Ma Folie Française (My French Folly) Read online

  ‘Thank God … we’re here,’ I cried, as he pulled into the crowded car park of the hotel. ‘Quick Jean … get out of the car and sit in the shade. I’ll fetch help.’

  I ran, as quickly as my alcohol and food induced stagger would carry me, through the entry to the unmanned reception desk. I called for help to no avail. Now totally panicked, I ran through the double glass doors to my right. There before me, was a bar full of half-sloshed, Sunday afternoon revellers and a blonde, middle-aged barmaid. They glanced at me in silence then went on with their bawdy conversations. Unsure of how to explain my predicament in precise and concise terms, I simply yelled.

  ‘AU SECOURS…AU SECOURS! HELP…Emergency!’ To my utter amazement and total disbelief they glared at me, laughed, and then went back to their drinks. What the hell? I ran forward, shoving my face into the surprised stare of the barmaid and screamed again.

  ‘AU SECOURS…AU SECOURS!’

  She looked at me as though I was an escapee from some foreign lunatic asylum, but when I remained unmoved, she eventually took notice.

  ‘What’s wrong Madame?’ she asked.

  ‘My Husband … outside … heart attack!’ I panted, thumping my chest.

  ‘Mon Dieu!’ she yelled. ‘Quick, call the Doctor,’ she screamed to the closest onlooker. Finally someone was taking me seriously.

  ‘Hurry,’ I called as I ran from the saloon and down the entrance steps only to find Jean slumped on the gravel drive, gasping for air.

  ‘It’s okay darling. The Doctor is on his way … try to relax.’

  Thankfully, the barmaid had reacted swiftly once she realised I was no common lunatic and had grabbed a tea towel packed with ice, which we placed on Jean’s forehead. He was perspiring profusely and his complexion was insipid green. The Medicin local arrived promptly, though on viewing Jean, seemed to slow his pace. His now, nonchalant disposition was driving me to desperation. It was as though he had already made his diagnosis before he even uttered a word. He bent over Jean, holding his wrist for a pulse.

  ‘What have you eaten today, Monsieur?’ Jean failed to reply, fighting to catch his breath.

  ‘He had quite a large meal … foie gras, salmon and caviar, cheese, and dessert,’ I replied on Jean’s behalf.

  ‘Wine?’

  ‘Yes, several glasses. But he’s not drunk,’ I replied sternly.

  ‘No…he’s not,’ he grinned. ‘Don’t worry Madame, your husband will be just fine. He is suffering from a Crise de foie carrabinée.’

  The gathering of spectators from the bar chuckled at the doctor’s diagnosis.

  ‘What’s that?’ I asked annoyed ‘Are you sure he’s okay? He looks terrible to me.’

  ‘He needs to rest here for a while and drink some water. He won’t have such a good appetite for a few days but he’ll be just fine. He is having a “Liver attack”,’ he smiled. ‘It’s quite common really … especially amongst tourists’

  ‘We’re not tourists … we live here.’

  ‘Well … congratulations,’ he grinned, ‘but you’re obviously not yet adjusted to our local cuisine.’

  ‘I’m not, but Jean is French … he’s never been sick before.’

  ‘Well. He’s apparently out of practise, my dear Madame.’

  Jean, though still unwell, was visibly relaxed having heard the prognosis.

  ‘I’ve never heard of such a thing. I don’t think the equivalent exists in the English language.’

  ‘Perhaps because they have no need for such a term. I’ve never heard of the English eating foie gras by the kilo on a hot summer’s day. You know the heat has a lot to do with it,’ he replied. ‘Look, there’s not much more I can do to help, so I’ll be off. Stay here in the shade until it passes.’

  ‘Yes of course Doctor. We’re so sorry for any inconvenience … especially on a Sunday.’

  ‘At your service Madame, Monsieur,’ he smiled warmly, as he collected his medical satchel and strolled to his vehicle. It didn’t occur to me until later, that he never asked for a single Franc in payment for his attendance.

  As Jean regained a state of normality his demeanour changed and his complexion returned to a more pleasing hue.

  ‘I was so worried about you darling. You really scared me,’ I said, kissing his cheek.

  ‘I really scared myself. I can’t believe I had a crise de foie.’ The French are always going on about their livers and gall bladders. I thought it was a big joke. I suppose the Doctor was right … it’s obviously a French condition. It could only happen in a country where the general population is so obsessed with food and wine.’

