“There is no love sincerer than the love of food.”
- George Bernard Shaw
Having just come out of a contentious relationship, I was in the mood to test Shaw’s words . . . However . . . if I was going to submerge myself in the affections of food, this meant a journey, a pilgrimage to the food cradle of the world . . . FRANCE.
I had three weeks to travel. I was very specific in my plan. The focus was food. I was going to split my time between two regions, the provinces of Normandy and Brittany in the north, and the Dordogne area in the southwest. I was hoping to gorge myself on the specialties of each region. I wanted to taste the best the most authentic food possible.
The only problem was that I had very little money and would have to do it on a very, very tight budget (by tight I mean around $5 a day) This could only be accomplished by hitchhiking, sleeping outside, and most important of all counting on the kindness of strangers to show me their love through delicious home cooked meals. If I had to resort to eating at restaurants the trip would be over quickly.
So with high hopes, hungry stomach and twenty tearsheets from various food magazines of French food dishes from these regions, I arrived in France to begin my gastronomic adventure. Crossing to La Harve on the ferry from England, my travel plans got off to a bad start as the weather for the first couple of days was brutal with heavy rains causing me to take shelter in rather pricy accommodations versus sleeping outside.
But what especially concerned me was the difficulty I was experiencing in hitchhiking, as I had three consecutive days of agonizingly long waits, four to five hours each day. What was going on? Had I lost my touch for the open road? I know it had been nine months since I did some traveling, I felt out of step, I did not have my usual travel feel. I called timeout to regroup.
I recalled my travels in Europe in the late 70’s, I had hitchhiked all over the continent, some countries were clearly better, meaning easier to get a ride than others. England Germany
I caught a glimpse of myself in the full length mirror in my overpriced rather dank hotel in Molax. I studied my face closely, I looked clean shaven, very important when hitching, no problem there. However, I was tall, about 6’2” and with my backpack I cut a rather imposing figure. Imposing as good? Or perhaps imposing as this is not a person someone might not feel comfortable with to stop and pickup.
Yes, that could be it. The comfort level so important from the driver’s perspective as he or she decides if to pick up the hitcher. How could I make my future drivers feel more relaxed about me? I wanted to somehow transport this feeling to them. Then it hit me, yes, I would make a sign. Not a sign with the destination I was going to, but a sign that in a few words would encompass the type of person I was. Kind, sensitive, easy going, fun all the descriptions I thought of myself, I wanted the drivers to know also.
Yes, if they knew that about me perhaps they would relax more resulting you would think in a greater chance that they would stop and give me a ride.
“Un Garcson tres Gentile” (A very gentle boy) that is what I wrote in bold black magic marker on a piece of cardboard. Mind you this was not just any little piece of one foot board, but instead a good three foot square. It was so large I almost felt that I was holding a billboard. But hey, I needed to advertise the person I was and I had to make it LARGE so approaching drivers could clearly see.
The sign was a smashing success! On these rural roads where cars do not go very fast you could see the driver start to grin as the sign came into focus. Rides now came quick and easy needless to say that the sign was a terrific conversation piece with the drivers that picked me up. “Ingenious” one young woman, a student from Rennes Rouen
Yes, the sign was working and I was now traveling smoothly throughout northern France.
. . . Seven Days Later
With blotted stomach, I wobbled cautiously down the steep dimly lit stairs following Yvonne, Mr. Rosseau’s eleven year old son to what led to a rec room.
Yvonne, tall and lanky, with straight black bangs and wearing a Bruce Springstein t-shirt,
flicked on the light and pointed to a Lazy Boy recliner in chocolate faux leather sitting in the center of the room. Everything seemed to radiate from “the chair” foosball, a pool table, small bar, dart board, and of course a TV.
American pop culture adorned the wall; Madona, Silvester Stalone as Rambo, Marilyn Monroe with her skirt being blown. Except for the small picture of the 1982 French World Cup soccer team and what seemed to be the French version of “The Price is Right” on television, this could be anywhere rec room USA.
But I did not care what was on the walls or how it seemed to be a tad tacky, or that there
were no posters of French icons, like Catherine Deneuve, Jean Paul Sartre, Truffaut, or even the ubiquitous map of France displaying proudly their 350 some plus cheeses. All that I cared about was my stomach and how satisfied it was after an absolutely outrageously rich and delicious dinner prepared by Madame Rousseau.
I had a vision of my late father in the Lazy Boy, getting such enjoyment out of this, an action that was never a reality, as my mother would not allow the chair, which she called
tasteless to enter our home. Tasteless, perhaps, but for me at this moment, as I pulled on the side lever and felt the sensation of the chair inching down and up and out all at once, well I felt like I was in a state of nirvana. Loosening my belt, I wallowed in the sensation of my satisfied sated self.
