Here I was, just me and the flies, ferreting around in the
middle of a blooming great big herd of communal dustbins, completely lost!
My French friend, Audrey, had told me about a wonderful potager
that was owned by a man named Jean-Luc. “He plants vegetables for all seasons
and sells the excess. You must go and look – his haricot verts are formidable
at the moment!”
Eventually brow-beaten by her insistence, and slightly
intrigued to find out what a formidable
haricot vert looked like, I agreed to
go. Actually I was going to take my husband, Jack, with me, but since his love
for vegetables extends to a tin of Heinz baked beans and not much further,
there seemed little point in me trying to persuade him.
Living in a remote part of France has countless charms, but
one of its constant challenges is how difficult the local accent is to
understand. Audrey had mentioned that the potager was close to the church.
Well, I arrived in what I considered
to be the right place, and could see the steeple close by, but nothing else
that hinted at a vegetable patch – only dustbins. Refuse seemed to be a far cry
from the promised greens. It seemed I’d misunderstood again.
Just as I was about to give it up as a bad job I spotted a
rickety-looking gate stuck in the hedge beyond, ahah – there it was!
Feeling moderately intrepid and a little worried that the
gate might collapse as I yanked it open, I cautiously stepped into the unknown.
Audrey is usually understated about things and this was another example of her
restraint. I’d entered a perfectly concealed garden stuffed full of vegetables.
And it was huge.
In front of me masses of root crops arranged in orderly
lines were bursting out of the soil. Some had ferny green topknots and others a
purple twist – I knew what they would be. But there were another lot that were
complete strangers, lumpy and warty, these chaps instantly spiked my interest.
Then I spotted the tomatoes. Actually it was hard to miss
them, they looked like a forest. Every plant was supported by a neatly-cut
stake and the whole plantation was sheltered from the hot sun by a netting
canopy. I craned my neck to see beyond this dense crop – amazingly there was
even more produce languishing in the hot sun, but I couldn’t distinguish what it
might be from my vantage point.
Taking a couple more tentative steps forward, I saw a
collection of remarkable buildings. Remarkable, because they appeared to have
been constructed from a variety of old bits of wood, metal and plastic sheeting.
The residents of the Calais “jongle”
might consider them haphazard, but they looked strong enough to
stand up to most of the elements.
So far the place seemed to be deserted, I really wasn’t
quite sure what to do. Feeling somewhat self-conscious because I’d only met him
once before, I squeaked a feeble, “Bonjour,
Jean-Luc.” Nothing! I tried again, a little louder this time. This had the
desired effect. The door of one of the sheds was flung open and out through a drape
of old stripy bed sheet came monsieur,
looking just as I remembered him.
A stout chap, he was wearing his well-used gardening kit,
and the same baseball cap he’d worn last time I’d seen him. It was obviously a
favourite and a very sensible choice of headwear for the scorching afternoon
sun. Jean-Luc’s chubby face broke into a merry smile as he saw me and came over
to perform the obligatory French greeting of one-too-many kisses. This left me
just a little bit sticky on the cheeks. It was, after all, a hot day.
Jean-Luc got straight down to business. (He doesn’t speak a
word of English so I’ll spare you the translation.) “So, Beth, what shall I get
you?”
This stumped me somewhat because aside from the essential haricot verts, I didn’t have a mental
shopping list prepared. “Well I’m not too sure. Do you have time to show me
what you grow here?”
It seems I had said the right thing. Jean-Luc beamed, “But
of course. Come with me – everything I grow here is beeo!”
As I was trying to work out his French version of bio, I
felt a light touch on my ankle. I looked down to see a beautiful tabby-white cat,
tail in the air, preparing to wind its way around my legs.
“This is Millie, I think she likes you.”
Immediately enchanted by this delicate creature I replied
“Oh, Jean-Luc, she’s lovely, is she yours?”
He shrugged his burly shoulders indulgently. “She lives here
and follows me everywhere – she is my gardening companion. Now come this way,” he
said, smiling.
The next hour was spent in a leafy haven filled with bulbs
and tubers, pods and fronds , beans and fruits. Deeply green peppers with their
glossy red counterparts drooped heavily on their stems. Purple-black aubergines
shone brightly, the white ones too – veritable stars in this galaxy of lustrous
vegetables. Courgettes, in two colours – I’d never seen a white variety and I
told him so. Quick as a flash one was removed for me to take home and try.
I stopped, my senses suddenly arrested by the pungent aromas
of herbs. “Gosh, Jean-Luc, you grow herbs here as well?”
“Yes, of course,”
he replied, puffing out his chest, “come and look.”
