C'est Modnifique!: Adventures of an English Grump in Rural France, page 27
While my eggs were in the oven being turned into polystyrene, I paced the kitchen anxiously just like I had done at the Comedy Store a couple of days before, expectant and nervous. The press arrived too, adding to the pressure of the thing. I say press; it was a very old man from the local paper who was brandishing, in shaky hands, one of the early digital camera prototypes. Eventually the food was served and my eggs, though now not at their best, were still pretty good and I waited for the response. There was a book out a couple of years ago called French Children Don't Throw Food about why French children are such good eaters and so on; it's another one of these ridiculously generalised books that draw massive, nationwide conclusions based on middle-class assumptions and coffee-morning conversations, but French children are better at the table, largely because they eat with their parents every day, parents who ate with their parents every day and all the way back. Food is still part of the curriculum, hence my dubious presence, but it's France for Heaven's sake – food is very much an issue and not just as a basis for gossamer-thin scare stories that newspapers use solely to frighten people.
That being said, my 'audience' were eyeing their plates with a certain level of distrust. Collectively they looked like a stag night the morning after, full of bravado about the FEB until confronted by the reality itself. Slowly, they began to tuck in, Maurice leading the way, obviously, and eventually they even began to like it. To us, the full English breakfast is such a part of our culture it seems almost surreal to think that these kids – and most of the adults – in the room had never even seen a plate like this before. And though I personally wouldn't have accepted 'French toast' as a fried bread substitute, nor refused brown sauce on the grounds of it being 'too spicy', and frankly would never drink PG Tips tea without milk (I served it under duress believe me, one little girl even asked me what flavour of tisane it was, 'PayJay' I replied, like it was an exotic fruit), it was all a great success.
Also, I very much like the idea that while food education is quite rightly all about nutrition and balance these days, here I was in rural France showing the kids a full English breakfast, like a saturated-fats missionary. I even, and for the second time that week, got a round of applause from a French crowd.
Natalie and I walked arm in arm the short distance back into the centre of the small town. On the way we were greeted by the boulanger, the garagiste, Cendrine the coiffeuse and even our postman. Bonjour! Ça va? Fait beau, eh?
'It's so lovely,' Natalie said as we strolled along in the early winter sunshine, 'we really are a part of this community. It really feels like home.'
Then she pinched my arm.
'Ow!' I said, taken completely by surprise. 'Why did you do that?'
'Because,' she replied, stopping as she said so, 'sometimes you need reminding.'
Recipes
MEDLAR JELLY
They really are an odd little fruit, medlars, and about as unappetising to look at as fruit gets. Occasionally Natalie has grabbed one off a tree and just stuck a spoon in it, but she can get a bit Bear Grylls when the mood takes her. If picking the fruit from your own trees, the important thing to remember, and certainly for this recipe, is let them 'blett', or rot, first. They shouldn't be harvested until after the first frost, and then should be left until they are dark brown and slightly mushy.
INGREDIENTS
A quantity of nicely bletted medlar fruit
Sugar (an equal quantity to the fruit)
Lemon juice
Jelly bag
Sterilised jars
METHOD
• Take a 'quantity' (I never measure these things out), halve the fruit, add some lemon juice or divide a lemon into wedges (not too much, approximately one lemon per kilo of fruit) and cover with water in a large pan. Bring to the boil, stirring occasionally, and leave to simmer for about an hour, or at least until soft.
• Empty the softened fruit into a jelly bag suspended over a large bowl – I use two fire pokers hung across the bath to do this. The idea here is that your juice will drip into the bowl. It's important that you resist the temptation to hurry the juice through; don't press the jelly bag or your jelly will be cloudy and nobody wants cloudy jelly.
• Leave it where it is for a day or so.
• Empty the juice into a pan and bring it to the boil, then add an equal quantity of sugar and boil again until the sugar has dissolved and then boil for a few minutes more. Spoon into sterilised jars, seal and leave it to cool. When it has done so, stand back and wonder how a fruit so ugly could produce something so golden and pure!
PLUM LEATHERS
I'd never even heard of these before but they are great to eat, and are especially useful for kids' lunchboxes and picnics. You can also cut them up and put the strips on desserts or even use them as Christmas tree decorations.
INGREDIENTS
A quantity of plums
Baking parchment
Greaseproof paper
METHOD
• Preheat the oven to its lowest setting, about 60ºC, and line a baking tray or two with baking parchment.
• Stone the plums (though any stone fruit or berry can be used, really) and boil on the hob until you have a thickish pulp, or compote.
• Once the pulp is ready, push it through a sieve, or a mouli, and spread the purée really thinly with a palette knife until the baking sheets are covered.
• Place in the oven overnight, 12 hours minimum. The purée should be completely dry and peel easily off the parchment.
• Roll the leathers up in greaseproof paper, cut to the required length for storing in a large airtight container (we use medium-sized, airtight jars) and either nibble on for the next few months or sell to Lady Gaga as material for a future dress.
