by Peter Mayle
Before our first visit to the Auberge, friends familiar with the cooking had warned us against too much enthusiasm during the early part of the meal. Pace yourselves, they had told us, or you'll have to be carried out. But on that particular night it was cold and we were famished. We were also curious to see just how good the chef was, which naturally required us to taste everything. Some may call this gluttony; I like to think of it as dutiful research. We tucked our napkins under our chins. Even the wood smoke from the fire smelled appetizing.
Toast came first, but not in thin, limp, Anglo-Saxon slices. This was country bread cut thick, crisp and lightly browned on each side, warm and soft in the middle, edible transport for the terrines that were now arranged across the table. There were four of them – deep rectangular pottery dishes, their contents ranging in texture and complexion from smooth and pale to chunky and dark, from pork to hare. A knife was stuck unceremoniously into each block of pâté. A jar of cornichons, those tiny, pungent French cousins of the American pickle, was set in front of us, and we were left to help ourselves.
There had been a murmured word of warning from the young girl serving us. An extra dish, she said, had been prepared tonight, wild mushrooms, gathered that morning. The chef would be serving them in a case of light pastry. We were advised to save some room. But it was easier said than done. There is something about homemade pâtés and good warm bread that encourages lengthy and thorough comparison. Is the pork as good as the hare? Or better? Opinion changes with each mouthful, and so one has to try again, slipping in a cornichon from time to time to punctuate the different flavours. Only the arrival of the mushrooms prevented us from making an entire meal out of the first course.
Our friends had told us about a faithful admirer of the restaurant, an elderly gentleman who turned up every week to eat Sunday lunch alone. He came by taxi from Toulon, a distance of forty miles or so, and his taxi waited outside during the two hours it took him to do justice to the menu before driving him back home. In other parts of the world, such gastronomic devotion might be considered unusual. But the French go out of their way to support their stomachs and their chefs, which is why you can often find extraordinary cooking in the most unlikely corners of the countryside.
There is an interesting theory about hunger – and we were finding it to be true – which goes something like this: after a certain amount of any one food, you become sated. But with a change of flavour and a change of texture, your appetite revives in the most magical fashion. Thus it was with the next course, a confit of duck and a circular, golden-brown cake of potatoes. Layers of them, sliced thin, roasted in duck fat and ‘encouraged’, as the chef said, by the addition of garlic and chopped truffles. This, combined with the confit, would probably carry a health warning on more nutritionally correct menus – a cardiologist's nightmare, seething with cholesterol, a virtual guarantee of an early grave. But for once, we said to ourselves as we mopped up the last of the gravy, we had statistics on our side. As it happened, there were several living statistics in the restaurant, men and women of advanced age and youthful appetite, testimony to the fact that France has one of the lowest rates of fatal coronary heart disease in the western world. Not for the first time, we raised our glasses to the French Paradox.
Sustained by that thought, but by now beginning to flag, we were presented with a platter the size of a manhole cover: cheeses, from hard to soft to almost liquid. Most of them had come straight from the farmer without passing through the sterilization processes so dear to the hearts of the food censors in Brussels (sometimes described as the bland leading the bland), and consequently tasted good enough to be illegal. They probably were.
And then, a pause. A chance to catch the breath, adjust the napkin, and gather strength for the chef's parting shots – not one, not two, but three desserts: a small hot apple tart, a deep dish of crème caramel, and a bowl of pears simmered in red wine. Finally, coffee and a nip of Calvados.
I asked if there was any chance of a cigar. A basket piled high with boxes was brought in from the cellar – Partagas and Cohibas, even those rare, fat No. 2 Montecristos, the great Cuban torpedoes. Havanas were served as generously as dinner had been, laid on the table in abundance for you to take your pick. The one I chose was in perfect condition, the Calvados had the proper whiff of apples, we were at peace with the world. L'Auberge de La Mole, we agreed, was the kind of restaurant the French do better than anyone else: highly professional, and yet it felt like the extension of a friend's kitchen, casual, easy and comfortable. The restaurants with a row of stars, as good as they are, tend to have a similar veneer, polished and perfect and international. The Auberge couldn't be anything but French.
Being less than twenty miles from St Tropez, the restaurant has had its share of summer celebrities who come to sit and eat in plastic chairs by the gas pump on the terrace. The Princess of Wales, the two Jacks (Chirac and Nicholson), Joan Collins, and a blonde sprinkling of Riviera girls, les mimis de St Tropez – almost famous, tanned to their toenails and accompanied by their elderly uncles. During August, the parking area next to the restaurant looks as though the local Porsche and Mercedes dealers are having a convention. Cell-phones, titanium-framed sunglasses and Vuitton beach bags litter the tables. Inside, at the bar, their backs to the glamour, local farmers and workmen argue about football or the Tour de France. And then they go home to lunch.
