Dîner

each other ceremoniously with the three cheek Provençal kiss. The dress is informal because

they have come straight from work. The builder, the plumber, the hairdresser and the

decorator. Monsieur Le Décorateur walks in leaving trails of fine dust in his wake and as he

kisses Madame La Coiffeuse, fine white patches appear on her cheeks. He sparks up a cigar

and in fine fashion orders his pastis. His grey facial hair is of the classic waxed moustache

variety to compensate for his balding pate. The talk is in an accent as thick as treacle and no

amount of evening classes back home in the UK is going to prepare anyone for dealing with

it.

While one sits at table overlooking the largely car less Cours de La République it

becomes clear that again nothing much is happening. The odd car might slip by, the hourly

bus drops off a teenager, starlings may steal a crumb from the floor. A few people amble by

and greetings exchanged. The pace of life is glacial. It will not suit everyone. Thrill seekers

need not apply as the most thrilling things experienced at this time of day is watching the ice

melt in your pastis, counting the types of bread bought at the nearby boulangerie and

thinking about what dinner should be.

If bread be the foundation upon which France stands, then wine is surely its life blood

and Provence provides some of the country’s finest. Yes, we know of Bordeaux and Burgundy.

Vines roots like drainage, and river valleys and their slopes make for good vineyards. The

Rhône flows down from its source at Lake Geneva and joins the Saône at Lyon. Then it takes

a north south line down through Valence, Avignon and Arles before reaching the

Mediterranean. Look at the wine shelves in any supermarket or wine outlet and you will spot

‘Côtes du Rhône’ in abundance. This is an overall description masking the many very

different types of wine. Look out also for Chateauneuf du Pape, Côtes du Ventoux,

Vacqueyras, Gigondas and Beaumes de Venise. It is a lifetime’s journey of discovery. Caromb

in the heart of the appellation of Côtes du Ventoux, is surrounded by vineyards but not much

it will be exported.

All of it is delicious.

The joy of wine is its mystery when the cork is

popped as you are never certain of the delivery,

and it is just not possible to rest on one’s laurels,

basing one’s judgment on a particular year or

‘domain’. Although years get reputations, the year’s

stock will run out, the weather changes, the grapes

will be more or less sugary. That being said, there

are some certainties to the taste and smell. A Rioja

and a Ventoux are very different and a trained

nose will spot them. I suggest however that a good

deal of training and practice is undertaken before one emphatically designates a wine its

‘terroir’. I suggest at least 10 years, or even more is put aside for the training, and if you are

still not sure keep going until you are. Then after the initial training period you may then

indulge in the appreciation phase which could take up the rest of your lifetime.

The French philosopher Rousseau once argued that “people who know little are great

talkers, but men who know wine say little” and “what wisdom can you find greater than

wine?”

Karl Marx opined that “Hitherto, philosophers have sought to understand wine, the

point however is to drink it”.

Jesus said, “Blessed are winemakers for they shall inherit the Kingdom of God or I’m

not a Red Sea Pedestrian”.

There are about 68 million people who reside in France. If one assumes half are

adults (34 million) and are in a family of two plus two children, that could be 17 million

dinners. Let’s remove teetotallers and the ill and make a guess of 10 million dinners every

night. That is 10 million corks being popped starting at about 1900 until the moon rises or

inhibitions drop. Every day. Without exception. That is about 3,650,000,000 bottles year.

That is assuming only one bottle is opened at dinner. Add in English tourists (ahem) and that

figure rises. Where does all of that glass come from and where does it go? This of course

does not take into account the amount sent for export to the UK, the United States and other

oenophiliac nations like Somalia.

Alors, 3.65 billion every year! You would need a country the size of France to grow

enough vines to fulfil that need. France actually must be floating on wine. Or at least its

populace is. One of the most important daily decisions is therefore about which bottle to

open to have with dinner. This decision will of course be helped along by the earlier after

work pastis, or indeed by the earlier after work glass of wine, both of which assist the slide

into gentle smoothness as the sharp edges of the day are rounded off.