  ‘So much for Ginette and her “cream will make it lighter theory”,’ I laughed.

  ‘I honestly don’t know how she does it. Did you see how she buttered her bread with a centimetre of farm butter before adding a slice of cheese?’

  ‘I know. Her cholesterol count must be through the roof.’

  ‘She probably doesn’t have cholesterol … that’s the whole point. Her body is naturally immune.’

  ‘Lucky her. So my darling … I suppose you won’t need any dinner tonight?’ I chuckled.

  ‘Oh … you never know,’ he grinned, ‘maybe just something light … some Camembert and bread … a glass of Côte du Rhône…’

  ‘You French … you’re bloody unfathomable’

  LES TOURTOUS

  Buckwheat (sarrazin) Flour Crêpes

  Ingredients

  1 kg of buckwheat flour

  2 litres of warm water

  ¼ litre of milk

  2 pinches of rock salt

  A large nut of baker’s yeast (available from bakeries)

  Preparation

  Dissolve the yeast in a warm glass of water and add the salt

  Put the flour in a bowl and add the tepid water slowly, mixing the paste with a wooden spoon. When ready, the mixture should be a like a pancake mix but not too soft or runny.

  Leave the crêpe mixture to rest in a warm room for at least 2 hours or until it has doubled in size. The mixture is ready when little bubbles appear at the surface.

  Take a large pancake skillet or pan, preferably cast iron, and oil it. Cook the tourtous as you would any other crêpe.

  Please note:

  The pan or skillet must be hot but not to the point of smoking. Also this mixture is stickier than a normal crêpe mixture, so you should spread it around the pan as quickly as possible, so as to not let it stick.

  As these type of crêpes are darker and more on the savoury side, they lend themselves to heavier dishes rather than sweet desserts.

  My favourite ways of serving Les Tourtous

  Cold- with a rillettes or paté (goose, duck or pork). Rolled and cut into little, cigarette lengths.

  Warm – with homemade jam or chestnut paste

  As an accompaniment to a dish with a rich sauce (instead of bread) With soft cream cheeses, melted Cabecous (goat’s cheeses) or fromage blanc

  A Corrèzien specialty is to crack a fresh, free-range egg into the centre of the tortous whilst still cooking, so that egg cooks through. You then flip the sides of the tourtous inwards, towards the egg, forming an exterior square. Lastly sprinkle a little grated Swiss Emental cheese on top. This is a popular light lunch and is often served in local restaurants.

  Jean’s personal favourite:

  A warm tortous rolled around a chunky pork sausage with Dijon Mustard.

  Ginette’s speciality

  TARTE AUX NOIX

  Walnut Tart

  Ingredients

  Pastry

  200g of wholemeal flour

  80g of butter

  50g raw sugar

  Filling

  250g Crème fraiche (available in most supermarkets) 200g of crushed walnuts

  50 -70g of raw sugar

  A pinch of cinnamon powder

  Preparation

  Mix the flour, butter and sugar with your fingertips. Add a pinch of salt and a little water, mixing until dough if formed.
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  Leave the dough to sit 1-2 hours, then roll it and place into a 24cm round baking tin, which has been greased and floured.

  Pour the cream into a large mixing bowl, adding the sugar, walnuts and cinnamon powder. Mix together then place mixture evenly over pastry in baking dish.

  Bake for 40 minutes in a moderate oven (180degrees)

  This tart lasts well for 2 to 3 days and even better the day after cooking.

  Serve with thickened cream to taste.

  Don’t forget, as Ginette would say, the cream makes it lighter.

  Bon Apetit!

  CHAPTER 5

  The Man Who Never Was

  By our second year of operation, I had grown so comfortable in my own shoes, that even the most disagreeable, obnoxious or opinionated of guests couldn’t ruffle my tail feathers. Please, don’t misunderstand me. They are, thank God … few and far between but every now and then, these rare examples of human existence are thrust into your presence, through no fault of your own.

  One deliciously warm, July evening we awaited the arrival of our final guests for the weekend. Having eaten earlier, we were relaxing happily on the sofa, a glass of chilled Côte de Provence in hand, when we heard a knock at our lounge room door. Thinking it one of our current guests, I rushed to the door, only to find a complete stranger glaring from behind the glass panels.

