Читать книгу Our House is Not in Paris - Susan Cutsforth - Страница 12

On the last night of our first trip, we stayed in a small village, Le Caylar, near the spectacular Cirque de Navacelles on the road to Montpellier. This night during our trip was a necessity rather than a choice. A stepping stone to the final destination; this time, home. We would have much rather spent our very last evening in Villefranche with Brigitte and Erick, but it meant the drive to Montpellier would have been far too long the next day. We had to be in Montpellier early the following morning to return our by now much-loved Citroën and catch the train to Paris for our return flight. It meant, though, that we were also able to visit one of the most iconic bridges in the world, the Millau Viaduct. Its soaring expanse of steel and concrete over the river Tarn is stunning. The sight of it soothed our spirits, sad at the thought of leaving a country that had left an indelible impression.

After booking into our gîte we set off in search of the perfect country restaurant and memorable meal to end our trip. The village only offered pizza; we were determined, on this our very last night in France, that we were certainly not going to eat pizza. I had noticed on the road into the village a sign for a restaurant tucked behind high stone walls. My fleeting glimpse had made me feel it held the promise of all that is perfect in a French rural restaurant. So off we set, on our last evening drive of the year, down the winding lanes of France in search of the perfect evening meal. We found the high stone walls, the old French manor looked enticing, and we tumbled out of the car in excitement. It seemed to be the tucked-away country restaurant of dreams: the profusely blooming roses in the jardin and the white gravel path winding up to the shaded terrace for an apéritif before dîner. But then we saw the notice on the wall: it is closed one night a week, on Monday. Of course it was a Monday.

As we returned to the car I noticed a young Frenchman enjoying his evening apéritif on his front steps. A local; surely he would know where we could eat. ‘Non,’ he said; there was nowhere to eat around here it is the country and it is Monday. We sank back into the car with disappointment. It was getting late, and the only alternative seemed to be pizza. As we were driving off down the deserted village road I glanced behind and saw him running after us. ‘Oui,’ there was somewhere open after all on a Monday. ‘À gauche, à gauche, à droite, à droite.’ Left, left, right, right. Mmm, possibly I understood. We did get lost, but it was in the best way possible.

It was getting later and later. The chances of our memorable meal seemed to be becoming more and more remote. Then, voilà, we ended up seeing, quite by chance, one of the most stunning sites on our entire holiday. Getting lost does have its merits on occasions. Cirque de Navacelles.

We fell out the car and gasped in wonder. It was the middle of nowhere and yet here was this extraordinary and breathtaking spectacle. It was like a piece of the Grand Canyon with a tiny little hamlet nestled at the bottom in the ‘U’ of the river bend. Pizza no longer seemed so bad after all. This unexpected splendour compensated for the missed perfect meal.

And then, driving back to Le Caylar, we came across, by sheer chance, the restaurant we had been directed to. It didn’t matter that it was a pre-fabricated building sitting in the middle of nowhere. It wasn’t pizza; it was somewhere to eat and — always a good sign — the car park was overflowing. Things were really looking up.

Eagerly we ventured inside. There was a wonderful warm atmosphere, large groups of family and friends, convivial checked tablecloths and, most importantly, a delicious aroma of home-cooked food. The most unprepossessing of places, and yet the promise of all that it seemed to offer. It was late, we were tired, we were hungry — but we had found it! And then, ‘Non, non,’ they were full, it was late, it was not possible to have a table. My heart sank. It kept coming back to pizza on our very last night but even that was probably shut by now!

And so I swung into action and used my full dramatic repertoire. It was our last night in France; we were to fly home to Australia the next day, we were searching for the perfect meal, we were happy to wait for a table. ‘Oui, oui,’ they understood, we could sit outside and have an apéritif while we waited, it might be quite a while.

Feeling enormously grateful we assured them that we were prepared to wait as long as necessary. It didn’t matter too much that the night air was extremely chilly and damp. Not at all. We gratefully sipped our apéritifs as the tantalising smells wafted out into the cool night.

Then finally, we were beckoned. There was a classic blackboard menu but by that time there was only one choice. We were more than happy with country sausage and our favourite frites. What we didn’t know — it was our first trip to France, after all — is what country sausage really is. It is now a word I will never ever forget. It is now the type of rustique country meal that I will never ever order. The dreaded andouillette, made from pig’s colon. So rustic is the andouillette sausage that you can still see little colon-shaped pieces once the sausage is cut open, while its smell has more in common with the farmyard than what you normally expect from meat. When it is served, it smells delicious and at first seems delicious. However, it is the most rustique type of sausage imaginable. The fact that andouillette is made of offal is now seared into my memory. Under normal circumstances I would simply have left it discreetly on my plate. These were not normal circumstances, though. They had responded to my pleas, been happy when they found out where we were from. We were the last to be served and they had found us a table late at night. Despite all of this, it might still have been acceptable to not devour with relish the dreaded andouillette. What did make it impossible was the warmth, charm and bonhomie of the chef. Throughout our meal, he moved around the restaurant several times, chatting to all his customers — clearly regulars, as this was a rural backwater, after all — and made a point of warmly chatting with us several times and enquiring about our meal. There was simply no way I was going to leave my ghastly sausage on the plate and offend this wonderful chef, especially when he indicated that he would give us a complementary digestif when we finished our meal.

Typically, of course, I didn’t have a bag with me. So, I carefully wrapped the absolutely awful andouillette in a serviette, placed it on my lap and smuggled it out the restaurant. As we set off down the country lane I gleefully tossed the rustique sausage out the window into the fields. Perhaps a wild boar roaming the woods would devour it with more gratitude than me.