Ma Folie Française (My French Folly) Page 7
I’m drawn to attractive people. I am a self confessed aesthete and have always been blessed withespecially handsome boyfriends. It’s not a vanity thing, it’s just who I am. I am drawn to all things visually pleasing and I love to surround myself with them, in all their possible forms. My own genetically mixed heritage, has favoured me with a certain curvaceous, olive skinned, dark eyed sensuality, which I suppose some people find attractive. I don’t regard it as beauty myself, but I have never lacked male attention, so something must be in the right place.
Due to my personal, deep-seated attraction, the majority of friends we have made since our arrival, are in general a handsome lot. Perhaps it’s fate. Perhaps the French are just a good-looking race in my estimation. I can’t tell you for sure, but they intrigue and stimulate me, both physically and mentally. They regard themselves as modern-day philosophers and I find their need to intellectualise everything strangely amusing, though at times a soupçon annoying.
Our first, true friend here in Corrèze, is as handsome as any ‘Vogue’ couture mannequin. His name is Thibault and as legend reveals he was once affectionately mugged, whilst strolling down Rodeo Drive in Los Angeles, by a swarm of confused, over zealous, teenage girls. I’m not surprised, as I’d equally mistake him for some sex God of the silver screen, given his physical credentials.
Apart from his pronounced corporeal merits and licentious lifestyle, he has an endearing heart of gold. He has taken us under his proverbial wing as his new pet project. Help the foreigners settle in. Make friends and influence people. He’s actually a teacher of sorts by profession, but could have easily succeeded as a tennis pro, elite sportsman or financially successful, international gigolo.
If I thought Jean was the epitome of charm, then Thibault must have written the official manual of ‘Charms and Sexual Spells’. Sexual prowess oozes from every pore of his well-toned physique. His every word pours sensually from his cushion-like pink lips and his body moves with such sexual aplomb that women swoon as he nonchalantly passes them by. He is the walking, breathing dictionary definition of pheromone. You’d swear he bathed in the stuff.
Mothers lock up your daughters and gay men padlock your lovers, when Thibaut is in town. His allure is without boundaries. You can’t help but fall for his indefinable charisma, as several of our female acquaintances have admitted to us. He has wounded many a heart but remains so adorable in his flagrancy, that the women still pine for him, regardless of his sweet disregard for them.
He is probably one of the world’s finest flirts and I have suffered from his attentions myself on several occasions. Thank God, that I’m married to one of the most trusting husbands on the planet, who believes that jealousy creates bad karma, otherwise I’d really be in strife.
Besides, Jean was always a terrible flirt when we first met, so he can hardly complain about a fellow countryman acting in the same manner.
In fact, he and Thibault were both born under the same sign of the Zodiac. Now why doesn’t that surprise me? Peas in the proverbial, astrological pod.
I am attracted to naughty men, the very ones that your mother warns you to be aware of and your father takes his shotgun to. They’re so much more fun and I enjoy a challenge, otherwise I wouldn’t be here, living in a foreign country, would I?
Thibault has twin brothers, just slightly younger than himself and a group of close friends, who are an eclectic bunch of bohemian country folk and elite urbanites. The urban dwellers choose to holiday in their inherited country homes whenever suffering from an over consumption of Parisian smog. The common denominator, this often-mismatched group of people share, is an insatiable love of gourmet foods, fine wines, elite sports and the occasional, casual, weekend dalliance.
Our tennis weekends, which take place at a particular Parisian’s lavish, country enclave, could well be described as an episode of the ‘Bold and the Beautiful’, rather than an innocent Sunday interlude.
In a picture perfect, pastoral setting sits this extensive holiday retreat where gorgeous, well-attired players attempt to out-serve each other on the tennis court, while even more gorgeous individuals discover each other’s scantily clad physiques in the hot tub or steamy sauna. There’s a lot of primping and oiling of bodies and an almost tangible, sexual tension rests over the entire estate. Who’ll end up with whom by the end of the evening, is the question on everyone’s well-balmed lips.
