Ken's Blog

French cuisine – Coq au Vin

Napoleon would have been proud – a chicken still on the bone – more a chick really – with all the vegetables, in a tin

Fabrice explained that the campsite’s name – ’Sans Souci’ – meant ’Without worry’. I hoped so. He presented me with a few pamphlets, amongst which was a guide to the Sarthe region in English. The marketing types had dug deep to find connections with l’Grande Britaine, suggesting the area had a ’slightly British air through its link with the Plantagenets, its taste for vintage and sports cars, gardens and golf.’ I dreaded to think what they’d done with the German version.

The site lay the outskirts of the small town of Fresnay-sur-Sarthe at the southern end of ’Parc naturel regional Normandie-Maine’. I’d visited Fresnay the previous night in the company of fellow Englishman Charles, and had explored a little more the following morning. It looked much like any other French town I’d passed through, and yet you felt it was a little different, perhaps a bit more conservative. I would return after breakfast for a further foray.

The guidebook advised that shops in France are normally closed on Sundays and Mondays. For the most part this seemed to have been ignored, but not in Frenay-sur-Sarthe. Just a few shops open. The boulangerie of course. There was a time in England when visiting the newsagents, emerging with a paper rolled under one’s arm, was all part of the daily ritual. In France they still do it, but it’s ’la boulangerie’ (’the bakers’), and it’s freshly baked baguettes. You can buy bread in supermarkets, but they look upon you with distain.

As for the other shops, you could buy flowers, a headstone or bottled gas. But no groceries. Still, you could at least commiserate with an early morning beer in the village square. I chose not to, but returned in the early evening for a final drink. A few elderly gentlemen sat inside. Some seemed familiar from earlier in the day. Photographs of famous French actresses – Catherine Deneuve, Rorry Schneider and Brigitte Bardot – hung on the walls, by now a little yellowed. A steady stream of younger customers came only to buy cigarettes. I finished my drink and left.

Charles had travelled extensively in France, mostly on his small folding bike. He was spending a few days camping in Fresnay-sur-Sarthe. We wandered into town in search of a beer. Jean ran a popular ’cafe tabac’. He knew Charles. We were welcomed as locals. It was still early – a little after eight on a Saturday evening – but people were already beginning to drift away.

Charles explained that opening hours could be a bit unpredictable. You had to look for the signs. Complementary nibbles with our drinks was good, but then Jean began to stack away the chairs out on the pavement. Ominous said Charles. When the shutters were lowered we knew it was time to leave.

Not yet nine, the town was empty. But one more drink seemed in order. Wandering around the back streets we eventually found a small bar still open. It had more the appearance of a bookshop than a drinking establishment. There was something slightly out of place about it, but exactly what eluded me.

I returned the following day for morning tea. The service, whilst impeccable, was overly fussy. I gazed at the book shelves searching for inspiration. A selection of biographies of tortured cinematic souls – Dietrich, Bergman, Garbo and the like. A French translation of ’The Art of War’ sitting uncomfortably alongside ’Religions du Monde’ (’Religions of the World’). An array of home style guides. I drank my tea, thanked the two gentlemen, and left.

Back in Blighty we tend to view Europe as an unfortunate appendage, a miscreant child that needs sorting out once in a while. Nice to visit. We seem to think our friends across the Channel would embrace all things European. There just isn’t enough leiderhosen or escargot to go around.

But I was beginning to sense resistance. I noticed it first in the village of St-Denis-de-Gastines. Prices in the village shop were prominently displayed in Euros, but underneath, in much smaller print, were the equivalent in French Francs. At first I thought it was an aberration – a futile local protest – but I encountered it again later in a decent sized branch of a national supermarket chain. Perhaps we have more in common with our European neighbours than we think.

By the time I’d returned from the washrooms the next morning, the Germans had left on manoeuvres. That left just Jean and I in our end of the camp. He was an experienced French camper. He had a hammer. A proper one. In England we’d call it ’Going equipped’. In France, it was the only way to get tent pegs into the ground.

