A French Farmhouse Feast.

We lived in France for many years, initially in the Loire Valley and later close to the Mediterranean in the sunny South-West.

In the first weeks following our arrival in France, life had been far from easy. Having decided to undertake the restoration of a vast Maison de Maitre in the Loire Valley, a mile or more from any neighbours, we had soon become familiar with local builders’ yards, but had not yet made contact with any of the locals. This was all to change with the arrival in our life of the redoubtable Joel one cloudy morning as it began to drizzle with rain. In his mid-sixties, short of stature but as strong as a pit pony, he’d walked along, peering curiously at the new arrivals while leading a placid cow by a rope halter. Hitching the soft-eyed animal to the gate post, he walked inside, introduced himself, and without another word set to helping me move about sixty sacks of cement into the barn and out of the rain.

Chatting away as we worked, he told me he’d been born on a small farm nearby, had never been more than twenty miles away from the place of his birth in his life, and that we must come and visit for a meal the following evening. The matter was settled, there and then.

The following evening, Joel greeted us at the door, wearing his very best cap, tipped roguishly over one eye, closely followed by Marie, scurrying along from the kitchen. Following the usual round of kisses and handshakes, it was down to serious business, with our host offering a bewildering choice of aperitifs. Pastis, of course, the universal stand-by appropriate to all occasions and times of day, and bottle after bottle ranged in serried ranks on the sideboard. Pineau-des Charentes, a delicious blend of two parts cognac to one part grape-juice, and Suze, a greenish-yellow drink based on gentian, very sweet with a bitter after-taste. Personally, I find it disgusting, but it has its admirers. I noted bottles of Muscat, Épine-Noire, made to Joel’s special recipe, and Vin-de-noix, a similar concoction but substituting walnuts for the blackthorn shoots. There were many others, all made on the farm from traditional recipes. We played safe and decided on Pineau-des Charentes.

I was not at all surprised to note the splendour of our surroundings as Joel had already assured me, despite my protestations, that his wife would have made a special effort on our behalf. A gleaming linen cloth covered the huge table, laid with the very best china plates, and napkins arranged in the shape of an open fan.

“Like Maxims”, I said, and Joel beamed. Neither of us have dined at the famous Parisien restaurant, or are ever likely to do so in the future, but the compliment was perceived as such, and Marie’s efforts seen to have been appreciated.

We took our seats while Joel poured a glass of Kir for each person; white wine mixed with a small quantity of crême de cassis. The name originated with a hero of the French Resistance and former mayor of Dijon, Canon Kir and is a traditional opener to a meal with friends. We all touched our glasses together.

“Santé”, Marie said in her soft voice and we toasted each other’s continued good health.

Joel asked me to teach him an English toast. “Bottoms-up”, I responded, raising my glass in salutation.

“Bottoms-up”, replied Joel, roaring with laughter and choking on his wine. Marie smiled indulgently, whisking an imaginary crumb from the spot-less tablecloth. We had already appreciated her limitless patience to be a necessary virtue, as Joel would try the patience of a dozen saints.

We sat chatting for the next twenty minutes or so. This leisurely approach to dining was alien at first. We were accustomed, from living in England, to spend not much more than an hour and a half over a meal of this nature. The French will probably take twice as long, allowing ample time to savour the food and wine to the full. Each course will be discussed in detail, and the accompanying wines given the attention and appreciation they deserve.

While Joel told Maureen an interminable vulgar story, of which, fortunately perhaps, she understood no more than one word in ten, I took the opportunity to admire the table setting. Wineglasses, three to each person, were arranged in a straight line above the plate. As is usual practise, no side plates were provided, but this is where the napkin comes into play, bread being placed directly on the cloth. The very best cutlery had been laid out, forks placed with the points facing down. It is considered unlucky for the points to face upwards.

Marie appeared with a steaming bowl containing a delicious leek, potato and spinach soup. Wine is never served with a soup course, except at the very end, when we were offered half a glass to add to the last few drops of soup remaining in our bowl. This old custom, known as Faire le Chabrout, involves raising the bowl to the lips and drinking the wine-laden dregs. Joel assured us that it was also customary to wipe one’s mouth with the back of a hand, and demonstrated as much, roaring with laughter when we declined to follow his example. Marie chided him gently, but had to smile at his affectation of innocence, eyes rolling, with all the skills of a natural clown.

Marie removed the soup bowls from the table, and returned with small finger bowls, hot water and a slice of lemon. Waste is un-heard-of in this house, and bones will be picked up with fingers to remove all traces of the meat.

The next offering was a mini-course; radishes served with sea-salt and creamy yellow butter. Picked fresh from the garden, washed, and served with the green fronds still attached. The radish is picked up by the fronds, then dipped in turn into butter and salt before eating. The humble radish is widely prized in this region, and serving it in this fashion, as a complete course, elevates it to a position it deserves. Like all vegetables, it is at its best when served absolutely fresh, these radishes were still in the ground ten minutes ago, Marie having slipped outside to pick them, and given them a quick wash, while we were finishing the last of the soup. Her energy was astonishing, always on the move and absolutely in her element this evening with dinner guests to pamper and spoil. Maureen made several offers of assistance, only to be gently reminded that she was a guest, and should remain in her seat. Joel told us, with obvious pride, that his wife enjoyed entertaining guests and all the work involved more than anything else. Marie confirmed this was the case. “C’est ma fantaisie”, she whispered modestly and fled in embarrassment to the kitchen.