We walked down another perfectly kept, earth path to find an
assortment of pots filled with astonishingly healthy aromatic plants. Seeing my
enthusiasm, with a twinkle in his eye, Jean-Luc plucked a leaf off the closest herb
and offered it to me. “Goût, goût!”
(Taste, taste!) he insisted eagerly. This was perfect because although some of
the herb names translate very easily such as Basil to Basilic and Parsely to Persil,
I was lost without a trace when it came to Tarragon – Estragon and Chevil – Cerfeuil.
I would be guided by taste instead.
The basil leaf I had been given zinged off my palate in a
riot of fresh flavours. The rosemary had an intensity I’d never tasted before,
and the parsley was as gentle as could be. As I crunched or sniffed my way
through several offerings I felt as a sommelier might when sampling fine wines.
Jean-Luc’s expression was a study of delight as I vainly sought adequate words
to express my appreciation at my first herb garden tasting session. He nodded
knowingly, “Yes,” he said, “they are all beeo!”
We ambled to another section, I was amazed by how well-kept
it all was and commented that it must be very hard to maintain. His charming
reply was simple. It was one we have heard so many times before from the
locals. “It is my passion.”
Jean-Luc explained that he worked for the local apple
producer. He grafted apple trees, an exacting skill I have admired in others
but never attempted. He bought his vegetable plot 20 years before and had
worked there every day since. Looking around at this magnificent expanse of
produce I wasn’t surprised by his words. It was pristine.
Next we strolled amongst the forest of tomatoes; I’ve never
seen so many varieties. There were Russian ones, Chinese beauties, and some
enormous types that hung pendulously from their bushels, just waiting for the
moment to provide gastronomic pleasure for some lucky diner. Jean-Luc walked
ahead. Every now and again he would disappear between the lines. Then his head
would pop up unexpectedly between leafy stems as he found yet another exotic type
he’d experimented with.
I became so wrapped up in this red and green world of
assorted toms that, at one point, I lost him completely. I had the fright of my
life when a hand full of tomato was thrust through a bushel right under my
nose. “Voila!” Cried a muffled voice
from behind a cluster of leaves. It seemed that Jean-Luc had found the Bavarian
special he’d temporarily mislaid. That was the type he thought Jack would love.
H’m…I wasn’t so sure, but nodded enthusiastically anyway. Meeting me at the end
of the row he held out yet another for me to try.
“This is a black tomato,” he said conspiratorially. Only it wasn’t.
“Oh, right. It looks very red to me.”
“Non! It is
definitely black.”
“Ah, then perhaps it’s the name of the variety?” I asked hopefully.
“Non! Here is the
same family but it is the red variety.” With that he produced another, which to
my inexperienced eye looked exactly the same. There are times in life when it’s
more sensible to concede the point rather than argue it, and this seemed to be
one of them.
“Ah yes,” I replied, scrutinizing the identical twins with
appropriate levels of appreciation, “now I see it. There is definitely black in
this one.”
Jean-Luc’s face crinkled up into a joyous smile, “It’s
marvellous isn’t it? And it tastes superb, you must try.”
Before I could refuse he whipped out his pruning knife and
cut both tomatoes into segments. The fact that they were both the size of
footballs didn’t seem to bother him at all. Nor did the fact that by now I’d
consumed a barrel load of samples and my stomach was beginning to gurgle
noisily. He would not be denied the opportunity to treat me to his delicacies.
Ignoring my pathetic pleas of refusal he cried, “Goût, goût!”
Suffocating an accidental tiny belch I took a hunk of each
and stuffed them in. To my surprise I found that he was absolutely right. They
tasted completely different and were fruitily delicious.
“Ooh,” I exclaimed.
“Oui,” he cried, “Different
and beeo!” he chuckled, plunging a digit
into the innards of his juicy black tom to demonstrate its natural succulence.
Back in the main part of the garden I asked if he kept any
flowers.
“Just a few” was the reply. “Viens, viens,” (Come, come) he said, trotting off to another area.
(This man spoke mainly in duplicate.) I followed him around the edge of a
particularly boisterous hedge of haricot
verts and there, under the backdrop of the village church, was a simply
stunning collection of blooms. 
“Oh my!” I gasped, “these are quite amazing.” Dahlias,
roses, hibiscus and many others lit up the side of the potager like multi-coloured
fireworks at night. They were in mint condition and looked simply gorgeous. But
Jean-Luc wasn’t quite finished. I liked flowers? Then I must see more.
We marched
up and down several new rows of vegetables ignoring the fruits this time in
favour of the exquisite blooms that produce such amazing results. It was a
feast of intricate delicacy, why on earth
hadn’t I appreciated such beauty before?
