Iris
As I pick my way carefully down our little lane, avoiding rocky outcrops and sharp stones, I notice a few pale green shoots and swelling buds, hopeful harbingers of spring.
It is the middle of February and there are a mere two chilly weeks of winter left. It’s a waiting time, most of the work in the fields has been done, ancient, rusty ploughs have turned over great slabs of milk chocolate coloured earth, liberally scattered with white chocolate chips, the hallmark of the Quercy Blanc. In the vineyards all the vines are clipped and neat. In the ancient oak woods old and weak trees have been felled, yielding comforting piles of stacked logs, fuel for the winter after next. The crowded landscape has been swept bare by the freezing winds and in the little hamlets and villages there are few souls about. Everybody has a little more time, time to visit the famed truffle market at Lalbenque and indulge in a little late winter extravagance. Time also to perform a dying art – still practised daily and honed to perfection in these parts – long slow cooking. After all, this is the land of gastronomy and when the temperatures are below zero and you can hear the sleet slapping into the Northern wall, you can’t just throw together an unctuous feast with some golden olive oil, sun drenched tomatoes and a handful of basil from the herb garden – even if you had them. When you’ve spent a long, nippy morning with your back bent like a hook, tidying your vines, a hearty déjeuner is definitely what you require, and a well-earned daily treat.
Menu du Jour
Tantalising aromas start to rise from the vast fireplaces of the Quercy farmhouses any time from nine o’clock onwards. By midi the workers will begin to stream in from the fields and barns. Boots will be removed and gnarled hands washed at the old evier, then they will remove their berets – possibly – and take their places round the scrubbed kitchen table. The oven door is opened and there’s a contented sigh as the diners are enveloped in a rich, fragrant steam. But perhaps you don’t work in the fields and you aren’t near enough to your ancient stone kitchen to rush back for a lingering three courses. In that instance you visit your local café or brasserie. There will always be a delicious, simmering, plat du jour, usually a choice of two or three.
Fabulous paupiettes de veau, steaming mounds of fragrant cassoulet or that winter favourite, a truffle studded roti de porc. There will be a delightful selection of hors d’oeuvres – maybe a buffet – and most hungry men will require a cheese platter or dessert. A home-cooked tarte aux poires or a beautifully presented square of gâteau chocolat, with an inviting curl of coulis framboise, followed by the ubiquitous shot of black coffee – invariably accompanied by the dark chocolate that complements it so well. If these are on the menu du jour – and you manage not to succumb to a jug of wine – you will still have change from fifteen euros. If you manage to restrain yourself to just the main dish, it’ll be half that. It is truly amazing value for money and it’s repeated in every little café, bistro and bar throughout the region.
The formula is perfectly simple. A Frenchman doesn’t spend the sacred two-hour lunch break sitting at his desk with a cardboard cup of coffee, a floppy ham sandwich and a bag of cheese and onion crisps. Everybody downs tools at twelve o’clock, whether that’s pruning shears or hoe, pen or stethoscope, or even the wheel of a juggernaut. By twelve-thirty the popular cafés and restaurants are packed, waiters fly around, performing miraculous balancing acts and weaving sinuously round tables with a speed that makes you wince.
Meanwhile the isolated farmhouses ring with merry laughter, as everybody sits down and prepares to indulge in France’s favourite ritual. A good lunch.
© Amanda Lawrence 2007
Joys of French Life – Lunch! from French Vie
Tags: Lunch, The Quercy, Truffles
