The thing about living in a rural location is that somehow
one gets to know most of the people in the locale without realising it. At
least that’s how it’s been for us. An example of this is our friendship with
the Ambourget family, which began quite by accident soon after we had arrived.
One of my first forays into our nearest town was to shop at Carrefour,
a supermarket, to buy food and other essentials. Unlike most of its
counterparts, this store is pocket-sized and was peppered with people who
seemed to know each other. I’m not sure what fascinated me most about this
visit, hunting around the aisles inspecting the local produce, or observing the
other customers’ behaviour.
One particular deep-seated custom that caught my eye was the in-shop greeting. When
a friend or acquaintance was spotted, half-filled trolleys were immediately
abandoned in favour of hugs and kisses, followed by a deep discussion. It was all
very earnest and happened constantly.
As a newcomer, I had no-one to discuss the weather and local
goings-on with, but it didn’t matter. Every single person I passed hailed me
with a cheerful “bonjour madame”. This
developed further when I got to the checkout. A small, sunny-faced lady
operating the till asked where I was from. This began a stilted conversation which
soon became a general chat as other customers joined in. Their places in the queue
forsaken like the trolleys, everyone far more interested in learning about me
than paying for their goods.
Sometime later I came away knowing the names of my checkout
lady and one or two other shoppers. From these tentative beginnings my firm
friendship with the wonderful Nicole was forged.
The timing of this fledgling friendship coincided with major renovations to our property.
It was a tortuous project that took us much longer than we’d ever anticipated, but
that’s the subject of another story. One of the artisans we dealt with was a granite
specialist. His name was Georges, and he was ably assisted by his father, Yves.
They were both very quietly spoken, built to hump lumps of granite with the
greatest of ease, and all-round absolute gentlemen.
We were enjoying an end-of-day beer with them one evening
when we learnt the first link in their family tree. I’d explained where I was
doing our local shopping and Georges shyly mentioned that his mother worked
there. Coincidentally it transpired that this was Nicole, the checkout lady. There
was absolutely no resemblance between burly Georges and his mother, who is very
slim, so I felt I could be forgiven some surprise. But the genuine warmth of
personalities was shared amongst all three of them. From there, further members
of the family were gradually introduced, but in a somewhat unusual way.
Georges and Yves have an enduring love for mushroom picking,
a popular obsession in these parts. One day they told us that our forest was
famed for having some of the best fungi in the region. This was not the first
time the subject had been mentioned – most everyone
we’d met was up to speed on the subject. Their idea of bliss was to amble amongst the trees searching
for these woodland wonders, and then cook their spoils later on.
Because their faces lit up
with such ecstatic pleasure at the very thought of it, we immediately invited
them to do their hunting in the enclosed section of our woods, the prized area. We were in the process of adding they might meet one or two others
to whom we’d extended similar permission when Yves said he’d already heard. Wringing
his baseball cap bashfully in his hands, he confessed that his brother-in-law
was one of our neighbours and he was also a mushroom fancier. The family tree
continued to burgeon from there on.
Every time Yves or Georges wanted to go fungi foraging,
Nicole would courteously telephone to seek permission. This is how we met
Georges’ three children and one of his brothers, Dominique. It was a sunny
Sunday afternoon and they asked if we would mind if the family group could have
an amble in the woods. Of course we readily agreed.
That same afternoon we were repairing one of our observation
hides when they appeared around the corner, supported by shepherd’s crooks and
armed with wicker baskets. Georges quickly arranged his cherubic children in
height order and introduced each one, then his brother Dominique, whose basket
was already overflowing with assorted mushroomy gems.
Yves and Nicole then appeared, beaming contentedly
at their delightful grandchildren. With the introductions complete, Yves took
on an air of the conspirator. In hushed whispers he informed us that they’d
discovered a marvellous spot that, currently, was bursting at the seams with
ceps. Clearly this was something to be excited by, except that I wasn’t at all
certain what a cep was. We congratulated him on his find then I revealed my
lamentable mushroom-ignorance by asking what they looked like.
