This week I’m a guest in an old farmhouse rented by friends. It’s in the Dordogne, favoured destination for the English since the 14th century when for a time it was under English rule. My first visit to this part of France. The country is more heavily wooded than the Gers and the contours much closer together. While the walking may be excellent it does mean climbing a lot of steep hills.
Yesterday we drove to the ancient fortified town of Domme perched above the Dordogne river. After a walk down to the river J directed us to a restaurant with an inviting terrace. Madam asked if we’d like a déjeuner rapide. She looked quite pleased when I expostulated that in fact we were in search of a déjeuner sérieux . Here is the view from her terrace.
Lunch did not disappoint. We all, five of us, chose the thirty-five euro menu. There were two unscheduled courses before getting to the three course menu and then another unscheduled course with coffee at the end. Those of us not driving did justice to the cartes des vins. Those who were driving tolerated some distinctly degraded map reading by their passengers on the drive home.
Meanwhile we are in the home straight of the Big Bicker. Of the, now, six of us here there is one Leave, four Remain and one undeclared.
Sounds idyllic; reminiscent of the delightful A Year In Provence, by Peter Mayle.
A propos Mesdames les Patronnes, Cher Christophe, had you been lunching in nearby Brive-la-Gaillarde and mentioned ‘vendeuses d’oignons’ with a nudge and a wink, you might have have had a very interesting and serious lunch indeed. As with the Irish, Les Brivistes are very proud of their history. Especially of the historic incident when a gaggle of cat-fighting onion-sellers in the famous market attacked a group of interfering gendarmes crying, among other things “Mort aux vaches, mort aux lois, vive l’anarchie!”. One of them reputedly pinned the sergeant down beneath her large bottom, and another, having first unbuttoned her blouse, is still more celebrated for having laid out at least a dozen of the rozzers with her generously-proportioned upper attributes. Brassens sang about this very entertainingly in the 50s and a square has been named after him. For the price of a beer, locals will point out the mansard window from which he is said to have witnessed this magnificent rout. There is, of course, not a word of truth in this story, and Brassens never visited the town, but it’s a cracking song. Called “L’Hécatombe”.
ps I meant to preface my comment with an acknowledgment of your elegance not just in the English language but seemingly in French too. A lovely piece, and especially nice to be reminded of the warm enthusiastic ways of Mesdames les Patronnes, especially when you animadvert to the fact, as one does nowadays: “je viens d’Irlande”…
If you feel like it you might therefore perhaps add in a short prefatory compliment along these lines:
“A lovely turn of phrase, so you have, with the notion of ‘déjeuner sérieux’.”