French Cuisine and Canine Chefs

Have you ever been grabbed, I mean really grabbed, by a new culinary dish? Well, that’s what happened to me the first time I ate a piece of Flamiche au Maroilles. Cooked and served by our wonderful friend, Andrée, at a soirée, after my first nibble I was instantly hooked and started scoffing.

I kept my beady eyes shamefully fixed on the diminishing slab of golden gorgeousness as it circulated the assembled company, positively salivating by the time my Precious returned. Yes, I’d transformed into Smeagol. I made matters worse by feigning a polite offer of the remaining squares under the nose of the guest next door, before swishing it back before they could take one. With a furtive glance in both directions I stuffed the last morsels into my mouth. Gluttony personified, I know. Thankfully I hadn’t begun to cackle at the same time.

The following morning, still flushed by memories of this exquisite cheesy gem, I researched its antecedents online.  Maroilles cheese, the main ingredient, comes from the village of the same name, and takes all its flavours and distinction from the Avesnois and Thiérache areas in France, famed for their lush meadows and soft hedgerows, an ideal habitat for cattle. It is an unctuous, soft cheese with a washed rind and, in its early development, has a light covering of blue mould, which is later brushed off. It is left in a brick-ripening cellar for a number of weeks during which a red-orange rind evolves naturally.

As we all know, the French take their food deadly seriously, and cheese is no exception. I wagged my head with a touch of ridiculous pride when I noted that Maroilles has an AOC (Appellations d’origine contrôlée) sign of quality. The classification is laid out in the specifications drawn up by the AOC according to the Minister for Agriculture. It means it is a ‘protected designation of origin’ product, but that’s not all.

An AOC cheese guarantees quality, certain characteristics, a savoir-faire method of production, precedence and the recognition of the name which is so old that it cannot be patented. The objective for these signs of quality is to make them recognisable. AOC products first began with grading wines in Bordeaux in 1855 and now other extends to other foodstuffs.

I read on and discovered that, according to one source, the earliest traces of the Maroilles cheese can be found in the 7th century. An old ordinance, ‘L’Ecrit des Pâturages’ (writing of pastures) told the inhabitants of the villages of Marbaix, Taisnières en Thiérache, Noyelles and Maroilles, to convert the milk of their cows into cheese on the day of Saint Jean Baptiste, 24th June, to give to the abbey of Maroille on the day of Saint Remy, around 100 days later. I dare say this might have been a hefty levy to pay in those days.

I had no idea whether or not my information was true, but it added a certain gravitas to the product that I felt was somehow fitting.

The next time I saw Andrée I badgered her to tell me how to make the dish. Completely overlooking the fact that I am, at best, a basic cook, she assured me that it was ‘très, très simple’ to make. She rattled off the ingredients in speed-French, and started giggling at me when she realised I’d barely got past base one, having got stuck on the word levure. After a couple more goes she gave in, which enabled me to hatch my cunning plan. Under some duress she agreed to go shopping with me, buy the mixings and give me a masterclass on how to cook the dish. Perfect!

Our choice of store was E.Leclerc, a huge supermarket sure to have everything we needed. We headed to the cheese counter, which is always flummoxing. France being France, it’s simply not possible to be offered a choice of, say, four or even eight cheeses. There are literally banks of them. However, I triumphantly spotted a pack of Maroilles in double quick time only to be told in no uncertain terms that it was the wrong type. This didn’t make any sense to me at all, so we sought advice from a lovely cheese expert who was serving. She confirmed that Andrée was right, and I was being horribly dim/British.

We located the correct variety in amongst yet another stack of fromages and as I was in the process of wheeling off with our chariot (the French word for a trolley – it’s one of my favourites), Andrée called me back. Pouf! Hadn’t I realised the recipe contained another cheese? Oops, nooo, sorry, another lost in translation moment. Back to the bank of goodies we went to search for Emmental, a cheese which is apparently extra melty when warmed.

This was followed by butter, had to be non-salty. That, I did understand. The type of flour, less so. I think Andrée was worried that with my floundering retail efforts we might not make it out by nightfall, so she cut to the quick and selected a specific bag of organic wheat flour. All done and it was off to find the final key ingredient, la levure. By now I’d workout what it was, of course, it was yeast. But it had to be living yeast, not the powdered stuff – the very thought of which cause a great explosion of ‘Pah!’ from my expert. With most of the kit in place we returned home, ready for the great demo.

 On the appointed day, Di, my sister, and I drove over to Andrée and Joël’s (her husband) home, laden with minor ingredients and major dogs. Our plan was to let the animals potter around in their garden while we watched our expert prepare the Flamiche au Maroilles. Then, while it was cooking, we’d go for a short walk. It was a great idea but one, as we would soon discover, that was fatally flawed.

When we arrived we took a moment to coo at her lovely home. With specimen trees at the front and a long garden that backs onto endless views, it is a fabulous setting. We had already decided that I would be team photo-taker and Di, sous-chef.  Business-like as usual, Andrée quickly shooed us into position and got cracking.

Despite howling like banshees all the way there, the grotty mutts sniffed the air with instant anticipation and steadfastly refused to go and amuse themselves. Instead they hung around like a bunch of hairy reprobates. I doubt that Michel Roux Jr would have tolerated such assistants, but Andrée took it all in her stride.

