Cooking and Shopping and Food....Glorious Food!

Oh, the trials of an Australian cook in France (byline: Val)

Of Self Raising Flour and Measuring Cups!!

The need arose before Christmas for me (Val) to cook (1) Christmas cake and (2) Christmas Pud.  Of course one needs self raising flour.  And measuring cups.  No measuring cups either in the house or the supermarket, or SR flour either for that matter. I looked in every likely shop we came across, including some very big hypermarches, but no measuring cups or SRF to be seen. Solution: email Kerry (our Exchangee) as she must have cups somewhere in the house, after all, every cook uses measuring cups, don’t they! The answer came back: “Oh, that’s an Americanism, they never caught on in England or France!” Google supplied the conversion of cups to grams.

Now, in the supermarches there seems to be a different flour for every conceivable cooking activity, stacks of the stuff….except self raising flour.         OK Google, what’s with SR flour in France?  The oracle advised that it’s called “farine de Ble pour Gateaux”, as every good Australian cook surely should know. Back to the local SuperU, check the shelves, and there at the very bottom….Flour for Gateaux!!

I spend a lot of time musing over labels, pictures, descriptions, the various cuts of meat (so different from "back home", especially the beef, but that's too expensive anyway) etc. And absolutely love it.

 So Christmas was looking good – ALMOST. 

For mains, I fancied “chapon”, the Charentaise traditional bird for Le Noel…(chapon: a castrated rooster. Just how do they do that? I ask myself…dear reader, your appropriate answers to this little conundrum in the comments would be most welcome).  Anyway, the smallest chapon was far too big for the two of us.  So it was back to boring old chook and seafood – (oysters are sold by the crateload outside the supermarkets– live and unopened) – we bought a dozen (shells not cases), plus fresh prawns and crab claws. We balked at the other little shellfish things, cockles and mussels and other odd sea beasties.  There’s also tons of foi gras pates available –very smooth and quite delicious on fresh French bread. 

Le Fromage and other good stuff

Of course, the French just LOVE their cheese!  Every imaginable cheese, too numerous to list.
(I’m drooling as I write this). Imagine the Maleny IGA Dairy cabinet – the whole length of it - all cheese, plus a couple of other fridges full (pictured). There is no way we can sample them all before we have to go home, after all we only have 11 months! Then there is the hugely long yoghurt/dairy fridge, not a lot of fresh milk nor cream, but there is plenty of UHT stuff. Plaintive cry: but I can't find any normal cream. Really, I’d kill for a bottle of fresh Maleny Dairies cream!

Apart from the dairy fridges, we have the charcute (cold meat) fridge.  Loads of different hams and smoke cured meats, sliced and prepacked, salamis, knacks (Knacks: an Alsace French delicacy which Bryan adores, similar to, but much tastier than, hot dogs and which go ‘knack’ when bitten). Not a slice of English style bacon to be seen, oh well, bacon and eggs aren't that good for one anyway!

Our Christmas menu: Entree of baguette and foie gras pate (avec champagne, Saumer brut):  loads of prawns, oysters and crab claws (avec a lovely Cadet Rousselle 2012 savignon): roasted chook with vegies (avec…by now can’t remember, probably local red):  said Christmas pud (errr…avec Charentaise pineau).  Fortunately the scales in our “chateau” read 4 kilo light!

Shopping with  Jeremy….

Shopping (les courses) is all a great adventure for both of us.  Bryan is over the “c’mon, hurry up” habits of old.  He pushes the trolley, checks the specials and pays the bill.  Quite the reverse of our Australian habits.

Jeremy runs the local Super U Deli (same as IGA plus cheese) in our local town of Montmoreau. Fortunately for us, he speaks English and already we are on very good terms with him (Me, cheek to cheek peck, Bryan, handshake). He comes out from behind his counter especially. 

We are working our way through his pates, firstly the gorgeous Terrine a Eschalote (pictured below centre with the colourful adornment). To-day we bought Grillon Charentais, only available in the Charent. Next week, it will be the Terrine De Forestiere (mushrooms). All sliced fresh from the whole dish.  Jeremy is also very helpful if we need a food translation (should have used him for the flour search).
  