One of the most pleasurable sounds in the world, next to bacon frying, a blackbird’s

song or the sound of a steam engine, is the gentle pop of a cork after a gentle screwing by the

’Tire-Bouchon’. Savour the moment as you pull upwards. Do not rush this stage or lest you

fall foul of spillage all over your fresh clean white shirt. Some sniff the cork for early tell-tale

signs of mustiness which informs you the wine is fit for pouring down the sink. There are

many hints and tips for the pouring of the wine. Decant? Leave for an hour? It depends

entirely on the wine and your will power. Most reds of two to three years of age are ready for

drinking, those that can be laid down for 10 years are still ready to drink now. Drink when

you are ready, not necessarily the other way around.

Ditch the old-fashioned small tulip glasses. They are fit only as entries in the history

books on English middle class dinner parties of the 1970s. Pint glasses are probably over the

top. The most important thing when savouring the first mouthful is not to talk complete

bollocks. A few are blessed with palates that can distinguish between varieties of blackberry.

They talk of cherry notes and tannins. Leave them to their reverie. Mortals can chug it back

with alacrity or cheese. Although, the first few glugs should fall into the ‘moderation’ category

lest you scare the hostess, especially if she is Swiss or a Librarian. Again a few years of

training is required to know what moderation means. This training should not take place in

British pubs, dance clubs or on a Brighton Pier hen party as the context tends to militate

against judgment. French bars and restaurants provide ideal training venues as there seems to

be an ambience of moderation all round, apart from the food. This is eaten in individual

portions big enough to feed the entire front row of a rugby scrum. Then there is the bread.

Just in case.

Bread baskets are obligatory at French dinner tables and thus provide a nice book end

to the day. Baguette for breakfast, and then some for dinner to mop up the delicious sauces

that are bound to accompany the main meal. Don’t dunk it in the wine though. You may be

offered an ‘amuse-bouche’ before your chosen entrée. This will be bite sized hors d’œuvre, a

minuscule of something tasty, of unknown origin perhaps decorated and prettified in an

attempt of course to amuse you. If you have been following the routine, by this time you will

have had your pre dinner pastis and/or wine (or three), you might have had an early

afternoon beer. If you are English, you will no doubt have not skimmed past this stage before

the amuse-bouche. It is unforgivable if you are eating with French friends to now get stuck

into a large G and T, although a cocktail might be acceptable. If you find yourself beginning

to burble or have difficulty in holding in that fart, you might already need to be thinking

about decorum and how to go about obtaining it before it gets lost down the toilet pan or

along with your nose into the cleavage of your hostess. The French, of course, invented risqué

and roué and will be aware of the possibility of the odd faux pas at table. It is not de rigeur

however to be barfing up one’s breakfast or making lewd suggestions before the amuse bouche

has turned up to tickle your tonsils.

Beware the entrée. Especially if it is a salad. Normally the template for sizing anything

is Wales or a London Bus. That of course would be ludicrous if applied to entrées. But do not

attempt this course on your own unless you are auditioning for the part of Bunter in the West

End or for Falstaff in the Royal Shakespeare Company. Fat bastards who already have

nothing to lose but their kilograms can crack on, everybody else who wishes to taste their

main meal without intermittent refluxes of bile should either share or avoid altogether. If at

home, you are free to make up your own entrée. An easy and quick recipe involves a glass, an

ice cube and a measure of pastis, notwithstanding the warnings above.

We all know the French word for ‘vegetarian’ is ‘Quoi?’ So, don’t ask. Just don’t.

Provence kills all manner of living things and eats all of it. Every last bit of anything killed is

eaten or turned into foie gras. Exotic and unnameable organs are succulents and may of

course be an amuse bouche. Those of a medical background can no doubt name any manner

of tissues and organs, bones and ligaments, collagen, ducts, lobes, orifices and sphincters. If it

has a latin name and belongs inside an animal, reptile or bird, it will be eaten often stuffed

with olives, garlic and mushrooms. If confronted with a plate of something unrecognisable

and a fancy name, covered in sauce, smelling of garlic and perhaps a bit pale and/or ’bouncy’

do not be surprised if it is not filet mignon. Get stuck in. There is bread and wine on the table

to assist with your gastronomic discoveries.

Leave room for a digestif, if you can still walk.