Apèritifs

that an expat Frenchman living in London or Glasgow would soon drop the habit in favour of

more robust tasting liquor, given the dour climate. However, he should be warned that if

taken in the same manner and at the same intervals as a Provençal pastis, this would mark

him out as somewhat louche.

As the afternoon slowly progresses, the village bells toll. The sound travels across the

valley to inform the populace that something might have happened somewhere to someone at

some time, but the exact details are unknown as is the time of the ringing. Normally they

would punctuate the quarter hour, but in Caromb such attention to frequency is somewhat

lax. The bell rings when whoever is in charge feels like it. It might ring to tell the cafe owner

that it is pastis time again. This is as exciting as it gets in the afternoon heat in Caromb. There

are no holiday villas, hotels and leisure parks, nothing to suggest that people come here for a

holiday. No museum. A crow flies overhead and squawks, a fly buzzes, a delivery van trundles

up the main street, the ‘Cours de la République’. A good village funeral will get the populace

out, as will a wine market with saucisson. Otherwise the pace of life drifts by in slow motion,

with only one’s inner gastronomic physiology as guide to the passing of hours. Sun dials are

too flashy and accurate in the afternoon heat.

The cafe awning flutters gently in the hot early evening breeze. Pavement tables are

being wiped down and chairs rearranged after each customer. The waiter scurries around

asking for orders while clearing up. Two common phrases are “vous avez choisi?” “Je vous

écoute” - “you’ve chosen?” and “I hear you”. Sometimes it is merely ‘Monsieur?’. Be patient.

Remember you are not standing in a queue at the bar waiting to catch the barman’s eye. You

have a seat at a table. The drink will come to you. You may catch the blue drifting whiff of a

Gauloise or Camel from nearby smokers at nearby tables. Get used to it. This may happen

even when food is eaten.

Pastis? Mais oui! Perhaps a bière or a glass of wine? It is after all that time of the day

when work starts to fizzle out and the thoughts turn to dinner. Shopkeepers will stay open

until 7 (or thereabouts) but the general populace will be closing up for the day. Hard work

demands a reward and work, as we know, is a thirsty business.

The French way of drinking beer is very different to the standard pint ordered in an

English pub. First you decide if you want ‘pression’- draught beer or a bottle. The latter is

easy, you just ask for whatever bottles they stock. As for pression, you then need to decide

what size. This ranges from 12cl to 25cl to 30cl to 50cls. Most common is the ‘vingt cinq’, the

25cl, but most Englishmen will consider this not quite a half pint a bit of an insult and will

ask for the ‘cinquante’ - the ‘nearly’ pint. Some waiters of course expect this of the

Northerner, but some are impressed that this much beer can be drunk. Then you get asked if

you want a ‘blond’ or some such. Older gentleman should not get too excited at this point.

However, no matter what you order, in bottle or pression, the result is the same: cold, fizzy

piss which is somehow quite acceptable when the temperature reaches 30 degrees or more.

Forget the varieties of English ales: the IPAs, the Ambers, Porters and Stouts. You will be

served fizzing piss in any size glass you care to name. Some may even have a taste to them.

Nearby tables will be adorned with pastis, vingt cinques and wine. And ashtrays. As

with many bars and pubs there are always the regulars who in this case seems to arrive every

day at the same time. We know this because we arrive every day at the same time. They greet