I breathe the air of expectancy with palpable fervour. It’s all too much fun and even if I’m not to partake in the weekend’s irreverent festivities; I enjoy every moment of the spectacle.
Of course, Thibault is seldom alone and is in constant pursuit of his next ‘acquisition’. An excessive amount of whispering in corners takes place as does nodding of heads and secretive winks. No wonder Marcel Marceau was French. They’re all incredibly adept at passing on discrete messages without the use of any spoken language. Masters of mime and sign language. I thought the Italians were clever, but the French have refined the art in the most delicate and sensual of methods. Once you have discovered its subtleties, only then do you become part of this secret society.
I thought I had to master the French language when I first arrived here; I had no idea I would have to master an underlying language of subtle gesture and innuendo. Thankfully, as the foreigner amongst them, I am not expected to understand and pleasurably, can feign ignorance when asked that trifle too delicate a question. You have to realise, that the fact that I am married holds no sway with the common, garden variety of Frenchman. If he likes you, he lets you know in no uncertain terms. He is charming and attentive, but he is also very direct and has never learnt that fine Australian art of beating around the bush or hiding behind a group of mates.
Fortunately, having celebrated my sixteenth Birthday year in Rome, I am au fait with European flirtation and don’t find this offensive. It’s disarming and causes harmless embarrassment at times, but in its entirety is extremely positive. Never will your female ego reach such dizzying heights, as it will in France. I’ve never felt so sexy or so appealing to the opposite sex as I have here. It’s extremely refreshing and very exhilarating.
France is a bastion of female worship in this modern, male dominated world. A place where the male of the species, does not, at any time feel emasculated by his evident reverence for the opposite sex. You’ll never find a Frenchman huddled with his mates by the bar, if there are attractive women present and available. The only times I’ve ever noticed a blatant disregard towards female presence, were during the ever important rugby or soccer matches, where they were too busy showing off their he-man side or during an intensive game of post-luncheon cards, where total, undisturbed concentration is called upon.
Regretfully, there are exceptions to the rule, but who cares?
It’s true that you’ll inevitably spend more time indoors during the icier months, but the chillier temperatures outdoors don’t necessary mean your temperature won’t rise.
There are, of course, those wonderful, crystal skied days spent rugged in cashmere coats and padded gloves, rolling down virginal, white slopes and slipping across wooded, mountain trails on Nordic skis. Countless are the times I have spent on my backside, helpless and laughing uncontrollably at my complete physical inability to regain the upright position without contorting myself into painful knots. Once my bottom and my ego had experienced enough distress, it was then time to seek refuge in one of our favourite mountain hideouts.
Après neige, my favourite part of the whole winter experience, was spent huddled by the blazing open cantou of a rustic, mountain chalet, sipping on liquor laden hot chocolates, made to age-old recipes by the loving hands of apron-clad ladies in their country kitchens. These were authentic hot chocolates melted slowly over a gas flame. Not the artificial, sugar laden rubbish they try to pass as cocoa powder these days. My nose and eyes glisten and my cheeks turn incandescent from the effect of the potent liquid and the gentle glow of the crackling hearth. The steady rhythm of the resident Gr
and-mère’s knitting needles enhance the soothing effect of the beverage and we are soon lulled into a quasi-soporific state.
My winters spent in France, are truly some of the warmest I have ever encountered and my nostalgia for these wondrous, indulgent days and cosy fireside nights will surely fill me with a secret, inner glow for years to come.
My favourite dessert recipe of all time, and a local speciality, cooked to order in many Corrèzien restaurants.
TARTE TATIN
Ingredients
Short crust Pastry
6 golden delicious apples or similar
30gr white castor sugar
30gr soft butter
30gr brown sugar
Juice of one lemon
Preparation
Preheat the oven to 175c
Lightly butter the tart tin or baking dish
Peel and core the apples, halve then slice into fine sections
Meanwhile, prepare a liquid caramel by melting the castor sugar, lemon juice and butter in a pan. Add a little water if necessary.
