Pity the Poor French
I feel sorry for the French. Is that a funny thing to say? We're
not supposed to feel sympathy for the Frogs are we? After all,
ours is a love hate relationship of a thousand year duration, essentially
a passionate affair, a business of extremes. Something as simpering
as sympathy has nothing to do with it surely? Yet I still say it,
'Pity the poor French'.
Ambition thwarted, culture spurned, that is how the French feel,
it seems to me: a proud, high-minded people continually frustrated,
more often than not by their closest neighbours and sometime friends,
sometime enemies and ever abiding rivals. Without going as far
back as Crecy and Agincourt, just think of the last two hundred
years or so. As if it were not bad enough to be beaten to the honour
of establishing the first republic of modern times by a bunch of
disaffected English colonials (many of East Anglian ancestry, incidentally)
on the North American continent; the noble aim of the French to
spread radical ideals of liberty, brotherhood and equality was
frustrated by a little Norfolk sailor with one arm and one eye,
and a stern, Old Etonian general who, when he wasn't beating the
French, spent his time designing waterproof footwear..
The French longed for, and felt entitled to, a great empire, but
'Perfidious Albion' had other ideas: having kicked them out of
India and North America, we went on to pinch the remaining decent
bits of the globe. So, when finally put together, the French empire
consisted mainly of small, remote islands and large expanses of
desert, home of bad tempered camels and equally bad tempered Arabs!
Never mind! There remained the French culture and language, the
pen and the dictionary. French would become, as it rightfully should,
the world's new lingua franca. Dream on! The planet was already
full of people speaking appalling versions of the Queen's (Victoria
that is) English in execrable accents; and, when the Americans
elected narrowly for English rather than German as the official
language of the United States, the game was up. 'Ce n'est
pas le cricket', or 'tennis' as the French might have said. Now
there's something the French did invent -probably!
Still, 'Courage mes braves!' All was not lost. Paris remained
the place to go for a stunning hat, that little black dress - or
a naughty book, but that's another story. Gay Paris was the capital
of haute couture, of the bon viveur and of haute cuisine. Is this
what our French cousins have finally settled for? Well, no. They
continue to consider their language and culture undervalued, or
some do, yet surely there is satisfaction to be gained from the
fact that France has set the world's standards in fashion, food
and wine? Alas! It goes without saying these French claims
do not go uncontested. The Italians, for example, point out Milan
is now a centre of fashion to rival Paris. More mischievously,
they claim to have taught the French to cook when Catherine de
Medicis took her own chefs to Paris and married the future King
Henry II. Given the girl's family background it's a wonder the
entire French court wasn't poisoned! As if all this were not enough,
the Italians say they have wines to rival the best the French can
offer, though they never seem to leave Italy and are known only
to the Mafia.
Yes, French excellences have come to be challenged and, worst
of all, by the dreadful Anglo- Saxons across the Channel. Remember
the Swinging Sixties, Twiggy and Carnaby Street, when London threatened
to become the leader of fashion? It was bad enough for the French
to have to contend with La Dolce Vita, but when the straight-laced,
dowdily dressed English started to be seen as, well, chic, it was
too much.
You might have thought wine would be a different matter and so
it may be. Certainly as far as we Brits are concerned, I can't
see us ever producing a Gevry- Chambertin, Chateau Lafite or a
Chateauneuf du Pape, climate change or no climate change. The challenge
to French wine is coming, not from north of the Channel, but from
the New World and Australasia. The French have gone from disbelief,
through puzzlement to anger as their traditional markets have been
pillaged by Americans, Australians and New Zealanders - all seen
as Anglo-Saxon. The threat to French wine supremacy is formidable,
but the signs are, if what is happening the South East is anything
to go by, that the Gallic wine growers are at last on the qui vive.
France is unlikely to regain all of her markets, but she should
retain her reputation as the country which sets the standards by
which all other wine is judged.
