by Jamie Ivey
The realisation that the project wasn't going to happen brought us back to our senses. Like patients waking from a coma we shook our heads, looked around and demanded to know what had happened over the preceding weeks. Life gradually returned to normal. Even the news that Manu had filed for planning permission to develop more of the farmhouse and that we would effectively be living on a building site didn't jump-start the purchase of Le Paradou. We sold wine, we looked after our child and we barely gave a thought to the plot we had loved so much. Then Delphine phoned. 'There's someone I'd like you to meet. Take him to lunch, he's a gourmand.'
The person in question was Philippe Raimbaux and as Delphine explained he was a retired mortgage broker who still had excellent relationships with all the local banks. His passion was truffles. During his working life he'd discovered just how hard truffières were to finance. Harvesting the black diamond is a cash business and there are rarely accurate records of income for banks to lend on. And so in his retirement, through his contacts, Philippe had chosen to ease the path of select loans in return for a small payment in his own favourite currency – truffles. Delphine finished her summary with a warning: 'And a word of advice: choose a good restaurant – for Philippe it makes all the difference. And know your subject – you're going to have to convince him you can find the truffles to pay his fee.'
Selecting a venue perplexed us for a while. The south of France was full of great chefs who had no idea how to run a restaurant. Recently a new bistro had opened in a nearby village. Miraculous creations emerged from the kitchen, plates were dressed as sexily as Carla Bruni, and the resulting festival of flavours was enough to turn even a swinging local's head away from the nearest brunette. Two months later, though, due to soaring overheads, poisoned customers and the restaurant manager having had an affair with the chef's wife, the restaurant was out of business. Mortgage brokers, we reasoned, were reassured by stability and track record, and on this basis Tanya and I agreed to discount flashy newcomers. We also ruled out the established Michelin-starred restaurants – at nearly €100 a menu we'd hardly be displaying financial prudence, even if sampling lavender-infused ice cream would send us all home with smiles on our faces.
Philippe was based in Saint-Rémy-de-Provence, the uber-chic capital of the Les Alpilles area, and, trying to make his job as easy as possible, we finally decided to travel to him and chose the friendly local brasserie – Le Bistrot Découverte. The restaurant had one of the best cellars in the area and we'd met the owner Claude through our wine business. Like a fine sauce, the menu at the bistro had been reduced to a series of intense yet simple flavours.
We met to discuss our loan one sunny lunchtime in March, on the type of day that makes the locals sigh that their home is a corner of paradise, while the second homeowners hide their smug satisfaction behind a pair of oversize designer shades. The terrace was filled with early diners sipping on the remains of their red wine, toying with their coffees and showing absolutely no sign of vacating their tables. On the road opposite, the driver of a Porsche with Parisian number plates struggled to wedge his car into a small space. In the end he casually shunted a battered Citroën out of the way.
Our reservation was inside, but since Philippe had yet to arrive, we decided to wait for a place on the terrace. The more longingly we looked at the tables the more the residents – it was as if they'd set up home – reclined, and nonchalantly soaked up the sun. Even a crying and clearly hungry Elodie failed to dislodge the patrons. Bills arrived, but unlike the customers they didn't lounge indolently around. Credit card machines – which in France you wait for as long as for a train in England – were pressed into slightly unwilling hands and we had our table.
Like students swotting for an exam we pulled out note cards and did some last-minute revision, staining the cards with baby food as we read through them. The last thing we wanted to appear was ignorant but now some of my jottings from the night before appeared totally irrelevant. The fact that Madame Pompadour relied on a diet of truffles to heighten her libido in order that she could assuage the sexual demands of Louis XV was hardly the type of titbit to casually drop into a conversation. Worse still was the rumour that some of the Marquis de Sade's most notorious orgies followed truffle-laced banquets. Philippe could easily get the impression I was more interested in finding my inner sadomasochist than in the construction of a family home. Listing the different varieties of truffles – Burgundy, Perigord, Italian white, Oregon, even Kalahari – was surely safer ground. As was a probing question on the catastrophic effects of the two world wars on French truffle production: rather than passing on the secrets of the trade on their deathbeds, truffle hunters died on the battlefields, taking their knowledge with them.
I flicked to the next card and tried its contents on Tanya:
'According to the prophet Muhammad, truffles were a gift from Allah.'
Before she could respond Philippe arrived.
'And Emperor Nero called them the food of the gods,' he interjected as he sat down, shaking our hands enthusiastically and sliding his briefcase – which was of the battered academic type – under the table. He was dressed in a checked jacket and open-necked shirt and looked more like a university professor than a banker. His hair was grey but still thick and his tan the leather of a man who spent the summer in the south and the winter in the Alps. Menus and glasses of house wine – a lazy Côtes du Rhone – were placed before us.
'Isn't she beautiful?' said Philippe as we slid Elodie under the table for what we hoped would be a long sleep. A minute of gurgling protests followed, then some high-pitched screaming, which provoked disapproving clucks from nearby tables, but then finally there was silence.
