A wedding and a funeral

As I wrote yesterday, my departure flight for Stockholm was scheduled on July 11th. I could have left a few days earlier, but then I would have missed my friend Mati’s wedding. My parents and I were invited to attend the church ceremony, which would take place on Saturday, July 9th at 3 p.m. at our village church. Later in the evening, there would be a banquet and a dance party, to which we had also been invited. As I have known Mati since we were three, I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

This picture is actually very appropriate
as my friend Mati's mother is Polish!
Photo: google images

The first weekend of the school holiday was uneventful. My mother and I started thinking about what to pack for my trip up north. What would the weather be like? Did I need summer clothes, or should I take some sweaters and a warm coat? On Monday, I went to the bank to exchange some Belgian francs (this was pre-euro days) for Swedish Kröner. In the evening, my father came home and handed me my plane ticket. “Sweden here I come.” was still ringing in my head … less than a week to go!

And then it happened. On Tuesday morning I was awoken by my mother storming into my room … in complete panic. “Your grandmother just passed away.” she said. For as long as I can remember my father’s parents have lived with us. My grandfather died in the late sixties, but my grandmother, who was then in her eighties, was still living with us in 1977.

The rest of the week was hectic; with my parents arranging the funeral, friends and relatives coming to our house to offer their condolences, me packing and at the same time asking myself whether this was the appropriate moment to go on a holiday. I was also wondering whether it would be fitting to attend a wedding when my grandmother had just died. In the end, it all worked out rather well. The funeral took place at 11 a.m. on Saturday, July 9th . In the afternoon I attended Mati’s church wedding. I went alone, while my parents stayed with the funeral guests. I didn’t go to the banquet or the dance party, though.

The next Monday, my father drove me to the airport. I felt somewhat guilty leaving my parents so soon after my grandmother’s death and funeral, but both my mother and father insisted that I should stick to my initial plans. So off I went.

Having a free ticket implied that I wasn’t sure about having a seat on the plane, although my father had booked well in advance. People holding a paying ticket always get priority. At the check-in desk at Brussels airport, the clerk said that there was no problem for the first part of the trip, Brussels – Copenhagen, as there were only 12 passengers. However, he couldn’t guarantee that I would have a seat for the second part, Copenhagen – Stockholm …

“Sweden, here I come” might very well become “Copenhagen, here I am and here I stay”! …

(yet more to come)

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How I came to visit Sweden

In 1977, I was in my second year at university, training to become an interpreter. In those days the full program took four years: two to obtain a Batchelor’s degree and two more to get the Master’s certificate. Today the program takes five years, with an extra year during which you specialize in a specific field: economics, law, sciences, etc.

My original goal was to become an interpreter, not a translator. During the first two years of the program, all students – future translators and interpreters – take the same classes, though. At the end of the second year, and providing you score at least 70% at the interpreter exam, both options are open to you: translator as well as interpreter. If you score less than the required 70%, translator is the only option. The second year is therefore a very demanding and crucial one. The program comprises 38 hours per week. In my schedule, with the language combination English/Italian, Tuesday was the worst day, with an early start at 8 a.m. It went on almost non-stop (except for a short lunch break of 45 minutes) till 7 p.m. Since then, and even today, I hate Tuesdays!

In 1973, while I was still in college and during my second language holiday in England, I had met a Swedish boy called Mats, who was also staying with my guest family in Kingsdown. We had a great time together and even were summer sweethearts for two consecutive years. But we were probably too young and living too far apart (Brussels – Stockholm: 1500 km) for the love to last. However, we continued writing to each other and became very good friends. In his letters he used to urge me to come and visit him in Sweden, as he wanted to show me around Stockholm.

I had always liked the idea, but my parents thought that I was too young. Until 1977 when, to my surprise, my father agreed on one condition: I could go and visit my friend if I successfully passed all my exams in June. He knew that I was finding the second year at university extremely difficult and rightly guessed that a trip to Sweden would be an excellent incentive.

In order to make it even more tempting, he made me fix the dates: from July 11th till July 25th. I wrote a long letter to Mats, asking him if this suited him and his parents. He said it was perfect, as his brother Per would be in England in July and I could have his room. My father, who at the time was a flight engineer with Sabena, was entitled to free tickets for himself and his family. So he booked a return flight for me from Brussels to Stockholm via Copenhagen for the above dates.

