Apéritif

It seems we have been officially inducted in to the Provencal tradition of the ‘aperitif’. And it was not at all what we expected.

We were pulling out of the driveway on our way to yet another picturesque village when our neighbours stopped us to chat. Chatting is a little challenging with the language barrier, although with their pigeon english and my pigeon french we can eventually strike up some kind of understanding. Jamie resorts to a whole lot of hand gestures and begins to frame his english statements in a french-sounding accent and I am guilty of a lot of long pauses while I try and work out which verbs are correct for the tense I am using.

Eventually we understood each other. We (and les enfants) must come over the following evening at 1800h for an aperitif. We would eat tapenade and drink pastis.

Of course, we said, we would love to come. A moment of complete terror crossed over both our minds. Me: How would the children behave. Jamie: How will I cope with a french conversation that extends beyond ordering food and requesting shoe sizes. But, of course, we would never turn down such a kind offer.

Our neighbours, Robert and Jeanette, are our landlords’ parents. He a Marseille-born sprightly 83 year old ex-mariner who has sailed the world but found happiness in a retirement back in the paradise that is Provence. She, a 78 year-old go-getter who travels to the neighbouring village three times a week for a 2 hour gym session. Everything you imagine French people to be. 6pm it would be.

Then follows the usual anxiety that comes with receiving an invitation to someone’s house, particularly for the first time. At home it’s easier - I vaguely understand the unwritten rules in New Zealand of social etiquette. Even my googling did not turn up any concrete advice re what to do in France (small panic, when Google can’t deliver answers you know you’re in rocky waters).  As we were off to Beaumes de Venise we picked up a bottle of their muscat (on the advice of the shopowner - a very acceptable thing to take), some grissini and orange juice for the kids.

So at 6:07pm (is five minutes late too early and ten minutes after too late?) and after the children had been pre-loaded on food to remove any hunger issues we marched next door.  Back in an hour, we said to each other. The children can eat at 7pm, swim and be in bed at 8pm.

We were greeted, taken in to the house, and then followed a lengthy conversation about the childrens’ names and ages. George, Matilda and Henriette (full marks for that one - a french name indeed) were easily mastered, but Molly took a bit of explanation and she continued to be called Marie until a few hours later when after sensing her growing distress I revisited the conversation.

Inside tour over we were taken out to the garden.

Deep intake of breath.

During our many road trips Jamie and I have often discussed the intensive use of land in Provence. I used to think that as New Zealanders we made the most of our physical environments. Until I saw Provence.

Rarely is there a missed opportunity to grow something useful and productive. Be it grapes, olive trees, fruit trees, long rows of strawberries or potatoes, the land is not left idle.

Robert is a dedicated follower to the cause.

Our first stop on the garden tour was his vegetable garden. This is not very large he muttered with regret, I really should have a larger one. There were perfectly cultivated rows of haricots, onions, multiple varieties of tomatoes, basil that set me green with envy (‘we cannot grow basil outside in Wellington, it is too cold’), petit pois, potatoes - a very special variety the size of Robert’s little finger, salad leaves in greater selection and health than I could find at Moore Wilsons and another leafy vegetable that I still cannot decipher and nor could Robert’s english dictionary.

Next stop in this garden no larger than the size of our small backyard was the chickens.  There were two of them each laying an egg most days, providing the couple with all their egg needs. Later on in the evening the children were given escargots (snails) to feed to them. Molly asked (oh so innocently but angling for the pairs’ release) if they were ever allowed out in to the garden. Oh no, no, no. Firstly they would eat all the vegetables. But secondly they would be prey for the eagles (large ones, 2m wing span) that come down from Mt Ventoux and pluck chickens and small lambs from their mothers to take home for their dinner! Questions about chickens firmly stopped.

And then the ‘orchard’: Prune, apple, apricot, olives, a cherry tree laden with deep red fruit just ready for Jeanette’s preserving pan, quince and a little fig tree who had a friendly scarecrow (epouaantail) guarding it’s fledgling fruit. The raspberries were cussed over. Hopeless, no good, not a good year. Small panic from me that we would not see raspberries in the same abundance as strawberries - is this a problem region-wide? Yes, I know I have waxed lyrically about the strawberries but show me a raspberry and the former are yesterday’s news.

Our tour was not quite finished. Next he moved to the herbs. With each one he gave me the French name, and the local Provencal one if it was different (adding caution that when in Italy I was not to confuse fennel with finnochio as they had quite different meanings…and would raise quite an eyebrow). At each herb he picked a few leaves and crushed them in the cup of his hand holding it up to me to smell the oils he had released and explaining what type of dish it was best used for.  Alongside the fennel there was rosemary, lemon thyme, oregano - both ‘cultivated’ and sauvage (wild) and sage. These herbs were in abundance and regularly used.

I felt like I had just had a personal session with Monty Don.

Garden tour over we were escorted back to the front of the house where a table had been lovingly set in the shade complete with provencal table cloth and small, marble serving table waiting close by (oh I wish those small marble outside tables would be suitable as checked-in luggage on the plane…).

It was time for the aperitif.

First a pastis, in a long glass with mint syrup and water, iced tea for the children. And then the food began to arrive.  This is where from garden to table really came in to play. The anticipated tapenade was presented - this batch made from the fruit of the tree we were currently sitting under (the other two trees had been reserved for oil).  The children dutifully (‘you will eat everything and you will look as though you are enjoying it and you will say thank you’) ate it, a challenge for some of their palates. They were also given little saucisse in pastry and small cubes of cheese.

Then the large plate of eggs arrived. Hard boiled, sliced and served on small square toasts and covered with remoulade. It was honest and humble yet refined all at once. The eggs had been laid ten metres from our table, the herbs just around the corner, the oil binding the remoulade from their own trees.

Pastis finished (I was ordered to ‘down mine’) the wine came out. And then the pizza. Two different types. The first with a tomato base (last year’s crop made in to a sauce). The second the very local pissaladiere - Robert’s onions had become Jeanette’s sweet, caramelised onions which were criss-crossed with anchovies the size of sardines. My tins of anchovies back in New Zealand will never have quite the same appeal. She had baked them in the typical French way with a thicker base and in a baking pan and cut the square pieces with scissors at each place as she served us individually.

An aperitif had fast become dinner.

And once the pizza was eaten and the dishes cleared the bowls and spoons came out accompanied by the most beautiful dish of strawberries in absolute abundance. It was simple, beautiful and generous. No, the strawberries were not theirs, they had been grown 200 metres down the road. They were sweet and juicy and George had their juice dripping down his chin. Adults and children were happy.

But it wouldn’t be France if you stopped at the fruit course. Nor would it be France if you just had one bottle of rose. The bubbles were then opened. We were not off the hook yet.

To finish, a beautifully, rustic apricot tart to make Rick Stein drool with its simplicity and dedication to one of my favourite fruits. I was a little confused as the apricots on the tree had not looked quite ready. But they were out of the cellar - such is the abundance of each tree that Jeanette has to preserve much of its bounty in an effort to keep up. To prove the point that nothing was wasted I was brought out a jar of her homemade marmalade to take home (as a gift for Fete des Mamans the following day). I laugh when I think about the fuss I make when placing on the table at home a dish using our homegrown herbs and vegetables. There was no fanfare here, it’s just what Provencal women do and could not imagine living any differently.

Finally un cafe to round off the evening - in typical French style short and to the point.

We had arrived at 6pm for a drink and some tapenade and at 10pm we packed the children up and wandered back next door. And yes, they had been promised a swim, so in the dark at 10pm a swim was what they got.

Apologies for the length of this one - well done if you’re still reading! The devil really was in the detail...