Читать книгу Our House is Not in Paris - Susan Cutsforth - Страница 10

After our fortnight in Rignac, before we headed for the Pyrenees to stay with Sylvie Bernard, we had organised to stay with Martine Dubois at her home in the Loire Valley. The four of us met when we were all travelling in India. As our trip was unfolding at home and all the months of planning were taking place, one of the first things we did was buy a road atlas of France. On the cover was a stunning château. Strangely, the inside of the cover did not give the name of it. Nevertheless, Stuart was determined that seeing it was going to be a highlight of our holiday. In yet another strange quirk of fate, I stumbled across a book in my school library published in the fifties. Voilà, within its pages, was a photo of Château de Chenonceau. When we emailed Martine to organise our stay, we found out that it is literally on her doorstep.

On our first morning, we indeed visited it: our first château in France and where I learned one of my first French words. I only ever seem to be able to grasp a word when I need it in a context. Fortunately, champagne is a universal word.

It was a splendid summer’s day so we set off suitably attired. As we were wandering through the beautiful jardin, I realised that my hat had blown off and disappeared. I asked Martine the word for ‘hat’ so I could go back to search for it. I repeated the word over and over to myself as I raced through the crowds in search of my chapeau. And voilà, there it was, lying under the rosebushes. After admiring the artworks and splendour of Château de Chenonceau, Martine took us to meet her daughter Melanie at her workplace, an interior design shop. Then we were off for a treat. Melanie had a friend, Philippe DeBritt, who ran the restaurant L’Escargot, and we retired thankfully under the shade of a striped outside awning to order déjeuner and an, as always, welcome apéritif. The canard and cherry sauce was divine; duck had never tasted this delicious before. Then the moment I always wait for. The pièce de résistance: dessert. Or, in my case on this special occasion, I was served all three as I simply couldn’t choose between them. Our holiday photos do seem to show me on quite a few occasions posing with a gâteau or two.

We then spent a languid afternoon in Martine’s jardin as we had been invited that evening to Philippe’s home for dinner. This was a true honour, being invited not only to a French home but the maison of a chef, no less. Late in the afternoon, Martine and I sauntered off to the produce markets and the pâtisserie to buy a gift to take for dinner. On the way, Martine had another surprise for me. All my friends know how much I love second-hand treasure and vintage clothes, and she was delighted that she could take me to a second-hand shop that had just opened. It was a measure of her friendship to take me there. As I walked in I was immediately captivated by a beautiful handmade fifties frock in light blue tulle. After years of collecting vintage frocks, I have the ability to know how clothes can work with the right shoes on the right occasion. I tried it on and fell in love with it. I waltzed around in it and showed it to Martine. Her response was to laugh and laugh and exclaim, ‘Oh, Susannah.’ Not deterred at all by her mirth, I scooped it up and imagined a soirée in my Loire Valley frock.

In the pâtisserie I started to select the pastries to take to Philippe’s. Martine gently intervened and I learned that, when you are invited to dîner, it is customary not to take an everyday choice but rather an exquisite selection. So the fruit tarts, glossy in their glaze, and powder-puff choux pastries were carefully chosen, placed in a shiny white box and tied with a gold ribbon.

Then it was off to our first French soirée. We were ushered in by Philippe, accompanied by Melanie, to his courtyard, which looked like a stage set. There were flickering candles placed everywhere, including in all the wall niches. The table was beautifully decorated and a procession of delicious dishes was served. Escargot dripping with butter and garlic, a salmon wrapped in foil that was delicately apportioned at the table, and a medley of summer vegetables. Over digestifs to finish our wonderful evening, Melanie provided our entertainment with a hilarious display of belly dancing.

The night is one of those special occasions that linger for a long time in your memory. A combination of an exceptionally late night and a copious amount of wine was not, however, a very auspicious start to the following morning, when we set off early for the Pyrenees.