 Nov. 7th, 2001:
Mismangement by the joint venture partner Swissair,
led to the bankruptcy of Sabena.
This Airbus 340 from Cotonou and Abidjan,
flight  SN 690, was the last plane of the fleet to return to its homebase in Brussels.
Here it is given an honorary salute by the airport's firebrigade.
One of the pilots on this flight later committed suicide ...
The bankruptcy of Sabena is one of the biggest social dramas in Belgian history, with more than 17.000 people directly or indirectly losing their job.

(Photo: google images)

Needless to say that I studied more and harder than I had ever done before. And I made it! On Friday, July 1st I got my Batchelor’s certificate and was even offered the option to take the interpreter classes. I had just ten more days to go with only one thought in my mind: “Sweden, here I come!”

(more to come)

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The Swedish connection

Last week I received a picture postcard from my longtime friend Mati. She was spending her vacation in Stockholm, Sweden and seemed quite impressed by the beauty of the city. And she's so right!

Her card reminded me of the vacation I spent in Stockholm in 1977. In 1973, whilst staying with my English guest family in Kingsdown, Kent, UK I met a Swedish boy who at the time lived with his parents in Nacka, one of the Swedish capital suburbs. And that's how, in 1977, I had the opportunity to make this fabulous trip to Sweden. During my two weeks stay I visited Stockholm and a fair part of Sweden and Norway.

I know my blog title indicates that I want to be in and write about France ... but this Scandinavian experience is really something I would like to share with you. Interested anyone?

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It's a dog's life!

I wonder which of these two dogs has the toughest life ...

This weathered specimen which for the last five hundred years has been guarding the entrance to the Logis Royal in Loches?

OR

This Paris Hilton's pet look-alike,
which we saw carried around Amboise by its master?

I suppose his legs were too short to climb all those 'awful' steps in Amboise castle.

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Weird, weirder, weirdest

In Belgium, July and August are the quietest months of the year. Many people, especially those who have school-going children take their annual vacation during these two months. For those of us who work during that period, it’s the best time of year to drive to and from work as there is very little traffic.

Early this morning it struck me that the almost empty roads had been taken over by crows. Audaciously they were hopping and strutting on and by the side of the road, looking for food. Ever since I’ve seen Hitchcock’s movie ‘The Birds’, I find crows to be very creepy creatures. But apparently not everybody shares this feeling. 

Some years ago when we were staying at our favourite hotel in Tours, the landlady told us a very strange story about some of her patrons. They had arrived with quite a large number of suitcases and trunks. Before coming down to dinner on the first evening of their stay the woman had called the reception to ask whether it was possible to have a babysitter for the evening. This had slightly surprised the girl at the reception desk, as she was not aware of the couple having a young child staying with them. She hadn’t asked any questions though, and had called the hotel’s babysitter.

Shortly after the babysitter had gone up to the room the couple came down. Several times during dinner either the man or the woman went upstairs to check whether everything was alright. The next morning the babysitter told the following unbelievable yet true story.

Apparently two of the large suitcases had contained the couple’s collection of cuddly toys all representing … crows. They had spent the best part of their first afternoon at the hotel unpacking the crows and placing them all over the rooms of their hotel suite. There were well over a hundred of them and they all had been packed in individual vacuum-sealed plastic bags.

Photo: www.guidestobuy.com

The woman had instructed the babysitter to entertain the crows by singing to them and caressing them, making sure not to forget the ones in the bathroom so that they wouldn’t get jealous of the ones in the bedroom and the sitting room. At first nobody would believe the poor babysitter. The presence of the crows was however confirmed later that morning by the maid, who almost had a fit when she walked into the room to do the beds and the daily cleaning. Next the other members of the hotel staff had gone up one by one to have a look at the strange set-up.