9
Eight Ways to Spend a Summer's Afternoon
Of the many questions in life that I prefer to duck, one of the most frequent comes from that daunting creature, the serious traveller seeking advice. He – it's almost always a man, for some reason – is not the kind to take his pleasures lightly. He approaches his holiday as though making a business trip without the customary protection of suit and tie and personal assistant, and he is profoundly suspicious of the random expedition or the unplanned moment. Gaps in his itinerary cause him to fidget until they are plugged, and the thought of anything being left to chance is enough to give him grave doubts about his secretary's efficiency. He is the spiritual descendant of those package-tour pioneers who used to take pride in doing Europe in five days. And when considering a visit to Provence, his first question, asked by phone and inevitably confirmed by fax, is: When is the best time to come?
I try to fend him off with questions of my own. Does he want to see the poppies and cherry blossom of spring? Does he want to roast himself in the peak sunbathing season of July and August? Take in the Avignon festival of music and drama? Ride a bicycle up Mont Ventoux? Run naked through the Luberon? Tread the grapes – vicariously, of course – during the autumn days of the vendange, and see the vines begin to turn rusty gold? Does he have architecture and Roman remains on his agenda, or antique markets and three-star restaurants?
Yes, he says, yes. I like the sound of everything. But I only have a week to fit it all in. So when is the best time to come?
I have struggled to find an answer, or at least an answer that will satisfy him; and I have failed, miserably and often. The closest I can get – a recommendation arrived at after years of haphazard research – is not a convenient string of days that can be blocked off in a diary. I suppose it's more of an attitude of mind than a precise arrangement of dates and places, and is therefore often received by the serious traveller in puzzled silence. Provence, I tell him, is at its best after lunch.
A summer lunch for preference, because the first of two simple requirements for maximum enjoyment is sunshine. The second is a total absence of fixed plans. Only then can you take full advantage of the long and unencumbered afternoon that lies ahead.
The bill is paid, the last mouthful of rosé swallowed, the empty bottle upended in the ice bucket as a farewell salute to the waiter. Now is the time to review the possibilities, taking into account the temperature, your energy level, and the nature of your inclinations – sporting, intellectual, cultural or physical. (Another glass of wine is not a bad idea here, purely for inspirational purposes.) Despite the
lack of theme parks, multiscreen cinemas and shopping malls, Provence is not short of diversions. And while the selection that follows is highly personal, I hope it will serve to illustrate my belief that this is the best place in the world to amuse yourself doing almost nothing.
A ringside seat at a game of boules
Almost every village possesses its own modest version of the sports arena. At its most basic, this is nothing more than a level patch of land perhaps twenty or thirty yards long with a dusty surface of gravel and hard-packed earth. If it is a well-established athletic facility – one, let's say, that has been in service for a couple of hundred years – you are likely to find two additional refinements. The first is shade, provided by an orderly parade of plane trees that might have been planted by one of Napoleon's military gardeners. The second is refreshment, available from the café that overlooks the playing area. (This is often called Le Sporting, and will usually have a row of boules trophies, bulbous and gleaming, on the shelf behind the bar.)
Variations on the game of boules have been in existence ever since man discovered the delights of throwing a ball at a target that can't throw back. Early versions of the boule itself have now become, like wooden tennis rackets and hickory-shafted golf clubs, sporting antiques. They are wonderfully handsome objects, made from nails that have been hammered into a boxwood core to form a sphere, the nail heads so tightly packed that they resemble scales on a fish. Pleasing to look at and satisfying to hold, their fault is that, being handmade and slightly uneven in shape, they are inclined to skip away from the true line once they hit the ground. In a game where millimetres count and passions run high, this skittish behaviour was the cause of much grief and argument, and eventually the old boule was replaced by the perfectly engineered, perfectly round steel missile we see today.
This doesn't mean to say that grief and argument have disappeared from the game. Indeed, grief and argument, as much as precision and skill, are essential to the enjoyment of both players and spectators, adding drama to what might otherwise merely be a well-behaved series of lobs.
The purpose of the contest is to place your group of boules – knocking others out of the way if necessary – as close as possible to the target, a small wooden ball called the cochonnet. Once the players have thrown, they walk up the court to take measurements. A simple matter, you might think, one that can be carried out in a sportsmanlike fashion, abiding by the principle of may the best man win. But no. Not a bit of it. The players huddle over their boules in a fever of dispute, debating every hair's breadth of distance from the cochonnet, arms and voices and sometimes pocket rulers raised in triumph or disbelief. May the loudest man win.
It is possible that these regular outbursts of discord are inspired by something more than the honest quest for victory; something a little stronger. Boules, as far as I know, is unique in the world of outdoor athletic competition. You can drink while you're playing. You don't even have to put down your glass when you throw, providing you possess reasonable physical coordination and a steady hand. And I have often thought that alcohol may account for some of the uninhibited and quite remarkable techniques displayed by the game's stylists.
The throw itself, an underhand pitch of either high or low trajectory, is normally a study in disciplined concentration, knees bent, eye fixed on the target. It is the follow-up where individual flourishes come into play, a kind of curious ballet that is conducted on the spot, since the player is supposed to stay behind the throwing line. There he stands, often on one leg, his body leaning forward, back or sideways, depending on the flight of the throw, his flapping arms acting either as accelerators urging the boule on or brakes willing it to slow down, his single earthbound foot on tiptoe. The effect is not unlike a heron trying to take off from a river bed with one leg stuck in the mud. It is a sight to make you smile as you sit in the shade watching the puffs of dust raised by the boules, the clunk of steel against steel (like the gnashing of dinosaur's teeth) mingling with the ebb and flow of argument and the tinny thump of the café radio. The players move slowly from one end of the court to the other, and back again. The air is hot and still. Time stops.
