Partridge Release and the Exploding Husband

It all started with an egg. Well, fifteen to be exact.

Last year I was making my routine bird food purchases at our local grain merchants here in France. It’s a very rural outfit, with large warehouses stuffed full of fodder for beasts, cereal seeds and products for farmers. A couple of cats are engaged to patrol the area, but they’re usually seen snoozing in a sunny spot rather than controlling the hordes of mice that make nests in the food bags. I should be used to it by now, but it’s still an unwelcome surprise when one pops out to squeak ‘Bonjour!’ when I open a feed bag. 

It is also a popular hangout for a motley assortment of bored gents. The group on that early spring day were mainly farmers. Some were making a half-hearted attempt at buying, but they were evidently kicking around, killing time while they waited for a cherished bud to burst out of the soil or transform into a perfect baby apple.

I knew most of them, which in some ways was a drawback. My purchases had to wait until I’d executed the customary French greeting. A kiss on either cheek for those I knew, and a warm handshake with the strangers – one of whom stared at me fixedly. This was a tad unsettling. I could already feel the warm, tickly glow on my face where it had been scraped by several unshaved well-wishers. Perhaps my usual rash had erupted earlier than normal. This proved not to be the reason for his interest.

Monsieur’s opening salvo was issued at such a percussive rate I was lost after the first couple of words. Happily, Jacques, the store manager, had been listening. A short, tubby chap who shouts his way through every sentence and finds most things in the world, aside from his plague of mice, screamingly funny.

“Ah hah! Monsieur Declerce. Ha ha ha. elle est anglaise!” he roared, guffawing. His information concerning my country of origin was supported by a wafting of his hand to encourage monsieur to slow down. Happily he did.

A short, complicated explanation ensued where monsieur’s purpose was revealed. He was passionate about raising partridges. (Strange how conversations like this emanate here.) He raised so many, he said, he didn’t know what to do with them. Someone had told him that we raised pheasants and would I please take this week’s eggs from him? Since he obviously didn’t want to go down the omelette route, and we had our incubation kit ready for our pheasant eggs, I said I was happy to take a few off his hands if that would help.

Subsequently, I thought very little about our chat, dismissing it as yet another relatively eccentric encounter at the grain merchants. To my surprise, the following week monsieur turned up, laden with eggs. He was terribly bashful. Once again he sped through his explanations, handed over the eggs and rushed off, cradling the bottle of wine Jack, my husband, had given him as a thank-you.

After about three weeks every one of the eggs had hatched. We were now proud parents to a mixture of fifteen grey and red-leg partridges, which grew into fine, healthy young adults.

Ever since we came to live here we’ve been trying to develop the wildlife on our land. And, actually, our new partridges represented an ideal addition. The next stage of their development was a transfer from their existing covered pen into a large release pen which we had built in the middle of our land. Here they would join the pheasants, and begin their transition to freedom and, hopefully, breed in a natural environment.

The timing of this coincided with an unusual phone call. Unlike face to face conversations, I often find speaking on the phone to French people very challenging. For some reason many double the speed of their speech. The antidote is supposed to be a clear and loud exclamation of “Trop vite monsieur/madame, doucement s’il vous plaît.” This has the effect of slowing them down for about five seconds, after which they’re back to full gallop.

Jack, never lost for a colourful theory on any cultural trait, reckons it’s such a consistent characteristic that the technique must have been drilled into them from a very early age as an economy measure, and they haven’t subsequently realised that telephone charges are really quite cheap nowadays. I’m not convinced of the validity of this theory, but the fact remains they are definitely babblers when armed with a receiver.

Luckily Jack got to the phone first. However, it quickly became clear that it was another one of those difficult conversations. He struggled on, becoming exasperated as the tortuous process continued.

"C’est pas à moi de décider. c’est ma femme. Ne quittez pas s’il vous plaît monsieur,” he barked down the phone, and then to me, “It’s your partridge man. Do you want any more birds?”

“Well, not really. Are you sure he doesn’t mean eggs?”

At which point Jack’s comms. overload point had been reached. He grimaced at me, thanked monsieur, telling him I’d ring very soon, and ended the call. 

Work quickly began on preparing the small release-aviary, which sits inside a two hectare open-top release pen. Here the birds could naturalise and learn some survival skills before exposure to furred predators. The pen hadn’t been used for over a year so making the tracks useable for rotund birds, who prefer to walk rather than fly, took quite a while. My sister and I drafted in my unsuspecting nephew and his pal for the job, which they thought would be a cinch. Huh – teenagers!

 Four hours later, the boys declared themselves totally exhausted. Taking pity on the lanky pair, we returned home to patch-up the impressive number of bramble scratches they’d picked up during their labours. After consuming gallons of drinks and many snacks they flaked out, moaning about never having any ‘chill-time’ during holidays and parent people taking more care of animals than their humans. Fortunately, their laments were interrupted by the telephone. Unfortunately, Jack wasn’t about – I was forced to answer.

