The handsome light gray standard poodle, obviously less discerning about strangers than his owner, waggled his butt and strained on his leash in my direction when I squatted down to his level, held my hand out for him to sniff, and spoke doggie stuff to him in French.
The old man visibly softened, stepped forward so I could scratch the dog's ears, and answered the question I'd put to his dog: "Charles." He pronounced it, Sharls.
I looked up into the old man's surprisingly clear, bright blue eyes and returned his sweet, snaggle-toothed smile with a view of my own perfectly bleached chompers. "Merci, monsieur, for allowing me to pet your Charles. I miss my dog so much." I hugged the poodle, stood, and held out my hand. "I am Hetta and this is Jenks. He doesn't speak French."
"But you do, quite well for an American."
"Why, thank you. But how do you know I'm American?" I asked him, fearing I'd fall victim to French prejudice.
"Your teeth. The English, they have teeth like mine," he said, taking my hand in a two-handed embrace, "I am René Classens, and I am very fond of the Americans."
"Enchanté, Monsieur Classens."
"Please, you must call me René. And I am 'appy to meet you, as well," he answered in heavily accented English. "We do not meet many Americans here in Gruissan. Mostly English and," he frowned, "Bosche."
Okay, so he liked Americans, didn't seem to mind the Brits, but was definitely no Teutophile. Frenchmen in his age group are rarely enamored with anything German. Just on a whim, I nodded at his dog, "He is named after Charles de Gaulle?"
René beamed and coughed out a laugh made gruff by a lifetime of Galois smoke, judging by the pack in his pocket. "You are a very clever girl, you know. You and your ‘usband must join us for a glass of wine. Charles and I live simply, but we do have a decent cellar."
Anyone who calls me a girl and has a wine cellar is an instant new BFF. I looked at Jenks, he nodded, and I said we would be delighted. "When and where? We are only here for a couple of days."
"Why not now? I am nearby."
As we walked together chatting in both French, and when he could, broken English to include Jenks so I wouldn't have to constantly translate, the odd pair I'd seen earlier had doubled back. As they approached, René hissed under his breath, "Beur."
Butter? Why would he say that while glaring at the couple?
I waved gaily at the woman and said, "Hello, again," just to get her dude's goat, but this time he put his arm around her, pulled her closer, smiled, and nodded at us. Which, by the way, transformed him from just good-looking to drop-dead gorgeous.
"Gee, Hetta, aren't you just a regular peacemaker today?" Jenks teased.
"I guess that honey versus vinegar thing really works. Who knew? Grandmama was right."
"Grandmothers usually are."
And she also told me, what with my mouth, I should always pack a pistol. "I sure hope so."
"Huh?"
"Never mind."
We stopped at our cottage to grab warm jackets and a bottle of wine on our way to René's place, which he told us was in the oldest part of Gruissan, a couple of kilometers away. Jenks stuck the wine into a deep pocket at my request; I had no idea of René's economic status and didn't want to be a burden. On the other hand, I didn't wish to embarrass him after his generous invitation.
His building, larger than its neighbors, was a weathered salmon-colored affair with multiple French balconies, faded blue shutters, and window boxes overflowing with flowers. I loved it at first sight, but having lived in France, I knew the interior might prove dank and dark. As he pushed open a heavy blue door and waved us into a large, black-and-white checkered marble foyer, an older woman rushed forward, took his coat, and unhooked Charles from his leash, all the while fussing at René for being gone so long.
René chuckled. "She worries too much. Celeste, please tell André we have guests for drinks." Then he looked at us and raised an eyebrow, "And, perhaps for dinner?"
The tiny woman beamed and nodded. She typified French-chic and would be hard to peg, age-wise, had her close-cropped hair not been white. Dressed in a high-end sweater and slacks, she hardly looked like a housekeeper.
After proper introductions were made, I said, "We don't wish to impose." We really hadn't planned anything past canned soup, salad and a baguette back at the cottage, and dinner with René sounded great, but one must be politely French when offered an impromptu invite, giving the inviter an out.
