Eat, Pick, Love - Food Foraging in France

Walking the dogs along country lanes is one of our favourite things. Always has been, but here in the Hérault our walks have turned into something quite different.  It’s a feast on foot!
 

The abundance of wild growing produce is thrilling to us, and something I’d quite forgotten about.  I had great fun as a child picking wild blackberries and returning home with a black tongue, pips in my teeth and nails, turning my haul over to my mum or grandma and looking forward to blackberry and apple crumble.  But this is something else!  

We now carry bottles and baskets with us as we walk the dogs and to return home with so much ingestible booty seems sinful.  But it’s quite the opposite, it’s nature providing for the winter months ahead and actually quite logical but still - it feels so generous!

 

We have come to the end of the blackberry season and the freezer is full of them waiting to be added to more crumbles and fools, whilst our homemade blackberry jam is served at breakfast every morning.  And Alex has made blackberry vodka!  This concoction needs to infuse for three or four months before it's ready to make its festive appearance at Christmas.  Can’t wait.

 

We have now moved on to figs, almonds, quince, grapes, apples, peaches, pomegranates, mushrooms and apricots; following later will be the olive harvest.  We are about to attempt an adventurous fig and almond jam; I am consulting recipes for poaching quince; all the other fruits can be eaten straight off the branch!  There are even fresh water springs dotted around the landscape dispensing pure mineral water that is delicious, refreshing, locally famous and perfectly free.

 

It’s fabulous French fecundity and we love it.  It’s also a robust reminder that autumn is around the corner and inevitably the long, long days and blazing sunshine of summer will wane – actually, mother nature has already hit the dimmer switch – but we don’t really care. Our pantry is full, our jam is sweet, we have nuts to crack, vodka to look forward to and the Vendanges (the grape harvest for this year’s wine) is in full flow.  La vie en rose indeed.

Water Jousting in Sète

One of the things I love about France is a kind of tacit acknowledgment (as I understand it) that if you do something stupid it's your fault and you have only yourself to blame.  Thus, if you injure yourself diving head first into an empty swimming pool that's your look out and there's no one to sue because an "Empty Swimming Pool - Do Not Dive" sign had not been erected. 

 

Which brings me to The 346th Annual Water Jousting Festival in Sète.

This five day aquatic party has been going for nigh on three hundred and fifty years and shows no real signs of having changed much since 1666. Basically, boys and men ten years old and upwards and with seemingly no height, weight or agility restrictions practise all year, then on the given date clamber atop boats fitted with a tintaine (a fitted wooden gangplank) and sail at each other armed with wooden shields and steel tipped jousts, the aim being to poke and topple your opponent into the water who then has to endure the 'swim of shame'.  There is a blue team (traditionally single men) vs. a red team (the married men).  The loss of a working body part / eye / dignity is seen as integral to the proceedings - all part of 'bigging up' as a Man.

Righty ho, let the games begin, and what fun it was too!  We relished once again the total lack of police presence,  gleefully noting that St. John's Ambulance or equivalent were missing entirely, revelled in the large bars lining the streets freely selling wine, pastis and beer for 1 euro a go, appreciated the band playing frantically, observed with interest the teenagers inking each other with marker pens and laughing uproariously every time a known associate humiliated himself. Any man, woman or child could have fallen into the water at any moment as there were no barriers and I sincerely doubt a great deal of thought had been given to public liability insurance.  All of which makes for a great laissez faire atmosphere! 

 

 

It was especially interesting to watch the boys clambering up the gangplanks of boats and setting sail on a direct collision course, wearing outfits basically unchanged for about a hundred years, armed with a steel tipped pole and protected by a small wooden shield.  I couldn't help thinking that in many other countries - certainly in Australia - participants would now be wearing life jackets and protective helmets at the very least, brandishing full length body shields made of kevlar, their poles probably replaced by something akin to a pool noodle.  Not in Sète.  If they want to joust, this is how it's done and competitors enter at their own risk.  Another "PC" thought - is this encouraging aggression and violence in youth or channelling human nature to a celebrated outlet with historic and cultural significance?  I incline rather towards the latter - especially when rival reds and blues are all gathered together after the event enjoying churros and galettes alongside the older competitors indulging in the 1 euro vin. Very typical, very historic, very French, very good!