We quickly reviewed the recipe, method and got to work. Andrée had decided to make four flamiche so quantities were adjusted accordingly. The first job was to add yeast to sugary milk, this was put to one side and Sprite, extra small dog, was put on guard duty while it worked its magic in the sun.

The next stage was expertly described by our host, who was fast becoming a pro at this celebrity chef lark. Flour, salt and butter were produced, the latter of which caused a moment of tension, which threatened to ruin the proceedings. The butter was declared too solid. Zut!

“Pas de problème,” exclaimed Andrée, who had a solution. Off she went to the microwave oven with all canine sous chefs in tow, save trusty Sprite, who was still on yeast guard duty – for a bit. It seems that the agony of new smells wafting out of the kitchen was all too much. Moments later in trotted minor Jack Russell to join the crew. Andrée gave them a short lecture on table manners which didn’t seem to be overly successful, so they were all despatched outside again.

Our chickens had made a contribution to the day’s proceedings by donating their eggs. One of Di’s jobs was to use a single, complete egg, then separate the yolks from the others. Sadly this instruction became slightly lost in translation. Luckily our girls are prolific layers so there was no problem. One re-load later and we were nicely back on track. Meanwhile, all sorts of interesting things were happening to the yeast. It was becoming very lively indeed. Di and I felt it was presenting an overflow risk, but Andrée was distinctly underwhelmed so we left it to swell untamed.

Under careful canine supervision, the famous Maroilles cheese was cut up, and our chef began mixing the mixture. Her mother had adopted a particular technique, she said, and it was one she swore by. As we struggled to grapple with some of the more complicated French explanations, Baltik padded over to help Andrée with dispensing the yeast. It’s at times like this when one is glad of high table tops.

Kneaded to perfection, Andrée and Aby, a canine stickler for precision, measured out the portions and began spreading them on each base. Di helped with one, and ably demonstrated how expert our host is at this tricky procedure. There’s definitely a knack to this sort of thing. Rescued once again, we now had four mixtures set aside while the yeast continued to do its work.

A short dog walk came next, one which took us along a route that was sandwiched between apple and plum orchards and rows of noble vines. It was a glorious interlude. Unusually, however, the dogs were keen to return home.

After a worryingly close examination, Max confirmed that the Flamiche bases had risen sufficiently. They were whisked from under his nose and Banjo, elder statesdog, oversaw the application of cheeses. A light sprinkling of melty cheese formed the precursor to the ceremonial laying of Maroilles lovelies. I banished all thoughts of rocketing cholesterol levels as Smeagol crept back into my soul. My Precious was nearing completion.

Into the oven it went for 20 minutes. Every now and again the bubble-up factor was examined and compared with the transforming colour of the cheese. Timing seemed to be critical here. Too bubbly, too brown and the dish would be ruined. Finally, our chef adjudged the dish to be ‘prêt’ – it was ready.

Cheesy edges were eased from the foil case sides and returned to the preparation table. The assembled company, both human and canine, looked on, positively salivating at the results. Andrée scrutinised her creations in the fading sun of the afternoon and pronounced herself satisfied. ‘Et voilà,’ our dish was ready to sample.

With her usual chic charm and modesty, Andrée emphasised that it was the simplest recipe in the world to make. Best eaten warm, it is a dish that works well with fresh salad, served in small pieces alongside an aperitif, or if you fancy a slab of unadulterated cheesy heaven – just on its own. The base also lends itself to vegetable and even fruit toppings, the potential seemed limitless.

With our canine chefs fielding stray cheesy flakes, we tucked into our portions, savouring every mouthful. It was just as indulgently luscious as the first time I’d tasted it.

Our masterclass was over, every second had been great fun, educational and always a great pleasure in the company of our wonderful friend – I’m truly grateful to Andrée for giving us so much of her time.

Here is a rough translation of the recipe below, if you’re a cheese lover and fancy a calorie-busting treat, I guarantee you’ll love this French fantasy. 

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The Italian Job

Things weren't going well on the social circuit...

“Oh no! Not again.”    

“Yes, again. We can’t get out of it. Just be grateful we’ve been asked.”

Jack, my husband, has never been much of a socialite. And, after so many years of marriage, I actually like the fact that we can still revel in our own company rather than having to be in a crowd. But, as we grow older, Jack’s preference for this has taken on an almost sociopathic flavour.

Since Christmas, invites to social occasions have been abundant. This latest invitation or ‘summons’, as Jack likes to term them, had been sent by our friends, Anton and Brigitte. It was in response to something we had apparently done for the event organisers, who they knew well, although for the life of us we couldn’t work out what it was. Entirely unfazed by our uninspired guesswork, Anton and Brigitte insisted that it didn’t matter, they had been most grateful, and had to return the favour – argh, but for what? Powerless to resist the ultimatum from our feisty pals we agreed and included my sister, Di, who has recently moved to the area.

The day of le spectacle vivant dawned with weather from hell. Rain lashed down in stair rods, and howling winds rocked the car. This was the perfect cue for Jack to point out that, apart from the emergency services and boats, nobody should volunteer to be out on a day like this. Fortunately, his moans went largely ignored. Then, just as he was beginning to cheer up, Anton, who originated from Italy, told us that the main entertainer for the day would be the famed Jean-Michel Zanotti. He had compered Anton and Brigitte’s 50^th wedding anniversary celebration, an unforgettable week-long event from which Jack still hasn’t quite recovered.