“I use a special product.”
“Is it bio?”
“Yes!” was the emphatic reply. “Come into my shed and I will
show you my things.” In any other circumstances I might have been somewhat
disconcerted by this offer, but with Jean-Luc I had no fear, he only had eyes
for flora.
Chatting a little louder now to drown the sound of my
alarmingly gurgly stomach, we headed back past the ferny-topped carrots,
alongside the pungent jungle of heavenly herbs and came to his collection of
huts. It was then that I realised what truly extraordinary
constructions they were.
Amongst the bazaar of fascinating tools and gadgets I spied
an old iron container. This was intriguing, I asked what it was. He tapped the
top lovingly and opened a rusty door with a grating flourish so I could peep
inside. “It is my fire. It keeps me and Millie warm in the winter.” This man
was a gem.
We came out and walked into the potting shed next door. It
was another gardener’s delight. Here, in a remarkably orderly space, he stored
his potatoes and onions. Although my stomach was now telling me to surrender at
the thought of more food I reminded myself why I was there. I did actually need
some potatoes. I asked if I could buy some.
“But of course,” he replied grabbing a tuber. Fearful that
he was going to chop it in half and give me a lump to chew on I put up my hand
in refusal, “Oh it looks lovely, not now though thank you. Could I take three
kilos please?”
Fortunately he had misread my alarm and proceeded to pile a
number into a plastic bag. He picked up an
ancient brass weight instrument and showed it to me. “This,” he said in reverent
tones, “is my grandfather’s spring balance. It is nearly 100 years old, he used it to weigh his vegetables.
It is completely accurate and very valuable, but I will never sell this.” It was obviously a profoundly important possession for him. I nodded gravely, respectful of the moment.
It is completely accurate and very valuable, but I will never sell this.” It was obviously a profoundly important possession for him. I nodded gravely, respectful of the moment.
He hung the plastic bag of spuds on the hook and nodded
happily as the needle hovered just over the three kilo mark. He lobbed in another
green-eyed nugget for good measure and placed the bag gently on the earth
floor. I added to my order with onions and finally remembered to ask for some
of his famed haricot verts. “Don’t
worry, I knew you were coming so I prepared some for you.” He pointed towards the awning of another shed
and there lay a crate heaving with produce. Aside from the beans I hadn’t asked
for any of it, but how could I refuse such wonderful quality veggies?
I thanked him very much and asked how much I owed. “6.50
euros,” was the reply. I stared at the vegetable mountain.
“But that can’t be right,” I stammered.
“Yes, it is a fair price,” he insisted, “Remember, this is
my passion I do not grow my vegetables for profit.”
I tried to remonstrate with him but got nowhere at all. With
a happy wag of his head he grabbed my crate and bags of goodies and carried
them out. As we headed to my car he paused at the water butt which was abundant
with very chubby tadpoles and pointed to the slipway he’d made for frogs. This
man was certainly in touch with nature.
Finally my visit was at an end. With my car filled with the
best legumes I had ever bought in my life, I bade goodbye to my new friend. As
I started to drive off Jean-Luc, shouted, “Wait”. Wondering whether I’d left
something behind I paused while he retrieved whatever it was.
Moments later he reappeared holding a jam jar. He opened the
lid and thrust it into my hand together with a toothpick. “Goût, goût!” he insisted. Slightly apprehensive as to whether my
bulging stomach could cope with another gastronomic onslaught, I dutifully
harpooned a hunk of what appeared to be a chunk of cucumber in brine. Instantly
my taste buds were assailed by a crazy combination of pickles and herbs.
Delighted by the surprisingly delicious taste I chomped one lump, then took
another, and asked what it was. “Courgette, garlic and onion and a mixture of
my herbs. Can you believe that?”
“Ooh, courgette,” I replied, unable to resist yet another sample,
“no I can’t, it’s wonderful.”
“Yes,” he nodded with a gleam in his eye, “the recipe comes
from my grandfather and it is a secret!
I normally sell it for four euros a jar but I wanted to give you this one. It
is a cadeau. And remember, all my
produce…” I just knew what he was going to say. “They’re beeo!” With that he disappeared back to his secret garden.
As a postscript to this story I can tell you that on my
following visit to his potager, after collecting my order, Jean-Luc showed me a
collection of freshly potted herbs. I cooed appropriately and he said, “I know
you like herbs so I have prepared some for you.” I was absolutely thrilled.
“Oh Jean-Luc, that’s incredibly kind of you, thank you. And
how much do I owe you?”
For a millisecond I detected the faintest expression of
hurt, he replied, “Nothing, they are a cadeau!”