  ‘Bonsoir Monsieur. How can I help you?’

  A tall, swarthy man stood planted in my entrance hall, an air of steely determination in his stance.

  ‘Bonsoir Madame. Je m’apelle Monsieur Pichon. (I am Monsieur Pichon). I have rezerved zee room for my wife, daughter and myself for two nights.’

  ‘Yes, of course Monsieur Pichon, Bonsoir … I was just surprised to see you inside the house. I didn’t hear the doorbell ring.’

  ‘It didn’t. Zee door was unlocked, so I came in.’

  ‘Right … I see … Well, that’s fine,’ I said, a little rattled. ‘Please, let me show you to your room. Are your wife and daughter here?’

  ‘Yes I’ll just fetch zem now,’ he replied, running downstairs to his car, where his family sat waiting patiently.

  ‘Oh, here you are,’ I said as he entered, wife and daughter in tow. ‘Bonsoir Madame, Mademoiselle. Bienvenue à Treignac. (Welcome to Treignac).’

  ‘Bonsoir Madame,’ the bedraggled, little woman replied, no sign of delight on her deeply tanned face. Her child was solemn and grey, her dark eyes fatigued and circled.

  ‘Please follow me,’ I indicated to the morbidly dull threesome, as I mounted the stairs to the upper level suites.

  Everything seemed to go well enough. They appeared satisfied with their accommodation, though their mundane expressions were difficult to interpret. I hence, explained the breakfast arrangements, handed them their keys, and bid them a warm goodnight, hoping their mood would lift after a good night’s slumber.

  ‘It was the Pichon family … they’re an odd lot,’ I said to Jean on my return.

  ‘Here, Chérie, have a glass of wine. Everyone’s here now, you can relax,’ he said, as he cuddled up to me on the leather sofa.

  ‘Phew! Thank heavens for that,’ I replied, kissing him tenderly.

  It had been a difficult summer for me so far. My physical being was still learning to cope with the daily routine of rising early and retiring late. It took all the strength I could muster, some days, just to make the beds. I had even resulted to crawling on hands and knees to finish my chores some days. Jean was a treasure, helping me as much as he could, though his working hours often didn’t teeup with mine. Life wasn’t perfect quite yet, but it was improving day by day. That was, until this evening.

  Moments later, having finally settled in for the evening movie, a rattling at the dining room door, again interrupted us.

  ‘Who could that be this time?’ I grumbled, as I shuffled to the door.

  To my surprise, it was the swarthy Monsieur Pichon, his wooden expression peering at me through the glass panes.

  ‘Yes, Monsieur Pichon. How can I help you this time?’

  ‘I’ve come to watch zee football on zee television,’ he replied directly.

  ‘I’m sorry. What exactly do you mean?’ I replied bewildered.

  ‘Zee television. I have come to watch zee television. Zere is zee big match tonight. It is allowed, non?’

  ‘No … not really. I’m afraid this is our private lounge room, Monsieur Pichon.’

  ‘So you are not going to allow me into your lounge room?’ he asked, a threatening edge in his tone.

  ‘I’m sorry Monsieur Pichon, if you have misunderstood the arrangements here, but as a Bed and Breakfast, we are welcoming you into our home, yes that’s true. However we do have rooms that are for our personal use only. At night, we require a little privacy after a long day. I’m sure you understand,’ I explained gently, with a smile.

  With that, Monsieur Pichon thrust a copy of the ‘Gîtes de France -Bed and Breakfast guide to France’ under my nose. He had hidden it behind his back, prior to this, in stealthy anticipation. He cleared his throat then proceeded to quote a phrase from the back cover.

  ‘I quote, You will be welcomed into a family home, where you will be received as one of the family… etcetera, etcetera and so forth,’ he read. When finished, he looked me straight in the eye and questioned, ‘So, you will not receive me like one of your family?’

  ‘Monsieur Pichon, I have welcomed you as I welcome all my guests. You are more than welcome in our home, but I must insist on keeping a certain amount of privacy. Our facilities are all well documented within the guidebook, if you would just allow me …,’ I persisted, incredulous of his hostilities.

  ‘So, you are not keeping to the rules?’

  ‘Yes, I can assure you I am adhering to every rule in the book,’ I replied, my blood pressure on the boil. This man was undoubtedly the most obnoxious individual I had the displeasure of dealing with.

