FERME!!!

So we had five days driving down to the Dordogne for a wedding and back again, avoiding motorways and wiggling our way through villages past pumpkin patches, acres and acres of dried maize and the remains of sunflower fields, brown and shrivelled. Like here it is apple season and everywhere you looked there were trees laden with fruit alongside neat rows of vines, the grapes black and squat in the golden sunlight.

One of my favourite pastimes ever is visiting a French hyper market, preferably when there is no time or cash limit in place and I can wander up and down each aisle at leisure, gathering up delights such as spotty cutlery, bowls, drinking chocolate, cornichons, shower gel, lemon verbena tea, jars of mustard ( dijon, honey and tarragon) and bags of mustard crisps, (possibly the best flavour of crisps ever invented, sadly not available in the UK) and of course endless amounts of cheese.

Why is it that everything looks and tastes more exciting simply because it’s abroad? Because in some cases it is. The fat buxom tomatoes and melons in the local market were exquisite, and the peaches, white and firm, bursting with juice were to die for. Then again, that far south, they have been grown in rich hot soil with sunshine to ripen them to bursting point, a recipe for delight. And just as well because you needed some consolation for the fact that thanks to the exchange rate you had just parted with the best part of a tenner for a small bag of fruit for the journey home

Ever since I was little I have always had a bit of a fantasy about French food, probably because I have always had a bit of a fantasy about cheese.. but I love things like French onion soup , cheese omelettes, steak frites, pork Normande ( with apples and brandy) and gallettes/crepes, creme caramel, plus obviously baguettes and croissants galore ( ideally with proper apricot or cherry jam) and hot chocolate preferably from a bowl.

Despite the wedding feast and our b and b breakfasts being delicious, the main theme of our culinary tour seemed to feature pizza. It seems that in France everyone loves pizza, and why wouldn’t they? Its just that somehow I felt a bit cheated. The first night we got away with it because it was the first night sort of thing, the second night it was more because we needed something to soak up the pre wedding Aperols and white wine, but frankly by the Sunday night we were only being polite.

As usual we had forgotten the rigid closing times of pretty much everything, meaning that a bustling market square can, as soon as the clock strikes 12.30pm transform itself into a deserted ghost town within minutes, as everyone shuts up shop, closes their shutters and retreats indoors leaving a bevy of slightly bemused and peckish tourists wondering where their lunch went.

It’s the same in the evenings too. On the Sunday evening the (only) village bar was teeming with customers enjoying a glass of wine in the golden sun and were in it for the long haul, though the owner had other ideas. . At precisely 6pm the manager announced that she was closing and promptly started taking in the chairs and closing the umbrellas. Though she had probably been on her feet since the early hours and no doubt was fed up with feeding and watering endless customers all day, given that in a months time or so there would be about 5 customers all weekend instead of 50 in one evening with money to spend, it did seem a little short sighted

On our drive back on Monday we determined that we would manage a good lunch stop somewhere. Our first attempt was greeted with astonishment by the rather large owner who greeted us by asking if we were there for the conference. When I said we were actually there to have lunch he looked incredulous and said ” Non! Ferme!” Three ( closed) cafes later we decided to buy a picnic in the supermarket next to a petrol station. Interestingly the petrol station ( which was a self service machine) also closed at 12.30pm. Do petrol pumps have to have a lunch break too? While T was filling up I went into the supermarket. I had literally managed to load one baguette, two tomatoes and some peaches into my trolley when the shutters went down and a rather fierce woman marched up, took the trolley off me and said very firmly.. yes, you’ve guessed it..the F word…and showed me the door.

By evening, we were pretty hungry and with the help of Google maps identified some nice looking places for supper, making sure we arrived in plenty of time. An hour and half later we had walked past every single one of them and every single one of them was closed. The only option was Burger King by the cinema, full of giggling teenagers on dates and wafts of Lynx. Luckily before giving ourselves over to onion rings and chicken Royale we spotted a tiny place that had lights on. Ok, it only served moules frites ( which as you know I won’t eat) and it smelt of an old people’s home but frankly in the greater scheme of things this was a mere blip. The chef even took it upon himself to rustle me up something that resembled a deep fried Findus frozen pancake full of wallpaper paste but hey, the chips were hot and the wine was cold.

And I already miss it as I sit at my kitchen table munching mustard crisps and brie accompanied inevitably by a pair of perfectly formed cournichons.

Vive la France !