A Pig in Provence (21 page)

“Et pour toi, Georgeanne, et toi Ethel, et toi Oliver, et toi Donald.”
She put a healthy handful of beans on each of our plates. “More is coming!” She moved on, and then I saw women with cardboard boxes, laughing, their hands reaching in and out of the boxes they carried. Soon our plates had boiled potatoes, beets, and carrots, as well as beans, hard-cooked eggs, and snails.

Snails were not new to us—we had hunted them the previous summer—and we were delighted to see them on the table. We had gathered a goodly amount of snails at Sillans-la-Cascade, plucking them from the slippery rocks where they had ventured out from the ivy-covered walls after the rain.

After we fed the snails thyme and bran for two weeks, Marie helped us cook them. We then took them out of their shells, cut off the bitter tips, and stuffed them back into their shells. We made a tomato sauce heavily seasoned with garlic and put the stuffed shells in the sauce to simmer for more than two hours. Finally, according to Marie’s instructions, we ate them
à la sucarelle,
with our fingers, sucking the snails from their shells, with a little help from toothpicks. Messy, but good.

Snails have been eaten in Provence since the earliest times, not in sauces but cooked in or over coals. Remains of ashes and snail shells have been found in the entrances of prehistoric caves in the
region of Haute-Provence, some dating to at least 11,000 b.c.e. Archaeologists have even unearthed several sites where such an impressive number of snail shells have been found that the sites are sometimes referred to as Mesolithic
escargotières,
or snail farms. Even in Quinson, not far from our house, there is evidence that prehistoric humans ate snails, and I like to think that the snails we gathered were descendants from those prehistoric times.

The people of Provence continue the tradition of cooking snails in coals, and locals have told me that until the 1950s and 1960s, it was common to cook snails for lunch while working in the vineyards. The workers would build a fire of grape prunings in a clearing and place a rack over the coals to hold the snails, just the way their grandparents and great-grandparents did. The snails were picked from their shells with a pin or a needle and ideally would have been eaten with lots of
aïoli
. In Marseille in the 1930s, snail vendors plied their wares in the streets, selling paper cones of snails accompanied by a pick. During the early part of the twentieth century, eating snails
à la sucarelle,
as we had, was one of the family feasts of preference.

Moments after the vegetables and snails were delivered to our table, more women, this time came carrying big bowls, appeared, stopping at every place. When two arrived at our side, they asked, “
aïoli
made with olive oil or sunflower oil? The one with sunflower oil is
moins fort,
not as strong.” I always made my
aïoli
with olive oil, so I chose that, but decided to take the
moins fort
for Oliver. He might prefer a milder version, and that way I could taste it too.

One woman stepped up and put a heaping ladleful on my plate, Donald’s, and Ethel’s, while the other woman gave a ladleful to Oliver. This
aïoli
was pale yellow, not greenish gold like the olive
oil version I had chosen. I sampled it, dipping a piece of bread into it. It was almost buttery tasting, but very garlicky. I tried mine. Very garlicky too, but stronger, fruitier, with the hint of the bitter aftertaste characteristic of olive oil. I liked them both. I later learned that unless the olive oil is a mild, Provençal-style oil, like the one I used, it is a good idea to make
aïoli
with a combination of olive oil and grapeseed or sunflower oil, unless you love the deep bite and sometimes fiery, bitter finish of a strong olive oil.

The differences in taste among extra-virgin olive oils, the type I use, whether for cooking or making vinaigrette, or as a condiment, can be substantial. Variables include the variety of olive, or olives if a blend; the location of the grove; and the growing, harvesting, and milling conditions. A major factor determining taste is the maturity of the olives when picked. Olives harvested when still partially green will produce an oil that has a bitter or hot aftertaste, while an oil made with fully mature, black olives will be mild and fruity, almost buttery. The difference is similar to that between a green bell pepper, which is picked immature, and a mature red one. Most Provençal olive oils fall somewhere in between. Traditionally, the olives in Provence are harvested when they are black, or nearly so, and consequently the Provençal oils are milder than those of Tuscany, for example, where the olives are picked when still partially green.

Classic Provençal preparations other than
aïoli
rely on the partnership of garlic and olive oil.
Tapenade,
a tangy olive paste spread on toasts or vegetables, begins, like
aïoli
, with crushing garlic and salt together. Olives and capers are added, and sometimes herbs or nuts, then the olive oil is slowly drizzled in until the paste is the desired consistency.
Anchoïade
begins the same way, but instead of olives, anchovies are added before the olive oil is drizzled in.

“Oliver, let me taste your
aïoli
. This one is too hot and I don’t like it.” Ethel reached toward the gleaming pale yellow mound on his plate. He was sticking to the eggs, potatoes, and bread. After one taste of the
aïoli
at my encouragement, he decided not to eat more.

