This was definitely a first for us. An experience that,
understandably, would not be favoured by some, but one that fully immersed us
in a traditional French annual celebration.
For some reason which escapes me, we were invited to the
local fire brigade’s annual pig roast.
The event was to be held in the grounds of our local
village, a gorgeous, typically French setting. Ancient, wood-shuttered, stone homes
line streets backing onto miles of orchards and meadows – it’s simply gorgeous.
I ignored Jack, my husband’s, hermitic moans about being
socialised to death, telling him he should be very grateful to have been asked.
I didn’t concede that he had a point, it’s true we’ve been to numerous ‘dos’
recently. That’s simply a feature of living in a place with hot summers, and
many outdoor gatherings.
Our community primarily comprises farming folk, who tend to
shut up shop in the winter once the crops and main beast jobs have been dealt
with. They’ll hunker down, stick to basic maintenance work only, and keep a low
profile during the cold, wet months. Conversely, the arrival of spring stimulates
a flurry of activity.
Shutters are thrown open to bring in fresh air and early
warmth. The land is worked and animals prepared then, from May onwards, most
every week there is a fête somewhere in
the area. I absolutely love these outings and drag Jack out to as many as
possible. A man who generally prefers his own company, this year he has been
unusually amenable – but it seemed it was becoming rather a strain for the poor
dear.
On the appointed day we duly turned up at 12.30pm,
accompanied by my sister and nephew, to find the place already alive with fire
fighters and their partners. Introductions had to wait in favour of our first priority,
to admire the pig. As it turned out this wasn’t any ordinary pig. Typical of our
hunting-mad part of rural France, the usual domestic pig had been rejected and
replaced by a recently culled wild boar. And why not?
We went to congratulate the chef, a man we knew from his day
job. Monsieur Genna is usually the
oil and gas delivery man, and also works part time as a fireman. Now, bearing
in mind we were in the middle of a heat wave, it can’t have been an easy job
for him that day. It was already around 37 degrees Celsius (98 degrees
Farenheit), and there he was, fully clad in his fireman’s overalls and an
incongruous hunter’s camouflage hat. The poor chap looked about as broiled as
the beast.
Monsieur
momentarily abandoned his basting to say hello. Fortunately, I managed to avoid
the full-on cheek-to-cheeker kisses in favour of the forearm proffering. This
is a courteous form of welcome, used when the person involved is grubby, sweaty
or in some way unsavoury. In his case, monsieur was sweating profusely, nevertheless looking extremely
proud of his creation.
We ignored the searing heat and cooed at the rather gruesome
sight. The great creature was slowly rotating on a spit above a bed of fiery, red-hot
embers. It could easily have been a medieval setting.
We left monsieur
to his boar and joined the rest of the party, enjoying an aperitif in the shade
of a grand old oak tree. Here we were met by the station commander, who made
the introductions. This can take a while in France and I’m still foxed by the
social etiquette as each occasion requires a slightly different mode of greeting.
When faced with a complete (clean) stranger, my sister has decided the best way
forward is to take assertive action and thrust out a hand. This is an excellent
idea, but one that has its drawbacks when the recipient is moving in for a
cheek-kiss. On more than one occasion I have witnessed a slight winding as her spade-like
hand has caught the person squarely in the guts. It’s a tricky one.
We finally completed our formal ‘hellos’, aside from one old
gentleman. It appeared he was a gate crasher since nobody seemed to know who he
was, but it didn’t matter, supplies were plentiful so we just gave him a cheery
wave.
Our small talk about the heatwave was interrupted by a loud cheer.
I turned to follow the gaze of my nephew, whose eyes were the size of saucers.
He was staring at a massive wall of fire.
We were looking at a skinny metal table heaped with straw,
and the whole thing had just been set alight.
“Bloody hell, it’s a towering inferno. I wonder if they’re
going to perform a practice drill?” murmured Jack, as we watched a group battle
with the boisterous flames.
“Bravo”, yelled
one of the diners, “c’est les moules!”
Monsieur Genna was
once again in the thick of the catering, but now it was all to do with mussels.
My poor nephew. Typical of many teenagers, his tastebuds are still at the cheeseburger
stage, and have not yet become attuned to the delights of charred pieces of
meat, let alone molluscs on fire. A youngster with apparently hollow legs, he
looked on forlornly as the realisation dawned on him that this was lunch.
Diners gathered round to watch the spectacle, chattering happily
as more straw was piled on and flames engulfed the table – this was flambé big-style.
Finally, we could see enough to spot an amorphous heap covered
in wet newspapers. It was spitting and hissing in the heat. Wafts of garlicky fumes
mixed with smoke drifted our way; the conflicting aromas were deliciously tantalising.
The toot of a
fireman’s whistle announced our first course was ready. We were good to go.
Soggy layers of Le
Figaro newspaper were peeled back to reveal piles of juicy mussels, their
shells newly opened by the steam. Plastic plates were thrust into our hands and
ladles full of crustacea shovelled on our plates. This created an immediate overload causing a few skimmers to whiz off
the edges, but luckily most survived.
As this was going on, Jack completely confused our nephew
with a typically sardonic explanation about how the soggy newspapers cradling
the steaming mussels were especially selected to comply with France’s rigorous
interpretation of Brussels’ health and safety rules. I sighed as I listened to
these sage pronouncements. The poor lad,
I thought, eventually he’d cotton on to
his uncle’s special form of humour.
The next arrival cheered my nephew up considerably. As we sat
down to enjoy our starter, crates of beer were produced and bottles thumped on
the trestle tables. These were accompanied by loaves of French bread, seemingly
one each. It’s evidently hungry work being a fireman.