  ‘I will report you for this!’ he exclaimed. ‘You are not welcoming me like you should, and I won’t have it!’

  By this stage, Jean had become suspicious of my prolonged absence and having overheard raised voices, arrived by my side, to Monsieur Pichon’s dismay and complete surprise.

  ‘Is there a problem, Chérie?’ he asked, glaring poker faced into the eyes of the indignant Monsieur Pichon.

  ‘Well, darling, Monsieur Pichon isn’t exactly happy because I won’t let him watch TV with us,’ I replied smiling. ‘I have tried to explain the situation to him, but he doesn’t want to understand.’

  ‘He what?’ A hot-pink tinge was rising above Jean’s shirt collar.

  ‘Monsieur, your wife has not welcomed me, as she should. She will not welcome me as one of the family,’ Monsieur Pichon declared indignantly.

  ‘Monsieur Pichon, my wife is the sweetest and most welcoming individual I know … unlike myself. I do not believe for one moment, that you have not been greeted, as you should.’

  With that, the now red-faced Monsieur Pichon proceeded to wave the back cover of the now infamous guidebook under my husband’s nose for inspection.

  This was a major error in the making.

  ‘Look. Here,’ he said, his finger tapping impatiently at the cover. ‘It says …,’ he tried to continue but was abruptly interrupted by Jean, who was quickly burning his short, French fuse.

  ‘Ecoutez Monsieur Pichon, if you are not happy with the welcome you’ve received, I suggest you leave … NOW!’ he shouted, kicking off his cotton espadrilles in readiness for a physical battle if necessary.

  My hero!

  ‘Monsieur Raoul, we have reserved for two nights in your establishment.’

  ‘I couldn’t care less if you’d reserved three rooms for a month. You’ll just have to find somewhere else, won’t you? Goodnight and Adieu!’ Jean replied out loud; standing his ground with fists now firmly planted on hips. In my mind, Monsieur would be wise to back off, as I could clearly envisage Jean snapping at any moment and slapping Monsieur Pich
on squarely across his swarthy and less-attractive-by-the-minute visage (face).

  ‘Bien, but you will hear about this!’ Monsieur Pichon replied, a look of utter shock on his face, I will write letters to all the appropriate authorities.’

  ‘Very well Monsieur Pichon,’ I said sweetly, ‘Write to whomever you wish, I’m not that concerned. Now I suggest you fetch you wife and child, and leave before my husband really loses his temper and throws you out.’

  Jean walked away in disgust, perhaps a little dismayed by his opponent’s lack of gusto. ‘Well…ça alors!’ he shouted aghast, then mumbled numerous, French obscenities beneath his breath as he ran up the stairs to his room.

  I waited in the entrance hall, now keen to see him leave, although I admit feeling rather sorry for his desperately timid wife and tired child. They trudged down the stairs, their unpacked suitcases in hand. Monsieur Pichon never looked my way as he angrily banged his suitcases against the entrance walls, but his petit spouse glanced back at me as she followed him through the entrance door.

  ‘Je suis désolée Madame (I’m sorry Madame),’ she murmured timidly, a mask of pure embarrassment and resignation on her face.

  She’s sadly accustomed to this, I thought, the poor, pitiful individual. How many times had she been ejected from hotels or other establishments through the sheer, stubborn stupidity of her spouse?

  As I heard the screech of car tyres depart from the square, I shook my head in disbelief and disappointment.

  It was a rare occasion that we felt obliged to evict guests from our home. Rare, but it occurred, none the less. It is a pathetic situation, when someone makes such a nuisance of themselves, that you feel impelled to throw them to the gutter. I’m a diplomat not a fighter but I won’t tolerate bullies or fools, and my feisty, French husband, even less. Our eight years spent in the realms of service to others, was tiresome at times, hideous at others but at the close of the day, was enthralling and memorable.

  We made wonderful friends over the years, with many of our hôtes (guests) and many have welcomed us into their homes, on our pleasurable jaunts throughout France. The intimate exchange of space and personality experienced in the realms of a Bed and Breakfast creates a particularly fragile situation, which not everyone can enjoy or understand. But, when you finally ‘click’ with a perfect stranger over the breakfast table, it is a rewarding and priceless experience, the memory of which remains solidly imprinted in the corridors of your mind.