French Food

I've just come back from Australia where I spent two weeks working on the launch of Eco Chic's own range of furniture and homewares http://www.ecochic.com.au/

There wasn't time for anything much other than working, sleeping and eating (though I did manage to sneak in the odd glass / bottle of wine).  There's no doubt it was very unsettling to return to Australia so soon after our Big Departure and the most notable thing I found I'd missed - apart from the coffee of course but I must not keep ranting on about this! - was the food. 


Interesting to note, in a country that actually has a monument to the culinary delight that is the Pie and has got by on basically three kinds of cheese (Tasty, Mild, and Colby) for decades, the food seemed more interesting, delicious and adventurous in Australia.  I have to ask myself 'why?'.  Is it just me, my palette and what I've grown up with / become used to (which is a fusion oriented cuisine) or is French food - dare I say it - a bit boring and predictable?  

It strikes me that the ingredients available in the supermarkets and markets are of top quality. However, what these ingredients are made into tends to be pretty much standard - at least in restaurants (we haven't dined in any French homes yet). By now, we almost know by heart what will be on the menu in any given restaurant and would dearly love a change. Magret de canard, brochettes de vollaile, steack frites, faux filet frites, moules marineres, pave de saumon, pizza with no frills, omelette with no filling.  Salad verte will be leaves, nothing else, and a dressing. Boring.

And don't get me started on desserts! Who ever invented Isles Flotantte should be shot. Never a worse dessert has existed. As far as I can grasp / stomach it, this is lightly whipped egg whites in custard. Say what?? Who awarded this abomination such prevelance on French menus?   Not an acceptable dessert, sorry.  Crepe sucre will be a crepe with sugar scattered on it. Nothing else. No lemon, no syrup, no nuts, no chocolate, no cream, no ice cream.  Nothing. You can order a Crepe Nutella and it will come with just that. No cream, no ice cream, no nuts, no frills, no nothing.  Boring.  Chocolate mousse is nice, but I make a good enough one at home.  Creme brulee, lovely, how about adding raspberries and experimenting with the topping?  Google Australia presents Australian Master Chef Creme Brulee with wasabi ice cream and umami crumble. Could be amazing, could be dodgy but at least the taste buds would be provolked!  No wonder French Women Don't Get Fat - they aren't tempted!  No, not fair, the bread and pattisserie here is formidable, as are the cheeses. But woman can't live on fromage alone. 

The French are famous for their resiliance to change. That's why so many people - ourselves included - find themselves attracted to the beautiful landscape, glorious architecture, cultural history, time honoured traditions etc. etc.  It's the point of difference here and it makes for some impressively preserved heritage + beauty.  It's also the bone of contention with regard to property laws, sexism, forward thinking etc. etc.  Could it be applied to food, too?  Should the French embrace foodie advances in taste and presentation?  Or is it just me? Have I become too fussy / have a polyglot palette / am not dining at expensive enough restaurants?  The mundane menu at the Melbourne Trade Fair Cafeteria seems light years ahead of French menus to me. However, is it just pretentious descriptions, jumped up ingredients and inflated prices?  I ate there frequently and the food was memorable, varied and tasty.  But it was more expensive - a single pasta dish is the same price as a three course formule at our local bistro.

So, in conclusion, what do you think - I do invite comment. Are we being unfair? Is French food still great and not in need of a bit of a 'fusion' kick and a makeover? Should we be spending more time at posher eateries and would thus find more rewarding experiences?  Our Aussie friends Anne and Emily (pictured here with apparently a cappucino, a frappe and a viennese coffee, no really - from one extreme to another!) ate their way around France with no budget limitations and found the experience distinctly lacking, so much so they preferred picnics.  Where is the most interesting and innovative French food to be found today - I'm quite prepared for it to be miles away from Clermont l'Herault! I'm so interested to receive feedback, and know most people can not reply to this blog without opening a google account which they don't want to do, that I'm giving out my e mail address paulabreckman@gmail.com - go for it, knock me out, shoot me down in flames but most of all tell me where to eat!!

