my Latin thighs and converts into lumpy, cellulite pocked bulges.

  The cheeses disappear only to make way for the sweet aroma of a freshly baked walnut tart. Ginette tempts us with a slice, when all I can think of is taking a long, well-deserved nap under their giant linden tree.

  ‘All right … but just the tiniest slither,’ I insist, as she cuts into the moist, brown heart of the sugary beast. She then continues her onslaught by placing a large bowl of thickly clotted cream by my plate.

  ‘De la Crème, Marisa? (Some cream, Marisa?)’

  ‘Non, Merci … I couldn’t possibly.’

  ‘C’est plus léger avec la crème! It’s lighter with cream!’

  Jean and I break into fits of laughter, as she blushes, bewildered by our outburst.

  ‘How could it possibly be lighter with cream?’ laughs Jean.

  ‘It slides down better,’ she replies. ‘It’ll help you digest.’

  Spoken like a true Normande. Who else could make such a statement without being in a total state of delirium? We continue to giggle as I politely nibble on my tart, feeling every mouthful force its way down my throat. I heave a final sigh of relief as I inhale the delicate aroma of freshly brewed coffee coming from the next room. Miracle of miracles. Lunch is over.

  We retire to the open terrace, which dominates the rose garden. Ginette has lowered the enormous striped awning, placing the entire area in shaded comfort. The air is dry and warm leaving us heavy lidded as we sip on our strong, black coffee. Even Ginette appears more relaxed after her Herculean achievements. Slumber soon overtakes us and it is late afternoon before the first of us stirs.

  ‘Perhaps you’d like another coffee before you leave?’ Ginette suggests.

  ‘I honestly couldn’t eat or drink another thing,’ I reply sleepily.

  ‘Marisa’s right. It was a fantastic lunch Ginette but we really should be making tracks.’

  ‘If you insist. I suppose even Sundays are busy days for you.’

  ‘They can be and we’ve really enjoyed the break and the beautiful me
al. Thank you Ginette … I won’t eat for days.’

  ‘Don’t be silly Marisa. You ate like a mouse. You’ll be hungry by dinnertime. You’ll see,’ she replied.

  ‘I doubt that … but thank you, once again.’

  We strolled to the car, which had thankfully spent the entire afternoon in the shade. We said our goodbyes then headed off gently through the nodding barley fields and towards home.

  The country slumbered silently under the late afternoon light and we seemed to be the only car on the road. I imagined the entire population still lazing under some tree or dozing merrily in an armchair. Jean was exceptionally quiet as he drove and it wasn’t long before I noticed his pallid complexion.

  ‘Are you all right Jean? You look unwell.’

  ‘I don’t feel too good, to tell you the truth.’

  ‘Do you want me to drive?’

  ‘No. I’ll be fine,’ he mumbled.

  ‘You look green!’ I exclaimed, ‘Do you feel like throwing up?’

  ‘No … but I have a terrible pain in my chest … I feel like I can’t breathe properly.’

  ‘Oh my God, Jean! You have to stop the car!’ I cried, overwhelmed by sudden panic. I had lived through my own father’s cardiac arrests and this wasn’t sounding good.

  ‘We need to stop and get you some help… now. You’re scaring me.’

  ‘OK … OK …,’ he panted, ‘I’ll stop at Le Relais des Monédières on the Nationale 20. It’s no good stopping here in the middle of nowhere.’

  ‘All right, but if you feel any worse just stop at the next house.’

  I never took my eyes from his gaunt face the entire journey. He appeared to be deteriorating fast and my own blood pressure was rising by the millisecond.