by Peter Mayle
Régis, as usual, had the answer. “Watered-down wine,” he said, “that’s the secret. It has a very calming effect on the young. Also, it’s better for them than any of those gassy sweet drinks. I myself was brought up from the age of six on diluted Côtes du Rhone, and look at me.” He beamed across the table, ruddy-faced and bright-eyed. Heaven knows what his liver looked like, but externally, he was the picture of health.
The red wine, a Côte de Beaune from Jadot, was scrutinized, sniffed, rolled around the palate—“the interrogation of the bottle,” as Régis put it—and pronounced excellent. And then we saw our chicken making its way toward our table, the plates held high by the waitress and protected from the elements by great silver domes, which she removed with a double flourish.
“Voilà, messieurs—poulet de Bresse à la crème.” She watched Régis with a smile as he bent over his plate and, with small encouraging flutters of his hand, waved the steam rising from the chicken toward his face. He remained nose-down for a moment, inhaling deeply, then nodded two or three times before looking up at the girl.
“Tell me if you would, mademoiselle, a little about the recipe.” He wagged an index finger at the waitress. “No chef’s secrets, naturally, just the main ingredients.” Which she did, with the occasional murmured “Ah, yes” or “Of course” from Régis.
First into the pan goes a generous knob of butter, followed by the chicken breasts and legs, a large onion cut into quarters, a dozen or so sliced champignons de Paris—those small, tightly capped white mushrooms—a couple of cloves of garlic en chemise, crushed but not peeled, and a bouquet garni of herbs. When the color of the chicken has turned to deep gold, a large glass of white wine is poured into the pan and allowed to reduce before half a liter of crème fraîche is added. The bird is cooked for thirty minutes, the sauce is strained through a fine sieve, the dish is seasoned to taste, and there you have it.
The waitress returned to the kitchen, having made the whole thing sound as easy as preparing a sandwich.
It was a chicken in triumph, we both agreed. Like the frogs’ legs, it was moist and tender, almost melting, but with a more defined taste, the flesh as smooth as the cream it had been cooked in. We ate at an old-fashioned, pre-McDonald’s pace—slowly, taking pleasure in each mouthful, and in almost total silence. There was nothing to say except God bless the chef.
When our waitress came back, she saw two extremely clean plates. “So it pleased you, le poulet?” Indeed it had, we told her. Unctuous was the only word to describe it. We asked her to present our congratulations to the supplier of the chicken, the chef, and, with our complimentary mood well lubricated by Burgundy, to everyone else who had been involved.
“And how did it compare with the frogs’ legs?” she asked.
Régis sat back, tapping the fingertips of both hands together while he thought of an appropriate reply. “Let me put it this way,” he said. “It was like the difference between a very good wine and one of the great vintages.”
The waitress inclined her head, and shrugged. “C’est normal,” she said. “The chicken, after all, has the appellation contrôlée. Whereas the frog, no matter how worthy, is still just a frog.” She cleared away our plates and suggested a little local cheese, the Bleu de Bresse, to go with the last of the wine.
The cheese, pungent and creamy enough to coat the palate and flatter the wine, set Régis off on one of the many hobbyhorses he keeps in his stable: the importance of eating food at the right time of year and in the right place. Strawberries at Christmas, wild boar in June, and all the other exotic delights made permanently available through modern methods of preservation, he rejected with a wave of his glass. That’s fine for supermarkets, he said. But the truly educated gourmet (doubtless a Frenchman) eats only what is in season. And if he’s lucky, as we were that night, he eats the local specialties on the spot, where they are produced.
It made excellent sense, I said, as long as our educated gourmet had unlimited time and the resources to follow his appetite all over the country. As soon as I spoke, I realized I should have known better. Régis leaned forward, his eyes glittering in the candlelight. “That’s it!” he said. “That’s what we should do next—a gastronomic Tour de France. Imagine: those little corners where they produce the best food in the world, and we could be there at the moment juste for the asparagus, the spring lamb, the oysters.…” His face took on the dreamy, faraway expression of a man contemplating an imminent journey to paradise, and it took the offer of a glass of Calvados to bring him down to earth. He was still muttering about lark’s tongues and truffles half an hour later, as we walked back to our hotel in the bitter December night air.