'So, what are an English couple doing hunting for truffles?' asked Philippe.
'Where shall we begin?'
Philippe shrugged and relaxed back in his chair. 'We've plenty of time, we can start with where you were born if you like.' There was genuine interest in his voice and over the course of the lunch we found ourselves telling our story. How we left England determined to experience a better quality of life. How we built a wine business around rosé and how it had expanded to encompass wines from all over France. We described the little farmhouse we lived in and how with a growing family we felt that it was time to move on.
The food was perfect, complementing rather than overpowering the conversation. Starters were simple, but the quality immaculate. Thin slices of Iberian ham from a pig which had grazed exclusively on a diet of acorns were nutty and – perhaps the sun was getting to me at this point – almost truffley in flavour. The smoked salmon was from Scotland; it was fleshy, as peaty as a good whisky, and served with chive cream and toasted bread. I'd expected Philippe to eat with the kind of mechanical fastidiousness I've observed in 'foodies', who tend to concentrate intently as they dissect dishes. Far from it; instead, he crammed great mouthfuls onto his fork, eating with the hunger of a starved dog, and calling for more bread to mop up traces of olive oil.
The early signs were good. Philippe nodded approvingly as the plates were taken away and then searched for his briefcase under the table. 'The tests for your trees have come through. You must remember they are indicative rather than conclusive. However, it seems possible that you may find truffles.'
Tanya and I smiled triumphantly at each other and I wondered whether this might be the moment to order a little champagne.
'However, I'm worried that you may not be the right type of people. You've never had a dog, you grew up in the city.'
'But, but, but…' Tanya and I began to protest simultaneously.
Philippe waved our resistance away. 'It's a secretive, unpredictable, sometimes dangerous business – even the professionals who come from generations of truffle hunters struggle to maintain a constant income. Are you sure you want to do this?'
'We're sure,' answered Tanya.
'We're sure,' I added supportively.
'Tell me about your village.' Philippe changed the subject. 'How
have the residents reacted to foreigners?'
Tanya chatted away about the warm welcome we'd received while I fidgeted uncomfortably as we waited for the main course. There was the loan to worry about and also my choice – le steak tartare. I'd followed Ange's advice and ordered the dish again at this, the first opportunity, but just the thought of the pain I'd endured made my stomach cramp.
I needn't have been concerned. Rather than the cheap mince which had so recently poisoned my whole system, my steak, when it arrived, had been entirely chopped by hand into the finest slivers, with the seasoning already mixed in. On top, however, were parboiled quails' eggs: salmonella on a fork, I thought, as I turned them into the meat. After each mouthful I waited for a reaction – the first painful tightening of my stomach that might have indicated the contractions were about to begin again. Instead, there was just the bliss of sitting in the sunshine, munching on a perfectly seasoned meal and knowing that I had successfully conquered a fear. Philippe and Tanya both had faux-filet.
'Frites,' Philippe explained as he tucked into the juicy sirloin and the side order of golden-brown chips, 'have to be tended to and nurtured. In a busy kitchen it's all too easy to turn out something with the texture of an old leather jacket.'
I couldn't work out whether this was a real compliment or just a platitude. Had Philippe been expecting more? Here was a broker who could pick and choose his clients and apparently pleasing his palate was everything. My fear was that despite the professionalism of the staff and the chef's concentration on detail, the meal was a little too simple, a little too polished. Where was the potential for disaster or moments of culinary genius? Still, Philippe seemed relaxed enough, enjoying the sun on his face and ignoring the queue of customers still looking for a table (it was past the witching hour of 2 p.m.). We ordered some coffees, which came accompanied with freshly baked miniature chocolate cakes and finally got back, somewhat obliquely, to the subject of the loan.
'Just one question,' I interrupted Philippe. 'Delphine said to choose our restaurant carefully – why?'
Philippe smiled. 'By letting you choose the restaurant you told me a lot about yourself. Firstly, you were kind enough to come to Saint-Rémy. Secondly, you sensibly avoided the name restaurants – quite wrong for a business lunch – and thirdly, you chose somewhere that serves great food at a decent price. By doing so you showed me you knew the area.'
'And the fact that we grew up in the city and don't know the first thing about dogs?'
'You can always get a pig instead,' Philippe joked as he rose from the table and held out his hand. 'I'll be in touch when I've agreed everything with the bank. The gap in your finances is only small. Plus, there's the truffle income. Don't worry, it won't be a problem.'
It should have been perfect: my wife and I sitting in the spring sunshine about to realise our dream. The warmth on our skin was uplifting and neighbouring tables bubbled with bonhomie; bottles were upended in glistening ice buckets, and waiters summoned to provide digestifs. Parisians taking long weekends passed by, their stride as jaunty as that of the designer dogs trailing in their wake. As Philippe left us we began analysing our lunch, what had been said, how we'd managed to convince him. Finally, we moved on to the daunting topic of building the house – when would we begin, which materials to use, the precise positioning of the house on the plot and, of course, which builder to choose.
