At Home in France (16 page)

Sunday dinner at the Bézamats meant noontime—the big family feast of the week. Madame Bézamat had issued the invitation as soon as I arrived to pick up the keys; this had obviously been deliberated on.

“Alors, midi et demi,”
she said. Twelve-thirty. It was spring, and she would be occupied in the morning picking asparagus.

“Midi et demi.”
Monsieur pointed to his watch emphatically.

Here was the opportunity to see how a country woman cooked. The Bézamats, I knew, didn’t rely on village markets. Madame buys many of her supplies from the small trucks that service housewives in the countryside: the fish truck, the meat truck, the dairy truck. These vehicles, I have learned, are not a mark of “progress,” as an American is apt to see it, but harken to the days when this same service was provided by horse-driven wagons. For fruits and vegetables, the Bézamats rely on their own garden.

I tried to envision what sort of dinner she would serve: hearty earthy dishes, I hoped, the recipes for which she would impart to me so that I could regale my friends at home. At precisely twelve-twenty I set off, at the last minute wrapping up a bottle of wine. Would this be correct, or only an American custom?

The Bézamats’ front door opens directly into the dining
room, which is only large enough to contain a plain wooden table and six chairs. A large television set near the single window dominates the room. There is a fireplace, which burns through fall and winter, and even on a cool spring day like the one we were enjoying then. A low counter separates this room from the kitchen, which is spartan, strictly functional.

A flicker of surprise crossed their faces at the gift of wine. They made no response, leaving me wondering if they were pleased or somehow offended. Madame turned immediately to the kitchen. Monsieur put the bottle on a side cupboard and invited me to table. Serge, their son whom I’d only encountered on a few occasions, was slumped in a chair and greeted me with a perfunctory nod. Françoise was lackadaisically setting the table. She explained, with a pout, that Kati was the lucky one, waiting tables at a local restaurant on the weekends—with good tips. Monsieur poured the two of us an aperitif in a thimble-size glass. It was heavy and sweet, unidentifiable. A bowl filled with an unappetizing snarl of what looked like golden corn curls was passed around.

Madame returned with a great white tureen of soup, instructing me to serve myself first. Monsieur poured a local red wine. The cream-colored soup was vegetable, Madame replied to my inquiry. It had the texture of a purée and a bland taste. I asked which vegetables she had used.

“N’importe,”
she said, with a shrug.

“Pommes de terre et
 …” I pressed.

“Oui, canotes, poireaux …”

Had she used chicken stock? No. Simply boil the vegetables. Mash them. That was it: recipe number one. And the source of the good bread? (This was merely a polite
inquiry—my automatic brain calculator had already filed it away as second to Bétaille’s.) It came from the bread truck from Miers.

Françoise cleared the soup plates and replaced them with appetizer dishes. Madame then set out a platter with a giant pyramid of fat white asparagus, enough to feed twice our number. She had picked the asparagus that morning. I had always been curious about Madame’s part-time labors, wondering how she was paid. Would it be indiscreet to ask? I asked, and was surprised to learn that she was paid by the hour, a more humane method, rather than by the weight of produce, although the latter would perhaps induce more of a yield. The asparagus was accompanied by a large bowl of thick store-bought mayonnaise, a combination new to me but one that I enjoyed. The asparagus were flavorful, though I struggled cutting a few woody ones. Madame explained that these had not received enough sun.

Had they ever seen or tasted green asparagus? I asked as we all took second helpings. They shook their heads in unison. In the United States, I said, in an effort to encourage discussion, green asparagus was common; the white, rare and expensive, so this was quite a treat for me. The two had entirely different tastes as well, I continued, now struggling in my mind for just what the distinction was. The white tastes more like an artichoke, I stated finally. Slight nods of the heads. No comments. I leaned back, the subject thoroughly exhausted.

What arrived next was an enormous surprise:
foie gras de canard
—duck-liver
pâté
—made by Madame herself! On the same platter were thin slices of ham that she had festively rolled into spirals like party fare pictured in a women’s magazine—an effort I found strangely touching.
I oohed and aahed over the
foie gras
. This was a real honor.
Foie gras
was reserved for special occasions and holidays—and this was a generous solid block. It was luscious and rich; I applied restraint in the helpings I took, with another course surely to come. I asked where they raised the ducks, since I’d never seen any. As I spoke I realized that I had never seen any chickens either, although they had given me eggs from time to time. Monsieur Bézamat made a waving gesture above his head. Apparently there was a part of the property, farther from the house, that I had never seen.

Meanwhile Françoise replenished the breadbasket and Monsieur poured more wine. His cheeks had taken on a rosy sheen and my French was becoming more spontaneous. Serge twirled his glass on the table, staring at it with disinterest. Madame, who had been continually preoccupied with the orchestration of the dinner, was still nursing her first glass.

She had taken only the smallest helping from each dish. She bypassed the
foie gras
altogether, which reminded me of a friend’s father who used to whisper “FHB” (family hold back) when dinner guests were on hand and the kids were being piggish.

The sizzle of deep-frying could be heard.

“Ne les brûle pas,”
Monsieur called to her, with mock gruffness. He winked at me over words that would surely rankle her. He opened another bottle of wine. Françoise arrived with a platter of sliced roast lamb. Madame followed behind with a mountain of golden
pommes dauphines
, a French version of potato puffs.