Celeste spoke up. "Oh, please, I insist. I am tired of cooking for two old men and a dog."
René barked a laugh. "You see, Hetta, you must stay or Celeste will be cross with me. It is never good to have a bad-tempered chef, n'est-ce pas?
I looked at Jenks and he raised his hands in a classic French gesture. "Why not?"
Celeste bustled out, Charles hot on her heels.
"Obviously we do not get many visitors. Please, take off your coats while I consult with Celeste as to what she can pull together for our dinner. I will meet you in the library," he pointed to a pair of huge beveled glass French doors, "right in there."
We dumped our coats onto a foyer bench, careful to hide the bottle of wine that was not worthy of such a setting, and entered a cozy room complete with wall-to-ceiling books, leather chairs, and a blazing fire.
"Jenks, I think I've died and somehow landed on a cloud. This place is a dream. Okay, so the George V was sumptuous, but next to this? This is the real deal. No decorator involved, just years of very well made stuff handed down through the generations."
René returned, followed by a tall thin man bearing a silver tray with two bottles of wine, an assortment of glassware, an ice bucket, and a bottle of Chivas Regal, which I was certain was added for Jenks. The man was dressed in much the same garb as René, but was wearing white gloves.
"This is André, and you 'ave already met his wife, Celeste. They stay with me for sentimental reasons and have chosen to take on household tasks we could easily hire others to do, but they refuse. André here is my cousin and we have been together since we were boys. He wears many hats, including choosing the wine. Since my wife died, we have relaxed our ways in the household, but some," he grinned and patted the gloved hand, "are slow to change."
While Celeste prepared dinner, René talked of the history of Gruissan, told us of his war experience when, as a boy, the Germans occupied France and he and his father sent his sister and mother to England. André, a few years younger, also went to the UK with his mother, but his father stayed.
"We were fortunate, for my father and uncle were fisherman and, therefore, of use to the Bosch. With our fishing vessels, we spied on the 'appenings along the coast, and passed information to the exiled de Gaulle regime across the Channel in England. We like to think we contributed to the safety of the allies who liberated us." He crossed himself and added, "And apologize to those who perished."
"So," Jenks said, "you were in the French Resistance."
"French Resistance," René scoffed in English. "To 'ear some tell it now, everyone in France was in the resistance. But I tell you right now, I can name many in this very village who kissed any filthy Bosch cul for a day of rations. Vrai, real, La Résistance française lived in extrême danger. Some would have starved but for my father's fish, but you never 'eard them brag about what they did. I was a boy, so with my bicycle, I was able to deliver food and messages right under the German's noses." He then chortled and winked. "When ma mère 'eard about that after she and my sister returned after the war, she almost killed Papa."
André entered to announce dinner, heard René's comment, and deadpanned with a British accent, "Your mother was far more dangerous than the Bosch."
We moved into yet another lovely room with a smaller fireplace and fire, and a huge crystal chandelier hanging over a round table that could easily sit twenty, but was set for six: five people and one dog.
Celeste's "pulled-together" dinner was divine. Sole meunière—melt-in-your-mouth sauted filet of sole in a butter, parsle
y and lemon sauce with a few capers added—served with riz soubise which, she explained, was thin ribbons of onion cooked with rice, cream, and Gruyère cheese. The pencil-thin asparagus were steamed to perfection. Jenks eyed the rice doubtfully, but once he took a bite, he was all smiles.
What with the ubiquitous baguettes, a lightly-dressed butter lettuce salad, a cheese plate, crème brûlèe, coffee, and brandy, I was enamored with René's idea of living simply. And after tasting his wine selections, I wanted to toss that bottle hidden in Jenks's jacket pocket into the nearest cesspool.
André drove us back to our beach cottage in a vintage limo straight out of a movie. Although he still wore somewhat rumpled clothing similar to that of René's, he'd added a chauffeur's cap and leather gloves. Before he ushered us into the elegant black and gray car, he showed it off, explaining it was a 1966 Austin Princess, which made me feel like one just riding in it.