Joel said that we were not having a fish course, meaning that we would be expected to retain our plates and cutlery for the remaining courses. Normal practise is to scrub one’s plate with a chunk of bread, ready to move on to the next course. A fish course would, of course, involve changing both plates and cutlery.

The next part of the meal was a surprise. Not the food itself, fresh juicy Charentais melons with their deep apricot-coloured flesh, but by Joel and Marie dipping their melon into a saucer of sea-salt before each mouthful. Noting our hosts’ obvious enjoyment, we followed their example, but soon realised that this taste was one we had yet to acquire. We prefer our melon au naturel.

A further break for conversation, with Joel taking centre-stage as usual, arms waving wildly as he told his stories, to gales of laughter around the table. Then, the highlight of the evening, the main course.

I already had a broad hint of what to expect as  the aroma seeping through from the kitchen was unmistakable. “Poulet  roti a l’ail”, Maureen whispered and so it was. Chicken, cooked with 40 cloves of garlic. 40 cloves seem to be the magic number for this dish, although I am told that the actual number of cloves does not have to be that specific. This is Marie’s specialité, and was greeted with acclamation as our taste-buds switched into over-drive. The rich blend of tender chicken, garlic, olive oil and white wine, was a magnificent feast.

The sheer number of garlic cloves would have appeared extravagant in England, but garlic is one of the essential plants in a French kitchen garden. It is easy and cheap to grow, and Marie would plant enough to last the whole year. The forty cloves of garlic in no way dominate the scent or taste of the dish.  The whole garlic cloves are absorbed into the meat, along with the wine, tenderising the flesh of the chicken and enriching the accompanying sauce.  Served with a simple green salad, the finger bowls were much in evidence and conversation around the table died down as the delicious food demanded our entire concentration.

Joel wiped the last morsel from his plate, and, pushing his chair slightly away from the table, stretched out his legs with a great sigh of satisfaction.  “Magnifique”, he said, quite simply and with the utmost sincerity.  Marie blushed with pleasure as we raised our voices in a chorus of approval.  “It’s nothing”, she said shyly, modest as always.

Dishes of vegetables followed, each with a generous knob of butter, and served separately from the meat in order to savour each dish to the full.  Young, tender green beans, baby shallots, white waxy potatoes and a vegetable described as cardons, looking rather like turbo charged celery served with a crème fraiche sauce, and completely unfamiliar to me, but grown by Marie in her kitchen garden.

The potatoes, in particular, were magnificent.  Smooth and waxy boiled in their skins, small, tender and of eccentric shape.  Marie told me that they were rattes, her particular favourite.  This variety is somewhat scarce and stocks are very soon snapped up when they appear in the market.  Joel described the scenes around the market stall as being reminiscent of a rugby scrum, but with the participants being sturdy French housewives.  These particular specimens were products of his own garden, as he has obtained enough seed potatoes to grow half a dozen rows of this delightful variety.    Marie hurried to and fro, fetching fresh supplies of bread, water, whatever her guests needed.  We protested in vain, that she should remain seated and enjoy the meal with us, but she told me firmly that she was enjoying herself, patting each of us as she passed, pleased with the success of the meal, a worthy testament to her efforts and skill.

Almost everything we ate or drank during the evening had been produced on the farm. Although our hosts are very far from wealthy, their diet of meat, fresh vegetables, fruit, herbs and dairy produce is second to none. Fresh food is the norm, with almost no tinned or “convenience food” in evidence. The farm supports a wide range of animals, cows, sheep, goats, ducks, geese, chickens, pintades or guinea-fowl wonderful at killing snakes and better than a dozen burglar-alarms, turkeys, rabbits, and two pigs. Joel has enough vines for his own use throughout the year, and half a dozen beehives, his daughter’s hobby.  Giselle, the daughter, lives with a young man in the town.  Marie hopes she will get married, but she has not, as yet, announced any plans.

By this time, four empty wine bottles stood at the end of the table. Joel pantomimed the plight of a man dying of thirst and trotted off to replenish the stocks.  He returned with two bottles of his best wine, a Chinon Rouge, and a bottle of Cahors, the rich dark wine from the Midi.  Setting the bottles in the centre of the table, he praised their qualities in fulsome terms.  Never one to understate his own offerings, he told me that he had saved both bottles for a special occasion, and that they would be “formidable, avec du fromage.”

He was absolutely right.  The cheese was superb and wonderfully complemented by the wine.  Cheese has a high prominence in the order of a French meal.  Rather than tagged on at the end of a meal, almost as an after-thought, as is the usual case in England, it is always offered as part of the meal, forming a natural bridge between the main course and the following dessert.  A knife and fork are all that is provided as accompaniment, together with red wine.  Bread may occasionally be provided, but never with butter, and crackers are virtually unknown.