Our mood was still upbeat as we left the table and walked through the cobbled streets, pushing Elodie's pram under the Roman arch, following the path of the summer bull run to the central square. There we sat on a bench underneath an ancient plane tree which was just coming into bud. The tricolore extending from the nearby mairie fluttered above our heads. Chicken turned on a rotisserie outside the butcher's and an assistant was busy dressing the window of the nearby art gallery. The surrounding buildings cut off the sun and the drop in temperature was immediately noticeable. I shuddered and edged closer to Tanya. Suddenly the spectre of winter had returned.
Perhaps had we stayed in the sunshine we could have managed our doubts but in the cold shadows the nervous feeling which had been building, and which at first I had put down to excitement, finally crystallised. What if Philippe was just a foolish old man and the collective finance departments of the ten or so banks we had originally applied to were right? Our wine business was profitable but it was still young and relied on the goodwill of numerous small clients. Any decline in sales would see us quickly struggling. Then there was the question of finding truffles. Philippe had been right to challenge us. What real hope did we have of learning the secrets of a shadowy profession? It wasn't as if we could walk into the village and ask the nearest truffle expert to show us their trade.
'Are you sure we should go ahead?'
Tanya was gazing into the sky. 'Funny, I was just thinking the same thing.'
Had it been just the two of us there would have been no question. Together we'd left London and set up our own business in a foreign country. Buying the piece of land was a risk; however, both of us believed that opportunities should be taken. We had always wanted a life less ordinary. But our first daughter, without us noticing, had changed this. Just a glance at her face provoked an overwhelming desire to protect her.
'If we ever needed to sell, it could take years.'
'I agree – Elodie's education, our parents, the wine business going bust…' Subconsciously I started scratching the back of my neck. 'There are plenty of reasons we might have to go back.'
'And yet?' Tanya's words were loaded with a subtext. If we walked away, there would always be regrets. Somehow, we would find a way to make it work. We always had in the past and we always would in the future.
'And yet,' I agreed. We sealed the deal with a kiss.
Part 2
A Lion in the Lavender
Chapter 8
It was the end of August and Provence sweltered under intense blue skies. The summer scents of lavender, thyme and rosemary evaporated under the punishing sun, fruit in the market shrivelled before the shoppers arrived and the locals barricaded themselves behind thick walls, draping wet towels over whirring fans.
The land rippled with heat and emergency wards filled with seared dehydrated tourists, their skin as raw and bloody as the steak served in the village cafes. Olive trees withered, fridges combusted with shuddering sighs, wells ran dry and armies of ants marauded across the cracked ground. People prayed for a storm and bickered over whether the heat was as severe as 2005.
Temperature readings were held to be inconclusive; instead, shoulders were shrugged and fingers were pointed at the earliest ever grape harvest and the greedy village Labrador who'd continued to gorge himself in 2005 and now scarcely twitched when thrown juicy remains. The debate was finally settled when the owner of the notorious key-swapping resto cancelled the regular Thursday night get-together. Only then did the residents of Provence nod sagely and declare themselves to be in the midst of a 'vraie canicule', grateful that there was nothing wrong with their libidos after all; it was just too hot for sex.
On the final day of the month Tanya and I called a summit meeting of all the artisans who had been so studiously avoiding our calls for the past sixty days. Granted it was July and August in Provence, but quotes that had been promised in April still hadn't arrived. Our righteous indignation somehow prevailed and miraculously, incredibly, a meeting took place before 1 September. Perhaps everyone had heat stroke and had simply forgotten the date, but here they all were: builder, electrician, plumber, window fitter, door fitter, painter and, of course, Ange, the project manager.
As bait we'd invited them all to lunch and we sat in the heavy shadows of our dining room. There was no question of eating on the terrace. Slowly, imperceptibly, our English instincts were leaving us. For a week's holiday the blinding furnace of the outside world was enjoyable but day after day, week after week, the heat began to test nerves. Even barricaded inside there were constant reminders of the season. The trees throbbed with cicadas
, their incessant song occasionally interrupted by the drone of cumbersome firefighting planes circling the distant hills, belching water onto the chargrilled forests. The acrid smell of Manu's grapes, which had begun their fermentation on the vine, crept into the house. Earlier that day the first tractors laden with grapes had snaked their way towards the cave cooperative. At least the intense heat pleased the vignerons – starving the vines of water concentrated the flavour, and made for a great vintage.
The men ate with their faces low to their plates, occasionally muttering to each other, but essentially concentrating hard on their food. They shared the same dark, slightly shrunken eyes, and wind-burnished, sun-cracked, skin. Hidden from the outside world, clustered in the shadows, it was as if we were planning a crime, rather than trying to organise building a family home.
Ange had his weathered baseball cap pulled low over his head, and only when he occasionally removed it to mop his brow could I catch his eyes.
'So what's the latest?' I asked as he cut himself another large slice of goat's cheese and onion tart.
