Encore Provence (15 page)

At the time, marinated in good wine as I was, the trip
seemed like an idea whose time had come, and I’m still not quite sure why we didn’t set off the next day Work intervened, I suppose, or perhaps Régis went for his liver’s sake to take one of his periodic cures at Evian. But the idea was lodged in my mind, and my wife—not a student of corkscrews but certainly a connoisseur of chickens—was happy to come with me. Happier, in fact, than if I had gone with Régis, whom she considers a socially irresponsible companion. (It all goes back to the day I was late for dinner following a seven-hour lunch. It was a minor incident that took place many years ago, but wives have long memories.)

And so, one sharp, bright September morning, we left the Luberon and headed west, picking up the winding road that goes through the forests of the Cevennes. It was the same road that Robert Louis Stevenson had traveled with his donkey, and he would see little change in the surroundings today: mile after mile of wild countryside, green, beautiful, and empty. France has roughly the same population as Britain, but the inhabitants are spread over three times the land area, and in the Cevennes the spread is very thin. Apart from trucks loaded with tree trunks on their way to becoming roof beams, there was little traffic, and almost no sign of human habitation.

The road twists and turns too sharply to encourage overtaking, and after a while we didn’t even try to pass the truck lumbering along in front of us with its load of pine trunks. By now it was close to noon, and we were wondering where in this magnificent isolation the driver would stop for lunch. Other nationalities may be content with a sandwich, but not the French, and certainly not the French
routier
. He wants to sit down at a table to eat in a civilized manner, and he will plan his journey accordingly.
Hungry people traveling in unfamiliar French territory will never go far wrong if they stick to this simple rule: At lunchtime, follow a truck. And so we did. Sure enough, it eventually led us off the road and into a parking area filled with other trucks. This we took to be the equivalent of a starred recommendation.

The building was low, functional, and noisy, the clientele almost entirely masculine. The menu, scrawled on a blackboard, listed
charcuterie
, cuttlefish poached in a saffron broth, cheese or dessert. The price of sixty-five francs included a bottle of wine. We sat outside, where the tables had been thoughtfully arranged to give every customer a view of the parking lot. Madame
la patronne
, surprisingly nimble for such an extremely large woman (in trucking terms, she would have been an eighteen-wheeler), somehow served lunch to more than forty people on her own without making anyone wait more than a few minutes. As we ate, we marveled at the efficiency, the standard of cooking, and the value for money to be found in the
relais routiers
network. Strange to think that this evening we would be having dinner at the other end of the restaurant ladder.

But before that, we had to change climates. The road became straighter and steeper, and by midafternoon we were driving through alpine countryside shrouded in cloud. Forest gave way to pasture, dotted with sleek caramel-colored cows glistening with moisture. Scattered villages came and went in the mist, the houses closed and shuttered, the streets deserted. There were more cattle than people. This was
la France profonde
, silent and rather eerie.

The hotel of Michel Bras came as a complete, almost shocking, contrast. We had been expecting a larger version
of the village houses we had passed, something dark and thick-walled and traditional. What we found was an angular complex of stone and plate-glass buildings floating on top of a hill, all the more surreal because of the lack of visibility. It was like coming across a boat of the most contemporary design anchored in the clouds, far from land. Another surprise, when we checked in, was to find that we had the last available room. Out of season, in the middle of the week, in the middle of nowhere, the hotel was full. People come for the walking and the view, the young woman at the desk explained to us, with an apologetic shrug at the impenetrable curtain of gray outside the window. And, of course, the cooking.

But that was still a few hours away, and we drove the few miles back into Laguiole and, I hoped, the perfect corkscrew.

Laguiole is a small, pleasant town, and there is no doubt about its principal business. On the main street alone, there must be a dozen display windows bristling with knives: the classic pocket knife, the shepherd’s friend (with an evil-looking spike at one end), dainty handbag-sized models for the modern woman. (What would she do with an accessory knife? Emergency manicures? Opening love letters? Puncturing a gentleman’s reputation?) The variety of handles was astonishing—horn, rosewood, box, ebony, olive, and several woods I’d never heard of, like amourette,
bois de serpent
, and cocobolo. A knife-fancier’s paradise.