One thing’s for sure – Italians certainly know how to party. For my part, I recalled the event with great fondness.

Fierce-looking bearded relations (mostly male), and their families had descended in their droves from the mountain region of northern Italy, towing bricks of Parmesan cheese, gallons of Prosecco and a gelato-making machine. Their sole purpose – to support Anton and Brigitte during their celebrations.

The men strutted up and down the village main street with panache, instantly starting a minor scarf-brandishing war as they eyed their French counterparts’ feeble attempts at matching the latest Venetian knotting procedures. The ladies, mainly dressed in black with gold extras, were raucously business-like, and got stuck into catering duties with dangerous zest. Clearly, these were seasoned event managers.  

What followed was a week of merriment involving hundreds of family members and friends. The village bulged with pizza, wine and perpetual glass chinking. It vibrated with the echoes of laughter, storytelling and riotous song – all intended to entertain the happy couple. And it did.

The grand finale was a master stroke. Variously tottering, striding, wheeling, or strolling – the revellers poured into the village church to celebrate the re-affirmation of Anton and Brigitte’s marriage vows. Standing room only for most, the congregation watched, enraptured, as the scene from 50 years ago was repeated for the anniversary couple. It was an incredibly touching occasion. But that wasn’t the end.

Still looking as fresh as they had at the beginning of the week, the Italians, their French counterparts, and a few of us ‘internationals’ attended the finale banquet organised by Jean-Michel Zanotti. The whole event was marvellous, but left poor Jack in a much-weakened state of social overload.  

There was no let-up in the weather when we arrived at the venue for le spectacle vivant. Jack thoughtfully tried to avoid the need for a short swim by pulling up right outside the main entrance. Sadly his kindness backfired. Unbeknownst to him, Brigitte, dressed immaculately as usual, slid out of the car directly into an ankle-deep, invisible puddle. As Di and I rushed to help, my hat flew off causing my hair to have a panic attack, and a passing car sprayed Di’s top half as it drove through a temporary stream. Only Anton remained unscathed.

Anton alighted from the sheltered side of the car looking entirely fit for purpose. Dressed completely in dark colours, sporting a black trilby and dark glasses (an aid for his cataract problem), he was dry as a bone and fully equipped for an Italian extravaganza. We squelched in after him and joined the excited throng waiting to be allocated tables. One thing was immediately clear – Italy had returned to the Tarn et Garonne en masse.

Di and I left Anton and Brigitte to chat with friends and had a look around. The hall was filled with row upon row of trestle tables decorated with Italian flags and other colour-coded paraphernalia. Nicely on-theme, pasta played an inventive part too. Various shapes and sizes filled pots, and lay scattered on table surfaces, it was all extremely festive.

More Italian flags, some cheekily knotted, hung on the walls creating backdrops for life-size posters of familiar scenes. The Bridge of Sighs touched shoulders with a merry gondolier and a Chianti vineyard delighted the eye with promises of fine wines to come. As we wandered around drinking in the atmosphere, a band materialised on the stage and struck up a piece that would have made a gelato seller proud.

When we finally located our table, Jack, who we’d last seen trying to find a space in the water-logged carpark, was already seated. This was predictable, as was his remark.

“Where’ve you been? You look as though you’ve had an accident.” he said, eyeing us suspiciously.   

Di and I had been so busy checking the decor we’d forgotten to survey the storm aftermath. We were a sorry sight. After a short examination it was decided that, in order to avoid frightening the children, I needed to make a hasty visit to the ladies’ room to sort out my hair. Di, on the other hand, thought the tsunami-induced drizzle of mascara down her left cheek could be dealt with by the deft use of a hankie and compact mirror. I could swear steam was rising from Brigitte’s shoes as she came to join us, but decided to let that one go.

Once all damage-control measures had been executed we settled down to chat with our fellow diners, some of whom we knew, most of whom we didn’t. The first topic of conversation was the menu of Italian dishes. We could work out what most of it was, but the main course of Involtini à la pancetta was a tricky one. Despite living right next door to Italy, and priding themselves on knowing everything there is to know about cuisine, even our French co-diners were foxed. Jack declared that it sounded like a stomach complaint and was about to tell us why, when we were mercifully saved by a drum roll and big squeeze on his instrument from the accordion player.

Anton, who has great difficulty in seeing anything, yelled, “Here he is!”  

We scanned the stage but saw nothing.

“Là, là-bas, c'est Jean-Michel Zanotti!” he cried reverently, pointing at the opposite end of the room.

Sure enough a little chap in a bright blue, shiny shirt was shaking hands and blowing kisses at the enraptured diners as he shimmied his way to the front. Then, horror of horrors, he switched on his handheld microphone and launched into a random audience-participation vox pop.

Terrified that he was going to head in our direction and stuff his mike under my nose, I shrank behind the invisibility cloak of my neighbour’s organza outfit. Luckily the material shrouded me as a parachute might, but only just. Happily, a lady very close by was singled out for a moment of stardom – but this was fine, she was definitely up for it.