Acknowledgements
I'd like to think that the classic 'difficult second book' scenario was skilfully avoided by virtue of my own sangfroid, coolness under pressure, and ability to operate in a bubble. This would of course be entirely wrong and so heartfelt 'thank you's are due all over the place.
Firstly, thank you to those good people at Summersdale: Claire Plimmer, Amy Hunter and Dean Chant, and especially to my ever patient and brilliant editor Chris Turton. A special thanks also to my literary agent Jennifer Barclay for precious hints and tips.
I am also indebted to Nicky Ness and Georgina Smith at SSVC and Cdr Susie Thomson at the MoD: their help and advice while writing about the sensitive issue of the armed forces decompression tours was both invaluable and generous.
As always there are good friends, particularly those who thought that my paranoid and neurotic ways would end when the first book was published, but who were kind enough to offer patience during the second, thank you then to Charlotte Phillips, Paul Thorne and Sonja Van Praag.
A special thank you to my lovely wife Natalie who still, after all these years, puts up with my grumpiness with astonishing good humour.
And lastly, to the millions of people who cleverly ducked out of attending our writing school and forced me back on to the keyboard coalface, your input was priceless!
About the Author
Photo: Andy Hollingworth Archive
Ian Moore is an established stand-up comedian in the UK, described by The Guardian as 'one of the country's top comedians'. He is a husband, father of three boys, farmhand and chutney-maker in France, and the author of À la Mod: My So-Called Tranquil Family Life in Rural France (ISBN: 978 1 84953 399 7). He is a mod in all his various walks of life.
Read on for an exclusive extract from 'Serge Bastarde Ate My Baguette', by Summersdale Publishers.
1
PIGS AND PEGS
'Ooooh, look! They're washing their pig!' It was a touching sight, the epitome of simple country folk togetherness. The whole family – mum, dad, grandma, grandpa and all the kids – around a big stone trough in the yard with their sleeves rolled up. We had come bombing down a quiet country back lane in Serge's old Renault van to arrive at a typical farm mas – a house and several large stone barns grouped round a cobbled courtyard with a surrounding wall and big wooden gates. And there they all were, having the time of their lives.
I could see the old sow's head and her back over the side of the trough. Pigs must get really dirty plunging about in all that mud and need a good washing now and again. Serge tooted his horn and they turned as one to wave at us, happy smiling faces enjoying their carefree country living. But now, with all their hands in the air, I realised just how mistaken I was. Blood and gore was running down their arms. These people weren't washing their pig at all. The miserable animal had just been slaughtered and they were in the process of disembowelling it.
As we drove through the gates and bumped over the cobblestones I could see a couple of legs and trotters sticking up and a long, livid slit in the carcass.
This was exactly the sort of confrontation with the realities of animal husbandry that had turned me and my wife Helen into vegetarians since moving to France. In fact, as a reformed alcoholic ex-smoker vegetarian who disliked sunbathing, I sometimes wondered what the hell I was doing living in France at all.
The farmer stood up and came towards us with a quizzical smile, followed closely by two of the youngest kids, a little boy of about four and a girl who might have been his twin sister. Their faces were spattered crimson. The farmer lifted his elbow to be shaken to avoid smearing our hands with congealed blood and waited to see what we wanted. Over in a corner by the barn a vicious dog that looked like a cross between a German shepherd and the Tasmanian Devil fought to break free of its chain and devour us.
Serge and I had been touring around all morning, 'cold calling' on the most far-flung farms and cottages. Serge would strike up a conversation with the inhabitants to ask if they had any old furniture or junk they wanted to get rid of. If his question elicited a lukewarm response he would pull out a thick wad of euro notes and wave them temptingly under the householder's nose. So far this technique had yielded a few old chairs, a broken-down kitchen table and a rusty standard lamp. But Serge remained undaunted. Maybe our luck was about to change.
He reached down, ruffled the little girl's hair and beamed his sincerest smile at the farmer. 'Bonjour, m'sieu. We are carrying out some important work for the commune,' he lied. 'They have asked us to visit all the farms in this vicinity and perform a much-needed service, to pick up any old unwanted furniture and stuff that needs to be got rid of. We have already helped out some of your neighbours.' He waved vaguely towards the van. 'Might you have any old bits and pieces you don't want? Things that are hanging around the house gathering dust that we can take off your hands?' The farmer wiped his hands on his shirt and appeared to be considering the question. The dog had decided we were no threat and stopped barking. The rest of the family carried on with their grisly work. 'We're not here to waste your time – we're honest, professional people. We'll pay you for anything of value.'