Can we say the same about food? After all, France is regarded
as the home of haute cuisine - whatever the Italians say - and
French is the language of cooking. I get a sense, from time to
time, of that dismissive superiority which scorns much foreign
food, and think I hear the typical fare of 'les rost bifs' described
as consisting of burnt meat and soggy vegetables. Perhaps the poor
wretches beyond Calais are in danger of the same complacency about
food as wine. The Frenchman savouring his fillet mignon with sauce
aux ceps, would surely choke if he were to learn of the kitchen
loads of British TV chefs, the endless banquet of menus in our
colour supplements and the brimming larders of the supermarkets. And
what of our eating out? Who can remember what that was like
thirty years ago or less? Now, take a ten mile drive from Wickhambrook,
and you may eat, as well as Thai, Indian and Chinese, French, Italian
and Spanish, forgive me, Catalan, dishes of quality.
Gastronomically we British have come along by leaps and bounds.
My impression is, meanwhile, the French have stood still or even
slipped a little down the culinary high table. The sacred French
lunch is not what it was. More and more young people are making
do with a sandwich, an 'English' sandwich moreover, or a slice
of pizza; and the dreaded 'Golden Arches' continue their relentless
progress in the land of Escoffier and Durnand.
Is there no hope in the kitchen either for the hapless French?
To be frank (no pun intended) I don't know. My experience, as well
as my impression, is of a cultural attitude to the buying, preparing,
cooking and serving of food which is still unmatched, certainly
here in Britain. I fear though this culture, this valuable characteristic,
may be ebbing away. I hope I'm wrong.
However, for those who may be driving to Provence by the direct
route from Calais via the Champagne and Burgundy, and who might
like to consider breaking the journey, going or coming, or both,
here is a chance for a delightfully inexpensive experience; one
which still marks out the French as providers of remarkable value
when it comes to important things like bed and board.
Bar sur Seine is a small town in the southern Champagne region,
about three hundred miles from Calais. The Hotel Commerce is a
modest family-run affair in the Place de Republic in the middle
of town. Papa, the chef, has recently been joined in the kitchen
by his son. Madame is a Yorkshire lass, by the way. Rooms are unpretentious
and comfortable, en suite of course. Order a glass of the local
champagne with home made canapes, and choose from a range of dinner
menus. At mid-price you will have a four course selection. To start
a terrine, onion soup with crispy cheese topping, or Provencal
style fish soup, a salade paysanne if you're feeling very hungry,
or feuilette d'escargots if you're adventurous. The main courses
include fish, steak, veal kidneys in Madeira sauce or an andouilette
with mustard sauce. A fine selection of cheeses might be followed
by tarte maison, or a very good crème brulee, among other
things. Drink a bottle of the house wine, it's Burgundy and highly
acceptable. Then coffee with petits fours and so to bed. All this
and a plain French breakfast will cost around £40 per person.
Half a hour further south, down the pretty valley of the infant
river Seine, is Aisey sur Seine, a very small village where the
famous river is no wider than the Stour at Thurlow. Here is an
old inn called the Hotel du Roy kept by another husband and wife
team. Rooms are spacious, simply furnished and comfortable. The
patron is a creative and enthusiastic cook. Again there is a good
choice of menus and, as you drink your aperitif maison with canapes,
at mid-price you could choose a starter of pan fried goat's cheese
with dressed salad, a mousse of fresh vegetables, scallops and
shrimp vinaigret, or carpaccio of salmon or venison. You get the
idea. The main course might be monkfish with a crayfish sauce,
an entrecote with wild mushrooms, or tete de veau with champagne
sauce. A selection of eight or nine well-chosen cheeses is followed
by a range of deliciously invented home-made desserts. All this
with coffee and a bottle of house wine, Burgundy of course, together
with an excellent French breakfast will, I'm afraid, set you back
all of £50 a head.
Down the road towards Dijon, in deepest Burgundy, is the village
of St Seine l'Abbaye, just a few miles from the river's source.
Yes, it does boast an abbey, and not much more. Here is a little
rustic auberge, that feels as if it hasn't much changed in half
a century. I suppose you would say this inn provides one of those
very, very French experiences which is becoming more and more difficult
to find. Order a glass of Cremante and eat whatever Madame Duthu
has cooked for the day, accompanied by a pichet of the house wine.
The food is simple but good; the service charming. All this and
breakfast will relieve your wallet of about £30 per person.
There it is! Pity the French? It all depends what you want to
pity them for. I think they still have a lot going for them, and
I haven't even mentioned their wonderful high speed trains or magnificent
motorways.
Incidentally, if any reader would like details of the aforementioned
watering holes, I shall be pleased to oblige. Bon appetit!
Tony Bowers |