One of the charms of boules is that it can be played, badly but enjoyably, by an amateur of almost any age. Brute force is less important than cunning and a good eye, and I find it odd that the game seems to be reserved exclusively for men. In all of my years as an idle spectator, I have never seen a Frenchwoman step up to the mark during the course of these sessions that run into the early evening. Curiosity once made me ask a couple of old experts why their wives didn't join them on the court. One dismissed the question with a shrug. The other scarcely hesitated. ‘Don't be ridiculous,’ he said. ‘Who would cook dinner?’
Wet gardening
I am not blessed with the essential attribute of the successful gardener, which is patience – the ability to take the long view, to pace myself according to the speed of the seasons, to wait for years before the sprig grows into a mature and recognizable form. I also have a physical disability: my thumb is not the traditional gardener's green, but a dingy, rather sinister brown. Others seem able to touch an ailing shrub and restore it to the fine green glow of health. My attentions – well meant but clearly not well received – achieve the reverse. A week in my care is enough to reduce a normally robust bloom to a state of wilting despair. Plants see me coming, and shrivel.
This will partly explain why I feel that a garden in Provence is my kind of garden. The climate is cruel, with temperatures that dip below freezing and rise above 100 degrees. The earth is rocky rather than rich, water comes in torrents or not at all, and when the Mistral blows it exfoliates the landscape, tearing off the topsoil and battering everything in its path. Experience has taught me that any vegetation capable of surviving in these hostile conditions can survive even my best efforts.
Among my acquaintances are one or two keen gardeners. Intoxicated by horticultural terminology, they have a casual yet scholarly way of referring to the inhabitants of their gardens in Latin. To them, buttercups and daisies are Ranunculus acris and Leucanthemum vulgare, and the modest dandelion is promoted to Taraxacum officinale. I cope with these displays of expertise with uncomprehending nods, or by trying to change the subject, but they won't be distracted. And it isn't long before they begin to offer advice on how I could transform my arid plot of Provence into a transplanted English cottage garden.
A little colour would be nice, they say, looking around them with mild disapproval. Something to brighten the place up. And a lawn. There's nothing quite as restful to the eye as a lawn (amazingly, it doesn't appear to have a Latin name). From the imaginary lawn, it is only a short step to espaliered fruit trees, rose bowers, flowering hedges and those essential living ornaments so dear to the English heart, herbaceous borders. One of these days they will suggest ha-has and parterres. I can feel it coming.
It's a relief when they go, and I am left to look at what I love: lavender and cotton lavender, cypress, sage, rosemary, bay, oleander, box, thyme. Greys from almost blue to almost white, greens from shiny and dark to dusty and faded, a summer splash of purple, colours and shapes that suit the landscape, plants that conquer the climate and tolerate me. They need very little to sustain them, and the only major duty is more of a pleasure than a chore: the cutting of the lavender in July.
This is best done wet. You soak yourself in the pool before taking up the sickle or the secateurs to start the first row. The stalks are dry, almost brittle, and cut cleanly. After gathering a few clumps, your hands take on the scent of fresh lavender, sharp and astringent. Within five minutes the sun has dried the last drop of water from your body; within ten minutes you're sweating. At the end of half an hour, another trip to the pool and a flop into heaven.
An afternoon of this will give you a pile of cut lavender, with a dozen ways to enjoy it. The fragrance lives to an aromatic old age, and a small sachet of lavender left in a drawer or linen closet in July will retain its scent, faded but still distin
ctive, until December or beyond. A stalk or two in bottles of olive oil or vinegar is an infusion of summer that lasts the whole year. And then there is lavender essence, the Provençal cure-all. Use a few drops as a disinfectant on scratches or insect bites, as a gargle to soothe a sore throat, as an inhalant in a bowl of hot water to clear a thick head, as a scorpion repellent when you swab down the kitchen floor. Finally, save a few bunches of dried lavender to put on to the first fires of winter, and the house will smell like the purple patch you cut those many months ago. Try getting all that out of a herbaceous border.
Rendezvous with an artisan
An old house – built before the arrival of pre-formed doors and windows, instant kitchens and the many other dubious delights of modern modular construction – is at the same time a joy and a constant obstacle course. What you gain in character you lose in architectural perfection. Floors have slopes and develop mysterious swellings in winter. Walls tilt. Doorways list to one side. Stairs lurch upward with little regard for regularity, and the true right angle is nowhere to be found. And so, when the time comes to replace a sagging banister, a worm-eaten door or a warped shutter, it is impossible to find a ready-made substitute. You must brace yourself for a series of encounters with that amiable and talented will-o'-the-wisp, the Provençal artisan. He will make whatever your heart desires.