The farmer's attention was beginning to wander. He glanced back at his pig in the trough. He didn't want to appear rude. The French habit of la politesse is a deeply engrained one. He rubbed his hand across a bristly chin. 'No, nothing like that,' he said. 'I'm sorry, I wish I could help you, but…' Serge flashed me an ironical smile. When he reached in his pocket and pulled out the wad of notes, the effect on the farmer was quite remarkable. All thoughts of sausages, bacon and smoked ham were instantly wiped from his mind. His eyes opened wide, hypnotised by the money. 'Of course, we'll pay you for anything we take… in cash,' said Serge. He fanned the notes in the air.
'What sort of things are you looking for?' asked the farmer. 'I suppose we might have some stuff we don't want.'
'I know,' said Serge. 'Why don't we take a walk round the house? I can point out the sort of thing we'd be interested in and what it's worth. Then you can see if you'd prefer to keep it or take the money.'
The farmer liked this idea. We followed him across the courtyard past the rest of the family, who carried on cheerfully hacking away at the dead pig, piling up a mess of intestines and vital organs on a stone slab.
The farmhouse was cool and shady after the hot sun and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust. We were standing in a typical French farm kitchen running into a sparsely furnished living room. The floor was tiled and, apart from a kitchen table, a few worn easy chairs and a television, there was no clutter to speak of and very few decorations of note: a cheap kitchen clock and the local fireman's calendar pinned to the wall; a palm cross; a small plaster figurine of St Bernadette of Lourdes in an alcove. These were honest, hard-working farming folk. They were out in the fields most of the day. The chances of finding any of the valuable antiques Serge was expecting were slim.
I was beginning to feel like an evil money-grabbing bastard. Serge was acting like his surname and this was the first and last time I intended coming out with him on such a cheapskate mission. Helen and I would stick to buying our brocante in the auction rooms in future, even if you did have to pay through the nose for it. At least it left you with a clear conscience. Serge was looking around, unimpressed. 'Sure you haven't got any old furniture or clocks you don't want? We pay quite good money for old bronzes, things like that.'
The old boy shook his head and racked his brains.
'What about upstairs? Any uncomfy old oak beds you don't need?'
I couldn't believe Serge was wasting the bloke's time like this. He'd seen the kids in the yard. This family needed all the spare sleeping accommodation they could muster. I wanted to get out of here and leave these good people to carry on preparing their porky comestibles for the coming winter. They didn't deserve to be bothered by creeps like us. I was about to let Serge know how I felt when the old boy's face lit up. 'We have got some old furniture which we dumped out in the barn a few years back,' he said. 'We needed the room and it was a bit gloomy.'
Serge threw me a meaningful look. 'That's the sort of stuff we're after; gloomy old furniture. You've got it right there, all right. Horrible stuff! That's exactly what the commune told us to pick up and get rid of. Clean up all the old junk, the mayor said.'
'I suppose it could be worth something to someone,' said the farmer as we followed him through the back door to some broken-down outbuildings. 'It's good sturdy stuff… been in my family for as long as I can remember, maybe even before the Revolution, it's that old.'
Serge winked at me behind the farmer's back and rubbed his hands together in glee. There were pigeons roosting in the eaves and the door was hanging off its hinges. When the old boy shouldered it open with a bang, there was an explosion of feathers and a couple of squawking chickens tore through our legs. Inside, the air was thick with floating feathers and powdered chicken excreta. Brilliant shafts of sunlight shone down through the murky fog of dust onto strange, bulky shapes piled up high against one wall. When I drew in a breath I could feel a film of chicken shit forming at the back of my throat.
The farmer made a sweeping gesture. 'Well, there it all is. If you think you might be able to do something with it…'
As the dust began to settle, it was patently obvious that these bulky shapes were not the pieces of priceless furniture we had imagined, but huge piles of sidepieces, backs, cornices, legs, doors and other assorted parts. Some well-meaning individual had reduced this load of 'gloomy old furniture' to easily transportable antique flat packs. Serge stood with a look of horror and disbelief on his face. It was the first time I'd seen him speechless.
'There's a whole houseful of old-fashioned stuff there,' said the farmer, carrying on oblivious. 'Buffets, cupboards, beds, dressers, armoires – you name it.'
'Who did this?' Serge was trying to control himself, but his voice had a hysterical edge to it. 'Tell me, my good man, why exactly is this furniture in pieces?'
'They were so big we couldn't get most of them through the doors,' said the farmer, unfazed. 'Me and my son knocked out all the little wooden pegs and dismantled them. Don't worry, every bit is still there. We've even got all the little pegs in a bag somewhere; I'm sure I can find them for you.'
Serge was trying to come to terms with the shock he was experiencing, gazing up at the piles in disbelief. He pulled the edge of a door that was sticking out and it wobbled precariously, threatening to topple down on him. Stepping back, he eyed it apprehensively. 'I suppose if all the bits are there we can put them back together again.'
He was reassessing the situation. He began to examine sections in a smaller pile, one by one, turning them over to see if he could work out what they were exactly, throwing up clouds of dust as he pulled them about. 'I'll just go and clean myself up a bit,' said the old boy, examining his bloodied hands. 'You can think about what you want to do.'