When caramel is bubbling and has turned into a golden brown remove from heat and pour into the tart tin.
Lay the apple slices in concentric circles around the pan, layer upon layer until well packed. Leave no spaces or holes.
Sprinkle half the brown sugar over the apples
Place the pastry over the apples and press firmly around the edges leaving no gaps.
Bake for 20 minutes then allow to cool slightly.
Gently flip the tart onto a serving platter uncovering the caramelised underside.
Sprinkle the remaining brown sugar over the top
Serve with a good vanilla ice cream or whipped cream to taste.
This is truly one of the most delicious dishes you’ll ever make.
Its origin stems from the tales of two young women, the Tatin sisters. They were well known cooks and ran a little restaurant in La-Motte-Beuvron, not far from Paris. One day, one of the sisters made the error of forgetting to place the pastry under the apples, when baking a classic apple tart. She experimented by placing the pastry on top and thereby creating, the famous, Tarte Tatin.
CHAPTER 8
Brassiere Buying in Brive-la-Gaillarde
As every woman knows, buying a new bra is an essentially, important event at any time of the year. I could have never, in my wildest dreams have conjured the events, which took place on this particular pre-Spring shop. It was destined to be the most memorable yet. At no time in the past, had I purchased such an important item of intimate apparel, in a non-English speaking country and I decided this was the moment to call on some feminine, moral support. Luckily for me, my English girlfriend Liz was in town. Liz was married to an eloquent and highly intellectual, Cambridge scholar. He was profoundly passionate about France and the joie de vivre lifestyle it offered them, away from their Derbyshire farm and its copious fields of mud and winter sleet. They were to move here more permanently, once their UK finances and adult children were in order.
In the meantime, they spent a good six months each year in their charming, sixteenth century home on Place de L’église, sandwiched between their cat loving voisine (neighbour) and the village’s Catholic church. Their three-story residence lurched aloft the icy waters of the jagged Vezère River and its Ancien Pont (ancient bridge). We enjoyed many a boisterous soirée in their company, catching up on juicy village gossip over countless glasses of Bordeaux wine and some rather odorous, local cheeses, which Albert in particular devoured with gusto.
Liz was bashful by nature and due to the fact that her knowledge of French was desperately lacking, she avoided too many outings on her own. She was a bright, intelligent woman with a long-suffering patience that astounded me. Her dear husband, Albert, appeared to overwhelm her at times and kept Liz constantly busy, as he strived to obtain, la belle vie en France. There was a military-like correctness to his character, which made it undeniably obvious why he made such a successful college Dean. However, find Albert after a few red wine and tonics, which he loved to our greatest dismay, and he was as gentle and accommodating as the proverbial teddy bear. He is the only man I know that knits better than most women and is a genius at creating his own patterns from scratch.
When I suggested an entire, girl’s day out in Brive-la-Gaillarde, Liz was quick to jump at the chance, leaving Albert to retire to the attic with his knitting needles and best friends Wagner and Mozart.
I explained the chief purpose of our little trip and she blushed at the prospect of being dragged through a myriad of French lingerie boutiques. I convinced her that I needed no physical help, just good, old-fashioned moral support. I’ve always found bra shopping unnerving. I’ve never enjoyed the persistent, eagerness of the shop assistants in their attempt to fit you personally, whilst fiddling with your wobbly bits. I’d rather choose who does or doesn’t get access to my wobbly bits, if you don’t mind!
I know they’re just trying to be helpful, but I would prefer if they just left that part of the process up to me. I’m a grown woman and I feel perfectly capable of fitting my own bra, thank you very much.
I prayed to God, that French shop assistants were not as eager to please as the ones back home. Perhaps they’ll remain pleasantly aloof, I hoped, as we approached the elegant façade of Frou-frou Désire – Lingerie Feminine located in the main pedestrian thoroughfare, of the cobble-stoned city centre.