“Mon Dieu!”
I exclaimed. I scooped five
pommes dauphines
on my plate and popped one in my mouth. They were heaven, delicately crisp on the outside, with crunchy
little wisps of deep-fried crust, meltingly tender on the inside. In that moment I threw restraint to the wind. I had two more helpings, of four apiece, along with a second of the well-done lamb. During the main course, conversation flagged. Everyone, in a rather trenchermanlike manner, was taken up with the food. Momentarily, I felt a chasm created by my lack of real fluency, which would have made me more comfortable, and by their provinciality.

Would Madame give me her recipe for the
pommes dauphines?
I asked her retreating back.

As Françoise cleared our plates once more, I broached the subject of cars with Serge. This roused him from his lethargy: he unwound from his slouched position. I said that given the expense of rental cars, I longed to have my own car in France. Verbalizing the wish for the first time gave it the semblance of reality. The problem, of course, I explained, was finding someone to take care of it during my long absences. Monsieur Bézamat immediately assumed that I was dropping a hint in his direction; there was no space in his garage, he said apologetically, as if an instance when he couldn’t help me was distressing. Serge suggested checking out garages in the area; something could be worked out.

Françoise set a platter of cheese, small wedges of what appeared to be leftovers, in the center of the table. The breadbasket was replenished and more wine (mine was being saved) poured. Suddenly Monsieur Bézamat leaned forward and planted his elbows on the table. To my utter astonishment, he asked me to describe my home in America. My heart flip-flopped; this was the most directly personal question he’d ever asked. I launched into a detailed description of my place in Brooklyn, the relationship of this borough to Manhattan, where I worked, the river,
The subway ride. My cats. It all seemed so far away. How could I make them see it, understand it? When I finished my account, he leaned back with a look of satisfaction.

When I truly thought the meal had come to an end, Madame brought forth a plain, flat prune cake. As everyone except Serge took helpings, I asked Françoise if she studied English in school. She blushed to the tips of her ears, probably anticipating my next question. Would she like to speak a little English with me? This I said in English, which reverberated oddly—out of place—in my ears. She laughed nervously and twisted her napkin. Suddenly I thought, Serge, Françoise, and Kati were unlikely to ever see America or even a world much different than the one they inhabited. They would probably marry, perhaps they would escape to a larger town, but a more foreign world would not attract them.

Monsieur brought out the walnut liqueur. We each had a tiny glass. The rest of the afternoon would be devoted to a siesta for us all, I said. Madame brought coffee.

As Françoise cleared the last of the dishes I reminded Madame of the potato-puff recipe. She shrugged. It was
très simple
. She went to a cupboard in the kitchen and set before me a box of something called Pomlesse. I was aghast, but tried not to show it. This was available in any grocery store, she said. All it needed was the addition of a little flour and water to thicken the mixture; she added an egg to transform them into
pommes dauphines
. I held the box studiously. Pomlesse, I deduced, was the catchy, singable name for “easy mashed potatoes”
(pomme
, for potato, perhaps combined with a corruption of
aise
, meaning ease). I said I would certainly try it myself.

I thanked them all effusively for the feast—we’d been at table over two hours. We stood on the porch for a moment
to drink in the fresh air. As I waved to the family from the car, I was suddenly stirred, wistful. In many ways the afternoon had been a strain—there was such a gulf between our separate lives—but the Bézamats had become family to me, and I felt my solitariness in leaving them. After I got home, I took a long walk.

The next day I picked up a box of Pomlesse. It had numbered instructions with simplistic illustrations in primary colors: a hand pouring from a measuring cup, a hand stirring the mixture in a bowl, and so on. A child could easily follow them. I religiously copied each step and added Madame’s egg. The consistency seemed right. I heated the oil—hot, Madame, had stressed—and dropped in globs of the mixture by heaping tablespoons. I stood and waited for the
pommes daupbines
to swell into golden puffs. They sizzled briefly. Then, through some mysterious chemistry, they rapidly disintegrated into something unrecognizable. Small granules floated around the oil and then quickly clogged together into a gummy, greasy mass.

Now, I consider myself something of a gourmet cook. I have impressed friends with sophisticated recipes; there is no challenge I wouldn’t attempt in my home kitchen. This failure was trifling, of course, but all the more unacceptable for being so. I was miffed—to be thwarted by a mere package mix—and reached for the trusty loaf of bread.

Commitment

D
uring their second visit in the spring of 1989, Marilyn and Charles and I were strolling along the road by the river in St-Céré after a morning of marketing. I came to an abrupt halt before one of the cars that were parked in a bumper-to-bumper file by the stone wall.

“That’s
the car for me,” I exclaimed. It was a
deux chevaux
—a two-horsepower—a classic model of Citroën, with a shiny black-and-red Art Deco design. Discontinued in 1990, the
deux chevaux
has always been the brunt of jokes among the French: open the windows if you want to pick up a little speed on the downhill—that sort of thing. As Richard Bernstein writes in his book
Fragile Glory
, the car is “a bit of the countryside priest, a bit of the nostalgic hippy, a bit of the far-out past in look.”