Eating out
Not only do I not have to go to an office or commute (although I work long hours at home when I can wrench the computer away from the rest of the family) but I can take long luchtimes whenever I want. So yesterday we went out for lunch to a very nice restaurant. Nothing official to celebrate, but I think secretly we were celebrating that the children had gone back to school.
Anyway, I thought I had better make you jealous by telling you that I had the worlds most perfect lunch - a whole foie gras, with peaches and grapes. Yes that was the main course, and if you have never had foie gras, for moral, financial or vegetarian reasons let me tell you you are missing out on one of lifes great pleasures. It melts on your tongue like…well, not like anything else really…and if necessary you should cancel Christmas so you can try it.
That was followed by profiteroles with lashings of dark chocolate sauce, filled with home-made vanilla ice cream (the French seem to always eat profiteroles filled with ice-cream rather than cream, at least on the occasions when I have had them). And all helped on its way with a nice bottle of Minervois. Great stuff. When I win the loto I’ll do it every week.
Even the party of noisy English a couple of tables away from us couldn’t spoil it, despite their loud discussions about whether the French for beef is pronounced ‘boof’ (bad news if it was you and you’re reading this - you were wrong, it isn’t!). I do object a bit to people shouting in English at the French waiters at ever higher volumes - if they don’t understand then an increased volume is unlikely to help. Perhaps a French phrase book would be in order next year, or at least a smile?
Anyway in truth we usually just have bread and cheese ‘chez nous’ or occasionally make this recipe for garlic bread, perhaps with a sad and solitary tomato, so it was nice to eat ‘posh’ for a change.
Speaking of which there was almost a riot at the primary school just after school restarted. It turned out the children had been given pasta with some kind of tomato sauce for lunch on the first day, and all the French mums were striding angrily around announcing that there would be big trouble if their children had to tolerate another lunch time without meat.
Mrs B kept her head down, and smiled sympathetically, wondering how many of the children - a lot of them lived here on a semi-permanent basis during the summer holidays - had told their parents about the meat free dishes that we had forced them to eat, since we are frequent vegetarians ourselves. Oops.
Anyway I don’t think the school caterers will make the same mistake again, since there is a real risk that the parents will barricade themselves in the school and set fire to the lockers. You should have seen the fuss a couple of years ago when there was a plan to close a class in the school. Every bedsheet in the town was called into action, painted with an angry message and tied to a fence in protest.
I hate to think what holidaymakers must have thought, to see so much bed linen scrawled with incomprehensible messages tied up everywhere. It certainly made it harder to take a scenic photograph.
To be fair, the mums did save the class (keeping one class for each school year rather than merging two years of the school together), and well done to them. They were right, as it turns out, and there are now more children at the school than there have been for 50 years.
And you want to know where that restaurant was? I’m not telling you unless you book one of our gites for a fortnight in high summer next year, and promise you will learn the French for ‘pan-fried’ before you come.
To those readers who might be puzzled by mouthwatering descriptions of the fois gras then reference to being frequent vegitarians - well, mark the bit about the children being back at school. We have two vegitarian daughters and this kind of contradiction is natural in our household.
Madame et mois have tried to go vegitarian at meals with them but owing to the disgusting nature of Quorn we failed afer a couple of months. Mind you our eldest eats fish when her significant other is not around.
I recently ate at a lovely little restaurant near to our home. Now, you’d think that being here for four years and having a lovely restaurant nearby that we would have used it on occasion but sadly no. This particular restaurant had a reputation for being popular with the English and so we had, naturally, avoided it.
I was finally convinced to go when my partners 92 year old mother came over. Being particularly fussy with her food the restaurant was perfect as it frequently catered to everyone’s tastes.
My bf’s mother is almost blind and so the first thing I always do is read the menu to her. 5 years ago I could read it in French and she would understand perfectly despite her age but now she needs it translated due to slight deafness and encroaching senility (sad, but true)
So I read out the menu and after finishing my explanation of what a “Ficelle Picarde” was I soon realised that I not only was being eavesdropped upon but had a veritable audience. It turned out that 90% of my audience were English people that spoke little to no French and the remaining 10% were the worst, those that get jealous because you speak more French than they do.
My delight was assured when I overheard the man on the next table pompously informing his wife and son that he most certainly would not be having the “Joues de porc” as they were, quote, ‘Testicles’
I laughed internally but kept quiet and then as I went through the main courses for my mother in law to be, I very loudly to my whole audience (and his wife) stated, The Cheek of Pork is usually superb, see there, les joues de porc!. The man went bright red and was clearly furious but his pompous attitude and general looking down on the FRENCH owner and waitresses in the restaurant had put me seriously on edge.
Sorry for the essay. I’ll cut short my soapbox rant there.