We slept late the next morning, only to be awakened by a banging shutter.
I'd warned Jenks about the infamous mistral, a seasonal wind much like the winter northers in the Sea of Cortez, and now it had arrived with a vengeance. The cold blow is accompanied by clear blue skies, and usually drops during the night. I turned on the television and learned this one would howl for at least two more days, with winds into the forty-knot range. The sea in front of our cottage was already whipped into a white frenzy. Luckily, our cozy beach house had a fireplace, so we planned to hunker down for a day of reading and hanging out.
Putting on every warm thing I had with me, I braved a fast beach walk to counteract the previous evening’s food and booze, but got sandblasted for my efforts. When I returned, Jenks, bless his heart, had braved the cold to go into town for a baguette for him and a pain au chocolat for me. So much for trying to repair the calorie damage from the night before.
I prepared café au lait, which we drank from heavy earthenware bowls at my insistence; I was determined to re-embrace the French experience and drag poor Jenks along, albeit kicking and screaming.
"I have to say," Jenks commented as he downed a piece of bread smothered in butter, "this is the best butter I have ever tasted. Why?"
"It is," I said with a French accent, "zee terroir."
"Zee what?"
"Terroir. Literally, it means the history of the soil. Lots of rain, lots of green grass, happy cows, great tasting butter. Oh, and about two to five percent more butterfat than ours."
"Where do you learn all this stuff?"
"I took a cooking class in Paris. Nothing fancy, but fun. Another thing I learned about was agneau de pré-salé."
"Okay, what's that?"
"Lamb from a salt meadow. Once again, the terroir thing, in Normandy. The sheep eat this grass that grows in salt water and the meat is pre-salted. I ate it in a restaurant near Mont Saint-Michel and it was fantastic."
"I'll take your word for it," he said dryly.
"Your tastes are sooo pedestrian, you know," I teased.
"That's not true. I never eat pedestrians."
Just as we finished breakfast and were discussing what to do on such a windy day, Jenks's phone chirped. His end of the conversation was suspiciously cryptic but I couldn't lean in to listen to the other end without being obvious. When he hung up, he announced, "Our ship has come in."
"What ship?"
"My surprise for you."
"Come on, tell me."
"Nope, not yet. However, the surprise is a day early, so we need to get on the road tomorrow."
"Jenks, I invited René for a good old-fashioned American breakfast tomorrow morning."
"Does that mean we get to use good old-fashioned coffee mugs?'
"Not that American. So, how far away is this surprise of yours?"
"Not far. Plenty of time for breakfast with René, because we don't have to be there until two."
"Where at two?"
"Me to know and you to find out."
It wasn't easy pulling together the ingredients for an artery-clogging American breakfast, but after hitting three markets in town, I found bacon and those wonderful farm-fresh eggs so hard to come by back home. I struck out on lait fermenté and had to fall back on my old make-your-own-buttermilk trick for the biscuits. Using whole milk, mixed with a little yogurt and lemon juice, I was able to almost duplicate my grandmother's recipe, but mine were not as fluffy as hers because French flour has a lower gluten content than ours.
For the sausage gravy I found some smoked links, took the meat from the casing, fried it up, and made cream gravy.
René loved the food, and asked for the biscuit recipe. I could envision one disgruntled Chef Celeste at Chez René.
We bid à bientôt, not exactly good-bye, but more like until we meet again. I promised to let him know where we were and what we were doing, as I still didn't know. I got the feeling Jenks took him aside and shared his secret because René said he would be stopping by for a glass of wine. Stopping by where?
We loaded up the car and headed for the autoroute towards Toulouse. "Okay, Jenks, just where are we going now?"
"Grocery store."
"Gosh, what a wonderful surprise. I've always wanted to go there."
"Smarty."