Clermont l’Hérault

Leaving Montpellier behind has been far from traumatic. In fact, I don't think I've given that over burdened, grimy city a second thought - other than 'glad we're not there any more'. I really didn't expect to much prefer une vie à la campagne, but that's how it's turned out since we started living in Clermont l’Hérault in June. 

I was here in Clermont last year during a wintery February and a spring like March; the town presents itself quite differently in the full bloom of summer.  There are abundant flowers everywhere, including glorious displays of Laurier Rose, also known as Oleander and dubbed a 'toxic weed' in Australia therefore routinely chopped down.  This opinon is clearly not shared in France, where Oleander is actively cultivated and appreciated, and we now share that appreciation.  This time of year flags, bunting and floral hanging baskets adorn most streets and squares whilst pavement cafés multiply and flourish everywhere.

The bright blue, cloudless skies and long days of sunshine have encouraged wide exploration of the Hérault area and we have ventured further afield than previously, discovering new and memorable places.  

Pepper swims in the Lac du Salagou; Alex paddles his pirogue on the river at Aspiran; we have danced at the Fête in Cabrières; enthusisatically tasted the new season's rosé wine at Fontès (very good, bought a case); we've listened to the free Bach recitals performed every Wednesday at St. Paul's with musicians from all over the world playing the grand organ; viewed the abstract art and photography exhibitions at the Ancienne Ėglise; drunk pichets of wine and enjoyed the Mélo Divin live music festival at Allées Salengro which also hosts open air cinema sessions and jazz concerts.

Bastille Day was a huge indulgence of non stop almost free wine and music, with spectators - including toddlers  - weilding fireworks whilst watching the official firework display. The visible lack of an overbearing police presence, security guards, barriers, crowd control, hooligans, ambulances waiting for business etc. etc. was truly liberating, with everyone expected to regulate their own behaviour - if you maim yourself with a firework there's no chance of a law suit or an ambulance so this has a beneficial knock-on effect!   

We've sampled cheese at the night market at Octon, lit camp fires and roasted marshmallows (this particularly appealed to Alex as the possiblity of just lighting your own camp fire pretty much isn't an option in Oz), listened to salsa amidst the natural wonders of the Cirque du Mourèze and marvelled at the limestone gorges of Saint Guilhém le Desert. We've visited Roujan, Neffiès, Muviel-les-Béziers, Plaissan, Lodève, Cuxac d'Aude, Nébian, Saint Jean de la Blaquière - all places we could easily consider living.  We honestly and truly drive around with a boules set in the boot of the Fiat and whip them out for a wine fuelled challenge wherever a boulodrome presents itself. 

We've only been here four weeks!  Last Thursday I just couldn't summon up the energy for a wine tasting plus musical hommage to Dalida followed by dancing until 2am at Adissan and turned in early.  Who would have thought la vie à la campagne offered so much?!  We selected Montpellier for what it might have to offer and found what we were looking for forty minutes from its bright lights.  So much so that we've talked seriously to a couple of real estate agents.... 

Fiat Punto

Wheels. Pretty much taken for granted.  No longer by us however, given how tricky it is to get on the road in France.  And how important.  France, unlike Australia, has many, many villages and towns sprinkled liberally throughout the countryside, within a few minutes of each other,  each with their own markets, personalities, attractions and appeal.  It's possible to spend a lifetime encountering the villages of France, but impossible without a car!  Having spent a small fortune on hire cars last year, this time round we were keen to earn our independence from Rent-a-Car.  But how?  To buy and insure a car requires the all important utility bill (the golden key to many doors in France) and it's terribly difficult to get a utility bill without references, referrals and a track record of renting a home, or owning your own home.  Problematic.  A long and expensive relationship with Rent-a-Car loomed on the horizon.

Holly to the rescue!  Lurking in the garden of her country house, quietly taking root, was a much loved but ever so slightly neglected Fiat Punto Cabriolet.  A car I'd known and loved in London as it shuttled us from bar to club to party, night after memorable night. It even knew its own way home from Soho House!  Why not rescue, revive and restore the little treasure and drive it down to its new life bistrot hopping in the South of France?  Why not indeed.