The industry started with Pierre-Jean Calmels, who made the first Laguiole knife in 1829, and the shop in the main street bearing the family name seemed a likely place to find my corkscrew. Looking at the display cases, I saw knives and nothing but knives. And so I asked the woman
behind the counter if she could show me such a thing as a corkscrew. This led to one of those French moments that every visitor experiences sooner or later when revealing an ignorance of local traditions or protocol. Disdain, first expressed by the eyebrows, then by a sigh, and finally by the tone of voice. “
Corkscrews?
” the woman said. “No. We make knives.” She turned away to another customer, an elderly lady who was fingering a set of steak knives, testing their sharpness on the ball of her thumb. Finally, she made the decision to buy, nodded to herself, and justified the purchase: “Now I can give them cheaper meat,” she said.

Chastened but determined, I went down the street, and found not only a corkscrew but something I could never have imagined: a knife with its own permanent and highly evocative aroma. This comes from the handle, a piece of wild Provençal juniper, a very fine-grained wood the color of dark honey. When rubbed by the fingers, it gives off the clean, strong scent of juniper and the
garrigue
. Close your eyes, said the salesman, and sniff. You could be in the mountains. Not only that, he added. This knife offers some unusual protective advantages too. Because juniper wood is a natural insect repellent, the pocket in which you keep your knife will stay forever free of moths, scorpions, or infestation by ants. That, I thought, is the kind of guarantee to give a man confidence as he makes his way through an insect-ridden world. Never again would I need to worry about termites in my trousers.

We crept back through the mist from Laguiole to the hotel, now fully lit and looking more than ever like a liner cruising in a dark sea, and went up to the main salon to have a drink before dinner. Granite and glass, fat armchairs of white leather, a central wood-burning fireplace
that smelled not unlike the handle of my knife. In one corner, a Japanese couple, chic and shiny-haired, was being led through the joys of a long wine list by the sommelier. Behind us, the conversation was in German. The French customers were silent, noses sunk deep in their menus.

And now, with the drinks, came the pre-dinner ritual observed by every
restaurant de luxe
, the distribution of
amuse-gueules:
Tonight, there were tiny individual
cèpes
tarts, the pastry gauzy and crisp, and miniature pots of pâté, smooth as butter. I am never sure whether these small treats are to keep your strength up while struggling with the weight of the menu or to demonstrate the finesse of the cuisine, the chef’s opening volley before he comes at you with the heavy artillery. The effect these mouthfuls had on me was to make me ravenous, my trucker’s lunch forgotten as I looked through the day’s selection.

It was a disappointment to see no mention of the celebrated chicken, who was obviously having an evening off, but her place was more than filled by fish, game, lamb, and beef, each dish described in short but succulent detail. I am always impressed by a well-written menu, one that is informative and appetizing without slipping into pretentious nonsense. Here, for example, is a London restaurant’s attempt to justify the exorbitant price of its whitebait: “
The tiny fresh fish are tossed by our chef for a few fleeting seconds into a bath of boiling oil, and then removed before they have had a chance to recover from their surprise.
” Anyone who suggests tossing the writer in after them has my full support.

There is none of that on the Michel Bras menu, and yet the brief phrases are filled with promise. It’s quite an art, and I wondered if there was a professional menu-writer in the kitchen—perched on a stool in the corner, perhaps,
glass of wine to hand, waiting to be inspired by events taking place in the ovens. All the great restaurants employ so many people in their kitchens that one more would hardly make a difference. And since most chefs are generous by nature, the writer might even be given a credit on the menu, somewhere in between the desserts and the
digestifs
. Stranger things have happened.

Small, expectant processions were now being led to their tables, and we saw that one of our fellow diners was being carried through in a large bag, small brown nose twitching in anticipation. We were pleased to see that Bras runs an equal opportunity establishment, where dogs are as welcome as their owners, and I tried to imagine the effect a dog would have in a top-class restaurant anywhere else in the world. Cries of alarm and calls to summon the public health inspector would just be the start of it, but here the bag and its hairy contents were quietly tucked away under the owner’s chair without a single disapproving eyebrow being raised.