Fortunately, this seemed to be the very question Yves was
hoping I might ask. In response he proudly thrust his pannier under my nose
which contained several large moth-eaten looking specimens. These, he assured
me, were truly excellent. Intrigued by the possibilities of new discoveries, and
persuaded by their infectious enthusiasm, we agreed to join them the next day.
The following evening Yves, Nicole and Georges arrived early.
Barely able to conceal their excitement, the men dashed off leaving Nicole to
tag along behind. We fell in step with her and ambled along, chatting amicably about
local goings-on in the village. When we reached the special spot, we found Yves and Georges
already hard at it, picking cautiously at the dead leaves, hoping to uncover a nugget
or two. It was then that we realised we were not alone. To our surprise Gilbert,
the brother-in-law, who apparently has an expert nose for these things, was
already there and poking around with focused attention.
The following two hours turned out to be quite an education.
Each of the men was armed with their proper mushroom-collecting wicker basket
and shepherd’s crook, and foraged independently on different patches. Neither
approached the others’ territory, it seemed to be an unspoken mushroom-respect rule.
Meanwhile, Jack, my husband, and I, totally clueless as to
what we were looking for, wandered around with our plastic carrier bags. These
graphically labelled us as total amateurs, but we hadn’t had time to buy the pro kit.
Nicole and I spent a goodly amount of time enjoying the
rustic scenes, but none of that for the other men, they were entirely dedicated
to the task in hand.
Every now and again there would be a whoop of joy, and an “oh, la la!” from someone who had a found
a particularly wonderful fungus. We’d all gather around and coo appropriately, whereupon
it would be delicately removed with the special mushroom-cutting knife and
gently stowed in the pannier.
As beginners, it was decided that Jack and I needed to have
our finds checked to make sure that they were edible. This was essential
because even we knew that some varieties of mushroom can be deadly. We just
didn’t know which ones. Yves, on the other hand, was an acclaimed expert and
appointed as official inspector. He scrutinised each offering, segregating them
into three categories: toxic - discard it immediately, edible but not of a professional standard, and highly
sought after.
By the end of the evening every pannier was filled with a variety of different fungi, but the prized cep
was by far the most popular. The enthusiasts were thrilled to bits with their
harvest. Even Jack had done exceedingly well by stumbling on a bounteous crop
which reaped many edible beauties. Conversely neither I nor Nicole had managed
to gather any at all, but that didn’t matter – it had been a great experience.
We decided to celebrate our first champignon-picking foray with drinks, and returned to the house for
a glass of wine. This was when we met Nicole’s sister. Gilbert had walked a
long way across the fields from his farm to the mushroom zone, declared that he
was too tired to walk back, and called his wife, Emily, to come and pick him
up. Once she arrived we settled comfortably around the kitchen table where the
next mushroom-related tradition was demonstrated.
Each of the men proudly showed off
their goodies. We collectively viewed the spoils which included ceps, chanterelles
and the trompette de la mort (trumpet
of the dead) – the latter of which were as black as the ace of spades and
looked extremely toxic to me. However they were deemed to be delicacies along
with their earthy compatriots.
Typical of the generous folk in our area they insisted on
sharing their harvest with us. They said that, since it was on our land where
they’d picked the mushrooms, we must have some. Jack looked absolutely
horrified at the idea and I quickly explained that whilst it was a very kind gesture,
we would hate to deny them of their hard-earned bounty. Besides which, I added,
I had no experience of the special cooking techniques that might apply to the
more exotic varieties. I should have guessed what would happen next.
An energetic debate instantly began amongst the family groups as to
which were the best cooking processes and recipes to teach me. Emily, who was is a sturdy, unflappable sort and structurally quite the opposite of her sister, was
determined that the only way a cep
should be eaten was in an omelette. I wouldn’t have dreamt of arguing with her.
However, Yves was having none of it. Exhibiting horror at the idea of
contaminating the magical flavour of the heavenly cep with any other substance,
he insisted that they must be eaten on their own, or at a push cooked in a
little butter with just a touch of garlic and parsley.
To save himself from expiring from a mushroom-information-overload,
Jack concentrated on what he does best – making sure everyone had enough to
drink. One bottle of wine was quickly consumed so he went to get reinforcements.