Completely misunderstanding the function of a microphone, our lady screeched her excited response to the 300-strong audience. This did nothing for the labouring speakers on the stage, which crackled under the strain of her shrieks, but whatever she said clearly delighted the audience. Glowing with the success of her moment of stardom, madame gave Jean-Michel a parting smacker before flopping back in her seat. Completely spent – but beaming radiantly.  

Our compere finally made it to the stage and serenaded us with Italian love songs. This was the cue for feasting to begin. Impromptu-looking waiters, many of whom we knew to be farmers, loped between the trestle tables sloshing Prosecco in the general direction of our plastic beakers. After the third sleeve-splash, I knew Jack wouldn’t be able to contain himself any longer.

“Bloody hell, that’s Alain, the maize farmer. He’s pouring drinks like he spreads compost,” he grumbled. “Why on earth has he been let loose with bottles of wine?”

“Oh never mind, darling, it’s all part of the fun,” I replied gaily, fervently hoping my hair wasn’t going to end up in the firing line. It just wouldn’t cope with another passing shower.

Our first course was minestrone soup, therefore relatively fluid, and so inevitably served with some sloppage. Fortunately the damage was limited to the occasional sleeve and one shoulder. Brigitte assured the wounded party that once the micro macaroni had been picked out of her wool, a dab of wine would remove the stain in moment. She then swiftly curtailed Anton’s helpful advances by removing the bottle of red he was about to chuck over the soggy cardie and replaced it with a hankie dunked in white. After 50 or so years of marriage she knows exactly how Anton ticks.

Things got drier on the food front, which was just as well because it quickly became evident that every time our bucolic waiters poured wine in our general direction they took a quick sip themselves. The atmosphere was becoming distinctly festive.

Introductory speeches were made, and when they were over the band struck up and Jean-Michel began singing a new repertoire of Italian favourites. Shut your eyes and he could have been Dean Martin. What a lovely voice. Whilst we were watching I spotted a gentleman with a magnificent moustache. Strangely, he’d appeared from nowhere. He glided up to a table, plucked a lady out of her seat and began dancing with her in the centre of the room. This was greeted by knowing nods of appreciation from the audience as we watched his sashayed moves.

Brigitte explained that he was a professional dancer and would be picking ladies at random to do a star turn on the dance floor. Here was another cause for concern. I reassured myself that he wouldn’t want to choose someone with a hairdo that resembled hedge clippings, but my sister might not be so safe. She was now nicely restored and looked young enough to live through a round of the tarantella. Luckily she missed out on that joy but our pro dancer proved to be an inspiration to others.

The young(ish), the old and the even older pushed back their seats and headed for the dance floor. Some trundled, others needed a spot of man-handling to make it, but that didn’t matter a bit, they joined in with enormous enthusiasm. Somehow our pro avoided injury from flailing body parts by skilfully fairy-footing his partner through the crowds and back to her seat, but others weren’t so lucky. The odd glancing blow and toe-crunch was inevitable, but the victims bore their wounds in great spirit.

The music abated and in came a dish of antipasti followed by our main course, the much discussed Involtini à la pancetta. Anton, who hadn’t been party to our original debate, explained that it was a popular dish in Sicily. To the untrained eye it looked like a piece of meat covered in bacon swimming in gravy and many herbs. There were also some carrots but I gathered these were strays and not part of the usual recipe.

Jack took one look at the collection of meat and unhelpfully commented that despite smelling like one, it probably wasn’t part of a horse’s head. Nevertheless, just to be on the safe side, he would stick to sipping the gravy instead. Whilst I did feel he was being a wuss I must admit it was rather pongy. If anything, the accompanying polenta fared even less well. It had obviously been standing for some time and we had a devil of a job digging it out of the tureens. This didn’t worry the elderly lady opposite me one iota. Despite being stick thin she had an enormous appetite and gleefully shovelled a slab of the solid yellow mass onto her plate. She then gracefully accepted both her own and Jack’s portion of rolled-up meat, and got stuck in with relish.

Fresh bottles of wine were thumped onto our tables to aid the passage of those morsels that might prove difficult to masticate, and with that, accordion man reappeared and started squeezing life back into his instrument. The rest of the band followed suit and in came Signore Zanotti, this time with a pair of dancing girls – which caused quite a stir. Bearing in mind the average age of diner was somewhere between elderly to extremely aged, the sight of scantily clad ladies cavorting about the stage was likely to test the stoutest heart.

Cutlery was abandoned and battles with the tenacious Involtini temporarily put to one side as most male eyes refocused on the girls, who were now bounding around with various props. Top hats were hurled in the air, walking canes with ribbons were twizzled and pairs of gloves were seductively removed, finger by finger. It was all extremely diverting.   

The finale of the piece was something of a triumph. As Signore Zanotti hit a particularly challenging high note, off came the girls skirts leaving them dressed only in high heels, fishnet tights and skinny leotards. Male gasps of approval swept around the room causing immediate potential for a group cardiac arrest. Fortuitously, we were saved from any untimely declines as was signore, who had been stuck on top C for a rather long time.

The next few songs restored some level of calm. The girls wore a variety of different costumes while Signore Zanotti expertly crooned through a repertoire that seemed to have been taken directly from The Godfather movies. This period was used for our waiters to remove the main course. Most of us were happy to help out, save skinny lady opposite me, who took some persuading to part with her plate. We eventually managed to prise it out of her hands by replacing it with a baguette to munch on while she waited for the cheese course.