 

Thus one chilly Saturday in early April, weilding spades, we dug the car out of the garden.  We heaved up the bonnet and jump started the car.  It started first time!  That earned her the reward of a new battery.  The new battery helped the Fiat limp to the car wash for a spruce up.  Life was improving for the Fiat, but sadly we had to leave her in Samois and head South to take up our new rental home in Montpellier. 

Holly took over and found out what was needed to pass the Controle Technique, the equivalent of the Safety Certificate in Aus or the MOT in the UK.  An eye  watering assortment of dings, scrapes, knocks and bangs to a vehicle's body work are considered compulsory in France, and in this regard the Punto passed with flying colours.  What was required was a new motor for the windscreen wipers, a couple of light bulbs for side lights, two new tyres - nothing too outrageous - after four years of taking root, anything was possible!  These things fixed up, a full service and the Fiat was ready to go. 

 We took a train to Paris, enjoyed a fabulous musical showcase by the talented M. Philippe Barbot, drank some wine and retired early ready to drive the seven or eight hours from Samois (well positioned one hour to the South of Paris) to Montpellier. 

 
A nightmare journey ensued where we left Samois bang on time and avoided heavy traffic and scary weather, only to realise my lap top had been left behind, sitting in the hallway in Paris..... No option but to turn back and retrieve it.  This represented a Hideous Set Back.  THIRTEEN hours later, after nearly coming to blows several times in assorted lay-bys, wrestling with folding maps and Sat Nav (twat nav...)  and going around in circles near Nemours, we were still on the road.  We limped in to Montpellier at 1 a.m., having driven through some spectacular countryside - including the amazing Millau viaduct - in the dark. 

Not a good start for the new life au sud for the Fiat Punto Cabrio. However, things have continually looked up for us all, and she has settled in very nicely to the long hot days, the drives through vineyards and rolling foothills, the trips to the boulangerie and local markets -  and is a big hit with Roly and Pepper, who love the wind in their fur as we bomb along at 130km looking for a new adventure. The locals may take us for Parisians due to our proudly Parisian number plates and give us the cold shoulder, but we don't care, we'd rather be shunned than grounded.  Thank you, Holly, for the Fiat we call Freedom!

En Angleterre

Visited the mother country in June.  An interesting and revealling trip in ways I was not expecting.

First of all, I was very taken with how lovely it all was. Just beautiful.  And here was I fresh off the plane from the fabled South of France!  Frankly, where I was (Durham, the Dales, Raby Castle) really held its own, perhaps even excelled thanks to the castles, monasteries, ruins etc. casually scattered everywhere, the deer grazing in the woodlands, the quaint and picturesque villages one after the other in lush emerald countryside. 

I loved the vintage horse-drawn gypsy caravans meandering through country lanes following Appleby Fair, the jaunty bunting strung along every street and square in honour of the Queen's diamond jubilee.  The food was delicious and varied and the coffee wonderful - I even drank a perfect Flat White!  I was delighted to see the endless walls entirely free of any sort of graffiti, streets featuring total lack of dog poo, revelled in the pristine condition of national monuments, stately homes and just about every house I saw, wanted to partake of a pint in each one of the ridiculously quaint pubs, and - most importantly - basked in the warm, friendly, smiling, funny people I came across everywhere. Gosh, why did I ever leave??!

The weather, that's why. It was NINE DEGREES for most of my stay. Nine degrees centigrade. Nine degrees at midday, in mid summer.  NINE.  I went to bed in pyjamas with an electric blanket and the central heating on. In mid summer.  I had packed a coat, a scarf, woolly tights, a thick cardigan and I wore them all, all the time.  Incredible to me was the general up-beat approach of the locals to all this - overheard on an escalator in a department store "for all the rain, it's not that cold is it?".  I felt like screaming "IT'S NINE DEGREES!!!!! THAT'S BEYOND COLD!!".  

