French Cuisine

 

The chinking of the glasses says far more of friendship than any morsel touching our lips, but once it had love resonated on our palates.
I left for France when I was 24 and had no idea I would fall in love the land, it's people, it's wine and food.
I landed in Bordeaux by sheer accident. I'd met Gary in Quiberon, Brittany and learned that they needed any hand to pick grapes. For 4 grueling days I ventured along the coastal route on my bike as fast as my legs would peddle, while Gary followed by train. One night in a lighthouse youth hostel, a group of young designers were meeting to celebrate their friends wedding anniversary and being the only other resident invited me to join them.

Lavish colors, fabrics, textures and designed painted the palate of the clothing, intricate necklines, lace adorned each garment. I revelled in their schooling wishing to attend. It was here that I knew my love for design was ignited. With a father as an architect, design was in my blood, he'd taken me to myriads of cathedrals, mosques, temples, castles, designed my own clothing, and tasted some of the world's best food, and sat and watched and calmness of the sun sinking into the ocean.
Leonel, the manager of the vineyard wasn't happy with my late arrival and rather aluff at my lack of working permit. I heaved my bike off the tiny boat that separated, the Isle de Chateau de Margeaux, a tiny island spanning 1 km. long and 500 meters square, and the mainland, a mere 150 feet away. I'd read a book on route and been so disillusioned by the horrid conditions they described, no showers, no food, short breaks, long hours, and low pay, why would I endure this agony. I was on holidays, I didn't need the money. My thought was, if they fire me, well I'll continue into the Pyrenees and Spain.

Catherine Lavoire stood opposite me, with a boyish smile, hidden from the vines that reached head height with the grapes situated waste height. The first lunch break I had no idea what to do, they had already been working for 1 day when I arrived. Leonel invited us into the shed where they repaired the trucks. I was astonished, a u-shaped table set for 25 people. When Marie, his wife served up some salad, I wafted it down twice the speed of anyone there, and took doubles when she offered. If this was my only meal, lettuce, it better be good. I'd already missed breakfast and how was I to get dinner stuck on an island. Then as my plate was cleared she served soup, that too, I took 2 servings. Just when my eyes were adjusting she brought out our entrée, plus a fruit and cheese platter and then dessert. I rolled out of the garage and landed at the bottom of an apple tree. I passed out within seconds, not having drank much prior to this, the glass of wine I had a lunch did me in. When the bell rang to commence work, I was two sheets to the wind, dreaming of crème brulee, tart au pomme, and poison gratine.

After 14 days the rains came and we needed to take a small break. Francois de Mecquenem, Leonel cousin asked if I'd like to see the ocean. En route he stopped along the Gironde pulled up to a man shucking oysters took out his "Laguiole" a folding knife and handed me oysters in lemon juice. He was smitten....

The rain started pounding down as the evening approached and we ended back at his parents home just outside of Bordeaux on a tiny acreage. They were concert pianist and accountants and I looked like a drowned rat as they served up soup, salad and an entre of poison fuille. We discussed religion, politics and the plight of France, every possible topics you should never discuss. I was in heaven, as polities wasn't in my blood. His mother picked up that I wasn't conjugating my verb correctly, how French.

His mother had baguettes delivered every morning, like my mom had milk,  flooding my childhood memories of the smallness of life. The comforts that I had running to the milk shoot and checking to see if it was there, or peering out the window searching up and down the street for the milk truck. The thought of plastic, or cardboard milk containers lacks romance, lacks authenticity, and mostly lacks a sense of connection to nature.

Days after, back on the vineyard the French workers sang songs from wars gone by, even kids as young as 18, and we'd listen, smile, and admire how truly bonded they were as a country. Then someone would find a cluster of white grapes as hands clamoured over the vines to taste the succulent sweet miracles that appeared in a pinot noir vineyard.

As I observed the men and women of France, they had a collective gratitude for the smallest of conversation. Yes, they worked for money, yet their livelihood was about relationships that nourished their souls during the day, especially around a meal, and walking back to their cars, they were never short for words of encouragement.