We buy our fuel and gas at Super U, also have the car washed when necessary in their Euro 4 auto car wash.  Maybe I’ll buy some seed spuds and other veg when in season from the Bricomarche, next door to SuperU.  The two seem to go hand-in-hand.  Our veg garden is underway with garlic and onions already planted and up.  When in France……

One great delight on Monday mornings is to go around the local street market at Chalais, another nearby town. The market occupies three of the main streets of the town. As the streets are narrow, the old buildings three stories high and the sun low, it’s quite cold.  We look at everything, buy a few veg (I’m delighted with myself; this last Monday I actually bought my market vegies using only French) then go down to the local Intermarche, another big supermarket, to buy the rest of the days goodies. We have just found a LIDL supermarche in Chalais also, which has the same business concept as ALDI. Prices are high at the market compared to the supermarche so the pocket rules over romance!

Rue de Angouleme, Chalais, Monday market day

We usually stop for a coffee at one of the bar/cafes for fortification (non-alcoholic, we don’t drink ALL the time!)  We have learnt to order “deux café crème grande, sil vous plais” with some panache.  Usually get what we want. Bryan hasn’t made any more gaffs....yet!

Cheers to all our good friends....here's a lovely recipe for you...bon appetit!

Val and Bryan

Yummy Versatile Blackberry Sauce

Y

               Put the blackberries in a pan, add about half as much water and a sprinkling of suger. Bring to the boil.

Add two or three tablespoons of good matured Balsamic vinegar (the original recipe calls for vinaigre de Banyuls…a French Pyrenees vinegar, perhaps a bit hard to find in Maleny)  and a little red wine or fortified wine, maybe muscat (now that’s a little for the pot, a glass for the cook, naturellement). Add two or three cloves, or maybe cinnamon, and simmer till the berries are cooked and there is not too much liquid left. Grind loads of black pepper over. Serve with blanc de canard (don’t be lazy, look it up), grilled over open BBQ coals.  Delicieux!

The cold sauce goes very well with haricot de vanille crème glacée.  Sans the pepper and vinegar of course!

Acknowledgement: Rosemary Bailey, "Life in a Postcard", Bantam Books 2002
Highly recommended read: subtitled "Escape to the French Pyrenees" 

Closing Ze Blooody Dooor at the "Salle des Fetes"

We are at the local “salle des fete”  (community hall) in Juignac, France, 16190, December  9^th 2013 as guests at a French village fete, this one thrown to celebrate the very end of the harvest season.

At the appointed hour, 7.00pm, we had been at home waiting for our farming neighbour, Jerome, to pick us up for the evening, which he did: at 7.30, naturally!  Well, we had read that one does not get a drink at French functions until everyone has arrived. Obvious solution: get fortified before one leaves home. So we do.

Good idea!! Because it’s true. We arrive, people are all standing about chatting in small groups, organizers are moving tables about (why is it that organizers anywhere feel a compulsion to move tables about?...but I digress (yet again)). Not a drink to be seen anywhere….how very un-Australian!

Val at the Salle des Fetes, Juignac, some days later.

But let me give you initial impressions: First, there is absolutely no pretension. Forget the “Paris chic” culture (we are, after all, five hundred km from Paris), forget the idea that the Frenchies don’t want to know you, forget the idea that you are in a foreign country (although that’s rather hard when all these people speak, very fast, in foreign tongues). Everyone is just enjoying being part of the village culture. Perfectly normal.

Dress code: Country warm. Men: mainly jeans or a type of corduroy matched with warm woollen jumpers,  topped by overcoat and long scarf when outside. Ladies, very similar, some with dresses and all with slightly heeled boots.

Jerome introduces us to the committee chairman, Christian (little English), and then to the local mayor, Alan (no English).  Handshakes and smiles everywhere. Alan had in fact provided us, some months earlier, with a mayoral letter to present to the French long-stay visa authorities attesting to our hosts’ good standing and the fact that we were genuine tourists and had a place to live in France, rent free. All part of the French authorities’ love affair with paperwork and rules (many of which, I believe, are ignored in real life.)