"Okay, I must surmise we are not headed for a resort if we gotta buy food."
"Yep."
"Oh, come on! You're killing me here. So, what are we going to buy?" I figured maybe I'd get a clue.
"Lots of stuff. We need to provision as if we were going to the islands outside of La Paz for two weeks."
"That I can do, but we might need a bigger car."
I don't think we could have gotten another bottle of wine into that Fiat. When we bought things that required refrigeration and cooking, I did learn we would have a fridge and a stove. Not much of a hint there.
About twenty minutes later, we arrived in a small village, crossed a bridge, turned into an unpaved drive, and pulled up next to a funny looking boat.
Jenks swept his arm at the boat and announced, "Your yacht in the South of France, mademoiselle, and ours as long as you want to cruise the Canal du Midi."
"Oh, Jenks, this is wonderful, but there's something missing to make it even more perfect."
"What?"
"Can we maybe rent a dog?"
Chapter Ten
As we walked down to Villepinte, Jenks told me the rental fleet was named after local villages and towns on the Canal du Midi. "I hope this boat's okay with you. Heck of a lot smaller than your Raymond Johnson, but I think we can manage for a couple of weeks or so. What do you think?"
I was still gawking at my surroundings. My eyes were misty when I turned to Jenks. "Okay? Okay? It's more than just okay, Jenks. This is absolutely the most wonderful thing anyone has ever done for me."
"Uh, you aren't going to cry, are you?"
I wiped my eyes. For someone who hardly ever lets anyone see me cry, this past week had been an emotional roller coaster that threatened tears on a regular basis. "No, I am not, but if I did they would be tears of joy. It's just that I'm a little overwhelmed. How on earth did you know I've dreamed of barging on the canals and rivers in Europe for years?"
"Jan. I called and asked her how to make up for getting you stuck on a cargo plane, and she told me the George V was a good start, and she'd heard you talk about taking this canal trip for years. She said I could win your heart, then she warned me that might be dangerous for my future well-being."
"Ha, sounds like her. But, believe me, you already had my heart. I think you just touched my soul. Thank you."
He kissed me, then said, "Okay, enough mush. Let's get this show on the road. We start our trip here, head east," he pointed behind our boat, "and end up almost back at the Mediterranean. Let's unload the car, open a bottle of wine, and toast our voyage. The marina staff are on lunch break until one-thirty, then they'll show us how to drive this tub."
"No one's here?"
"Nope."
"Then I guess I have time to show you my appreciation."
"Bad girl."
"Oh, you have no idea."
Log of the Villepinte, Canal du Midi: Day 1
Our "barge" is actually a boat, but called a "penichette" meaning a low and small barge. This baby we rented is definitely not a seagoing vessel, but designed for cruising in protected waters like the Canal du Midi and going under very low bridges. At a little over thirty feet long, and about ten feet wide, it is small, but efficiently laid out. And evidently meant to bounce off lock walls, as the entire boat is surrounded by inflated fenders and resembles a nautical bumper car. There are several large, privately owned barges tied along the dock here, but they are unoccupied right now. Even they are fortified with giant fenders. I have a feeling we're going to be fending off a lot.
The driving lesson this afternoon was probably under the worst possible conditions, with fifteen-knot winds whistling down the canal. Jenks did better than I, as I've never handled a single engine boat of this size. I've deemed him the designated driver for the locks ahead; I'll handle the lines.
Ours is the smallest vessel available for rent, with one master sleeping cabin, a combination toilet/shower compartment, and an extra bunk bed we're using as a wine cellar and storage. The largest cabin is in the aft of the boat and is surrounded by windows. There is a galley and a large dining table surrounded on three sides with a cushioned settee. A small refrigerator, stove, and sink form the galley. It sure ain't no Raymond Johnson, but Jenks felt we'd give it a try, and then if we want we can upgrade later. He's booked it for fifteen days, so we'll see how it goes.
Just Pardon My French (Hetta Coffey Series, Book 8) Page 5