The following morning was the moment of truth for the most noble poultry in France. Régis and I were there at the Parc des Expositions as the doors opened, and were swept through in the first wave of enthusiasts. Two vast spaces were devoted to the exhibition, and a quick inspection showed that one was allocated to the living and the other to the dead. Drawn by the sound of chirping, we went first into the hall of the living. In the central space, a series of small fenced gardens had been set up and landscaped with rocks and foliage and verdant artificial grass; lining the outside perimeter of the hall were stalls providing refreshment for those in need.
Régis rubbed his hands as he took stock of the dozens of trestle tables laid out with smoked ham, sausage, cheeses, handmade country bread, pâtés and a selection of wines from as far north as Champagne and as far south as Châteauneuf, the yellow wine of the Jura side by side with Beaujolais and the heavier Burgundies. A greedy and unprincipled man, as he observed rather piously, could eat and drink extremely well without spending a centime, simply by taking advantage of the free samples on offer.
I steered him away from a bulging sausage the size of a weight lifter’s bicep and over to the heated compound set aside for chicks. Clearly excited by their first public appearance, they were scurrying around and chirping loudly enough to drown the sound of the early-morning grumbles of the loudspeaker system. A series of notices planted in the fake grass informed us of the life these chicks could expect. After five weeks in centrally heated poussinières, they would be let out into the open, with at least ten square meters of grassland per chicken, to spend anything from nine to twenty-three weeks feeding on natural rations (worms, insects, small mollusks) supplemented by maize, wheat, and milk. These months in the fields would be followed by a fattening period, during which two square meals a day would be served to them in capacious wooden cages. This, apparently, was the secret of the unctuous flesh.
We were able to see the results of this privileged upbringing in a neighboring compound. It may be difficult to imagine such a thing as a glamorous chicken if you’ve never seen one, but these were as close as it gets: plumage as white and spotless as fresh snow, vivid red crests, bright and beady eyes, and those aristocratic blue feet. Their walk was stately and deliberate; they paused between steps, holding one foot in the air, as though they were tiptoeing across a sheet of paper-thin ice. Each bird wore the aluminum ring, stamped with the breeder’s name and address, around the left ankle. There is no chance of a Bresse chicken crossing the road and finding anonymity on the other side.
I heard what sounded like a dogfight, followed the noise, and discovered that there was more to the exhibition than chickens. Half a dozen turkeys, magnificent black-feathered beasts a good three feet tall, were complaining—possibly about the uncomfortable proximity of Christmas—their wattles quivering with indignation each time they gave voice. All they needed were pearl necklaces and they could have passed for dowager duchesses bemoaning the declining standards of the House of Lords. They made a curious yapping, not at all the soothing gobble I had expected; more like a squabble of terriers.
Régis had disappeared, and I went to look for him among the crowd. There were farmers and chicken breeders, cheese makers and winegrowers, some in suits and ties, their unaccustomed formality sitting uneasily on bodies more used to ove
ralls. There were occasional flashes of chic—women in sleek tweeds and country jewelry, with conspicuously glowing makeup, clean shoes, and the odd jaunty hat with a pheasant feather stuck in the band. And then a sight straight out of the nineteenth century—a group of men and women in traditional Bressane costume, waistcoats, breeches, long dresses, bonnets and clogs, clattering off to a corner of the hall.
I tagged on behind them, watching as they adjusted their bonnets and tuned up blunt musical instruments that looked like acoustic tennis rackets. Forming up in pairs, off they went, circling around as they performed their rustic minuet, the music punctuated by high-pitched cries and the stamp of clogs. I dimly remembered a dance known as the funky chicken, which came and went back in the sixties. This must be the original version, I thought.
