Heartbreak
is never easy. Arianna Papadopoulos-Miller arrives, from Toronto, in the
Alpilles area of the south of France on a quest to rediscover the artist she
once was and move forward with her life.
She is
welcomed on the terrace of the 200-year-old mas (farmhouse) where she will
spend two weeks with 7 other artists. From that moment, gastronomy becomes a
feature of her stay. But, hey … alors … it’s France!
Foie gras
on toasted rounds of baguette and local olives accompany the chilled champagne,
poured in slender hand-blown glass flutes. A toast is made to the beginning of
an exciting two weeks of drawing and painting … and other unimagined
experiences.
And so it
begins.
“La grande charcuterie!” Maurice announced as
three large slabs of olivewood were proudly presented by the kitchen staff.
Each bore a colorful display of meats.
Maurice gave a guided tour of each artistically
arranged platter. “We have thinly sliced prosciutto as well as jambon cru . . .
local uncured ham that will melt in your mouth. Here we have our very special
saucisson d’Arles, native to our area in particular. It’s a dry sausage that
used to be made a century ago from—don’t gasp, please—donkey meat.”
In spite of themselves, there was a slight
gasp.
“It is nowadays made of beef and pork fat with
some garlic and black pepper. Magnifique! Only certain local charcutiers make
it—c’est authentique! And finally, there are grilled lamb chops, seasoned to
perfection. We are famous for lamb in Provence. You will see why!”
His hand moved on to the end of the platter,
and his level of enthuthsiasm increased even more. “Pâté maison, la recette
de mon arrière-grand- mère! Very smooth. It’s made with chicken livers,
lemon, onion, and herbs de Provence. Plus”—with this, he raised his fingers to
his lips, as if sharing a secret—“what makes hers special is . . . a touch of
fromage de Neufchâtel.”
He nodded conspiratorially, the gleam in his
eye never fading as he continued. “And also her even more famous pâté en
croute. It’s a coarse and rich terrine of mixed ground meats with peppercorns
and pistachios. After being cooked in aspic, it is wrapped in a rich, buttery
crust, coated inside with lard. C’est vraiment extraordinaire!”
“And ever so fattening!” Bertram interjected.
Maurice responded with humor. “Don’t even think
about calories or cholesterol when you eat in France. Simply enjoy! A little
bit never hurt anyone! Even too much on certain days never hurt anyone. We only
live once!”
“Can you tell my husband is a true ‘foodie’?”
Juliette interjected with a grin.
Maurice bowed with an extravagant flourish as
applause reverberated around the table. “Champagne goes very well with this
meal, if you care to continue, or we have a fine Châteauneuf-du-Pape red—and,
of course, always there is beer for those who prefer.”
After he slipped his arm around Juliette’s
waist, they wished everyone in unison, “Bon appétit!”
During the meal, Maurice answered questions
about the difference between a boucher, a butcher who sells raw meat, and a
true charcutier, someone who prepares the foods they were eating.
“Of course,” he explained, “you will discover
we can thank the Ancient Romans for many of our traditions.”
And that
was just the beginning … from breakfasts of warm, buttery croissant, pain au
chocolat, pain aux raisins, farm fresh eggs and fruit straight from the orchard
through exquisite multi-course meals (or sometimes simple but delicious
baguette sandwiches) ... and then there is a simple green salad followed by
cheese. Lots of cheese choices! The grand finale consists of luscious desserts
of crème brulée, profiteroles, crêpes, gateaux, tarte tatin, tarte au citron … Are
you full yet? You may think I’m exaggerating, mais non! And somehow over there,
it all works as hours are spent savouring and appreciating each morsel. Bon
appétit!
Thanks for stopping by to share your food for thought, Patricia!
You can find Patricia here:
Thanks so much for inviting me to visit your blog, Shelley!
ReplyDeleteYou're quite welcome. :)
Delete