Despite the cold, I had a wonderful time.  It was a huge relief not to be struggling with the inferiority of one's French language abilities.  When the sun did shine (for three days of my seven day stay) it was truly inspirational; when it didn't it the warmth of my welcome made up for it.  I think the dismal weather has also given people a humourous, resiliant outlook to life, one full of optimism and one to learn from.  And it isn't always thus - we know it's some bizarre Gulf Stream variable causing the worst summer weather 'since records began', so the papers were happy to reassure the nation that there would be 'Summer in September'!  Glad to hear it, these people and this Sceptred Isle deserve better!

Parlez-vous français?

"Don't worry about the language, you'll pick it up once you're there".... Famous sentiments, still popular and frequently quoted to those about to live in foreign parts.  Don't believe a word of it.
 
Despite a lifelong exposure to the French language, learning it all through school, using it at Uni and on into the work place, a twelve year sojourn in Australia where possibly the only two French words used would be Café and Croissant, has taken me back to what feels like Square One.

A course at Alliance Française before we left had me feeling rather confident, chatting comfortably with Geoff and Cathy the language presented no problems.  Try chatting with Gaston and Carine and it’s a different situation entirely.  They have accents, you see, use slang, speak quickly and don’t care whether you know what’s going on or not.  We don’t want to be the ex pats who can order a meal and ask directions and that’s it, so off to School we went.

Most unpleasant.  I spent a lot of time sitting there seething that the French see fit to have eight ways of saying ‘this, that, these and those’ whilst we have only four, and insist on frequent use of the relative pronouns ‘dont’, ‘que’, ‘qui’, lesquel’, ‘laquelle’, ‘ou’, ‘auquel’, ‘duquel’ – remembering to change things for masculine / feminine / plural !! – all of which can be entirely omitted in English, or the use of ‘that’ will suffice.  I sulked for days about such preposterous nonsense, let me tell you.
 
After settling down and accepting I just had to learn all the ‘nonsense’, things improved somewhat and I enjoyed my school days. Alex enjoyed his too and had quite a fun class.  We were both interested to note our schoolmates were Swiss, Italian, Swedish, German, Brazilian, South African, Australian, Dutch, Austrian – all of whom spoke excellent English, which is possibly why there were no British there – why bother??  Everyone speaks English and if they don’t, we can just shout and point – or use Google Translate on the i phone...
 
We have come to realise, however, that our biggest stumbling block is each other.  We aren’t going to speak to each other in French, so our home environment remains English. We have French TV, subtitled in French, which helps, and we are looking forward to the day we can grasp every word without the use of the subtitles. We try to speak for twenty minutes a day to each other in French but usually end up just shouting and pointing – or using Google Translate.  Roly and Pepper have learned to ‘restez’ rather than ‘stay’, but Oscar remains resolutely indifferent. 
 
Trying to apply our new language ‘skills’ out there remains frustrating.  French people almost always reply to you in English no matter how abysmal their English is and no matter how competent your French is.  I have been asked directions, given them perfectly, only to find the recipient asking the next person on the street, and receiving the exact same directions I’d just given! Was I not understood – or trusted, perhaps?  I’ve been asked in supermarkets, restaurants and airports if I speak French, have replied in the affirmative and then been spoken to in halting English. Most confusing. It’s hard not to feel insulted when one’s French is routinely ignored, so we are trying to pretend that the French just want to practise their English and aren’t being rude.  Unlikely, but it helps keep us calm.  We’ve even noticed that Google France takes this approach – after initially presenting the page to us in French it has now decided to default to English! 
 
These difficulties really do batter confidence and it’s easy to see why people just give up, especially if the language of the world seems to be English and the French seem thrilled with their own capabilities in English too boot.  Short of living in separate homes in remote countryside and learning a rural argot, there seems little Alex and I can do other than persevere. I suspect we are being impatient and a little hard on ourselves. After all, I can argue in French with Orange Telecom over the phone, organise pet sitters and rental cars, send back rubbish coffee in cafés, chat to fellow dog walkers in the park and even talk drunkenly for hours with our local restaurateurs – what more do I expect after only ten weeks in the country?   Just think, after a year I may be able to run for French Parliament – or they will all decide to speak English instead, seeing as they are so good at it.....