“Ah, there you are,” I heard, and turned to see Régis propped up against the counter of a stall, glass in one hand and a slice of sausage in the other. “I was getting worried about you. I thought you’d been dragged off by one of those turkeys. Big brutes, aren’t they? Here, have a glass of wine to settle your nerves.” He put a hand on my arm. “And for God’s sake, don’t start looking at your watch. You’re not in England now.”
I can’t help it, even after all these years. It’s the guilty English reflex, formed in the days of licensing laws, when pubs had restricted opening hours and drinking was permitted only at the government’s discretion. “Maybe just the one,” I said. Régis shook his head as he slid a glass of Beaujolais along the counter, and we drank in silence for a few moments, watching the crowd.
The clog dancers, rosy-faced from their exertions, had taken a break. On a platform set up in the middle of the hall, a panel of chicken-fanciers took turns at the microphone, discussing plumage and unctuous flesh and reminding us all that the winner of the grand prix would be receiving a vase of Sèvres porcelain, donated by the president of France. In return, the president would be sent a capon, which, according to Régis, would undoubtedly be awarded the Légion d’honneur, posthumously, of course. “And why not?” Régis added. “They gave one to Jerry Lewis.”
I could see signs that Régis was ready to settle in for the rest of the morning, his elbow cocked comfortably on the bar, his hand moving hopefully in the direction of another glass of Beaujolais. It was now or never if we wanted to see the rest of the show. With a sigh of reluctance, he allowed himself to be led off to the hall of the dead.
It was a stunning sight. Row upon orderly row of immaculate corpses—something over a thousand, we were told—were lying in state on tables stretching from one end of the hall to the other. Members of the public filed past quietly, much in the style of mourners at a ceremonial funeral, their voices hushed and reverential as they commented on the extraordinary care and skill that had gone into the presentation.
Each chicken had its own shroud of what looked like fine white muslin, its feet folded beneath its stomach, the muslin sewn tightly, so that the body resembled a smooth oval cushion, but a cushion with a difference, having a neck and head protruding from one end. The neck feathers were left unplucked to form a handsome snowy ruff, and the resulting work of art—for that’s how it looked—had been placed on its own white pad.
The birds had been decorated according to sex and racial status. Chickens wore slim ribbons of pale pink, tied with a bow around the breast; capons wore blue; turkeys sported a broader scarlet sash. All of them displayed the blue-white-and-red medals of Bresse. No mummy of ancient Egypt could have been more elegantly prepared for the hereafter than these birds, and I found it difficult to imagine eating them. They were more suitable for framing.
At a smaller table set apart from the others, a silver-haired lady with a dead chicken on her lap and astonishingly nimble fingers was demonstrating the finer points of making the ultimate outfit. She emphasized to us that the sewing she was doing so deftly was “comme le lacement d’un corset,” or, for those of us unfamiliar with the lacing of corsets, cross-stitching. Once she was satisfied with her needlework, the chicken would be immersed in cold water. This, she told us, has the effect of shrinking the cotton to achieve an even snugger fit, at the same time squeezing the body within, which apparently does wonders for the texture of the skin. Not for the first time, I was amazed at Gallic attention to detail in service of the stomach.
That afternoon, as we were driving back from Bourg, Régis took what I thought was rather unnecessary pleasure in describing, with many chauvinistic asides, what we had just seen. Nowhere else in the world would one find such noble chickens, so nobly treated. Once again, French supremacy had been demonstrated. How fortunate I was, a mere foreigner, to be living in God’s own country. And so on and on and on.
After half an hour of this relentless crowing, I’d had enough, and I thought it was time to remind Régis of a legend that, so far at least, the French have been unable to suppress.
The story goes that the bounties of France were deeply resented by her neighbors, the other Europeans. Eventually, jealous of such an overprivileged country, they got together in a rare moment of unity and decided to send their representatives to God in order to protest.
