My Twenty-Five Years in Provence Read online

  At one of our early weekly meetings, Farigoule asked me if I had retained what he had said the previous week, which I had. French, he had told me, was not only poetic, romantic, beautiful, and in every way superior to other languages. It was also logical, an admirable addition to any language. Adjectives had to agree with nouns. Verbs had to be at the same time precise but flexible. And, one must never forget the fundamental importance of gender. Here, he gave as an example France’s favorite phrase. How dull and flat it would be if it were simply “Vive France,” and how much more stirring and elegant it became with the addition of France’s gender, which was naturally and logically feminine.

  I asked him if there was an officially authorized body in charge of gender labels. When a new word crept into the language—e-mail, for instance—who was responsible for deciding whether it should be un or une? Was this a government matter, supervised by a minister in charge of such things? Or was it the Académie Française, which would normally have the last word on the French language?

  I was not really convinced by Farigoule’s insistence that French was entirely logical. Language evolves with popular usage, which often ignores logic, and I wanted to see if I could find an example to test Farigoule’s theory. I reached for the dictionary and started searching for gender irregularities.

  After half an hour, I was beginning to think he was right after all, and that logic reigned supreme. And then, tucked in the dictionary between vagabondage and va-et-vient, I came across what I was looking for: le vagin, the vagina, that indisputably feminine possession—and here it was, presented as though it had changed its mind and become masculine. Where was the logic in that? Where was gender accuracy, so crucial to the French language? And why not la pénis? I could hardly wait for the next weekly meeting.

  Farigoule was not in the least surprised, nor did he think the choice of gender was illogical. To support his view, he delivered a detailed justification, which included grammatical and biological reasons why the vagina was somehow inevitably masculine.

  The following week, I presented to him another discovery. In France, there are 100,000 words in current use; in the UK, that figure is 171,476. Advantage English, or so I thought. But no. According to Farigoule, French is so much more nuanced than English that it doesn’t need all those extra words. And then, as he warmed to his task, he started to quote examples from French literature. Eventually, I had to stop him in mid-nuance, pleading a headache.

  Luckily, there was no shortage of other, less academic teachers—not as well qualified as Farigoule, perhaps, but certainly experts in nonacademic areas, particularly the language of gestures. I had become fascinated by the physical aspect of French conversations that I had noticed in cafés—the way in which fingers, hands, arms, eyebrows, and sound effects were used to emphasize or clarify what was being said. This seemed to me an important part of learning the language, and a great deal more fun than the correct use of the subjunctive tense.

  My first unwitting teacher was Raymond, the postier, who came to the house every morning to deliver the mail and, when pressure of work permitted, to have a cup of coffee and gossip. One morning I gave him a letter destined for London, and asked him if it would get there by the end of the week. He nodded and said, “Normalement, oui.” But I noticed that one hand, held palm down at waist level, was rocking back and forth energetically. I asked him if this signaled a problem.

  “Not if everything goes well,” he said, and went on to list a few possible causes of delay, starting with the unreliable quirks of the English mail service. So the quivering hand could also be translated as “With a bit of luck” or even “Who knows?” It was shorthand for a lack of certainty, a warning not to take the spoken word literally. I’ve subsequently come across this silent disclaimer hundreds of times, most often when deadlines are discussed.

  The nose plays a versatile part in French sign language. When tapped in a significant manner by an index finger, it can mean that the speaker knows what he’s talking about; that what he says should be taken seriously; that this particular conversation is just between the two of us; and variations of all these. When the index finger is curled around the end of the nose and moved back and forth, it’s a sign of intoxication (frequently seen in bars and cafés). The hands themselves rarely stop moving—tapping, squeezing, spread wide in disbelief or chopping the air in emphasis—and I have often felt almost physically exhausted after a quiet chat about rugby with my friend Patrice.

  Then there is the most aggressive gesture of all, not to be used in polite company. It is an expression of such extreme irritation and contempt that mere words are not violent enough. Instead, one arm is extended toward the object of your displeasure, and the other hand comes across to slap into the bicep. It is the physical equivalent of “**** you!,” and is widely used in traffic jams.

  Finally, there is the shrug. There was a time when the world saw this as typically French. In those days, reacting to circumstances that would make the Frenchman shrug, the Englishman would put his hands in his trouser pockets, the Italian would smack his forehead with the palm of his hand, the American would pick up the phone to call his lawyer, and the German would lodge a complaint with the chancellor. But nowadays, the whole world has learned to shrug, although I still think the French do it best. With a good, eloquent French shrug, you can not only see what it means, you can almost hear the words that go with it.

  Seven

  Dinner at the Élysée Palace

  After hundreds of years of name calling, squabbling, and war, the French and the English finally decided that enough was enough, and that it was time to be friends. This prompted the Entente Cordiale, an agreement signed on April 8, 1904, that formalized a new, more amicable relationship between the two countries. It worked. For example, millions of Britons take their annual vacations in France, and there are now 400,000 French residents of London.