’Municipal’ campsites are a curious French thing. Clean, functional, well-maintained with generous sized pitches, and at a price you really couldn’t quibble over. The clientele – at least the ones I could find – seemed reassuringly lower middle class. And yet you felt that in staying there you’d fallen on hard times. Perhaps it’s the locations – surrounded by industrial estates, or so far out of town even the budget airlines would balk a little…

Then there’s Mayenne – strictly speaking ’Camping municipal rue Saint Leonard’. You knew it was going to be good – the Germans were there in force. And they do love their excursions into France. A few beleaguered Brits huddled together at the far end of the site. I decided to join the Germans, largely because even I cringed when they spoke French. I felt much better.

It was late in the season for sun loungers, but there was WiFi under a small wooden canopy. The Germans sat in lines on the benches, laptops perched on the trestle tables. I watched for a while then picked up my towel and went for a shower.

The French are a remarkable polite nation. For example, exchanging pleasantries in supermarket queues isn’t viewed with quite the suspicion it often is in the UK. Indeed, here you simply wouldn’t conceive of not saying ’Bonjour’ or ’Au revoir’. Now, you would be forgiven for thinking that this is merely ’Have a nice day’ en Francais. But you’d be quite wrong.

It seems that all this politeness requires a good deal of effort to sustain it – everyday usage alone does not suffice. Indeed, at one campsite I couldn’t but overhear my neighbours practicing late into the night – quite loudly I thought – lots of ’Oui!’, ’Merci!’ and ’C’est magnifiique’. The enthusiasm of youth. I soon drifted off to sleep.

The enclave was soon behind me. I was back in France. And much happier. St Pierre-de-Plesguen is a pleasant enough place. The usual coiffeurs, bar tabacs, pharmacies, and pâtisseries of course. But otherwise unremarkable. It had started innocently enough. Stopping on the edge of the village to check the map, a white haired man came over to see if I needed help. He was curious. I explained about my venture, exchanged a few pleasantries and then we parted.

A little while later, as I sat relaxing in the village square, he reappeared, beckoning me over to the already familiar patisserie. I followed. He insisted on buying me a huge piece of gateaux. Accepting the gift graciously, I shook his hand warmly and left. It was soon clear that he was telling everyone in the square of my venture. A crowd was beginning to gather. I smiled, explained as succinctly as I could – ’Les Anglais!’ – added a few ’au revoirs’ and continued on my journey.

It seemed perfect. Manicured privet hedges, a friendly welcome, gleaming facilities. Helene, the campsite receptionist, greeted me with great enthusiasm – she too had a dream to cycle around the world and had clearly given it a lot of thought.

But something wasn’t quite right. A man was washing his already spotless caravan. I wandered into the bar. The young woman behind the counter looked surprised when I ordered in French.

They drifted in slowly at first. The odd football shirt, some shell suit bottoms, and the flip-flops. Soon exhausting their usual golfing repertoire, the alpha males amongst the group quickly moved on to trying to out do each other over who’d killed what with a .22 rifle. I was thankful there were no bison in France.

I wouldn’t have minded so much if they were going to sample the local cuisine in the adjoining restaurant. But no, they preferred to order take-aways – with frites of course – and retreat to their little piece of home. You wondered why they’d ever left. Les Anglaise.

I always feel very guilty going into pâtisseries. It’s not that I’m in any way embarrassed about purchasing ’eclair chocolat’. No, it’s the French obsession with gift wrapping cakes. They do it so beautifully, I mean ordinarily I’d keep the paper and use it for birthday presents.

The problem is that my phrase book lacks an expression for ’Please don’t gift wrap that succulent looking chocolate eclair as I’ll be scoffing it the moment I leave your shop’. So, instead, I’m obliged to scurry away, discreetly devouring my purchases and then quietly consigning the wrappings to the nearest waste bin.