After my triumphant opener of, ‘Bonjour’, things went rapidly downhill. Communication was disjointed to say the least and the caller was becoming frantic. Finally, I realised it was Monsieur Declerce, and he was definitely saying something about birds. I quickly apologised for not calling him back, still assuming he was offering us more eggs like the previous year. I tried to explain that we were not incubating this year. The word for incubator in French being: incubateur I felt he might understand. Noooo, not a bit of it, I’d lost the poor man without a trace. He terminated the call relatively quickly thereafter, which was a merciful release for both of us. Wincing with embarrassment I sighed, there was nothing for it, I resolved, it was high time I found a tutor to teach me the fine art of understanding high-speed telephonic French.

With our dogs in tow as usual, I trudged off to start my daily chores in the bird pens. However, my tranquil husbandry moments were soon shattered by the hooting of a car horn. This normally augurs the arrival of a visitor, and is an immediate prompt for the dogs to erupt into a torrent of barks and frantic dash to lick to death any potential victim. Shortly after, a very flustered Monsieur Declerce appeared with a large bird transport box and a dog hanging off either corner.

“Oh, monsieur, je suis vraiment désolé”, I cried in apology, grabbing the dogs.

“Pas de problème madame, voici les oiseaux.” he replied breathlessly, proffering the box.

It seemed that monsieur, who for some reason was wearing carpet slippers, had brought some birds. This was most unexpected – although perhaps it shouldn’t have been if I’d only understood the nature of his call. Despite actually understanding what he was saying this time I must have looked extremely dim because he asked me what I wanted to do with them.

“Les oiseaux, madame. Voulez-vous les manger?” he asked.

“Non monsieur!” We certainly did not want to eat them.

 Looking slightly non-plussed, he had another go.

“Voulez-vous les tirer plus tard?”

“Oh, non, monsieur!” We definitely didn’t want to shoot them either.

Before he came up with another bright idea I thanked him profusely and suggested that they could go with our existing group. His face lit up and I took him into the bird pen. Still unsure of the species in question, I watched as he turned the box upside down and about 20 mixed partridges tumble out. Completely unperturbed by their journey and dog incident, the birds immediately trotted off to find food. Monsieur, on the other hand was quite different.

Looking decidedly nervous (probably running scared in case I tried to strike up a deep conversation), monsieur explained that the birds were surplus from last year. They were healthy, he said, although perhaps a bit too tame. I wasn’t sure what the ramifications of being ‘too tame’ were. So long as they weren’t going to turn into telly-addicts and perch on the sofa with us I felt we could probably handle that. I bade goodbye to this kind, bird-loving gentleman and continued with my jobs.

We now had too many adult birds in the pen, which confirmed the need to release the younger ones as soon as possible. Jack reluctantly agreed. We catch up birds using a contraption that looks like a gigantic butterfly net, and then pop them into bird transport cases. Easy in theory you might think, but the process is quite different, especially where my irascible husband is concerned.

Despite having a heart of gold (underneath it all) there are two key factors that, when combined, cause Jack to experience meltdown. He will happily labour for hours on any engineering-related challenge but, outside of this narrow field, he has the patience of a gnat. As we all know, partridges do not have predictable moving parts. Furthermore they are quite reluctant flyers, often preferring to sprint off in random directions, but when they do take flight, mayhem often ensues. So, in order to minimise the inevitable histrionics, I knew careful team planning was needed.

Our bird pen is large, and houses a mixture of chickens, pheasants and partridges. They all live perfectly happily together but it does make the job of trapping the correct species a bit more tricky – especially for Jack, who thinks they all look the same. By way of preparation I put all the feeders and drinkers to one side, and removed extraneous leafy materials so the net wouldn’t get snagged.

We were ready to begin. 

Jack immediately grabbed the net, informing me that my reactions and spatial skills had consistently been left wanting, proving that I wasn’t at all suited to this highly specialised netting process. I nodded obediently and got ready to start corralling.

Things started relatively well. Jack adopted his praying mantis pose by crouching down behind one of the shelters, and commenced netting. Initially the birds were taken by surprise and we managed to quickly trap the first couple. But success was short-lived. The remaining 22-ish had witnessed the initial captures and formulated a battle plan. As I herded them along the 25 metre length of the pen, several would outflank me, skip off across the middle, and sprint back down the other end. 

“What’s going on?” came the puzzled cry from behind the A-frame shelter, after the fifth time it had happened.

“I’m trying my best but they’re a slippery mob.” I replied, preparing for yet another run.

Jack’s head popped up like a periscope.

“You’re obviously not doing it properly! Why, oh why do I have to do everything myself?”

That appeared to be a rhetorical question so I chose not to respond. He surveyed the assorted throng of clucking, cheeping, preening birds, and came up with a new plan.

“Right, it’s obvious what the problem is – you’re not driving them quickly enough. You need to make sure their miniscule intellects are occupied worrying about you, and none are left to think about me trapping them. Let me show you. You take the net here and I’ll rush them towards you.”

I duly took up my position, poised for action.