  By April 2004, the entente was still thriving, and the president of France, Jacques Chirac, organized a dinner party to mark its one hundredth anniversary. As you might imagine, this was no ordinary event. For a start, there were to be two hundred guests, including the Queen of England and her husband, Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh, as well as captains of industry, senior politicians, and stars of stage and screen. And me.

  You may quite rightly ask how someone like me came to be included among this collection of the famous and celebrated. I think there were three possible reasons. First, I was English; second, I had chosen to live permanently in France; and third, I had written a book praising the pleasures of life in Provence. I was a very minor living example of the Entente Cordiale.

  Even so, it was a shock when the invitation arrived. And what an impressive piece of work it was—large, thick, and white, with the most elegant black script, and there, at the top, my name written as I had never seen it before. I imagine it was the work of the president’s personal calligrapher: with exquisite twirls and flourishes, the kind of writing you might see on banknotes of the very highest denomination. Pasted on the back of the card was a more workmanlike series of instructions telling guests to arrive at 55 rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré by seven forty-five at the latest, armed with the invitation and proof of identity. It was to be the first time I needed my passport to be allowed to go in to dinner.

  There were also suggestions about what should be worn, including uniforme, if you were fortunate enough to have one. The rest of us men were expected to wear suits, and here was a minor problem; I still possessed a suit, but I hadn’t worn it for at least ten years. I took it out of its bag and considered it. The color, black, was very suitable for an evening out. The jacket still fitted perfectly, but the trousers seemed to have shrunk, and it took a few hours of careful adjustment before I could be confident about bending over or sitting down.

  The great day arrived, and I was steered into an area where the guests were to wait before joining the presentation line. I looked around,
hoping to see a famous face, but no luck. I was surrounded by dignified, well-dressed, but, for me at least, anonymous men. Not a lady in sight.

  The presentation line began to move forward toward the distinguished welcoming committee: the Queen and Prince Philip, and President and Madame Chirac. When my turn came, I was announced by a liveried footman, and greeted by the Queen, who seemed to be genuinely pleased to see me, a graceful knack that she must have perfected over millions of handshakes. After Prince Philip and the Chiracs extended their hands to me, another liveried footman led me away, and I had a moment to appreciate the surroundings.

  The Élysée Palace has been the official residence of the president of the republic for more than 150 years, and the assorted presidents haven’t skimped on comfort and decor: chandeliers, priceless carpets, paintings on the ceiling—no expense has been spared. Nor have they held back on refreshments for their many guests, whose bar bill is about a million euros a year.

  All two hundred of us were to dine in the huge and sumptuous salle des fêtes, where each place was equipped with a glittering forest of crystal glasses, a small armory of silver cutlery, and more liveried footmen hovering discreetly in the background. Looking at the hundred meters or so of table settings, I felt considerable sympathy for the kitchen brigade faced with all that washing up.

  Almost opposite me were three faces I recognized from their work in music and films: Jane Birkin, Charlotte Rampling, and Kristin Scott Thomas. They looked delightful. In fact, they looked like just the kind of ladies who would welcome the chance to pass a few pleasant moments with a writer. Unfortunately, they were on the other side of an extremely wide table, well out of conversational range. I was forced to try again with the captains of industry on either side of me.

  Meanwhile, course after course was served, and glass after glass was topped up. It was all excellent, and beautifully presented, but I wondered if, as a break from the innumerable banquets that she was obliged to attend, the Queen ever longed for steak and French fries or a plate of pasta.

  Dinner was drawing to a close. We had eaten well, the speeches had been brief and elegant, and it was time to think about going home. But the highlight of my evening was yet to come.

  I signaled to the nearest liveried footman to ask for directions, and quickly found myself in the marbled splendor of the men’s room. It seemed empty at first. And then I saw a tall figure making his way toward the door; Prince Philip was about to pass within two feet of me. We nodded to one another, as gentlemen do in these circumstances, and then he was gone.

  I was still recovering from the moment when I returned to my place, and noticed that my liveried footman was looking at me intently. He came over, and bent to whisper in my ear.

  “Excusez-moi, monsieur, mais la porte est ouverte.” He nodded down toward my lap, and I saw that he was quite right. I had forgotten to do up my fly. No wonder I’ve never been asked back.

  Eight

  Nostalgia Is Not Always What It Used to Be

  Memory is at its best when it’s selective, when we have edited out the dull, the disappointing, and the disagreeable until we are left with rose-colored perfection. This is often quite inaccurate but usually very comforting. It can also be fascinating to revisit. Was it really like that? Were we really like that?

  During the past twenty-five years, we have occasionally given in to the temptation of slipping back into the past and comparing it with the reality of today. Most of the time, we’ve been delighted to find little change; even some of the people we remembered as interesting old characters are still there—by now, human antiques, but perhaps more interesting than ever.

  There have, of course, been less rewarding results, where today is nothing like it was yesterday, and we’ve noticed that village cafés are often the victims. Because they are usually in the center of the village, they are often seen as prime sites for selling something more profitable than beer, wine, and cups of coffee. Boutique fever takes over, and bright little stores with even brighter clothing replace café terraces and dimly lit bars.

