They told me we’d be eating dinner in a cave.
Before you jump to any conclusions – cave is the French word for basement.
I had my first real French meal (as in, prepared by a real French person) on Friday night. We were a continentally-diverse group of fifteen, made up of French high school language teachers, a Guatemalan poet visiting Roanne, and our group of language assistants. In that group we are: an American girl, a Bolivian boy, an English boy, an Italian girl, a German girl, a Spanish boy, and a Taiwanese girl.
We speak French when we’re together and our different accents create a rainbow of ‘r’ sounds: Arturo, Arianna, and Sergio (Spanish, Italian, Bolivian) roll theirs, Tine (Taiwanese) and I attempt to push the sound from the back of our mouths into our throats, Nastasja (German) has the throatiness down pat, and Tom (English), actually has to pronounce the letter. Tom and I tease each other about accents. (Me: Oh ‘ello, ‘ow ah yew? Him: Grrreayt, thaaaynks.) We all have fun throwing around cultural stereotypes, especially Tine. To Arianna, her roommate, she likes to say, Moi, je fais du riz. Toi, tu fais des pâtes. I make rice. You make pasta.
Back to the cave. During the twenty-minute car ride there, I learned that we’d be tasting the wine, cheese, and meat of a local farmer. Ouais! Whoo! was how I felt about that. I was more than ready to taste the fruits of a hard-working farmer.
It was dark when we turned onto a gravel road, driving through enough trees to be a small forest. There were no lights other than our headlights, so a million stars were visible. We stopped in front of what looked like a barn and a farmhouse in one, dark except for some light peeking out from beneath the large barn doors.
Inside it was buzzing with life; tables covered with colorful vegetables, bottles of wine, jars of honey, rounds of cheese, and loaves of pain epicés – dense, sweet bread made with spices and honey. People were chatting by the fire (did I mention that winter is starting to nibble at our toes?), buying food, and enjoying the live music – a father on accordion and his sons on clarinet and tambourine. They were playing what sounded like Irish jigs and turned out to be traditional regional music influenced by Irish jigs. When I told them I’m from the States, specifically St. Louis, the father’s face lit up and he said, Ah, Saint Louis, du jazz! (“Ah Sahn Lou-ee, du jahzz!”)
At 8pm was the call à table! We all descended to la cave, where the wine, cheese, and meat was stored. We seated ourselves at the long table, assistants among teachers, Guatemalan poet at the head. I had my fork in one hand, my knife in the other, and my stomach was saying, Bring it on. Show me whatcha got.
But I forgot that soup comes first, so I quickly swapped my knife and fork for a spoon. The soup, un potage, was a light vegetable purée, piping hot and full of unidentifiable root vegetables. We dipped our bread, an act I learned is called tremper la soupe, meaning literally “to soak the soup.” Funny, because you’re actually soaking the bread. Mais c’est comme ça – so it goes. We drank a white wine with the soup. It’s hard to resist using the word “nutty” to describe wine, yet I’ve never understood how a wine can taste like nuts. But who am I, really.
Now I’m going to talk about pork. Vegetarians and kosher-keepers, come back in five minutes.
Francois, our farmer-host (apologies for not introducing him sooner), brought out two plates of four different pork cuts, all animals he raised himself. I don’t eat much meat in the U.S for environmental reasons (factory farms = lots of poop in our water + who the heck knows what’s in that burger?), so I was glad to hear Francois’s description of feeding, serenading (just kidding) and killing his pigs. Because I’m not a seasoned meat eater, I’ll do my best to describe the array. There were thick slices of saucisson – sausage – very rich, tasted a bit like clogged arteries. There were thin slices of jambon cuit – cooked ham – sweet and salty, delicate and delectable. There were medium slices of jambon sec – dried ham – my favorite, a hearty texture, eaten with a spicy mustard. Last was the pâté de tête – pâté of head – which I took one bite of and put the rest back on the serving plate (discreetly, of course). We drank a red wine with the meat. In a couple of months I might attempt wine descriptions.
Next came the cheese! Vegans and lactose-intolerants, five more minutes.
Francois brought out two plates of cheese, vache – cow – and chèvre – goat. Here he addressed me personally, joking about sending some to the U.S. and me being sent to jail. Everyone laughed...with me. Now, normally cow cheese is softer and sweeter than goat cheese, but these rounds were hard and had a strong kick. Moo! I’ll censor myself in case any FDA officials are reading. The goat cheese tasted like what we have at home only harder and more flavorful. My favorite was the fresh goat cheese, which had the strong taste with the texture of fresh mozzarella. Mmm c’est bon. We drank a different red wine with the cheese. It was drier than the previous one to complement the strong cheeses.
The meal was nearing its end and I knew what was next: dessert. Francois brought each of us a goblet of strawberries in not-too-sweet syrup. Strawberries in October? It’s true. He uses a special heating system to grow fruit out of season. So not the most energy-efficient dessert, but it tasted like summer. With the strawberries we drank a rosé wine. Red and pink and poof! the food and drink looked like Valentine’s Day. But it tasted so much better than candy hearts.
Last came the coffee and herbal tea. It was 11pm so I happily accepted a non-caffeinated drink (not much decaf coffee happens here). My tea came in a ceramic, handle-less pot (cup size) and tasted like citrus. Holding the warm pot in my hands – that and my full stomach – gave me a wonderfully satisfied feeling.
The dinner guests sat chatting until midnight. As I’ve been describing our meal, I haven’t acknowledged the company. We assistants were surrounded by teachers, so the four-hour meal was also a lesson in food, language, history, and culture. They all spoke at least one other language and were eager to learn about our respective countries, so it was a veritable cultural exchange. By the end, my mind was as full as my stomach.
And can you believe it? I’m still hungry.