Now, if there’s anything else that’s going to capture a Frenchman’s interest it’s
the sight of a nice bottle of wine. Yves was in middle of expounding the values
of the dried versus the frozen mushroom, when Jack produced three different bottles
of wine. He asked which they would like.
Yves stopped in his tracks and issued a sigh of admiration. He
quickly tapped Nicole on the shoulder – she knew what to do. Reaching into her
voluminous quilt jacket pocket she produced a pair of broken reading specs
which Yves balanced precariously on the end of his nose. There was a moment of
hushed silence as each of the three bottles was reverently passed from one
family member to the other and the labels studied in minute detail.
The culinary virtues of mushrooms were then temporarily traded
with a pithy debate about the vintage, quality of grape and relative merit of
each bottle. It was at this point I felt rather relieved that I hadn’t offered
a selection of cheeses, we’d have been there all night.
Eventually the bottles were delicately handed back to Jack, who
was looking as though he was about to stab himself with the cork screw. Fresh
glasses were filled, contents sniffed, swirled and sipped, and we returned to
the subject of mushrooms.
To my untrained eye some of the specimens had looked pretty
grotty. I asked whether those with grubs in them would be discarded. This was
obviously a dreadful notion. My innocent question was met by appalled
expressions from everyone around the table, save Jack, who looked as though he
would gladly chuck the whole lot into the compost unit. The thought of disposing
of these beauties was obviously a sacrilegious one and gave rise to an even
livelier debate about the quickest, and most thorough, cleaning methods.
Keeping up with the local accent is hard enough at the best
of times, but when one is in the midst of a heated discussion with everyone
talking at once, it’s very tricky indeed. In the end the matter was resolved by
the diminutive Nicole. She wanted to make sure that I understood the techniques
involved and held up her hand. In an instant the assembled company fell silent.
She asked me whether I would mind if she demonstrated the process. I, of course
agreed, and within seconds she had taken command of the range cooker.
Tiny, skinny, retiring Nicole transformed into master chef,
and barked out instructions to everyone who did exactly as she commanded without
question. She began by collected samples from each pannier. I produced olive oil (had to
be extra virgin), butter (half-salt), garlic (pink), several eggs (brown,
medium sized), parsley and various pots and pans. We all gathered round to
watch as she treated us to a masterclass on how to prepare ceps and trompette de la mort – three ways. Others
helped out at different stages, but she was definitely the boss.
As the culinary scene played out there was very little
arguing over the techniques involved, but that’s perhaps because she expertly
produced platefuls of mushrooms that were either plain, with added garlic and
butter or as part of an omelette. Oh, and just a little seasoning. That, together
with hunks of fresh bread, meant that there was something for everyone.
Another bottle of wine was carefully inspected and
reverently sipped, apparently chosen for its particular suitability to go with
the recipes we were savouring. Conversational topics flowed easily from the
fruits of our forest to the local inhabitants of the village and it was then
that Georges informed us that we knew another of his relations. It transpired
that one of his uncles ran the petrol station we used. Huh – what a small world
it was.
The evening finally ended around 11pm. Our simple impromptu
glass of wine had evolved into a gourmet classic. Despite the late hour and our
earnest protestations, they refused to go until the house was put back together
again. Emily and Nicole fought over washing and drying duties leaving me to
tidy up around the edges and put things away. Finally the men gathered up their
precious harvests and they made their ways to the cars, each filled with
gratitude and bonhomie.
Yves had driven halfway out of the drive when he reversed
back again. Nicole popped her head out of the car window and called us over.
She’d had an idea. It struck her that we hadn’t met nearly enough of her family
yet and invited us to their house for dinner. It might not be possible to meet everyone on one visit she said, but she
was keen to introduce us to her other children and her mother, who had lived
with them for years. She also wanted to cook us a traditional Tarn et Garonne
dinner, it would be their way of thanking us. We tried to say that there was no
need but that was a fruitless exercise. Our shy, quiet friend had made her
decision and it was enthusiastically supported by both Yves and Georges who nodded
vigorously.
That evening had been a very special one for us. We were
introduced to new treasures in the forest, met more members of this wonderful
family and cemented friendships that, I’m happy to say, have become stronger
each year. And, despite socialising on a regular basis, I’m sure that we still haven’t
met all of the family.