The cheese was simply superb. Two different cheeses, both made on the farm, were offered, but served in such a way as to provide an incredible range of tastes and flavours. First, goats’ cheese made in the traditional shape reminiscent of Crottins de Chavignol. The shape can be imagined from a translation of Crottins, the most polite version being “horse droppings”. Then, a cheese apparently unique to the farm as I have never seen any like it elsewhere made from either cow or goat’s milk, or a combination of both.  We had the combination, shaped like a fat cigar covered with a dusky rind.

Using these two different cheeses, a selection of each was offered at different stages of it’s life, ranging from fresh creamy young cheese to a hard strong variety, matured for a considerable period of time.  My plate contained six slices of each cheese.  Each slice was taken from a cheese at a different stage of maturity.   Joel told me to eat the slices in a particular order, working clockwise around the plate, starting with slices of fresh cheese, very smooth and creamy and progressing to the most mature.  By the end I was enjoying cheese at its most magnificent, firm, strong and wonderfully pungent.  Only two varieties, but a dozen different tastes and textures, accompanied by strong red wine and a stiff jelly of apple and some other ingredient which baffled me completely.  “What is this, apple and something?”  I asked.

“Cotignac”, replied Marie which was no help at all as the word was unfamiliar.  She repeated it and that of the mystery ingredient several times, but still I did not understand.  Joel excused himself, returning shortly with an example of the fruit, picked fresh from the tree.  Its velvety texture was un-mistakable.  “Oh, of course”, I said, “Quince”.

“Coing”, Joel corrected firmly, and another useful word was added to my vocabulary.

Joel enjoyed his wine to such an extent that he decided it was time for a song.  I must confess being tone deaf, completely unable to carry a tune, and, probably, the worlds’ worst singer.  Joel was to make me sound like Pavarotti.  The absence of any musical talent left him completely un-fazed, making up for his obvious deficiencies with an overdose of enthusiasm.  Bellowing some obscure ditty, humming to replace any words he did not remember, of which there were many, this was a tour de force. Maureen and Marie had tears in their eyes and my ribs ached with laughter as Joel entertained us with a song which involved his little finger protruding from the fly buttons of his trousers, while dancing around the room.

None of us were willing to follow such a performance, until Marie allowed herself to be persuaded, singing a haunting ballad that reduced us to an awed silence. She has the voice of an angel, and, after the song ended, there was no way I would attempt to follow it with one of my poor efforts.  Under duress, Maureen and I eventually performed a duet, featuring a medley of  “My old man’s a dustman”, and “Yesterday”.  Joel sang along throughout, despite not knowing a single word, helping to distract attention from our woeful performance.

We had reached the stage, aided by the amount of wine consumed during the meal, where language difficulties were irrelevant.  Even Maureen, whose command of the language was rudimentary in those early days, took a full part in the lively conversation, aided by her creative use of gestures.

Dessert was served, together with chilled bottles of Coteaux du Layon,  sweet wine of a type which translates as “luscious”.  Strawberries served with cream or crême fraiche, where I was relieved to note that the local custom of adding ground black pepper was not strictly enforced, and one of Joel’s favourite sweets, a wonderfully rich cream and coffee pudding.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of sensations.  More singing, telling of stories, and good companionship, the ideal meal with friends.

Strong dark coffee was served, after which Joel and I cleared away the dishes and washed up.  It was clearly an unfamiliar task on his part, as he had not the faintest idea where any of the items was to be stored.  After washing and drying, and reluctant to disturb Marie’s kitchen routine, we left everything stacked in neat piles, ready to be put away.

A second cup of coffee prompted the offer of a digestif. My new-found word ready on my tongue I chose a quince liqueur, wonderfully smooth and quite delicious.  Maureen, adventurous as ever, requested Baie du Houx, a liqueur made from holly berries, very strong and of quite a unique flavour.  I know this because I was obliged to finish most of it!  Joel poured himself a small glass of neat Eau de Vie.  “Bottoms-up”, he announced, then drank in a single motion, throwing back his head and laughing as tears sprung to his eyes. Eau de Vie, literally water of life, is distilled from fruits of various types.  As a pure spirit, it is colourless and retains the scent of the fruit from which it was distilled.  The most common variety locally is Eau de Vie Poire William.  Incredibly strong, it is widely praised as a digestif, and I can certainly vouch that it “hits the spot”.   Marie took a very small portion on a saucer into which she dipped a cube of sugar.  The sugar having soaked up the spirit, she took a genteel suck of the sugar cube and then added it to her coffee.

We took our leave some seven hours after arrival.  Unwilling to risk driving, we walked the three miles back to our house.  The night was warm and pleasant, stars filling the sky, and we spent the entire journey reminding ourselves of the pleasures we had experienced.  The wonderful food, the superb wine, and, most of all the delightful company of our hosts.  A night we will never forget.