“You have given France the best of everything,” they said. “The Mediterranean Sea, the Atlantic Ocean, mountains and fertile valleys, southern sunshine and romantic northern winters, a supremely graceful language, cooking rich with the finest butter and olive oil, the most varied and productive vineyards on earth, more cheeses than there are days in the year—everything, in fact, that man could desire, and all in one country. Is this fair? Is this divine justice?”
God listened to their complaints, considering them carefully. Thinking it over, He was obliged to admit that the protesters had a point. It was possible that He had been rather generous—perhaps overgenerous—to this blessed patch called France. And so, to make up for all those unfair advantages, God created the French. The other Europeans went home happy. Justice had been served.
Régis sniffed, one of those eloquent, disdainful French sniffs. “Very droll,” he said. “I suppose that would appeal to the English sense of humor.”
“Actually, it was a German friend who told me the story. He thought it was funny, too.”
Another sniff. “What do you expect from someone who likes dumplings and sauerkraut?” He pushed back his seat and composed himself for sleep. Even his snores had a faintly supercilious sound about them. I don’t know why I like him so much.
Love at First Sniff
Contrary to popular belief, the way to a man’s heart is not necessarily through his stomach. His nose can be equally susceptible, and for proof, one has to look no further than my friend Sadler. Like me, he is an Englishman who has chosen to live in France. Like me, he is a writer. And like me, he has a weakness for all things French, particularly those that come in a glass or on a plate.
Our story starts in the port of Dieppe. The cross-channel ferry had just docked after arriving from England, and a tall, purposeful figure hurried down the gangplank. It was Sadler, delighted to be back in his adopted country and in the mood to celebrate. But how, and with what? Striding through the streets of Dieppe, stomach rumbling gently, his eye was caught by a voluptuous display of cheeses—a bevy of them, reclining, nude—in the window of an épicerie fine. The rumble rose to a crescendo. Feeling an overwhelming desire for a true taste of France, he decided to investigate.
There are, so they say, more cheeses in France than there are days in the year—every texture, from crumbly to almost liquid, every degree of flavor, from razor-sharp to the subtle mildness of cream; cheeses from cows, goats, and ewes; cheeses seasoned with herbs, prickled with pepper, marinated in olive oil, aged on beds of rushes. To choose a single cheese from among hundreds is, for most of us, one of life’s minor challenges. But not for Sadler; or at least not this time. Once inside the shop, his nose began to browse through the invisible but aromatic mist that hung above the assembled cheeses. Head lowered, eyes half-closed, nostrils aquiver, he found himself drawn as if by
destiny itself toward a particularly assertive bouquet. It came from a plump disk, rusty orange in color, its ample girth contained by five bands of sedge grass: a cheese from Livarot, known to its admirers as le colonel (because of the five stripes), and reputed to be one of the most pungent cheeses in the world.
Sadler fell in love. He bought the cheese, took it out to lunch, and then traveled with it in his car all the way home to Paris. Le colonel made its presence increasingly felt with every passing kilometer, but it was music to Sadler’s nose, and it may even have inspired the fantasy that we will come to later.
Last year, this encounter with the cheese was recorded in a memoir Sadler wrote about his experiences as an Englishman living in Paris, and it wasn’t long before he received a phone call from Livarot. A gentleman highly placed in the local cheese hierarchy had read the book, and he was delighted to discover someone who was such an outspoken supporter of Livarot’s pride and joy. And since the book had been written in French and had appeared on the French best-seller lists, nationwide publicity for the town was assured. It was a coup for Livarot, and one that deserved official recognition. Nothing less than the highest honor would do. Would the amiable Monsieur Sadler agree to be the sponsor of the annual Livarot cheese fair, and become a specially elected chevalier de fromage?
How could he refuse? To be rewarded for eating is a dream that comes true for very few of us, and Sadler was quick to accept. He called me with the news.
“It’s the cheese hall of fame,” he said. “I’m getting a medal. The town will spend the whole weekend celebrating. The streets will be running with wine and Livarot. Pack your bags. I need you there to hold my coat.”
