French Lessons Read Free Page B

have mastered
the potato, that such a basic ingredient could have nothing new to offer, you
discover
aligot,
a velvety blend of mashed potatoes, garlic, and
Cantal cheese. Or you are introduced to the unlikely but triumphant combination
of tiny wild strawberries served not with cream but with vinaigrette sauce.
Then you encounter roasted figs. The education of the stomach never ends.
    And it is normally a most pleasant process. The people who spend their
lives making good things to eat and drink are, on the whole, a very congenial
bunch, pleased when you show an interest in their work and more than happy to
explain how they do it. I have occasionally seen chefs frazzled and
bad-tempered at the end of a fourteen-hour working day, and I remember one chef
who was so terminally drunk that he fell backward out of his kitchen, cursing
loudly. But these were exceptions. On the whole, working with food and wine
seems to bring out the better side of human nature. It’s difficult to
imagine a misanthrope who is prepared to spend his days doing something that
gives so much pleasure to others.
    Enjoyment is contagious, and this is
perhaps best experienced during one particular meal of the week. Here you will
see children, parents, grandparents, and occasionally the family dog; young
couples giving themselves a treat; elderly ladies and gentlemen poring over the
menu as if the pages held the secret of life; local families dressed to kill,
and visiting Parisians decked out in full rural chic—a mixture of
generations and social backgrounds, gathered together to observe another
tradition that shows no sign of dying out: Sunday lunch.
    For me, there
is one moment in particular that almost makes the meal by itself: Aperitifs
have been served—pastis or kir or white wine or, on red-letter days,
champagne—and menus are being read with the concentration of a lawyer
going through a page of fine print. Suggestions and countersuggestions go back
and forth across the tables. The carpaccio of fresh tuna? The
soupe au
pistou
? The asparagus flan? And then what? The cod in a herb crust? The
stew of veal and peppers? Or
pieds et paquets,
the Provençal
recipe that elevates humble mutton tripe to new heights?
    In fact, it
doesn’t matter what you choose. It is those few moments of anticipatory
limbo that are special. For five or ten minutes, conversations are muted,
gossip and family matters are put aside, and everyone in the restaurant is
mentally tasting the dishes on offer. You can almost hear the flutter of taste
buds.
    Lunch progresses at an unhurried pace, as all good lunches
should. People eat more slowly on Sundays, and drink a little more wine than
usual. They forget to look at their watches. Two hours slip by, often more.
Eventually, with appetites satisfied, a drowsy calm comes over the room as the
plates are cleared away, the tablecloths are brushed, and coffee is served. A
lazy afternoon lies ahead: a book, a doze, a swim. The chef makes a ceremonial
tour of the tables, gathering compliments, happy to share with you one or two
favorite recipes. Curiously, these dishes never taste quite the same at home,
no matter how carefully the recipe is followed, no matter how talented the
cook. There is something about Sunday lunch in a French country restaurant that
goes beyond food. But unfortunately, ambience doesn’t travel.
    In
the course of preparing this book—those long hours with knife and fork
and glass that I like to call research—I was surprised by two things. The
first was the high level of enthusiasm for any event, however bizarre, that
sought to turn eating and drinking into a celebration. The amount of effort put
in by the organizers, the stall holders, and the general public (who, in some
cases, had traveled halfway across France) was astonishing. I cannot imagine
any other race prepared to devote an entire weekend to frogs’ legs or
snails or the critical assessment of chickens.
    And while the French
take their passions