‘We’re here,’ I declared cheerily, as we stood admiring the frilly, pastel knickers in the window display. ‘A neighbour told me that this was the best shop in town.’
‘Will I come in with you?’ Liz asked timidly.
‘Please … I need the company. You don’t need to say anything. Just look at all the pretty things and I’ll try to be quick.’
‘Okay,’ she replied. ‘That sounds painless enough.’
We both took a deep breath as we entered the lavishly stocked realm of delicately-fine silks and intricate, frothy laces. It bore the most sumptuous plethora of intimate garments that Liz or I had ever had the pleasure to admire, and the Chanel scented interior reeked of elegance and expensive taste. I was glad to have the use of my recently acquired, French credit card as I felt a substantial spend looming.
Thankfully, the boutique was relatively empty and the sales lady was otherwise occupied with another customer. Our only remorse, on further inspection, was that this particular client had apparently decided she also needed moral support, but had done so by bringing along her husband. That’s all I need, I thought, a bloody man in the lingerie shop. Why couldn’t he pace the pavements, smoke a Gaulloise or sit in a café with his Pastis, like a real bloke?
Oh well, never mind. We are in France and that’s obviously what happens here. Husbands assist their wives in the purchase of intimate apparel. I just hope they don’t assist them with the trying on bit. I’m extremely open minded, but I don’t think I could bear that. I could see from Liz’s expression, that she was imagining exactly the same scenario as me; her cheeks flushing to a brighter shade of crimson.
‘Bonjour Mesdames. Puis-je vous aider? (Good day ladies, may I help you?)’ asked the rather proper and perfectly attired Madame.
‘Oh, er … Oui,’ I stuttered, taken by surprise. ‘Je cherche un soutien gorge, s’il vous plâit. (I’m looking for a bra, thank you.)’
‘Soutien gorge’ is the French translation for bra. It’s a weird term, isn’t it? Neither the English or French words hold any true meaning when it comes to their genuine purpose. Bra or brassière doesn’t explain a thing and the words, Soutien gorge, literally mean, something holding up your throat. It’s preposterous really, especially in my case, where it serves to hold up, a hell of a lot more than my throat.
The sculpturally coiffed Madame, led me towards a rack of deliciously seductive ensembles, all pitifully small and desperately lacking in support of any description. These ‘barely there’ morsels of silken finery were made for more delicately formed creatures than I.
�
�I don’t think so Madame. They’re truly beautiful … but I don’t think they’re my size,’ I replied nervously.
‘What iz your size, Madame?’ she asked, staring awkwardly at my camouflaged bosom.
‘I take a 12DD in Australian sizing,’ I replied. ‘I suppose that’s about a 42DD in France.’
‘Bon! (Well!)’ she replied, a look of mild irritation on her face, ‘I don’t have a great choice in zat size I’m afraid. They will not be in pretty colours.’
I had imagined as much. I mean, have you ever noticed how petite and small-breasted the average French woman is? It’s a national disgrace. Yes, I know… that’s just green-eyed jealousy talking. I really wish I could fit into all this gloriously flimsy, paraphernalia but I’m destined to the under-wired, lift and separate–whilst minimising when possible–breed of apparel.
Madame the shopkeeper consequently led me to the fitting room at the rear of the boutique with two, nondescript, cream models in tow.
‘Voilà Madame, perhaps you would like to try these to start?’ she gestured, pulling back the satin curtain of the fitting room and handing me two cream-coloured items.
‘Merci,’ I replied, pulling sharply on the shimmering fabric, carefully blocking the entrance to my private little sanctum.
After minutes of pulling and prodding, stretching and straining, I realised that the French DD was not as generous as its Anglo cousin. How humiliating. I couldn’t possibly ask for an E. It would be unheard of in provincial France, for certain. I could see it now … Madame the panty- seller, gossiping with her petite, triple A cup, Bourgeois girlfriends, over the mammoth sized tits of the young, brown-eyed foreigner.