There is a health and safety point to note here associated with the netting process. Netted birds are extremely adept at spinning and tying themselves up in knots. This means that care must be taken in the act of netting (so they don’t get walloped with the rim of the structure), and also removal (untangling beaks and legs). I tend to be overly cautious, and only scoop a bird when I’m 100% certain it won’t be injured. This is another patience-drain for Jack.

“For crying out loud, what are you doing? Just trap the sod, will you? We’ll be here all night at this rate!”

“Look, darling, I just want to do it properly. I’m worried about harming them.”

“Harming them? I’m about to have a cardiac arrest here – they’re absolutely bloody fine, as you can see by the way they’re galloping around like sodding racehorses! Get on with it!”

On reflection I might have been a little namby-pamby about things, so steeled myself for a more assertive approach.

Jack rounded up the mob yet again and set a stampede heading in my direction. The five cockerels were in front, they had to be avoided. Then came the hens, high-stepping it after their beaus. Thereafter it was a blur of game birds. The partridges were seriously on to us by now. With the skill of racing cyclists they tucked into the pheasant formation, nicely obscured by their larger kin. As the peloton approached at speed I was absolutely stuck. How on earth was I going to safely pluck a partridge from that feathery mixture?

“Get that one, thaaat one! Oh my god, you’ve missed again. Come on! How can you be so slow?”

“Darling.”

“What?”

“That was a pheasant.”

“Was it? Well, they all look the bloody same to me. Absolutely stupid idea to have them in the same pen together anyway.”

After a couple more failed forays on my part, Jack resumed control of the net, which I felt probably wasn’t such a good idea. He had now used up all his patience, plus reserves and had begun muttering to himself. It never augers well when Jack starts muttering. On the other hand, the partridges seemed to be delighted. They’d devised a fun new game – hide and seek.

This saw Jack thundering around the pen after the feathery scamps, mostly swatting thin air, as they dodged in and out of the A-frame shelters and behind the lean-to nesting boxes. As he became more agitated, the net was swung with less accuracy. No problem for our team of synchronised sprinters, who evaded tackles like skilled rugby players, but a major problem for the equipment.

Bigger and bigger holes appeared as the net snagged on bits of foliage. Poor Jack finally lost the plot altogether. He exploded with a rant-a-thon about the idiocy of raising animals. Luckily, these histrionic outbursts never last long. I tried my best not to giggle and instead ignored him and got on with the job in hand. Running repairs were made, and little by little we gathered our small group of feathery Houdinis.

It had taken nearly two hours. As we surveyed the bird carriers filled with noisy partridges, an important thought occurred to me.

“Ooh, Jack, hang on a minute. Perhaps we ought to keep a couple of breeding pairs back just in case we have a major problem with predators when they’re fully released.”

Jack, dripping with sweat and covered in dust, stared at me.

“I don’t believe you just said that,” he croaked.

“It seems to be a very sensible idea.” I replied, convinced of my wisdom.

“That confirms it. You are, in fact, stark raving mad! You’ve just had us thrashing around in this godforsaken aviary for half a day – just so you can fill the forest with fat little buggers, who, by the way, make a dreadful noise anyway. And now you want to take some out of the boxes? I honestly don’t believe my ears. My god, I’m nearly dead!”

“You certainly don’t sound it, darling,” I replied crisply. “Don’t worry, I’ll do it. You can have a nice rest while I’m sorting them out.”

A short tussle ensued while I selected a couple of suitable pairs. Two escaped in the process, which Jack steadfastly refused to re-capture, his comments being predictable, unprintable and possibly understandable. Finally we were good to go. We loaded our precious cargo on our little utility truck and drove to the paradise that was to be their new home.

We placed the boxes in the small covered pen. They would spend three nights here to acclimatise to their new surroundings before entering the open-top penned world that surrounded them. It had been quite a morning so I wasn’t too sure what to expect. Would they come out charging? Panic-stricken even? Happily, there was nothing to worry about where these stoic little citizens were concerned. To a bird, they strolled out and immediately started inspecting their new leafy world with interest.

The following day I returned to re-fill their food, and was greeted with a happy surprise. Two perfect eggs had been laid in the middle of the pen. Definitely no trauma here, the birds were perfectly relaxed. Then, on release day, when I opened their gate, rather than dashing off, none of them showed the slightest interest in leaving their cosy new home. Instead, this part of the process happened gradually over the next two weeks until only one pair of grey partridges remained. They had set up home and were extremely content.

On the whole I was very pleased with the way things had gone. Jack is always full of bluster; I’m quite used to that. The main thing was that our feisty crew were unharmed and apparently energetically embracing their freedom. I commented on this over a beer a few days later.

“D’you know, those birds are flourishing out there, let’s hope they breed as planned. It makes the whole process so worthwhile.”

“Humpf – s’pose so! Just don’t expect to get me involved in another one of your brilliant bird-release programmes for a while, I’m still recovering from that one.”

I looked over at sleepy Jack, who was being used as a chaise longue by our cat. Both his feet were obscured by equally snoozy dogs.

Yep, for an ‘animal-hater’ he coped very well!

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.