  What is sometimes worse is when the café itself has decided to join the rush to the new with a thorough renovation. The terrace itself may have survived, but the faded wicker chairs and round, metal-rimmed tables that have served it well for twenty-five years have been replaced by plastic tables and chairs, often in lurid colors that sit uneasily in their surroundings of a weathered stone village. Inside the café, it is encore plastique, with the sole, massive reminder of old times being the battered zinc bar.

  The renovators have also been busy in local restaurants, with mixed results. One of our early favorites was a small, charming place set in the courtyard of a modest eighteenth-century house. It featured paper tablecloths, with one corner used by the waiter to scribble down a record of what you had just ordered. The menu was short, and changed each day. The food was simple, fresh, and excellent. The wine list was no bigger than a postcard, and the wines were all made by growers known to the chef. It was too good to last, and it didn’t. After years of working in one of life’s more demanding occupations, the chef and his wife took a well-earned retirement, and the restaurant was sold. A sad loss.

  The first sign that the new owners were about to change what they had just bought was the platoon of builders who had moved in, shipped out the old restaurant furniture—those comfortable, creaky chairs and slightly wobbly tables—and put up a notice on the courtyard door with the ominous warning that a rénovation totale was taking place. Our hearts sank. But, ever hopeful, we decided to come back and take a look when it had been done.

  Two steps inside the courtyard, it was already obvious that a great deal of money had been spent. The chipped flagstone floor was now polished tiles, thick white cloths covered each table, the cutlery was heavy and gleaming with newness. The menu was longer, the wine list more imposing. But by far the most dramatic change was the senior waiter. Gone was the chef’s wife, in her apron and slippers, and in her place a smooth middle-aged gentleman who was a symphony in classic black and white—black pants, black waistcoat, black bow tie, and starched white shirt. His youthful assistant, smiling and immaculate in her black dress and blond chignon, hovered behind him.

  The chairs were elegant and comfortable and the food was fine, although a little too elaborate for our liking. Like so many of his colleagues, the chef had discovered foam, which he used to disguise perfectly good cooking. There was even a separate course that consisted of nothing but foam, served halfway through the meal, and tasting like a dessert that had lost its way. All in all, here was a perfect example of a restaurant that would have been more at home in Paris than Provence. And maybe that is where it’s gone; after one season, with the visibly tense waiter, it was replaced by yet another boutique.

  But small disappointments like this are more than made up for by the most welcome change of all: the local wines.

  When we first arrived here, there was an unkind assessment of Provençal wines, particularly rosé, that was popular among the visiting self-styled connoisseurs. Their considered opinion, delivered with a superior smile, was this: “Provençal wines? No sooner made than bottled; no sooner bottled than drunk; no sooner drunk than pissed away.” Anyone saying that today would be sent to the bottom of the tasting class and have his corkscrew confiscated.

  Wine has been made here in Provence for 2,600 years, and there have been intervals, sometimes of a hundred years or more, when standards have slipped. Now, the wines of Provence regularly receive medals, and are taken seriously all over the world by those who know what they’re drinking. The reds are full and subtle and the whites are crisp, but it is Provençal rosé that has seen the most dramatic surge in popularity, and for very good reason.

  First, its appearance is attractive. Not quite white and not quite red, its color has occasionally been described embarrassingly as “blush.” This was often heard in the days when rosé had a rather frivolous rep
utation—a picnic wine, something to be knocked back at lunch before tottering off for a siesta.

  Then there’s the taste—fresh, clean, slightly fruity, and very versatile. It goes as well with fish and chicken as it does with salads and spaghetti. It is an ideal apéritif, too well mannered to overpower the meal that follows. And it’s a wonderfully practical wine that doesn’t need to be nursed in the cellar for years before it’s fit to drink. You can chill it in the refrigerator or in a bucket of ice cubes, but in Provence you will often see ice cubes bypassing the bucket and going straight into the waiting glass. In other words, it is a wine without pretension. But how did it become what it is today?

  I believe that much of the credit should go to the Provençal farmer. Traditionally, the small farmer with a few acres of vines concentrated on making the solid, workmanlike red wine that his father and grandfather had produced. We used to live in a house surrounded by vines, which our neighbor Faustin took care of for us. Every year, he would come up the drive on his tractor to deliver a couple of cases of his red wine. It was not exactly vintage claret, but we enjoyed it very much.

  During one of his visits, I decided to ask him a question I had been wondering about for some time: Had he ever thought of making a rosé?

  He got down from his tractor, took off his battered tweed cap, scratched his head, and leaned against one of the tractor’s huge back tires. “That’s what they drink down on the coast,” he said. “It’s not sérieux. There’s not much call for it up here.” And that was that. He offered no recommendations, and no suggestions as to where we could find rosé locally, although he did offer us a bottle of his homemade marc de Provence—guaranteed, he told me, to grow hairs on my chest.

  It was not until the following summer that our researches into wine made any significant progress. Two friends had been spending a few days on the Riviera, and we invited them to stay the night with us before starting their long drive back to London.