In the evening the couple once again requested the services of the babysitter. Although the girl was available the landlady lied and said that she was looking after some other guests’ baby. As a result the couple took turns to come down and have their dinner. To everybody’s surprise they didn’t ask for the babysitter on the third evening and they had their meal together in the dining room. Had they come to there senses? No, they had … bought a baby phone, which lay on the table throughout the whole meal. On the other end of the baby phone you could hear the sound of a tape recorder playing lullabies. When the tape stopped, either the man or the woman went up to check on the crows and to insert a new tape into the machine.

Needless to say that the whole hotel staff felt relieved when the next morning the couple packed up their weird flock of crows and moved on to their next destination.

P.S. It's not so much the fact that the couple collected crows that surprises me - after all I collect beavers! It's more the fact that they took so many with them on their holiday and even paid a babysitter to look after them!

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Chili con carne

Last night I had homemade chili con carne for supper. I had prepared it on Sunday afternoon and let it sit and rest in the fridge for 24 hours. I like a nice chili con carne every now and then. I’ve developed my own simple version, based on some recipes I found in magazines and cooking sites on the internet.

I bet my version has little or nothing to do with the real thing. At the risk of offending any Mexican or Latin American readers, here’s my Belgian version of chili con carne.

My personal interpretation of a chili con carne

What you need (serves 2):

200 gr. of minced beef

2 handfuls of dried red kidney beans
1 large onion, preferably a red one
1 small tin of tomato puree or 400 gr. of chopped tinned tomatoes
a teaspoon of soft paprika powder
a teaspoon of Mediterranean herbs (thyme, oregano, rosemary, …)
a dash of Worcestershire sauce
a dash of Tabasco
pepper & salt
½ a cube of chicken stock
a small glass of water

This is what you do:

Soak the beans overnight in a large bowl of water. The next day, peel and roughly chop the onion. Let it sweat in a deep pan. When it’s translucent, add the minced beef in small batches. Bake the meat at a high heat, while you continue stirring and crushing it. If it gets too dry or starts sticking to the bottom of the pot, add a dash of water. Add the tomato puree or chopped tinned tomatoes. Next, season to taste using the paprika, the Mediterranean herb mixture, the Worcestershire sauce, Tabasco and chicken stock cube. Drain the beans and add them to the pan. If you are using tomato puree, you might have to add some water at this point. If you’re using chopped tinned tomatoes, their juice will probably do the trick.

Turn down the heat and let the chili simmer for at least two hours. Stir every half hour or so, allowing the ingredients and the flavours to blend together. After two hours, put the pan aside and let the chili rest for 24 hours. The next day, reheat it gently and serve with a slice of whole grain bread, a chilled beer or a glass of robust red wine.

My mouth is watering while I’m typing this as I still have a generous portion of chili con carne waiting for me in the fridge … It'll make a nice supper!

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Meet Hector

I wouldn’t call him my NEW flat mate as he has been around for some years now. Although I’m not allowed to keep pets in the apartment, I’ve managed to smuggle him in and keep him hidden from the other tenants.

How come? Take a closer look and tell me what makes Hector so special and yet so inconspicuous?

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A quiet evening

Our chambre d’hôtes in Chantilly was definitely one of the nicest places we’ve ever stayed in. After our walk in the garden, we went in and took a long relaxing shower.

Next it was time to have our picnic supper. Our hostess had kindly offered to put our charcuterie and cheese in her fridge and when my friend went into the kitchen to collect it, the landlord invited us to have a drink with him. Apparently, during last night’s cooking lesson the guest chef had prepared sangria for all those present. However, it had turned out that many of participants didn’t drink alcohol and now the landlord found himself with two litres of sangria to drink on his own.

Click to enlarge in case you want to know the telephone number,
as it is wise to book in advance.

We accepted his invitation but asked if we could postpone it till after we had had our supper, as we had just had the Champagne and felt rather hungry. This was no problem for our kind host, who also added that we could use the table under the parasol by the kitchen door. He would join us later, after we had finished eating. When we opened up the packet of ham we had bought in Triel, the yellow Labrador that had been lounging around whole afternoon now eagerly ran up to the table, wagging its tail. He put his snout on one the chairs and – with begging eyes – looked up to my friend who was cutting the ham. We asked the landlord if was okay to give the dog a piece of ham. It wasn’t a problem, but he said that we should turn the dog away if it was bothering us. It wasn’t and we really enjoyed its company.

