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Not In Paris Anymore
I was the only person to step off the train, and he was the only person waiting at the outdoor station. As I walked towards him, lugging four heavy bags, I thought to myself, “either that’s Patrik or I’m in trouble.” The bottle of tequila stuffed in my camera bag crashed against my knee-cap with every step. I hoped Tequila was unknown in the small towns of France, and would act as a helpful conversation piece when dining in a stranger’s house. Especially on my first night in a country where I haven’t quite grasped the language.
As I approached the man, I thought further, “actually, either I’m in Questembert or I’m really in trouble.” There was no signage at the station, no announcement on the train, and I began to hope that the young lady who informed me to unboard here actually understood my question. But the man smiled as I got closer and my bout with traveler’s paranoia subsided. “Patrik?,” I asked in my best French accent. “Oui oui, bienvenue a France.” O.K., cool.
Patrik zipped through the tree-lined Britannic countryside as if he was envious of the bullet train that took me from Paris to Renne (where I boarded the slow rickety train for Questembert). He quietly anticipated every bounce and curve in the road, like a race car driver studying the track. This wasn’t helpful to my goal of sustaining conversation. “Just start speaking and don’t stop, don’t allow silence,” I told myself. “There’s no police around here?” I tried. He laughed and answered no by swaying his finger. Not a bad start.
We were on our way to Patrik’s home in the village of Pleucadeuc. Staring out the car window was like looking into the pages of a European romance novel. Square combed fields of yellow flowers, small winding roads, and storybook towns with cathedral-roofed houses floated by. “What are the yellow flowers?” I asked, again for the purpose of conversation, knowing they were surely mustard fields. “Oh, that’s just animal feed,” Patrik answered. “Really? Actually, I think those are mustard flowers,” I stated bravely. “You think cows eat mustard,” he countered. We laughed together. Although I felt like a fool, it was a small price to pay for breaking the ice.
During my stay at Patrik’s house, the dining room table was the center of life. Patrik’s wife Celine served multi-course dinners nightly while he matched the dishes with a progression of wines and spirits. Smoked salmon and crab pate with macedoine-cut vegetable salad and an Alsatian white wine was an example of one course from one dinner. You get the picture. Two French-English dictionaries became a part of the standard table setting, one for me and one for whomever I was currently speaking with. The young couple and I spent hours after each meal struggling through in-depth conversations while their kids Patrice and Cecilia orbited curiously around us.
The dining room table is where we bonded, where we became friends. It is where, while writing down Celine’s recipe for vanilla crème caramel, I turned from a strange visitor to an adopted family member. It is where when Patrik set a brandy snifter of his homemade liqueur called “44” in front of me, I concluded that in all of France, I had come to the right house. Patrik shared the preparation, “You take an orange and slash it forty four times with a knife and put it in a bottle with forty four coffee beans and forty four lumps of sugar. Cover it with eau d’vie and let it sit for forty four days.” “If I drink this I’ll be drunk for 44 hours,” I stated, hoping for a laugh. But, either it wasn’t funny or I didn’t say it correctly. Taking a whiff of the “44” then dabbing a drop behind my ears was much more effective. It’s at the dining room table that I learned what power non-verbal communication has over language barriers.
During a lull in the conversation I pulled out the bottle of tequila, said what I could about it then poured everyone a shot. “It’s very strong”, was the only conversation that the liquor generated. The tequila was never seen or heard from again.
Pleucadeuc is a small town with a big heart. It has one bakery, one butcher, and one ten room hotel with a restaurant. The local bank is an ATM machine, but the butcher’s wife will gladly drive you to Questembert if your American credit card doesn’t work in it. Then, as if by some sort of small village doctrine of hospitality, she’ll drive you back to her house in Pleucadeuc to feed you before returning you to your original starting point.
On the main road in the center of town next to the church is the Hotel Nominoe. Named after an old British king who inhabited Pleucadeuc many years ago, it is owned and operated by Didier who is also the chef and owner of the adjacent restaurant Chez Titi. His association with king Nominoe is not Didier’s only claim to fame. He is the Guinness Book of Records holder for producing the world’s longest baked alaska. At 150 meters long, Pleucadeuc barely had enough street to contain the lengthy confection. During Christmas time, Didier sculpts beef tallow into nativity scenes and frescoes of King Nominoe. The rest of the year he can be found in his kitchen sautéing veal kidneys with speedy choreography and a “hooplah” yell at every critical point in the process, dramatizing loudest at the climactic flaming of the brandy.
I joined Didier and his staff one afternoon for their daily employee meal. We all sat around two picnic tables set in the middle of the kitchen and watched Didier pull the contents of a classic Pot-au-Feu out of a huge steaming cauldron. “Hooplah” he yelled when a huge cut of tender beef nearly bent his two-pronged fork as if the beef were a giant Marlin. We all watched Didier slice off the appropriate number of portions before returning the beast to it’s simmering sea.
I imitated my fellow diners by garnishing the braised beef and vegetables with a pinch of pure sea salt and a slather of grainy mustard. I then gobbled it down with a crusty baguette. It’s at Didier’s picnic table that I realized how saintly simplicity can be.
Didier jumped up from the table every time an order came in from the dining room, darting here and there, cooking, spicing, tasting, and plating like a cross between a ballerina and a whirlwind. Alas, he landed sitting across from me. “Pear?” he asked. I was in the mood for some fruit. “Oui.” And away he went but, as fast as a wind can shift, he was back- with two glasses and a bottle. Oh no! Pear brandy. I’ll consider this a lesson learned. “How much,” he asked. Oh, good, I get to say how much. “Un petite peu” I answered, pointing to the desired level on the glass with my finger. “Hooplah!” he yelled when the liquid threatened to spill over the rim. I was in over my head. The vapors entered through my nose as the clear liquid slithered past my lips like a pear-flavored snake on fire. I allowed my tongue to become numb, then rolled the smooth but burning nectar down the back of my throat. Sometimes a fine line exists between whim and gastronomy.
Didier impatiently fidgeted as he waited for me to finish. As soon as my glass was empty and back on the table he asked, “Raspberry?” Oh no, this won’t happen to me again. “No, thank you, the pear was just fine.” “Ah, come on, just a little, you must try it.” Why did I trust him? “O.K., but just a taste.” I was able to rescue my glass from the pour just before the next “hooplah” tagged me a sucker. It was a bit much to contend with, but I have the misfortune of being socialized to politely finish all that is given to me. Didier’s intentions were good. It’s part of that hospitality thing. Giving and sharing is an innate part of the people in the small towns of France. It‘s too bad that some snobby Parisiennes give their entire country a bad rap.
Being the super lightweight that I am, I managed to stumble down the cobblestone road back to Patrik and Celine’s house. They were happy to see that Didier showed me a good time. The next day the couple drove me back to the train station. They gave me a kiss and a bottle of 44 and acted is if they were sending their son off to college. What beautiful people. I knew that I would probably never see them again, but hope that someday our paths cross again - and that there’s food involved.
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