The room was long and elegant, with gray leather chairs, the tablecloths pulled tight and gathered underneath so that the round tables resembled oversized, opulent mushrooms. The cutlery, Laguiole’s finest, had been specially designed. So had the table lamps. An endless supply of waiters came and went on silent feet, and there was more than a hint of reverence in the air. This is a characteristic of celebrated restaurants that can sometimes be overwhelming, causing voices to be muted and—for me, at least—threatening to turn a meal into some kind of minor religious experience. It’s seldom the fault of the restaurant, but the deadening effect that excellence often has on the customers, who treat each exquisitely arranged plate like a shrine, forgetting that they came to have a good time
as well as a good dinner. Laughter is the best background music.

And laughter we had, provided by the late arrival of ten boisterous French businessmen at the table next to ours. Stripping off their jackets before sitting down, they brought with them a breeze of informality and a clear determination to enjoy the evening. Toasts and jokes were made, insults exchanged, and lips were smacked as the first course appeared. Exceptional cooking seems to affect the French in two very different ways, and we saw examples of both at the tables around us. Our neighbors the enthusiasts were unrestrained in their appreciation, loud with pleasure; you could hear they loved what they were eating. In complete contrast, the chef-worshippers seemed to be in awe of every mouthful, chewing in respectful silence, nodding knowingly to each other in the manner of satisfied disciples as they identified the touch of cumin in one dish or the discreet squirt of truffle juice in another.

I’m all for the noisy enthusiast, and I suspect that most chefs like to hear that their work is appreciated. But gastronomic tradition in the great restaurants requires a degree of sanctity, particularly in the way food is presented. I remember one dinner in Paris where every plate of every course came to the table covered by a porcelain dome. There were four of us, and two waiters had been allocated to the table as dome-raisers. At a silent signal, the waiters swooped in to lift all four domes at precisely the same moment. It is a theatrical moment that can sometimes be embarrassing, as it was that night. The lamb chops I had ordered had lost their way and found a home elsewhere, leaving me with a plateful of salmon. You have to be careful with domes.

There was no risk of confusion
chez
Michel Bras. Our waiter slid through the tables with a giant silver tray raised to shoulder height, which he lowered to reveal undomed plates. A second waiter took charge of the plates and described each dish in exactly the same words that were used on the menu; a small courtesy for absent-minded gourmets, presumably in case there’s a memory lapse in between the ordering of the dish and its arrival. All was impeccable, but before we had a chance to start, the waiter was back with a surprise we hadn’t ordered—a glazed earthenware crock of something unfamiliar and white, giving off puffs of savory steam. He took a spoon, scooped and lifted. For a moment, spoon and dish were linked by a broad ribbon that the waiter twirled gracefully around the spoon before delivering a neat mound to the plate.

“This is special to our region,” he said. “We call it
aligot
.”

I should warn you about
aligot
. It is wonderfully tasty, with a creamy texture and an impressive substance to it, almost as dense as toffee. It slips down so easily that it seems a crime not to have a second helping. Only sometime later are you aware of the unmistakable sensation that something is attaching itself firmly to your ribs.

Like many good things to eat and drink,
aligot
was made by monks—as long ago as the twelfth century, perhaps even before then. Pilgrims coming to the monastery in winter, cold and hungry, would ask if there was anything, or
aliquid
, to eat. The Latin
aliquid
became the French
aligot
, and the early recipe, basically melted cheese and breadcrumbs, was changed and refined. Today, this is what you need to make
aligot
for four:

Two pounds of potatoes; one pound of
tome d’Aubrac
,
the fresh local cheese; half a pound of sour cream; one or two cloves of garlic; salt and pepper. Boil and puree the potatoes, add the sour cream and cheese, stir as if your life depended upon it. If you have difficulty extracting the ladle from the saucepan, you’ve overcooked the recipe. Have a glass of wine and start again.