Pretty soon we were also joined by the couple’s five-year-old daughter, who was sheer joy to have around. She was continuously babbling to herself and singing in her tiny little voice that we had heard earlier on the speakerphone. From time to time she would walk up to the table and ask questions like “Where are your from?” “What’s your name?” “How long are you staying?” and so on. At one point she went to pick some daisies and brought them to me. “These are for you.” She said, handing me the little bunch of tiny flowers. The stems had all gone soggy as she had been firmly clasping them in her sticky hand.

Every now and then the landlord stuck his head out of the kitchen window, urging his daughter to leave us alone. We said she wasn’t bothering us at all. As soon as we had finished our supper, he came out, holding a large jug of sangria and three glasses. ‘I’m so glad to have someone to share this with.” he said. By the smile on his face you could tell that his words were genuine.

We spent the rest of the evening with our hosts who explained a little about their business and their plans to build an extra guesthouse with three more rooms at the far end of the car park. The plans were ready and the landlord, who was a contractor, had already started digging out the foundations. Recently, however, he had received a letter from the town’s council announcing that the building permission had been refused by the ‘departement’ as the land was registered as being meant for agricultural purposes. He had started a legal procedure to have the purpose of the land changed and he had good hopes that it would work, but … it would take time. In the meantime business continued with the two rooms he already had.

He also informed us that the people staying in the room next to ours where in Chantilly to attend a wedding and that they would probably come in very late. He said not to worry if we saw the lights outside go on as they switched on automatically when someone approached the house at night.

It was nice of him to warn us as the neighbours came in very late – or should I say early – and I was awoken by the sound of their footsteps on the gravel. If he hadn’t told us about it in advance, I would certainly have thought that there was a prowler sneaking around the house. When we opened the curtains the next morning, there were two tiny rabbits grazing on the lawn beneath our window. Could these have been some of the rabbits that race at the ‘lapinodrome’ in Chantilly? Probably not.

We had a very nice breakfast in the large and fully equipped kitchen. Our hostess had made a batch of fresh ‘madeleine’ cakes, while our host had gone out to buy fresh baguettes, Brie and Camembert cheese and an assortment of charcuterie. By the time we left, the shutters of our neighbours’ room were still tightly closed. We said goodbye to our kind hosts and wished them luck with their building plans.

I highly recommend this chambre d’hôtes, but make sure to book in advance as – for the time being – there are only two rooms.

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This is where the dog and swan come in ...

‘La Ferme de la Canardière’, the chambre d’hôtes in Chantilly, is located at the end of a narrow street, of which the first part looks like a 19th century industrial district. Both sides are lined with red brick almost windowless buildings and a connecting covered footbridge on the second floor. Halfway the buildings give way to the countryside, with wide open fields on one side and woodlands on the other.

As I mentioned yesterday, the gates leading into the grounds of the chambre d’hôtes were firmly closed. We rang the bell twice but nothing happened. It was well over five o’clock, the agreed time of arrival. We sat around for a while hoping that someone would turn up soon. Fifteen minutes later, however, we were still waiting. We decided to give it one more try before returning to town to have another drink. We rang the bell again, and suddenly the speakerphone came alive. “Oui?” a very tiny voice enquired. We gave our name and explained that we had booked a room for the night. “Bien sûr”, the little voice said “Je vais ouvrir le portail. Reculez la voiture s.v.p. car le portail s’ouvre vers l’extérieur ». (Of course. I’ll open the gate, but please back up the car first as the gates open towards you.)

We returned to the car and watch how the gates silently opened. Behind them was a long gravel drive with at the end a sharp left turn towards a recently built ‘longère’ (long, low farmhouse) with a lovely terrace facing south and overlooking the fields. We drove to the car park which was located at the back of the house. There we were greeted by a slender woman in her early forties. Was it her voice we had heard on the speakerphone?

No it wasn’t. When we said that no one had answered the bell when we rang it the first two times, she explained that she had been out picking up her two youngest children at school. Apparently, there was another private way in at the back of the property by which she had arrived just a few minutes before the last time we had rang the bell. It was her five year old daughter we had heard on the speakerphone. Hence the little tiny voice.

