My Twenty-Five Years in Provence Page 11

  As you would expect from such a fertile season, there is no shortage of what Monsieur Farigoule likes to describe as “little treasures from God’s menu.” During the months that pass from May into the true heat of July, there are shorter seasons when you can find the first melons, the first asparagus, the first figs, both green and black, the first and fattest broad beans, plump petits pois—all far too fresh to be wearing labels. Instead, they are displayed in shallow wooden trays, and you will often be told that what you buy today was picked earlier that morning. It’s enough to put you off supermarket fruits and vegetables for several weeks.

  At last, this season in between seasons comes to an end. The temperature climbs, the crickets are in full chirp. It’s hot, and going to get hotter. Bonjour, summer.

  Twenty-One

  A Gift from Napoleon

  Among Napoleon Bonaparte’s memorable achievements, military success would normally take pride of place. Further down the list might be his contribution as a style guru, acknowledging his famous habit of keeping one hand tucked out of sight in his greatcoat. And then, of course, there would be Josephine.

  But one Napoleonic addition to la vie française, which continues to thrive after more than two hundred years, hasn’t received the publicity of his triumphs on the battlefield, or the publicity it deserves. And yet, in its own quiet way, it continues to be an important and, I suspect, well-loved aspect of French society.

  It is the Ordre National de la Légion d’Honneur, founded by Napoleon in 1802 to reward outstanding merit in everyone from industrialists to heroic generals to poets.

  What could have prompted Napoleon, not a man normally known for his good works or social conscience, to introduce such a wide-ranging and benevolent scheme? I’ve looked in vain for someone or something that might have inspired him, but in the absence of any help from history, I’ve been obliged to come up with something myself. Here’s my theory.

  The eighteenth century in France ended with the Revolution, ten years of bloodshed and turmoil, marked by the cancellation of all aristocrats and the execution of Louis XVI in 1793, and only ending when Napoleon gained power in 1799.

  While seen by many as a giant leap of progress, the Revolution had its critics, many of them senior people in the military. These were men from good families, who saw chaos and the destruction of valuable traditions rather than progress. It was when chatting to some of his generals during a break between battles that Napoleon began to realize just how deeply they had been affected by the fundamental change created by the Revolution: the elite class had vanished and, at least for the generals, had left a gaping hole in the fabric of French life.

  Napoleon was sensitive to the moods of his men, and he was determined, since happy generals made for happy, well-disciplined troops, to make them feel that something would be done to put matters right.

  But what?

  He ruminated. He pondered. He consulted the histories of the Greek and Roman empires, searching for ideas, until at last inspiration came to him: he would create a new kind of aristocracy—an aristocracy of merit this time, not of birth. Like the army, there would be different ranks, there would be medals, there would be parades and ceremonial events. It would be an honor to belong, and France would once again have its elite. The Légion d’Honneur was born.

  Like most foreigners, I had occasionally heard of the Légion d’Honneur, but it wasn’t until we were living in France that I began to see a visual sign of its existence. This was elegant and discreet, but difficult to miss: a fine scarlet ribbon sewn into the lapel buttonhole of the jacket. Although no more than a blink of color, it was enough to identify the wearer as a Legionnaire without having to resort to sashes, medals, wigs, or funny hats.

  Living, as we were, in the country, jackets were rarely worn, but while on a trip to Paris, glimpses of scarlet on lapels could be seen on every boulevard, and I found myself becoming a lapel snoop.

  Once back home, normality returned, until I received a phone call one day from my friend Yves, the mayor of Ménerbes. It was a mysterious call, suggesting that I go out and get a copy of the day’s newspaper. When I asked why, the mystery continued. “You’ll see,” he said. “Read the announcements page. Carefully.”

  Which I did, and what I saw caused me to spill my glass of rosé all over my lap and the café table. I didn’t care. I just sat there in my sodden pants, beaming, because there on the page, in black and white, was a list that included my name, informing the world that I was now a Chevalier de la Légion d’Honneur. I must have let out a yelp of excitement, and Paul, the café waiter, came over to see if I needed medical attention. When I told him the news, his eyebrows shot up. “Ho la la!” he said, mopping wine from the table. “Un deuxième verre de rosé?”

  Later, as the euphoria settled down and I gradually became used to the idea of becoming a tiny part of the Légion d’Honneur, I realized how very little I knew about the noble organization—things that every self-respecting Chevalier should know. It was no surprise to find that the Légion, through its members, was involved and influential in many important areas of French life. But what I didn’t know was that it owned and administered two of the most distinguished schools in France—La Maison d’Éducation des Loges and La Maison de Saint-Denis. These two schools, originally for orphans who had lost their Legionnaire fathers in battle, had been developed into boarding schools that offered a high-quality education at both elementary and advanced levels for the daughters of Legionnaires. Between them, the two schools take nearly a thousand pupils each year, and their exam results are consistently excellent.

  This discovery made it clear to me that the Légion was more than just a ceremonial organization. Behind the ribbons and medals were some serious and extremely worthwhile ideas that were helping to change and improve young people’s lives, and so I was more than happy when Yves (who, I learned, was the sponsor responsible for nominating me) suggested that a small celebration should be held to mark my elevation from foreigner to Legionnaire.