“Take it. I don’t want it.”

Ethel took a big spoonful for her plate, pushing aside her
aïoli
. “Mmm. I like this one better,” she said.

When the women with the bowls and cardboard boxes circled back, Ethel’s
aïoli
was almost gone, as was mine and Donald’s. This time there was something new— pieces of morue, salt cod.

I had eaten salt cod only once, on New Year’s Eve when Oliver was two months old. Georgette and Denys, our neighbors, had invited us to a midnight supper, and the first course was a salt cod and leek
gratin,
Denys’s favorite dish. It was unforgettable. The top was crispy with golden bread crumbs. Beneath them were tiny flakes of the cured fish and sweet leeks bound together with a creamy
béchamel
sauce just slightly piquant with cayenne. I had never prepared salt cod, nor had I eaten it in a chunk like the one I had just been served. I watched the people around me remove the silver-gray skin and pick off any fins or pieces of bone or cartilage before separating the fish into large flakes and dipping them into or spreading them with
aïoli
. I did the same. The texture of the fish was coarse and somewhat grainy, the flavor strong but good, especially with the
aïoli
. I liked it, and that summer I determined I’d find out how to prepare salt cod.

It wasn’t difficult. The first step is to soak the cod for twenty-four hours in several changes of water, which not only rehydrates the fish but leaches out the salt. Once that’s accomplished, the fish is poached along with a bay leaf. I always cut off a small piece of the fish first, poach it, then taste it to make sure that all but a hint of the
salt is gone. If not, I rinse the fish under cold running water, poach another piece, and taste again before poaching the whole fish.

The poached fish is ready to eat, in pieces with
aïoli
, or used in preparations like leek and salt cod
gratin
or
brandade de morue,
one of the great dishes of Provence. True
brandade
is nothing more than poached salt cod, hot olive oil, and hot milk, beaten on the stove top over gentle heat until a thick, creamy emulsion forms. As with so many very simple things, it is not as easy as it sounds. The oil must not be added too quickly, nor can it be too hot or it will not emulsify. The milk must be handled with care. It should be added slowly and not be too hot, lest it curdle and ruin the
brandade,
which, above all, must never be allowed to boil. Once the emulsion is successfully formed, a
persillade,
a mixture of crushed garlic cloves, parsley, and lemon, is added. Served with
croûtons
and red wine, it is a queenly dish made from humble ingredients.

A simpler, less challenging version of
brandade
uses potatoes. It is simpler because it is not an emulsion, and is also milder and less intense than the purist version. To make it, the poached fish is crushed with a mortar and pestle or puréed, then is mashed with potatoes. Alternating streams of hot milk and olive oil are beaten in to form a thick, creamy paste, the
persillade
is added, and the mixture is spread into a
gratin
dish, topped with bread crumbs, and drizzled with olive oil before being baked in a hot oven. It, too, is served with
croûtons.

Until relatively recently, salt cod was considered poor people’s food. An old Provençal saying used to praise an exotic or deluxe dish loosely translates as “It’s sure not salt cod and spinach,” a combination that, so I have heard, was common family fare in households with economic restraints. Today, salt cod costs as much per kilo as beefsteak or fresh tuna, and former pea
sant dishes like
brandade de morue
are served in fine restaurants. The
brandade
might be offered as an
amuse-bouche
on a bite-size toast with a sliver of black truffle or in combination with fresh poached cod alongside a black olive
tapenade.

We finished our first
grand aïoli
that day with pastries from the local bakery. The baker and his wife, bound in white aprons, and their helpers passed among the tables with glossy white bakery boxes full of exquisite
petits fours,
small tarts filled with chocolate mousse or fresh fruit, delicate
mille-feuilles,
and bite-size almond
meringues.
They gave Oliver and Ethel two each, which my children promptly finished before going to play with Aileen, who was jumping rope in the distance. Donald and I settled back to have one more glass of wine and watch the changing scene, as people began drifting away from the tables to the
boules
match, leaving their picnic baskets behind.

Boules,
properly called
pétanque,
is the ultimate sport in Provence. Everyone plays it—young and old, men and women. A
boules
match is easy to spot. Five or more people looking down at packed dirt or sand, usually in a shady spot, indicate that a match is under way. On closer inspection you’ll see that they are staring at steel balls—the
boules
—trying to determine which one is closest to a small wooden ball, the cochonnet or coche. The object of the game, which is similar to lawn bowling and bocce, is to plant your feet close together and throw the
boules
as close as possible to the coche, placed six to ten meters away. The game is played between teams of one, two, or three people, with each team having six balls. When all the balls have been thrown, very careful measuring takes place with a folding steel tape that most players keep in their pockets or with calipers if the distances are short. The winning team
gets one point for every ball that is closer to the
coche
than any of the opponents’ balls. Play continues to thirteen points.