Sunny terrace

She showed us to our room, which was located on the ground floor. It was a very nice, spacious room with two doors opening unto the terrace we had seen while driving up to the house. The deck chairs and parasols on the terrace looked very inviting. When we walked out to admire the view, we almost stumbled over a large yellow Labrador that was dozing in the afternoon sun. He lazily opened one eye, sniffed loudly and went back to sleep. Some guard dog!

Beware of the dog!

We spent the rest of the afternoon sitting on the terrace, sipping Champagne and nibbling freshly made mini toasts and homemade eggplant caviar and olive tapenade. The lady of the house was quite a chef and we learned that twice a week she organized cooking lessons, inviting the chef from a nearby Michelin star restaurant. The nibbles were leftovers from last night’s cooking session and they came free with the Champagne, which we had ordered and paid for.

Idyllic view, except for the tractor behind the trees!

We strolled through the garden and admired the little pond, where a white swan was idyllically floating on the still surface of the water. In a paddock near the edge of the woodland, a man was training a tall auburn coloured horse. The place was very peaceful and we were looking forward to a quiet evening and night.

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Racing rabbits

When writing yesterday’s post about our nightly abbey adventure, I got so carried away that I forgot to tell you about our 2009 visit to Chantilly.

Chantilly is not only famous for its castle but also for its ‘Musée Vivant du Cheval’. It is located across the road from the château in a very stately building that could well be a palace. As I’m not really into horses, I’ve never visited the museum, nor attended any of the recurrent horseshows.

As you probably know Chantilly also has its own horse track where important international races are run. But did you know that the town also has a ‘lapinodrome’? What’s a ‘lapinodrome’? Don’t laugh … ‘Lapin’ being French for rabbit, a ‘lapinodrome’ is a miniature race track for rabbits. It’s located in the gardens of Chantilly castle and a big hit with children. Every day during tourist season at 3.30 p.m. a hurdle race is run by several competitive rabbits. The rabbits live and are trained in the nearby ‘rabbit village’

Photo: www.mylinepolo.com

I wish we could have visited the ‘lapinodrome’ and see the daily race, but it was well over 4 p.m. by the time we arrived in the castle’s grounds after our meal in Triel-sur-Seine. Although it was too early to go to the chambre d’hôtes, we decided to go and look for it before driving into the centre of Chantilly to buy a baguette. Following the instructions of Mauricette – our GPS, remember – we drove through a fine residential district with beautiful 19th century villas with large gardens. As Chantilly is less than an hour from the centre of Paris and even less from the ‘La Défense’ business district, I suppose most of the villas are owned by or let to affluent businessmen and top managers.

We enjoyed our drive until we realized that we turning around in circles. We therefore decided to ignore Mauricette’s instructions and drive straight to the town’s centre and ask for directions. We parked in the main square and walked into a bakery to get the baguette for our supper. We asked the saleslady about the chambre d’hôtes. As she didn’t live in Chantilly she was unable to help us. She suggested we’d ask one of the policemen who where writing parking tickets in the square. When we followed her advice and mentioned the name of the chambre d’hôtes to the policemen, they both looked puzzled. “Never heard of.” one of them said. When we mentioned the name of the street, they simultaneously beamed: “Ah oui, ça on connaît.” (Ah yes, that we know) and then started discussing which would be the best way to get there. They ended up by sending us in opposite directions and a final advice: “Maybe you should ask in the bar across the street!” Right!

Having no other options, we walked over to the bar and sat down at a table on the sidewalk terrace. When the landlord came out to take our order, we enquired about the chambre d’hôtes. The man had heard of it, but wasn’t sure about its location. “I’ll look it up for you.” he promised. It took a while before he returned with our drinks … and the solution to our problem. He had looked it up on a map in the local telephone directory. It turned out that our destination was at less than 500 metres from where we were.

We enjoyed our drinks sitting in the afternoon sun, before returning to the car and driving to our chambre d’hôtes. Thanks to the landlord’s directions we had no trouble finding it. However, when we arrived the gates were closed and remained closed even after ringing the bell twice …

(to be continued)

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Voles, horses, ducks, swans and dogs – 3

After our Savoyard meal at ‘La Grange du Petit Rat Mulot’ we set out to our final destination for the day: a Bed and Breakfast called ‘La Ferme de la Canardière’ on the outskirts of the lovely town of Chantilly.