As soon as I had “landed” in my ideal Lazy Boy position, appearing out of nowhere popped Nathalie, the Rosseau’s precocious seven year old daughter. “Pour vous.” It was a desert, a rich desert called Breton Butter Cake. I was so stuffed, I wanted no part of it, but my manners being intact, I not only took a bite, but put on a show for Nathalie, breaking out with an exuberent “Tres tres bien” “delisioso” “fantastique.” Nathalie broke out with giggles, jumped up and down several times then dashed up the stairs calling to her mother with unbridled joy.
Now it was the fathers turn as he stood before me holding a bottle. In my chair, I felt like I was a reclining king as his servants or in this case one member of the Rosseau family after another presented me with yet another morsel to sample.
“It is an apple brandy, called Calvados, it is made in Normandy, it is a specialty of the region.” Said the beaming James, lovingly cradling the bottle as if he a father holding a new born. James went on pointing to the “V.O.” written on the bottle. “Scott, this stands for Vielle Reserve, and is only on the best bottles that are fermented for at least four years. Handing me the cognac shaped class, I took the sip, and it had a distinct taste of apricot, apple, I to be honest did not like it that much, but being aware of James probing eyes, he eager for my reaction, I nodded my head slowly up and down as if savoring every drop, “tres bien, merci, oui, tres bien.” James then said that he had to go upstairs to help Maddame Rosseau for about a half an hour and I could just relax here if that was fine with me. Yes, it was.
So now alone with my Lazy Boy, I drank down the remaining brandy and placed the cake and glass on the floor. Ah, yes, such a warm and comforting feeling. I shut my eyes as I fondly played back the past eight hours, reflecting on my meeting James, his kindness, the memorable delicious dinner I just had, and the continued generosity of the people in this region of France and how they had made my stomach so happy!
It was at a truck stop off the highway that headed west towards Brest, Brittany’s largest city that I met James. Truck stops are a gold mine for hitchers. I especially like to take advantage of eating in the cafeteria. Not because the food is especially good, for it is usually pretty mediocre and overpriced, but because it allows me the opportunity to sit by someone strike up a conversation and make good contact.
It was about noon and the cafeteria was packed with people. I decided on the fillet of tuna the least expensive of the entrees and stood holding my tray looking for just the right spot to position myself next to a potential “patron.” That is what I secretly liked to call the people who I would meet in my travels who were so kind in bringing me greater comfort, be it with a ride, a warm bed, or a meal. I was the beneficiary of their benevolence.
Over at the far corner table I noticed a whole gaggle of young boys all dressed in the same matching burgundy color warm ups, most likely a youth soccer team. Then all of them, about fifteen started to get and vacate the table. The long table was now left with just five people scattered about. One man, somewhat portly, about forty years of age, sporting a bright orange windbreaker with a bushy moustache and a vanishing hairline sat alone with three empty chairs between him and the tables end. Yes, this was perfect.
I approached and nodded to him as I sat down. Not wanting to waste any time in case he exited soon, I launched right in after sitting down for all of ten seconds, and in my most nasal American Midwest accent asked “do you know what time it is?” This despite the fact that there was a gigantic clock positioned on the wall behind me. He turned his wrist showing me the time, which I noticed so many Europeans do and then said “12:23.”
He then became inquisitive, asking me the basic introductory questions; “where was I from,” “what was my occupation,” “where was I headed,” etc. His name was James, spoke broken, but recognizable English, his soft voice did not match his somewhat harsh features. James was eating the steak and frites, his steak looked much more superior to my wilting tuna. I took notice that he still had a good portion of his food on his plate so we had time to talk.
I could see outside the rain beginning to fall, this seemed the norm in Brittany. Looking at James, watching his stubby hands quickly maneuver the steak knife, my hope was not just for a ride, but a home cooked meal and another opportunity to savor the wonders of French cooking. In my quest for continued gastronomic joy on so little money. Yes, perhaps James, the man sitting here was my next “patron.”
And then he asked it , , , the question I was hoping for. The question I love to hear. “So, how are you enjoying your travels?” Like a seasoned thesbian I knew my line of response, as I had it recited and delivered it many times, but now sounding so natural as if stated for the first time.
“There is much I have enjoyed about my travels, the Brittany coast is magnificent. I especially found the massive stones at Carnac fascinating, and the pink granite coast very beautiful, especially the rock formations at Tregastel.” James nodded pleased to hear that my experience had been a positive one. Then pausing and looked straight at him and said quietly, but firmly and shaking my head slightly, “I have not eaten very well.” This brought out an immediate “pourquoi?”as if you are traveling France, how could this be possible.