  It was early summer, and, like all good Provençal celebrations, the event was organized to take place in the open air, in this case on the broad sweep of the terrace in front of the fifteenth-century chateau of Lourmarin.

  The sun was shining, the evening sky was postcard blue, and the villagers were out in force. As I looked over the crowded terrace, it seemed to me that almost everyone I had ever met in Provence was there. And not just one, but two mayors—my sponsor, Yves, from Ménerbes, and Blaise Diagne, the mayor of Lourmarin. I had even been given a one-man guard of honor, a local Legionnaire almost entirely concealed behind a giant flag. I was glad I’d worn a suit for the first time in five years.

  Yves started off the proceedings by kissing me on both cheeks, saying a few kind words, and pinning the medal of the Légion—my very own medal—onto my waiting chest. And then it was my turn with the microphone.

  Making a speech, however brief, in a language not your own is an ordeal. Words you know perfectly well, and have used a hundred times, are forgotten, and in French there is also the added pitfall of gender.

  With the formalities out of the way, it was time for serious mingling and the occasional glass of wine. These were the good old days before cell phones had made their assault on face-to-face speech, and I was reminded again of the pleasure the French take in talking to one another. I was also reminded of the difference between the Frenchman and the Englishman when it comes to a simple matter like having a drink.

  The Englishman usually treats his alcohol with respect, often cradling his glass in front of him with both hands. The Frenchman would never willingly do this, because he needs his free hand for gesticulation—for tapping the side of his nose for emphasis, for prodding his companion in the chest, squeezing his bicep, patting his cheek, or ruffling his hair. The free hand is necessary for all this, a vital accessory for proper conversation. To watch fifty or more highly animated French
people talking at once is like watching a tai chi class on stimulants.

  To add to the festivities, Yves had made reservations for a celebratory dinner at a restaurant in the village, and as dusk began to fall we made our way up the narrow street to find our table. There were a dozen of us—two or three American friends, a scattering of English, a solid core of Provençaux, and a couple of Parisians, all feeling merry. Yves warned me not to spill sauce over my newly acquired medal, but apart from that dinner passed in a blur of wine and laughter.

  It had been a day to remember. Not for the first time, I blessed the moment we decided to come and live in Provence.

  Afterword

  Then and Now

  During the summer, I often like to take a seat on the café terrace, pretend to read the newspaper, and eavesdrop. At this time of year I’m surrounded, for the most part, by tourists, and I like to know how they’re finding Provence. It’s a primitive and highly unreliable form of market research, but I have made one or two interesting discoveries.

  By far the most popular topic for those taking part in these café conferences is how Provence has changed from the good old days of their visit the previous year. The price of a cup of coffee, for instance, has gone up yet again, to a giddy three euros. Outrageous. This ignores the fact that for your three euros you get a front-row seat to watch the entertaining spectacle of the village parade for half an hour or so. During that time, you will not be pestered. Nobody will try to sell you more coffee, or tell you that someone else is waiting for your table. Once or twice, I’ve noticed a customer fast asleep in a corner of the terrace, his beer untouched. He is left to snooze.

  It’s not only the coffee that has gone up, those visitors say. Have you seen the price of property around here? And where are those little restaurants with ten-dollar menus? And how about the crowds? I was in Aix yesterday, and I could hardly move. It never used to be like this.

  So it goes on, a lament for a simpler, cheaper, less crowded world that may or may not have existed except in nostalgic memories. What the nostalgians either forget or ignore is that everywhere in the world has been changing, often for the better.

  Provence has been spared the worst of the rush into the twenty-first century. There are, of course, new buildings, settlements of livid pink concrete, that have none of the charm of old Provençal architecture. And if you’re determined, you can always find a Big Mac, or a magnum of Coca-Cola. Modernity in its various forms is usually available. But people come and come again to Provence for other reasons, most of which haven’t changed at all.

  Perhaps top of the list is the climate. The sun shines for ten months a year, pausing for the occasional torrent. But when it stops, there is the return of the dense blue sky and diamond-clear light that makes all artists worth their brushes want to get to work.

  They have plenty of subjects to choose from. Provence is partly agricultural, with its vines, olives, and melons, partly wild and uninhabited, and partly unashamedly decorative. To see a ten-acre field of lavender in full bloom is to see one of the great sights of summer. And if nature isn’t enough, there are dozens of centuries-old villages, often built on hilltops, that are rarely without their artistic admirers in the summer, crouched over their easels, extracting the last picturesque drop from village squares and churches and markets. Everywhere you look, it seems, there is something worth looking at.

  Sadly, this does not eliminate the kind of click-and-run tourism that can turn a vacation into an endurance test. These high-speed photographers should relax, and follow the example of the natives of Provence, who are rarely in a hurry. They saunter, rather than run. If you should see a man walking briskly down the village street, consulting his watch and arguing into his cell phone, the chances are that he’s either late for lunch or he’s a Parisian. For the locals, the day is to be appreciated, taken slowly, and, from time to time, interrupted by a stop at the café. If there were a rating system for the pace of life, Provence would register as “slow.”