June 2009: the countryside
somewhere between Triel-sur Seine and Chantilly

I had been to Chantilly once before in November 2005 when I accompanied a colleague of mine on a scouting trip in order to find a location for a conference. My colleague has a soft spot for ‘grandeur’ and she thought that the Château of Chantilly, the nearby Royaumont Abbey and Mont Royal Hotel would be the perfect décor for this high class event. It was on this occasion that I visited the Château of Chantilly and the ‘authentic’ kitchen of the famous 17th century chef Vatel, which can be found in one of the castle’s outbuildings.

As the seminar and conference would take several days, we were looking for different locations where the participants could have their meals. The hotel was one of them and the Vatel kitchen another. However, the gala dinner on the last evening was to take place in the historic settings of the 'Abbaye de Royaumont'. During our scouting trip we were to check out the abbey’s infrastructure and pre-taste the dinner the caterer had suggested. As I have the reputation of being a fine gourmet – at least that is what my colleagues think – my presence was required to evaluate the gastronomic quality of the meal. So you see, this scouting trip had nothing to do with my actual skills as a copywriter and translator.

The trip took two days and we stayed in a hotel in the centre of Chantilly. As the abbey is located in the nearby Forest of Chantilly, we had made a little reconnaissance trip in the afternoon in order not to get lost in the dark later that evening. My colleague has the nasty habit of driving like a stuntwoman. Even at the wheel she never stops talking and waving her hands about, stabilizing the wheel with her knee. Or she’s rummaging through the handbag on her lap, looking for her reading glasses. Which of course she doesn’t need when driving! During our afternoon reconnaissance trip she managed to ignore a red light as she was too busy explaining the splendour of the Chantilly castle in the distance.

You can imagine that I wasn’t particularly looking forward to our little nocturne outing! Moreover, it was a dark and stormy night when we set out for our sample dinner at the abbey. We got lost, of course … and drove around in the pitch dark night for twenty minutes before finding the narrow one-lane road that led into the Forest. The wind was howling through the trees, destabilizing the car every now and then. When we finally arrived at the abbey, we found it brightly lit. Judging by the large number of cars that were parked by the entrance other companies also used the abbey for their events.

We were shown into a small austere room – formerly used as a monk’s cell, we supposed – where one single table was laid for two. A young waiter silently and solemnly brought in the first course and two bottles of wine, a white and a red one. The starter was a ‘Salade de gésiers de canard’ (a green salad with duck’s necks, stomachs and other unidentifiable bits of the duck’s digestive system). There was also a small slice of foie gras, which was about the only edible bit. Next came a piece of beef with a bundle of green beans wrapped in some fried bacon, one baby carrot and a generous helping of mashed sweet potatoes. The meat, which almost required a hacksaw to cut, came with a red wine sauce, which was fine. So was the potato mash. I can’t remember what the dessert was, as by the time it was served, we were too distracted by the howling wind and the rattling windows to really concentrate on our meal.

To make a long story short, this dinner wasn’t fit for a group of important clients. My colleague, who’s always very outspoken, was even more so after the wine she had had. She summoned the chef and gave him a piece of her mind. But the ultimate humiliation had yet to come. She rummaged through her famous handbag again and pulled out the recipe of a starter based on prawns and oranges. “Here, this is what I want you to make for our gala dinner. You just try it out, and I’ll come back next week to taste it”, she said. I felt really embarrassed and sorry for the chef who was too flabbergasted to react.

When we left the abbey the receptionist told us to drive carefully. “When a storm is blowing, frightened deer and wild boar tend to cross the road. Make sure to drive slowly and limit your speed to 30 km per hour.” she said. An advice my colleague respected for the first 50 metres …

Well, we got back to hotel without any further incidents and went straight to bed. The whole experience had been very stressing and I didn’t sleep a wink. The next morning we had one last rendezvous with the caretaker of the Château to make the final arrangements for the dinner in the Vatel kitchen. By one o’clock we were back at the Belgian border where my friend was waiting for me. It was only when I was safely sitting in his car, driving in the direction of Brussels with him at the wheel that I could finally relax!

