Bicycle GourmetCountry Comfort

Producer/Director/Author Christopher Strong shares the human, senic, cultural, culinary, and historic “Treasures” discovered during the filming of his TV series – BICYCLE GOURMET'S TREASURES OF FRANCE.

Country Comfort - Part One

She was beyond elegant. Immaculately coiffed. Exquisitely tailored. Equally “prêt”, for shopping on the Champs Elysee, or a stroll through the Bois du Bologne. Her dancers body arcing delicate, repetitive motions with effortless grace. As I crossed the courtyard, our eyes met. She fixed me with an impersonal frown. The, scraping her rake along the pavement to impale another leaf spat out: “I ‘ate ze country!” This is my indelible memory of “Marie from Paree.” When She is not there, She is where We met. At her Brother’s house in the Bordeaux countryside. Marie is, as the phrase goes, “a Woman of a certain age.” Exactly what age, I did not, and was not, sufficiently interested to determine.

Although her innocent revelation that She was “A few years older than my Brother”, did give me a clue. Suffice to say, that whether through good genes, great cosmetics, plastic surgery, yoga, or all of the above, “Marie from Paree” would have been the envy of most Women over forty. Marie was also, to use the French phrase, a “personage.” A catch-all adjective that can mean: “Eccentric”, “A freak”, “A character”, “Larger than life”, “Marching to the beat of a different drummer”, or, all of the above.

Marie had a small atelier where She restored religious object d’art. Her speciality was gold leaf. Which came in way handy for Brother Rene, who flogged religious object d’art. Whenever He had a crucifix or two that needed a little more sheen, He knew where to send ‘em. Although Rene was the third generation in the “buy-a-piece-of-an-ancient-church biz”, He was the first to do it on the internet. I dug his business model. Lives in the country.

Buys low. Sells High. Ships Worldwide. The majority of Rene’s clients were in the excited states. Being the World’s largest overdeveloped market, it had the highest percentage of wackos who could not face the day without fondling a napkin from the last supper, or a strap from the sandal of John the Baptist. I’d met Rene the previous Summer, (this being Autumn) when I stopped to film the converted stone mill (Moulin) where he lives. Non-cooking, stranger-friendly, and temporarily abandoned by Wifey, Rene was more than over the Moon to have the exotic stranger from the far away lands stay and rustle up some grub. This, dear reader, turned out to be rustlin’s most challenging hour. The only edible item was a jar of confit. (pro–con-fee) As you’ll no doubt recall from French food preservation 101, this is a cooked dead thing, usually a duck or goose, packed in its own fat in a quart sized mason jar. The usual method of preparation for this staple of the South-West French diet is simply to pour the whole enchildada into the pan, heat and serve.

However, being a “fat makes me hurl” kind guy, I modified the recipie, by straining off the fat, then after washing the remaining slime off Donald, dropped him into an herbal béchamel to simmer. Served with new potatoes (Charlottes, from Spain), bread and wine, it sent Rene into raptures sufficient to produce a return invivation. As I said, it was Rene’s house that originally stopped me in my tracks. Mainly, because half of it is a complete ruin! That half, dating back untold Centuries, no roof, walls crumbling, is the Summer Bar-b-que location. Where it joins the “liveable” inside section, the garbage and re-cycling bins live. The half that does have a roof, (but no central heating), is a rectangular affair, with kitchen, dining room, living room and Rene’s office on the first floor. Upstairs, three bedrooms.

The cast o’ characters at Chez Rene was as unique as the building they inhabited. (Think French soap opera.) First up – Rene. A gentleman(like his Sister) “of a certain age”, with Adult children from his first marriage. Two young boys, two and six, with sascha, wife number two, twenty years his junior; plus two girls thirteen and seventeen, from her previous marriage to the Mayor of the village. Seventeen year old Nathalie, yer basic teen age nightmare, lived with daddy, while thirteen year old Isabelle, Nathalies tempermental opposite was here. And good thing. Because She could, and did, ride herd on her stepbrothers. Most notably two year old Jean-Louis. Who despite his tender age, already had a PHD. In ear-splitting screaming. Happily, Brother Benoit, the six year old, was a chip off the Daddy block. Easy going with a playful sense of humor. When I walked him back from the after school bus, or to the village bar to get bread(Now you don’t have to ask how small this village was, do you?)- he was always cheery. Displaying more patience than any Adult as I stopped to suss potential photo ops, or smell the flowers.

Rene’s wife, Sascha, head nurse at a nearby hospital, was a chain smoking alcoholic. (Just who I’d want supervisin’ my IV!) As a result, meal quality varied according to the amount of beverages consumed before and during preparation. However, her blood/alcohol content notwithstanding, Sascha was capable of whipping up above average grub, if the goods were fresh, or the occasion, special.

Thus, shopping day, and guests for dinner nights, were marked on my and Marie’s culinary calendar, with the same sense of reverence and anticipation, as kids countin down ‘til Christmas.

When Sascha worked, k.p. fell on the dainty shoulder of Marie et Moi. Fortunately, She did not “‘ate ze coo-king”, and We were, in the spirit of greaseless confit, able to elevate culinary quality to at least, “Farmhouse Bleu.” However, no worries. The scream monster’s diet never varied. Gentle Benoit ate our grub, and Rene was happy with bread, pate and wine. Although the French after lunch Siesta is a reality, it is not an obligation. So, most afternoons, with no searing heat to escape, Marie and I ambled though the countryside. Exploring ruins. Collecting walnuts. Talking to horses. Marie had been married. With no children. And tho’ She never mentioned her husband, except in the context of places visited, the bittersweet tone of her recollections confirmed that this was the love. And that it had ended abruptly and tragically.

Paree was not very gay for Marie now. The main reason She was here. Her ex-business partner had taken not only clients, but valuable materials when He left. That, and being robbed in daylight by a gang of pre-teen gypsy thieves, had convinced Marie to sell. So far – no takers. But, if She did sell – what to live on? And so, selling her apartment and re-locating to “ze country” was the rock and the hard place Marie was stuck between. On the front gate of virtually every French country house you will find the warning : “Chein Mechant!” (dangerous dog) A typically French way of saying : “if you try to rob this house, your voice could go up several octaves.” On one of our walks, Marie and I spotted an atypically colorful country cottage. Bold primary colors. The yard bulging with bric-a-brac and whimsical sculptures. Above the multi-colored mailbox this proclamation : “Chat Joyeuse!” (joyous cat.) I would like to say this was a classic example of French humor. But the owners of the cottage – were Dutch!

Until next time, this is bicycle gourmet wishing you great adventures!

“life is either a great adventure….. or nothing”
Helen Keller

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