   

Signore Zanotti, who seemed able to sing non-stop for hours, was re-joined by his performers, this time looking ready for the Rio Carnival in Brazil. Their fantastic costumes bristling with feathers and other floaty accoutrements wowed the audience as they strutted their stuff and then can-canned their way around the stage. But this was just the start.

 With boas bouncing they delighted us by flouncing down the steps and mingling on the dance floor. Small children gaped and cheered, and even cloth cap man next door to me removed his hat for a second to mop his brow before jamming it safely back in place. This event just kept on giving.

Still in full voice and with roving mike in hand, Signore Zanotti descended the stage steps and headed our way. Oozing with delight when chosen, some sang with him, others were able to sing on their own. Then he picked an impossibly old gentleman. The charitable side of me immediately felt compassion for this ancient of days – what a shame to cause him such exertion after all that camembert. I needn’t have worried. Without a single tooth in his head, he grabbed the mike and thrilled us with a rich baritone voice and intonations Pavarotti would have been proud of. This man was undoubtedly a plant.

Applause rocked the building when our soloist finished, which might have heralded the end of the song, but not a bit of it. This ballad had an infinite number of verses. And, to the evident delight of everyone present, signore continued his rounds until we finally arrived at the last one, which was massacred with great gusto by a lady who was having a marvellous time. We applauded her efforts until our hands stung, only subsiding to do battle with our digestifs. But it was for only a moment.   

Signore Zanotti was still amongst the rank and file when he began singing the Neapolitan favourite O Sole Mio (unfortunately also known as Just One Cornetto). This was altogether too much for one of the diners. He seized the mike and finished off the song, once again entertaining us with a wonderfully powerful operatic voice. This chap was in his element. So much so that he held on to the mike, gathered a couple of his mates and headed for a raised platform. This was a potential worry. I wondered if poor signore had lost control of proceedings. However, the smile on his face suggested otherwise.

What followed was an a capella performance from three old codgers who almost sang like angels and caused the diners to yell with delight and holler out the choruses. They were huge crowd pleasers. But in the end even their energies were spent. They reluctantly returned the mike to signore and repaired to their seats to lap up the dregs of their gelato. With the professionalism of a true maestro, signore smoothed back to the sanctuary of the stage and sang to us until our meal was over and last sips of unusual digestif consumed.     

Saying our goodbyes to our fellow guests took quite a while but we finally managed it, leaving skinny madame still in position, grazing contentedly on sprinkles of Parmesan. The weather had taken a turn for the worse. The rain was being blown sideways now, and puddles had become ponds. As we waited for Jack to get the car I wistfully considered the fate of my hat. It was probably halfway to Spain by now. Never mind, it was all too late to worry about stuff like that. We had spent another wonderful day in the company of our dearest friends, and I can’t wait for Italy to return to France. 

An Incredible Lunch

The invitation to lunch was first issued in September of last year. It was intended as a thank you for the firewood we’d given our friends, Dominique and Monique. Jack, my husband, tried his best to put it off, emphasising that such repayment was entirely unnecessary, but they were having none of it. They energetically pooh-poohed his loud protestations, innocently believing they stemmed from his generosity, rather than his aversion to social excursions.

For various mundane reasons, we were unable to make the first, or indeed the next three, dates offered. And it was at this point that Jack began to see a speck of light at the end of his anti-social tunnel. Surely the whole idea would fizzle out to nothing, he’d exclaimed. He should have known better. Once an offer of hospitality has been made by our French pals it is never rescinded.

Dominique and Monique were like a pair of terriers, darting around the calendar until a suitable alternative date was set in January. It was confirmed, re-confirmed and followed up by several text messages to make sure that we were all on the same page. In fairness to them these final acts of extreme communication were probably a sensible precaution because, as we are Anglaises, and therefore permanently challenged linguistically, there was always that lurking risk of a misunderstanding.

Already jaded by what he termed an unreasonably high number of social festivities over the Christmas period, Jack was close to a mental decline as our lunch date loomed. I tried to jolly him along by reminding him how kind the offer was, which he acknowledged with a grunt and further moans about there being no need at all.

The next challenge was locating our host’s home. Dominique and Monique allegedly live somewhere outside a tiny village called La Chatel. That was a start. However, the precise location was something of a brain-teaser. It shouldn’t have been that difficult, after all there are only around 250 souls who live in the entire commune (parish). Quite obviously the thing to do was to seek advice from the owners. Easier said than done.

Dominique speaks at Mach five and there are only so many times one can ask for the instructions to be repeated. Sadly, Monique is even worse and starts each sentence with an ‘oopahhh’, which can easily throw one off track. Shameful though it may be, we eventually gave up, pretended we understood, and resorted to asking people who had already visited.

Nathan said it was a farm behind La Chatel and we couldn’t miss it. Brilliant! Just about everything behind La Chatel is a farm. Jean-Pierre had only been once and said we should approach it from the direction of Lozarte. Jean-Luc disagreed and said the only way to reach it was by taking the third road out of La Chatel. This was somewhat disconcerting since we thought there were only two. Finally, Anton came to our aid. Anton is one of those people who is always right. With great precision and much arm waving he issued instructions, insisting that we needed to turn right off the main road, then right and right again. Voila!