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Voles, horses, ducks, swans and dogs – 2

What happened before ...

At precisely half past one we were back at ‘La Grange du Petit Rat Mulot’. The place was in full swing … All the tables were still taken except one, which had a little card ‘reservé’ on it. When our young hostess saw us come in, she immediately showed us to this table and handed us the menu card. The party of twelve we’d seen earlier had just finished their aperitif. They were talking rather loudly, and from what we could hear we deducted that the tall man sitting at the head of the table was the school principal who had invited the teaching corps to celebrate the end of the school year.

June 2009: La Grange du Petit Rat Mulot in Triel-sur-Seine
(click on the link to read the menu card)

‘La Grange’ presents itself as a ‘savoyard’ cheese restaurant. The menu card is very eclectic though, including tartars, special hamburgers, cheese and charcuterie boards, ‘pierrades’ (meat grilled on a hot stone) salads, etc. It’s inspired by the current chef’s grandmother who had the very first ‘Grange du Petit Rat Mulot’ in the mountain canton of Vaud.

My friend had an unusual Beef Tartar Savoyard (minced beef with a topping of melted Reblochon cheese and garlic) and I had a Hamburger Savoyard (open bun with a hamburger topped with melted Reblochon cheese and thin slices of crispy grilled ham, onions and tomatoes). As usual we had a bottle of Saumur-Champigny.

A Savoyard hamburger ... What a whopper!

Service was quick and friendly. In less than no time the girl arrived with our order and the plates were … huge! As soon as she put them on the table, we knew that we could never eat all the food that was on them. In spite of their contemporary presentation, they were clearly inspired by the nourishing and rustic meals people living in the rugged Savoyard Mountains used to eat in the 19th and the beginning of the 20th century.

At a nearby table some businessmen were talking about working conditions in France and Belgium. I'm not ashamed to say that we listened in on their conversation while we were struggling with our meal. Pretty soon it became clear that one of the men was Belgian. When the businessmen wanted to order dessert, the girl said that all the desserts has been sold, but that she would see if the chef could quickly come up with something. The men looked and sounded overly disappointed, which we attributed to the wine they had had with their meal.

However, when five minutes later the girl returned with a big birthday cake with candles on it, they all started singing ‘Happy Birthday to you’, except for the Belgian businessman, who immediately turned red in the face, looking very embarrassed. The whole ‘there-being-no-more-a-dessert-thing’ had clearly been pre-arranged by the other men and the waitress, to surprise their Belgian colleague. When the singing stopped, all the other patrons, including us, applauded, which made the poor man look even more ill at ease.

By then we had finished our lunch. I’m ashamed to say that we left one third of our meal. This seemed to worry the waitress when she came to clear the table. “Is there a problem? Didn’t you like it?’ she enquired worriedly. We assured her that the meal had been excellent but simply too copious for us ‘city folks’.

(to be continued)

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Voles, horses, ducks, swans and dogs - 1

The other day Walt – WCS, another American in France – proudly announced that Bertie, the cat, had caught and brought home his first mouse. Seeing the photo of the dead rodent, Susan – Days on the Claise – corrected him and said that Bertie hadn’t caught a mouse but a vole. In Flemish/Dutch a vole is called a ‘woelmuis’.

According to my friend the French for ‘vole’ is ‘rat mulot’ … although he isn’t quite sure. But never mind that. What’s important is that the name ‘rat mulot’ brought back some happy memories from last year’s Loire Valley trip.

On our way back home we usually stay overnight in the Champagne or Paris region. Last year, I had found a cute chambre d’hôtes in the ‘Prince’s town’ of Chantilly, just north of Paris. To get there, we could either drive straight through Paris – something I like to avoid – or take an alternative route leading us around the French capital by either the east or the west side. The west seemed the shortest and most logical option. Our itinerary led us through a lovely riverside village, called Triel-sur-Seine, which peacefully lays in one of the meanders of the Seine River.