Activity starts, nibbles (peanuts and chips and pate) are passed around and (hallelujah) drinkies are being poured and passed. Everyone gets the same…. fruit juice.

Ahhhh!!!!….fruit juice.....but wait…. Jerome assures me that the juice has been liberally laced with pineau, the local Charentaise  apero.  All is well after all!

Just like any community evening in any local hall in Australia, Christian, the chairman, takes the microphone:  although we don’t understand the detail he is obviously making the usual welcome speech one hears at these events. So, Christian is talking away, Val and I are nodding away, when I realise that he is referring to a postcard from Kerry and Brian, our exchangees now in our home in Maleny. Clearly, they are very popular members of this community, even though they are Anglos. Naturally at this point Val and I are brought to the fore and introduced as guests at the fete, living in Kerry’s home. We smile and nod even more vigorously.  Give me another fruit juice.

But wait, what’s Christian doing with the mike. No, noooooo.

He’s thrusting it into my very unwilling hand and standing back with a big smile. I’ve got the mike, I’m looking at 50-odd Frenchies, standing in a semicircle around the hall, all smiles and with an expectant air.

I’m thinking “bloooddy hell”. OK, can’t let the side down. It’s gotta happen, let’s try the old faithful Australian opening line:

“Good’ay mates”. Nothing, absolutely no response.

 Obviously they mustn’t have heard: try louder “GOOD’AY MATES”.

Absolutely no response.

Plan B: Forget that idea and fall back on my limited tourist French, assiduously studied for 18 months with our U3A teacher, Patricia. I have no recollection of what I said, I do remember stumbling on words and using English a bit and I do remember getting some responses, a laugh or two (probably at my French) and good clap at the end. I’m delighted (Patricia, if you are reading this, thank you). Give me another fruit juice! On second thoughts, the clapping was probably in appreciation of the cessation of linguistic murder.

View of a lane from the Salle des Fetes area of Juignac, (just
 to add pictorial interest to my lovely narrative) 

Food’s coming out now; Christian takes Val and places her at his right hand at a table, me next to her and a young French couple opposite and another beside us. We are made most welcome. Christian ensures that we get full plates of the first charcute course, and now the RED arrives, and continues to arrive at a great rate (unlabelled local house wine). Charcute consists of thin slices of cold savoury sausage, and lots of salads.  Quite yummy.

"Le plat principal” (main course) is slices of cool boiled pork, complemented by potato chips (as in “crisps”) and masses of warm green beans, served from a huge tray of beans. Gourmet no, delicious yes.  The cheese course follows.... with beer. And dessert was a rather delicious ice cream...with  beer. But potato chips as a main course component?  Well, why not? Val and I enjoy the whole experience...with beer.

It’s a curious thing but it looks as if almost every adult is popping outside the hall at any break to grab a smoke. It really can’t be everyone, surely, as the official figure is that “only” 30% of French people smoke. However, adults are coming and going through the double door airlock entry. And kids are running back and forth through the door.  Our table is near the door, regularly collecting blasts of cold air. Katya, one of the young mums sitting at our table, is forever shouting to the kids to close the door: “fermee la porte!!!”

“Katya, what you need to shout is “close the bloody door”….it always works at home.”

Katya is puzzled, holds up her wrist and makes a slashing action….”blood” she asks?

 “Oui, bloody est le mot (the word)”.

“Ahhh,” says Katya, and proceeds to shout enthusiastically at every door incursion
 “closse ze bloooddy dooor”.  OK, I do exaggerate the accent a trifle.

The evening is closing down. Kids are clinging to parents, some falling asleep on the floor, those that  aren’t testing the door hinges, that is. Various people (either gender) come up and give us a two peck air-kiss, one each cheek, and say “Bon Soir”. Actually that’s for Val, I get a handshake. Maybe, given time, we will be elevated to the three-peck social level.

It's nearly midnight.

Bon soir from Val and Bryan

OOPS........I've dropped the crab!!!