As I ate the succulent starter our station commander explained
how their team was structured. Most of the local firemen are volunteers, who
come from several walks of life. Farmers, of course, but also shop keepers,
businessmen and a doctor, all ready to down-tools at a moment’s notice when an
incident occurs.
The fire station is manned by a core group of full-timers, who
alert each volunteer on duty via a pager system. He demonstrated by showing me
his, which indicated they had already dealt with a fire earlier that day. Their
station is linked to the main depot, which has a team on permanent standby to
help if additional support is required. To me, the whole system seemed simple
yet efficient. In a sparsely populated area like ours, it was good to know that
help was always on-hand when needed.
During our discussion we’d managed to consume a vast number
of mussels. Even my nephew sampled a couple, grudgingly conceding they weren’t
as bad as ‘all that’. The empty shells were expertly scooped into dustbin
liners as we witnessed the arrival of the main course.
Six men lugged the boar, still on its steel spit, over to
the carving table. Judging by the colourful language that emanated from them, the
spar was still extremely hot. It’s amazing the number of new words one learns
in situations such as this. I went over to have a look.
Monsieur Genna was
in control again. He said the boar had been cooking since 6 am that morning. It
was now 3 pm, which explained two things. First, the reason why the poor man
was beetroot red and dripping wet – he must have been absolutely boiling in
that fireman’s kit. Second, it explained why the animal was now black and
crispy. As he reached for his pliers to unpick a line of wire stitches he
explained what was inside.
The recipe is generations old and originated in Armenia,
where Monsieur Genna’s family came
from. Wild boar was cooked every weekend and was a firm favourite with the
local villagers. He learned the technique from his grandparents when they came to
live in France.
Whilst the cooking time was lengthy, the preparation was
simple. The boar had been stuffed with three kilos (over six pounds) of
tomatoes, bay leaves (one bush, would be my estimation), onions (lots) and
seasoning (loads). After the initial few hours gentle roasting the heat was
increased. If I understood correctly, the skin was regularly basted with water,
then butter. Some of the cuts would be fried-off, others eaten from the bone. He
was confident the process would work its usual magic and produce a culinary
triumph. One look at the charred mass and I wasn’t so sure.
Once again piffling issues such as safety and hygiene were
cast to the winds as monsieur and his
sous chefs got to work. Bloodied gauntlets were donned and, with cigarettes
hanging out of mouths, they unpicked the steel stitches that contained the
gubbins. With an expression of sincere regret monsieur explained that, shame though it was, the stuffing couldn’t
be eaten. I think we were all relieved.
With our hearts in our mouths we lined up to receive our
portion of meat.
Back at the table and huge tureens of herby, sautéed
potatoes were passed around together with more French sticks javelined in our
direction. Beakers of rosé were poured and we took our first tentative
mouthfuls of the main course.
The meat was unbelievably tender.
Appreciative murmurs rang around the tables as we feasted on
our simple fare – all washed down with the locally-produced wine. I looked
around at the healthy, tanned faces of our fellow diners; all fire fighters and
their families enjoying a perfect day. Living here didn’t get much better than
this.
Once the last scraps of our main course were cleared away it
was time for pud, and it quickly became evident this was going to be another ‘no
frills’ affair. Two men appeared with cardboard boxes. Questions were demanded
of us. Did we prefer chocolat, vanille ou
fraise? Unsure what to expect, I chose fraise,
strawberry. A grunt of approval followed by a short rummage in the box and out
came a cornetto ice cream, which was slid across the table. It was the perfect end to an
unexpectedly lovely meal.
With the dining over and Monsieur
Genna beginning to return to his normal colour, we were treated to a short post-feast
ritual, in honour of the beast. This was decidedly pagan in nature, and
definitely inadvisable for the faint hearted. What remained of the boar’s head
was triumphantly paraded around the group. This was gamely supported by the
headman’s daughter, who acted as single tooth carrier, although I must say she
didn’t look entirely thrilled by the occasion. Nevertheless, it gave us all the
opportunity to mark a moment’s respect for the animal, which had enabled us to
have a wonderful meal. It also allowed us to congratulate Monsieur Genna on his superbly executed recipe.
This could have been the end of our day, and really should
have. Sadly for some, it wasn’t. The finale of the event turned out to be a
needle tournament of Pétanque – it’s
hugely popular here. Also known as Boules, it is a game where a small ball,
the Jack, is thrown to the far end of a gravelly ‘court’. This becomes the
target. Teams of two or three then throw their metal balls at the Jack. The
closest wins. The game is very simple but, as I was about to demonstrate, the
execution isn’t.
Just as we were preparing to watch politely for five minutes
before leaving, the station commander insisted that we have a go.
“Noooon, merci”, I
gasped, having never hurled a Pétanque
ball in my life.
“Mais oui, vous devez!”
he replied, insisting I have a go.
My sad fate was sealed, or rather that of my unfortunate
playing partner.
I, along with my sister and nephew (both of whom put up a
much better show), were pressed into service. I’ll spare you the agonisingly disastrous
details of how I got on. Suffice to say, a metal Pétanque ball doesn’t react in at all the same way as a tennis
ball.
After several failed rounds, one lost ball (I mean, has
anyone ever managed to lose a ball in
this game before?) and one suspected broken toe, I bowed out gracefully. The
relief on my playing partner’s face was palpable.
And finally it was time to go. Aside from my playing
partner, whom I dare say was delighted to see the back of me, all the other guests
were kindness itself. We were the only Brits among the group, but that didn’t
seem to matter a bit. It was another example of where we’d been welcomed as
active members of our tiny, pastoral community, and we’d loved every minute of
it.