Jack questioned him animatedly, looked a trifle confused and ended up glazing over altogether. When I later asked why he was being so picky he explained that if we had followed Anton’s imaginative directions we would have ended up on junction 17 of the autoroute. Either something had got horribly lost in translation, or Anton was having a spot of bother with his rights and lefts. The latter theory was neatly confirmed when we consulted Google Earth, which showed that by taking several lefts we’d get there in no time at all.

The great day finally arrived and we departed early, just in case, but found the place very easily. At dead-on 12.30pm we drew up in front of a magnificent old farmhouse. Set in glorious countryside, it was surrounded by meadows, sheltered at the rear by cow sheds, and had a natural windbreak of graceful trees that lined the garden.

Dominique was already outside waiting to welcome us and, by his side, stood a tattered old mutt with only three legs. After the customary wet-cheeked welcome from our host, I immediately asked what had happened to his dog. Dominique explained that the poor lad had wandered off one day and been run over by a truck. His leg was too badly injured to be saved so it had to be amputated. Desperately sad though this was, it was clear from looking at this proud animal that his disability wasn’t holding him back from executing his duties as home guardian. Axel viewed us with disdain, growled lustily and hopped away to a suitable position from which to observe our every move.

During the short story about his dog it became abundantly clear that Dominique was suffering from a dreadful cold. If there’s something Jack really hates, it’s coming into contact with anyone who is off-colour. In fact it tops his list of clear and present dangers involved in social intermingling. The whole thing is made much worse in France because of the kissing business that occurs with most greetings, which fortunately didn’t apply for him here. As we were ushered into the house I ignored Jack’s hisses about contagious diseases, and focused on what lay before us.

I’m not sure what wowed me most: the enormous fireplace filled with cheery flames darting around pine-scented logs, the alluring cooking aromas that instantly assailed my taste buds, or the radiant smile from our hostess. Monique gave us both a hug, several kisses and welcomed us into her wonderful home.

The fireplace, with a mantelpiece too high for me to reach, was easily big enough for two or three people to sit in. It belted out heat, warming a large dining area on one side, the kitchen on the other and an open-plan lounge. The ambience was perfect for a chilly January day. Monique, sensing my interest, or possibly because she was sick of me cooing with delight, shyly asked if I would like to see the rest of the house. I jumped at the chance. We left the men rootling around for drinks and headed off towards the kitchen and those heavenly smells.

She explained that the farmhouse was extremely old and originally humans had shared living space with their beasts. Various renovations resulted in partitioning the animals off into the barns we saw when we arrived. I asked how long they had lived in the house.

“Oopahhh, not long, around 26 years I think,” she ruminated. “We started renovating recently and I made most of the changes with Dominique. Come and look.”

I was just processing the concept of 26 years being ‘not long’ as we walked into the kitchen.

“These used to be cattle stalls, we put in a wall but kept the original fixtures,” Monique said, gesturing towards the back of the room.

I peered at the back wall but couldn’t readily see anything cowish until she pointed out the blindingly obvious. The first stall housed an intimate breakfast table and behind it was a wall length ex-manger. Animal fodder had been replaced by several pot plants and a television poked up cheekily in the middle. It was an ingenious idea. The second stall was the food preparation area. The manger here contained a sink and work space and the far wall housed a massive hob – the source of those amazing whiffs. My taste buds were on fire as I viewed the perfectly French Le Creuset frying pan filled with large lumps of sizzling meat. At that moment I couldn’t quite work out what is was, but I felt sure it would be substantial enough to cheer up Jack.

As we wandered from room to room Monique chatted about her family, always a confusing subject. She had me foxed in moments. One of the features of living in our part of France is that many men share a first name with the prefix Jean. So we have lots of Jean-Lucs, many Jean-François, oodles of Jean-Claudes and endless Jean-Pierre’s. Quite what happened when Dominique was born is a mystery. Anyway, between the two families, there are a large number of Jean-Pierre’s so I quickly became lost in the morass of relations. We were upstairs by this time and it was decidedly nippy; I was just about to enquire whether we were discussing an uncle or nephew when we arrived at a wall of polythene. This was odd.

By way of explanation, Monique swept aside the opaque plastic curtain to reveal an open space with breeze blocks on three sides and nothing on the fourth.

“This will be our gym,” she beamed. “We will install windows in the summer.”

Thinking that this probably couldn’t come soon enough, I quashed an involuntary shiver and replied, “Gosh, what a lovely large space. When did you start the renovations?”

“Oopahhh, about ten years ago. They won’t take too much longer I don’t think.”

We left that stinger hanging in the frigid air and took another route back through the labyrinthine upstairs corridors, arriving at a room which took my breath away. It was a vast pigeonnier supported by an amazing number of beams that reached an apex way, way above our heads.

As I stared in wonder at this fantastic feat of architecture Monique explained that it was indeed originally used to house pigeons. During the renovations they had plastered the lower walls and she had sanded and re-varnished every beam – which was a bit of a job, she added. I stared up at the spider’s web of criss-crossing beams, then at my petite friend, and wondered how on earth she’d managed to do that all by herself. With the obvious absence of scaffolding I could only imagine that she was a skilled abseiler – it must have taken weeks. She, on the other hand was more concerned about a problem that presented itself at floorboard level.