  It’s not a bad speed to adopt, because then you won’t miss anything. The scenery, of course, is often spectacular. But nature has some stiff competition from the contributions made by man. Roman viaducts and amphitheaters, twelfth-century churches, fifteenth-century bridges, and, one of my favorite places, Marseille. The second-biggest city in France, it was founded in 600 B.C. and hasn’t stopped since, with each century leaving its own distinctive mark. There is the Château d’If; the seventeenth-century Vieille Charité, surely the most elegant poorhouse ever built; and, towering above the city, the magnificent Notre-Dame de la Garde, which dates back to the twelfth century. A day in Marseille is like a stroll through history.

  This being France, some time has to be made for the stomach. Unlike the more prosperous regions in the north of France, Provence was historically poor. Money was tight, and people ate at home. Going out to a restaurant is a relatively recent luxury, and Provence is still catching up in terms of Michelin stars and world-famous chefs. But in villages like Ansouis and Lourmarin, you can eat simply and well without the ceremonial complications that so often surround good food.

  So change is in the air and in the kitchen. But there are many aspects of Provençal life that I hope and trust will stay just as they are today. Here are four of my favorites.

  PASTIS

  According to a survey I came across recently, the French drink 20 million glasses a day, or roughly 130 million liters a year, of pastis. A great part of this is consumed in southeastern France, and it is rare to see a bar or café table anywhere in Provence without a glass or two of it within arm’s reach.

  I have always found it surprising that a drink of such enormous popularity here in France is barely known in many other countries. Does this indicate, as many have told me, that the taste buds of the Provençal barfly are more finely tuned and sophisticated than lesser taste buds throughout the world? Or is it because pastis provides a cooling antidote to the sometimes overenthusiastic use of garlic in Provençal cuisine?

  For the answers to questions like this, I am lucky to have my personal professor emeritus of Provençal studies, Monsieur Farigoule, who has been instrumental in helping me to understand many of the curiosities of local life. And so I called him not long ago to ask if he would give me a lesson in pastis.

  He was waiting at his café table when I arrived, frowning over a copy of Le Figaro, which he pushed away as I sat down. “I hope you’re never going to ask me to explain French politicians,” he said. He sat back in his chair and sighed. “What a bunch. Where is de Gaulle now that we need him? Right. What’s the subject today?” When I told him that I would be grateful for an introduction to pastis, he brightened up at once, smiled, nodded, and beckoned to the waiter.

  “Pastaga deux fois, sans glaçons.” Turning back to me, he said, “First, you must learn the correct way to drink it: no ice cubes. They numb the flavor, and I like to taste what I’m drinking.”

  The waiter came back and set two narrow, straight-sided glasses of pastis on the table next to a miniature jug, which was covered with beads of condensation. Farigoule nodded his approval. “When the jug is sweating, you know that the water is properly chilled.” He poured water carefully into the glasses, and we watched the pastis turn from brown to a cloudy, milky yellow. “Bon. This is how it should be. Like mother’s milk for full-grown men.”

  Although we were drinking Ricard, “le vrai pastis de Marseille,” the first sensation was not the shudder and jolt delivered by 45 degrees of alcohol, but a softer, more gentle, and much more pleasant burst of aniseed. Farigoule looked at me, his head cocked. “So? What do you think? Better than your warm English beer?”

  It certainly was. As I said to Farigoule, I was surprised how easily it had slipped down. “That is the little deception of pastis,” he said. “You think you are drinking an innocent mixture of anise, and you forget that the Ricard in your glass contains more alcohol than cognac, vo
dka, and most whiskies.” And with that, he ordered another one for each of us. Never has education tasted so good.

  PROVENÇAL TIMING

  Ever since we first arrived in Provence, I have been impressed and occasionally mystified by the Provençal methods of dealing with the demands of time in its various forms. Dates and appointments are treated as interesting possibilities rather than commitments, and punctuality should never be taken for granted, except at lunchtime. This is perhaps due to history, when Provence was a truly rural area, and nature was more important than the clock, but old habits die hard. So do old excuses.

  Over the years, we have heard some marvelously elaborate reasons to explain why appointments have been delayed or overlooked, why nine o’clock on Monday morning has turned into three thirty on Thursday afternoon. Straightforward apologies are usually avoided. Indeed, anything straightforward is usually avoided. Excuses are complicated, and crammed with distraction and detail. In the end, despite yourself, you feel sorry for the plumber whose aged grandmother has caused him to let you down, the painter who has had his brushes sabotaged by a clumsy assistant, or the electrician whose brain has suffered a power cut, causing him to come to work with equipment that doesn’t fit the job (always the supplier’s fault).

  Another complication is the erratic behavior of the cell phone that everyone in Provence now has. If you should ask why you weren’t called to let you know in advance that there was a problem, you will be treated to a menu of minor catastrophes: the phone was destroyed by the family dog; it fell out of a shirt pocket and was drowned in the toilet; it was sent off to the dry cleaners in a pair of pants by mistake; it was confiscated by the gendarmes for being used while driving. Rarely can cell phones lead more dangerous lives than they do in Provence.