A quick internet search revealed that Triel had several restaurants, two of which looked very attractive. The first was called ‘Auberge Saint Martin’, near the village church. It was described as ‘gastronomic’ and the restaurant’s website showed some photos of a very elegant and classy interior. We were tempted … Time has shown however that we are never very hungry after a week in the Loire Valley where food and wine are abundant and excellent! So we decided to go for the more relaxed atmosphere and everyday-kind-of-food of a place called ’La Grange du Petit Rat Mulot’.

Mauricette, our faithful GPS, had some trouble finding Triel. Luckily, we had a roadmap and two pair of eyes to find our way through the jungle of signs that hang over the multi-lane roads around Paris.

June 2009: the 'Mairie' of Triel-sur-Seine

Triel-sur-Seine turned out to be a charming village, or should I say small town. ‘La Grange’ was located on the main road right across the ‘Mairie’. We parked the car in front of a butcher’s shop and went in to buy some ‘charcuterie’ for our picnic supper later that day at the chambre d’hôtes. While we were putting our purchases in the cool box in the car, we saw a group of twelve people crossing the road and pushing the restaurant’s door. By the time we arrived, all the tables had been taken. We were greeted by a very friendly girl who said that, unfortunately for us, the restaurant was full. My friend then produced his most charming smile and said: “But we’ve come all the way from Brussels to eat in your restaurant.” Somehow the girl seemed to believe him and said that we could come back in 45 minutes. As soon as someone left, she would hold the table for us.

Forty five minutes isn’t a very long time and we were in no hurry as the landlord of the chambre d’hôtes didn’t expect us before 5 p.m. We therefore decided to have an aperitif in the nearby village bar.

(to be continued)

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A pie or a creepy town?

On our return journey from our annual trip to the Loire Valley my friend and I used to stay overnight in the Champagne or Paris region. This year, with my friends B. and J.L., we didn’t make this customary stop and drove straight from Vouvray to Brussels, with a brief pit stop north of Paris. We therefore missed the town of Pithiviers in the French Loiret department.

Saying ‘missed’ is a bit of an overstatement, as I’ve never been particularly fond of this little town. I guess the reason is a purely subjective one, as we’ve never really taken the time to stop and visit Pithiviers. Why then do I have this aversion towards this town?

It can’t be because of its culinary specialty by the same name. A Pithivier (without the 's')  is – and I quote - a round, enclosed pie usually made with puff pastry. The pie is traditionally finished with a distinct shine to the top of the crust, either by egg-washing or by the caramelizing of a thin layer of sugar at the end of the cooking process.

Whilst the filling of the Pithivier is often a sweet frangipane (optionally combined with fruit such as cherry or plum), savoury pies with a meat or cheese filling can also be labelled as Pithivier. It is used on English menus as a pretentious way of saying 'pie'. It is commonly assumed that the dish originates from the town of Pithiviers, France (source: Wikipedia).

No, my aversion has all to do with a book I’ve read many, many years ago for the first time and which has become one of my favourite novels since. It’s by the English born (1899) author Nevil Shute who after WWII moved to Australia, where he died in 1960. In 1942, while the war was at full blast, he wrote ‘Pied Piper’, about an elderly English gentleman holidaying in the French Jura in May 1940. In a desperate attempt to get back to England during those hectic first days of the war, he found himself trapped between the retreating Allied troops and the invading Nazi army.

The paperback I bought in Deal - Kent in the seventies ...
The cover is damaged ...
proof of the many times I've read and enjoyed this novel.

During his epic journey, John Howard, the main character, meets several people who ask him to take their children into safety. He also picks up a little boy who is left an orphan when his parents are killed in an air raid. In a small French town he finds a three year old boy who has been stoned by the local population. Because they don’t understand the little (Dutch) boy, they suspect him from being a Nazi spy. And that awful town is … Pithiviers. In the end John safely makes it back to England with the eight children he has ‘collected’ along the way.

Nevil Shute’s description of the gloomy atmosphere in Pithiviers after it has been raided by the invading soldiers, the hostility of its population towards the little stranger and the whole context in which Howard and his little group of refugees discover Pithiviers leaves very little to the imagination. You can almost see the scenes before your eyes and smell the people’s hatred and the little Dutch boy’s fear.

And that is why thinking of Pithiviers – which in reality is probably just another friendly provincial French town - gives me the creeps. Goes to show that a novel can make or break the reputation of a town or even a person!

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