Monique gestured to more sheets of polythene, this time covering twin beds, liberally coated in unusual smelling matter.

“It’s the bats you see,” she pouted, “they make a terrible mess in here.”

I might not be bat-phobic, but I do prefer to admire them on the outside of a house rather than in it. The very thought of them whizzing around the snoozy heads of a couple of house guests made me shudder. I made sympathetic noises, took one last wistful look at this structural triumph and followed Monique back down to the warm heart of the home.

The men were sitting in the lounge adjacent to the massive fireplace. Dominique was now looking very pale and sounded a tiny bit snivelly while Jack was nursing a large whisky, which I’m surprised he wasn’t gargling (a favourite anti-cold precaution of his). He was sitting jammed up against a settee cushion as far away from Dominque as possible. I sat down to join them for a drink and Monique went off to check her sizzling meat and returned with tasty fois gras and boar pâté canapés, both favourites in this part of France.

We were soon chatting about last year’s harvest problems when the front door swung open. In poured Jean-Pierre, their son, and his two young children, Jean-Pierre and Emilie – who was rather a screamer. I’m afraid this instantly presented Jack with another one of his pet ‘could do withouts’. Don’t get me wrong, he’s almost fine with children but, if they have to be seen, he prefers them not to be heard or, at least, at less than 100 decibels. Sadly it wasn’t to be. Emilie, aged around five years old, was extremely exuberant and wanted to play.

Doting grandfather though he is, the children’s boisterous behaviour immediately had a marked effect on Dominique, who was becoming more fragile by the moment. He retreated to his bar, produced drinks for the newcomers and a colourless liquid for himself that looked worryingly like eau de vie. This is a liquid incendiary device, distilled at home by many of our friends and is particularly favoured here. I have had the misfortune to taste it on a couple of occasions and, on each, have come away with an oesophagus on fire, wannabe ulcers forming on my tongue and earache. I hate the stuff. That said, he presumably felt it was just the remedy for his cold.

When the French dine on a Sunday it is generally a relaxed affair where meals often take the form of a degustation. We were prepared for this but by 1.45pm I was beginning to wonder when we would eat. There was certainly no let-up in the kitchen. The meat was still audibly sizzling and Monique was popping to and fro, presumably to give it the odd test-poke. But there was absolutely no sign of any movement towards the dining table. Conversely, Emilie was becoming bouncier by the minute, causing both Dominique and Jack to wince. Happily help was at hand.

Loud barks from the three-legged mutt augured the arrival of more visitors. The front door swung open again and in came Dominique and Monique’s nephew, Jean-Luc, and his girlfriend, Chloé. They’re a lovely couple whom we know well. Dominique, now the colour of a freshly-laundered handkerchief, refreshed all drinks and we settled down to nibble on a new heap of fois gras.

I appraised the assembled company. We were up to nine potential diners now, quite a departure from the cosy foursome I’d assumed we’d be. Then I looked at the big dining table – it could easily seat more. It was now past 2.15pm and I began to wonder how many more guests were due. If they arrived at the same rate as the others, lunch would turn into supper. I decided to pace myself just in case. As if to confirm my thoughts Monique called Jean-Pierre (junior) and Emilie to the table to eat. But only them. Somewhat confused I looked over to Jack, who had taken on a whisky-fuelled rosy hue. Jean-Pierre was showing him an article from his latest farming magazine, which happily was still legible in spite of the blob of pâté that had fallen off Emilie’s breadstick. 

Meals for youngsters tend to be a speedy affair and this was no exception. Food was bolted down at breakneck speed with minimal fuss and a great deal of noise. Much to the men’s poorly disguised chagrin, they were back with us in no time at all, except this time with a tennis racket, which they brandished at their grandfather. I’m not sure whether Dominique thought he was required to play a quick set before eating, but the sight of this games weapon brought on a paroxysm of sneezes and sent him back to his bar in search of further elixirs.

I could tell by the slight twitch in his left eye that Jack was taking a relatively dim view of the young person’s exuberance, nevertheless he was coping admirably well with being sat on. It then suddenly occurred to me that we might actually have got the whole invitation completely wrong. Perhaps we’d been invited for drinks and viewing of grandchildren eating only. No problem, I decided, that was perfectly fine. After all, we had by now consumed a brick of fois gras and half a boar and wouldn’t need to eat for days.

Moments later, Monique, clearly in charge of human resources, surprised us by lining the children up to be kissed. She then bustled them together with Jean-Luc, Chloé and the tennis racket out of the door. She beamed an ‘Oopahhh’ at us and announced that our lunch was ready. Feeling thoroughly confused about the social arrangements we trailed off behind her towards the dining table. 

Five of us sat down at the magnificent old oak table in front of the roaring fire. It was past 3pm by now and I don’t mind admitting that I was ready for a speed-nap. The combination of our lengthy canapé session, the scents of pinewood, and constant serenading by sounds of ever-sizzling meat was having a soporific effect. But our friends had other ideas.

Consummate host that he is, Dominique, sniffing like an old bloodhound, staggered off to a different room muttering something about wine for the meal. Judging by the extremely audible nose-blows, he can’t have gone far and eventually reappeared with several bottles. Meanwhile, Monique, who had also disappeared, brought in an enormous round platter laden with a crusty tart which was almost black on top.