PS  This picture has nothing to do with the story, but it is just too funny to be in a side bar!  

Joyeux Noel from the Charente

Non, non, non je ne suis pas parler avec Noel, I simply don't have a French keyboard to add the two little dots!!

And this little post is just a simple Christmas card from us two cuddled up in front of the fire (avec warm spiced plonk, naturellement) to all nos bons amis en Australie!

First, a few more of my really excellent good pics of  Le Champs Elysees at Christmas:

Any commentary would be superfluous.

But I can't resist adding our old friend telling the world "REGARDEZ MOI"

When Val and I first went shopping for those vital supplies in late November we were quite surprised to note the lack of Christmas decorations in the shops and streets. We knew that France was definitely secular, having given the official thumbs up to organized religion about 1789, but this apparent lack of Christmas zeal really was too much. After all, in any normal commercial society, you know, like the Sunshine Plaza, the chrissy decs go up early October!

Glory be, hallelujah, and all that stuff....our consternation was quite misplaced. Come the first of December, shop owners and assistants are setting out the holly, the Christmas decorations, the Christmas trees etc etc etc and carols burst forth from every supermarche PA system (quite often Bing Crosby would you believe).

Now, talking of Christmas trees, check this lot out:

Galleries Lafeyette super colossal offering to Mammon complete with clockwork scenes....actually most impressive, note the scale against the backdrop of shopping tiers and people!

Next step down, this medium size one was in main plaza at Poitiers

While this one was in the small town of Bourdielles, the seat of a barony with two medium sized chateaus side by side, one a small medieval castle which changed hands regularly during the 100 Years War, but all the while the peasants still had to pay the toll to the latest baron just to cross the olde bridge.

EVERY village exhibits a display of Christmas spirit, with Christmas trees like the one above attached to just about every shop front or household. There are also bows on fences and posts. Some villages, like the local St Severin (incidentally, a regular Pommie stronghold....but I don't think they are all a hangover from the 100 Y's war....I do get sidetracked, don't I) have beautiful trees and quite exquisite boxed decorations. Seems to depend on the town budget, because there is a marked difference between villages, some obviously are better off. And there is always a theme throughout each village, and they are all delightful to our Australian eyes. And, incidently, there is no vandalism!

Just an aside: we went shopping for tinsel, just a strand of tinsel. 5 dollars for just two meters!!!! No way, Val made her own, as we see others have done in many places including some large co-op shops.

Seeing as how Val and I are into this French thing, we had to do our bit:

Both outside and inside. If you have a keen eye,
there's a message for you beside the basil plant.























A white Christmas in Juignac, well perhaps this is what we will have. Outside our door some days back, frost (photo courtesy of Mary-Lou)

And now, it's good bye from me and its goodbye from her, but not before she, ma belle femme, insisted that these two little gems be added:

Here's to the Dork, just getting some little Vin Chaud, to help keep the ears warm

Have a great Christmas, we will, love and cheers to all
Bryan and Val

And no, I am definitely NOT chatting up another French waitress!!!

 PS: this really did start as a simple, short Christmas Card.....but the Hemingway in me just can't be held back!

How to proposition a French waitress!!!!

Val and I opted to fly to France with Korean Air with an overnight sleepover in Incheon, thus actually flying by day on both legs. This got us into Paris in the early evening, having followed the setting sun across Russia and northern Europe. Absolutely beautiful sunset colours curving across the sky and the night lights of St Petersburg outlining the city's river, canals and streets in brilliant twinkling orange detail. Later, Denmark's peninsular and islands were stunning in the twilight with the Baltic coastline as a further backdrop!

Two nights in Paris was just sufficient to take in the city Christmas lights. These were not as extensive as we thought they might be, but still impressive. The Tour Eiffel changed on the hour to flashing white lights from top to bottom...actually quite tacky, we thought, as we laughed at being in Paris in the cold drizzle and walking to the Galleries Lafayette. Stunning is the only real word to describe the Lafayette window displays. Gorgeous, intricate clockwork creations, often very funny....the local squire's Christmas drinks party was hilarious.

