Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
“
Oh madame, c'est merveilleux! Puis-je vous aider?
” I said in my very best French,
asking if I could help out.
“
Mais non, asseyez-vous je suis ici pour vous servir. Vous devez manger avec nous
avant que vous partiez,
” (But no, sit down. I'm here to serve you. You must eat with us
before you leave) she commanded.
This spread had been prepared in our honour and there was no question of any as-
sistance being accepted. As I sat down I saw that we were a dog down, but didn't worry
because there was very little risk of any dangerous traffic at this altitude. In any case, Biff
often pottered about on solo missions but always returned in the end.
The men soon joined us and other than a light coating of mud flecks (poor Thierry)
were otherwise unsullied.
Monsieur
strode up to his wife, gave her a big hug and turned
towards us beaming.
“
Bon appétit!
” he bellowed.
We sat at the table and surveyed the piles of different meats, cheeses, breads and
sauces. What a feast! It was very difficult to know where to start but it didn't seem to mat-
ter, we were amongst like-minded country folk, so we tucked in to the nearest dish with
great enthusiasm.
I soon found myself able to have a semi-conversation with
madame
about regional
delicacies and French cuisine, whilst
monsieur
and Jack continued in deep dialogue about
various hunting exploits. Meanwhile Thierry, with masterful artistry, managed to dip in and
out of both exchanges adding the odd word of translation when all other efforts of making
ourselves understood had been exhausted. But there was one obvious drawback.
As everyone knows, the French are very keen on their wine. Not that they habitually
drink it like many of us Brits (consumption first and appreciation, if one is still conscious,
later), but they do like a tipple with their meals. They believe it improves the flavour of the
dish in question and enhances the whole dining experience.
This we can usually applaud, but the practical issues on this occasion were the large
number
of different dishes on the table and the fact that we were imminently due to drive
for at least three hours (starting off with the dreaded hairpin bends) to Nyons in Provence.
These things meant a banquet was probably inadvisable. This latter point had obviously
been completely overlooked by our hosts, intent as they were on making sure that our visit
was a memorable one.
Consistent with his evident overall zest for life,
monsieur
produced a variety of bottles
of variously coloured wines for us to savour with our meats, cheeses, mushrooms and the
two
desserts. Unlike many British die-hard drinkers, one is not obliged to drink the very
last dreg of each bottle produced. However, one is definitely expected to taste and relish
the piquancy of every grape contained within each glass. So my feeble attempts at refusing
a liquid offering were met by expressions of horror bordering on trembly bottom lips. In
order to avoid an international incident, I politely accepted each and sipped with care.