Dominique served drinks and slumped into a chair opposite me. We chatted lightly for quite a while, tart un-touched, until it occurred to me what was required. I’d completely forgotten that in our rural part of France it is customary for guests to take first dibs of the culinary offering. I made a preliminary move towards the serving cutlery, which was greeted by a look of immense relief from Monique. We each took a piece and the meal commenced.

I have absolutely no idea what variety the tart was, other than fishy, tasty and filling. Nicely lubricated with a dry white, we polished off our slab with gusto. But there was still half a tart left and I worried about the social implications of this. Were we supposed to dive in again? A social faux pas with our generous hosts would be unforgivable. Since Monique was eyeing the leftovers somewhat wistfully, I decided to go for it. I made a second test-move towards the servers, which was obviously the right thing to do. She gleefully slid the platter towards me and I cut another slice.

Course after course appeared, often with just one foodstuff – another custom here. As my tummy started swelling under the strain I began to regret taking that second slice of fish tart, but to pass on a course at this stage would be too rude for words. Desperately hoping my skirt button was up to the job of keeping things in place, I continued to stuff food down.  

Each course was darkly coloured and as difficult to distinguish as the first, and served with a splash of differently coloured wine. As before, dishes were placed in front of us with great reverence and the remaining three family members waited politely until Jack and I had the first helping. The latest of these was somewhat difficult to deal with because it was a mound of cep mushrooms – Jack hates mushrooms. Under the proud gaze of Dominique, who no doubt had picked them, I ignored Jack’s disgusted sotto voce grunt and swept a couple of prime specimens onto his plate. Surely that was the end of the savouries? Not a bit of it.

Monique sprang out of her chair and disappeared again, the sizzling in the cow stalls abruptly stopped, and moments later she made a triumphant return, bearing a salver of medallion-shaped pieces of blackish meat. As luck would have it, Jack, hadn’t noticed this detail. He was now nicely oiled by the non-stop flow of wine, and having washed down the remains of his mushrooms with yet another glass of red, had begun a riveting tale about machine parts. His expansive chat was evidently fascinating Jean-Pierre, conversely, poor Dominique was suffering. His eyes were approaching the same colour as the claret, his voice reduced to a croak.  

I looked apprehensively at the meat. It ought to be borne in mind that it had been cooking for over four and a half hours, therefore it was likely to be a tad past its prime. Monique couldn’t possibly be blamed for this; the day had been a social whirlwind for her. We dutifully took our helpings and started sawing. From the corner of my eye I could see that Jack was due to say something entirely inappropriate like ‘what is it?’ so I quickly cut in by asking a nicely vague question about the name of the specific cut.  

Our wonderful beef-farming hosts’ eyes lit up at our interest in this pièce de résistance of the feast. They commenced an animated discussion between themselves about how to describe the body part to their Anglais friends. Since Dominique could only whisper now, Monique won their pithy debate in double-quick time. She tried and failed several times to explain the answer to us before having an Eureka moment.

“Oopahhh, I know, I’ll get the book!”

Off she went, leaving Dominique looking wan, and cantered back with a tome on how to butcher a cow. Inspirational move! Now it seemed we had a clue as to what we were eating and since I’ve often got stuck at le boucher when trying to describe a certain cut of meat, this was going to be very helpful.

Somewhat relieved at having a moment’s reprise from chewing, she and I pored over the relevant page. Once we’d located the diagram of a cow and accompanying legend of meat cuts Monique sped off again, fired up a machine that sounded like a combustion engine, and returned with a hot photocopy of the body parts page. Monique is kindness itself. We solemnly returned to the matter of doing battle with our pieces of meat and Jack innocently asked which cut of beef it actually was. “It is duck,” was the reply.

Dessert was washed down with a river of champagne and took the form of three courses. It was clear what two of them were and the third very closely resembled our first course. I ignored Jack’s tittered mutter of ‘what goes around comes around’ and dug my spoon into the most delicious apple tart I have ever tasted in my life. Bravo, Monique!

After the cheese course, coffee and assorted bottles of liqueur including a re-appearance of the dreaded eau de vie, arrived and were served by Jean-Pierre. Dominique was incapable of uttering anything and was reduced to the occasional pathetic nod. Monique, in spite of her toiling, looked as fresh as a daisy and Jack was now on top form. He held the floor, regaling us all with his favourite stories and generally delighted the assembled company. Even Dominique began to chuckle.

Finally it was time to go. It was nearly 6pm and I was mildly surprised that the younger members of the family hadn’t reappeared after a gruelling five-setter. We executed a number of embraces and stepped out into the cold January air – ooh it was nippy. Poor Dominique looked like he ought to be hospitalised. However, despite being close to collapse, he courteously insisted on seeing us to our car while Monique gaily waved her how-to-butcher-cattle (but not ducks) at us. The three-legged mutt joined his master and growled gently, no doubt happy to have the interlopers removed from his domain.

We trundled slowly through the countryside back to our home, taking care to turn right this time, not left. With broad smiles across our faces, we agreed that it had been another truly memorable day in the company of these fantastically generous people. Just another typical day in our little corner of France.