Val at the Champs Elysees Marche Noel

The second night we discovered the Marche Noel on the lower Champs Elysees which is a delight with every second stall offering vin chaud (mulled wine in Australian). One paid a deposit on the plastic cup but could redeem the deposit at any other stall, a great idea for keeping littering down. The lights here were beautiful and very accessible (gotta use that word somewhere) at eye level. Each tree had three overlapping circles of light, changing muted colour de temps en temps and each tree linked to the next with light chains. It seemed very cold to us two warm-blooded visitors...I pulled my scarf up over my beanie and tied it under my chin, to Val's merry amusement...."you look like a dork" she chortled, but my ears were WARM!!

Onwards to Le Petit Maine, our home away, to be met by Mary-Lou and Don at Angouleme station and a half hour drive to Le PM. We travelled by fast train from Paris...Australia needs to invest in this infrastructure....just great, very fast and relatively cheap....book early and check each departure's (there are usually several each day) varying cost are the secrets to French train travel.

Val and me arriving at Le Petite Maine...with lunch in the bag

I have mentioned in an earlier blog that Le PM is in the sticks.....well is is definitely rural France, surrounded by (unfenced) smallish, by our standards, paddocks and quite a lot of small forest copses. It's actually quite delightful countryside even in this early winter period. As in most of regional France, there are many small villages each with it's own fairly substantial 12th Century church (well, they all seem to claim ancient timelines). The age of piety and sincere belief certainly has left a myriad of churches, often only a mile or two apart, almost as if each country friar had to match his neighbour. That's quite unfair of course....there was belief and there was conviction in the needs of the soul, the hereafter and the need, the desperate need, to escape the devil's inferno. A noble could buy redemption by founding or endowing yet another chapel. I think I would draw the line, though, at the bishops, always of noble lineage, and their competing cathedrals, even beautiful as they are. Enough of this philosophy, onwards with a much more earthy and delectable and really true story....La French Waitress et Moi....her name's Valerie. 

Our local town, Montmoreau, is just that, a local town of no great charm but with all the shops etc necessary to basic life, including a small bar cum cafe. It's a town of about 3000 people, naturally with a small chateau perched on the hill overlooking the hoi poiloi. There's a small marie (town hall) salon de fete (community hall), one supermache, like IGA but with booze, servo, car wash (necessary) and playing fields.....and of course the local church, yet to be explored. There's also a tennis group which I may try to break into at a later date (when its a bit warmer perhaps).

Anyway, Don and Mary-Lou thought that they needed one last 'plat de jour' lunch with us before they headed off back to Maleny. Good idea, lets try the local bar/cafe, Le Piment Rouge, run by the said Valerie and her ex-rugby playing husband, both late thirties.

Valerie, with her lovely French accent welcomes us to the establishment...

"No, we don't have a reservation." 

"No trouble, we can fit you in"...not in the sun room but a little further back.

OK by us! Now, of course, after 18 months with our U3A French professor down in Caloundra once a week, I am the world's best tourist-French speaker. I will order the wine, says I.

 "Ah madam, comment ca va? Nous broissons...." I get no further, Valerie does a double take, steps a little backwards and looks at me agape. I stop, everyone looks at the two of us. Boisson is "drink" and boire is "to drink". I should have said, of course, "nous buvons" (we drink....)  Valerie recovers in good form and leans into my ear, whispering, "you have just said, "we make love". Puce is an understatement to describe the colour of my face, Don gleefully tells me afterwards.

Le Piment Rouge, Valerie et moi!

Of course, Val and Don and Mary-Lou are extremely keen to understand the nature of the exchange. Valerie translated. They laugh uproariously at my exploit. We agree that perhaps my statement might have been a tad more suggestive and expressive than "we make love".

On the way out, saying good day to mine host, Valerie tells her husband of the little exchange. He's highly delighted and has a great belly laugh.  In Anglo-Saxon terms he exclaims to all .....my gaffe is best translated  as  "lets f..."!!!

that's all folks....thank goodness.

cheers to all
Bryan    

As usual, comments always welcome,