James seemed to lean toward me. I elaborated. “It’s just that I am not eating the dishes that I had hoped to eat in Brittany.” James looked concerned and I went on, “Before coming on this trip I read so much from American food magazines about French food and how each region has their specialties that they are famous for and take pride in. And here in Brittany, the food I read about, the food I dream to taste, such as Moules Mariners, or Sole Pieppoise, or Cotriade Bretonne, I have not tasted.”
“Yes, those are some of our most famous regional dishes, I am impressed you know about our food, but why have you not tried them? You can eat these in restaurants.” My answer, yes, call me shameless if you want, but my stomach was calling out. “I unfortunately can’t afford to eat at these restaurants, they are too expensive. I want to travel France, to explore, to learn all I can, but I have to do it on the cheap. I travel with a backpack, I hitchhike, I sleep outside.”
My soliloquy was having its effect on James. It was a prideful thing, the food of France, and more specifically, the regional food. I as a traveler so enthusiastic, but disappointed that I could not truly sample the glorious foods of Brittany, and people would take this as a challenge to present me with their regional dishes that I had ached for. It was a beautiful thing. To me the analogy might be if some young French traveler intrigued by baseball, and dreams of going to Yankee stadium, but can’t afford it. Yes, you bet I would make that persons dream come true.
James then asked what direction I was headed. “To Brest.” He was quiet as if in contemplation, then said, “Wait here, I must call my wife, I will be right back.” I felt a surge rush through me. It was then that I could feel that I think I have a new patron in James. He returned and then delivered the words that were music to my ears, “Scott if you like you could stay with us this evening and have dinner, my wife, she is a very good cook. She will cook you a special Brittany dish.”
When I heard those words, “staying the night,” “my wife will cook” for you, it brought me such happiness. Sure it is good to save money as I will by this situation. However, for me it is the “contact” of a family in a foreign land that is so special. To me this is the essence of travel. To see the inside of their home, to meet their children, to see how they interact, to be involved with what they eat, and even see what they watch on TV. Yes, to me this is the very most meaningful part of travel, the contact.
Seven hours later, sitting at their wooden dinner table in the small but comfortable home in the village of Gouesnou, a suburb of Brest, I was famished having worked up my appetite by playing soccer with Yvonne and his friends and giving Nathalie one piggy back ride after another.
Jame’s wife, named Evelyn, who I only said hello to briefly when arrived, was now putting final touches on the dinner. I needless to say was in high anticipation of this dining experience, as James over the squabbling voices of Yvonne and Nathalie proudly announced, “Scott, tonight you are in for a treat. This dish that my wife is cooking is one of the most beloved dishes in Brittany, called Plateau de Fruit de Mare, in English you would call it seafood platter.”
On hearing this news, the kids let loose with a wild applause as if Santa Clause was in the next room. I was happy to see that the kids were excited about dinner tonight also. And as if on cue out came Evelyn, she a woman of average height and build, with brownish curly hair wore a huge smile, she beaming with happiness as she carried a mammoth plate overhanging with lobster, oyster, mussels, and some other shell fish. Yvonne and Nathalie erupting to a fever pitch on their mother’s entrance with the platter.
The meal was outrageously delicious and filled with such joyousness, the amount of laughing and pure passion for food was intoxicating. When the seafood platter was set down it was ATTACK!! Everyone lurching forward hands grabbing, the sound of crackling shells and booming happy voices filled the room for the next couple of hours as the shell fish so succulent and delicious accompanied by Muscadet, Brittany’s most famous wine, with its distinct bracing taste. What a wonderful meal it was!
I could hear the sheets of rain pound against the window. Feeling so content and cozy, I dug down deeper in the Lazy Boy. Tomorrow I would be leaving northern France and heading south. The past ten days of travel split between Normandy and Brittany was filled with generous people and amazing food. Feeling sentimental, I closed my eyes as friendly faces and plates of food I had encountered over the past several days passed by.
. . . Maurice and his wife Gwen from Liseux and the Sole Normandie
. . . Andrea and his Coquilles St. Jacque of St. Hilaire.
. . . The village of Paimol and the gregarious Nicollet and the savory variations of crepes she let me sample.
. . . And the Gigot d’ Agneou Pre Sel, prepared by Robert in Callac.
Yes, Shaw was correct . . . in the sincere love of food and those kind people I met and they shared with me. Ah, yes, travel in France is good. Bon Appetite!
.jpg)
No comments:
Post a Comment