into jars to be eaten with hunks of bread. ‘We call these grattons ,’ Eliane explains. I’ve seen them in charcuteries before, but never knew exactly what they were.
We make yards of sausages, flavoured with onions, and thyme, sage and fennel seeds from the potager (the herbs are my suggestion), and add garlic and seasoning to the minced meat to make farmhouse pâté. Once the mixture has been packed into jars, each with its rubber seal, and the glass lids wired tightly shut, the pâtés are stacked into a large pressure cooker that Eliane has sitting ready on top of her stove in the kitchen. She fills it with water to cover the jars and then slots the top onto the pot, screwing down the lid so that the steam can’t escape, other than through the valve that regulates the pressure, and ensuring that the pâtés will be cooked thoroughly at a high temperature.
We work all through the day, pausing only for a lunch of jimboura , a surprisingly delicious broth made from the water which has been used to cook the black puddings (yes, we even used the blood!) and then had carrots, leeks and cabbage added to make a filling soup. Mathieu uncorks a bottle of red wine and pours generous glasses for each of us.
‘Oh, this is all so good,’ I exclaim as I mop my soup plate with a crust of bread.
‘You won’t find dishes like this in any restaurant these days,’ Eliane observes. ‘Traditional cooking has all but died out. Everyone is in such a hurry nowadays, wanting to cut corners and use ready-made stock or instant sauces. Whatever happened to taking your time, making simple food with love and a true understanding of the ingredients? You know,’ she continues, fixing me with her clear gaze, ‘there’s scope for someone to open a really good traditional bistro around here. Rose tells me you used to run such a restaurant in London.’
I nod. ‘I learnt my cooking from my grandmother and she was a woman after your own heart. When I was at the cookery school in Paris, we studied traditional French cuisine. You’re right; there’s a good deal to be said for a return to the old ways, cooking seasonal, local food. Better for the planet as well.’
I should have known better than to mention global warming, even obliquely, because Eliane launches into another diatribe about the very bizarre weather that we’re having nowadays, accompanied by frequent sighs and shakings of the head from Mathieu as he ladles more jimboura into his bowl from the china tureen on the table in front of us.
To try and distract them from the doom and gloom, I ask, ‘Do you ever name your pigs?’
Eliane shakes her head firmly. ‘No, it wouldn’t do to name something that we were going to end up eating.’
Mathieu raises his head. ‘Tell her about the President.’ He gestures with his spoon and then tips a little rough red wine from his glass into his bowl to help flush out the last dregs of soup, which he relishes with another appreciative slurp.
Eliane grins. ‘Ah, yes, that was a good story! The mayor of a neighbouring commune, over at Coulliac I think it was, decided to name his pig one year and called it Le Président . When the time came to butcher it, he was having a drink at a bar with some friends and was overheard saying, “So who will come and give me a hand tomorrow. We’re going to be killing Le Président .” Well, of course, someone overheard and the next thing the mayor knew, he had a posse of policemen on his doorstep demanding to know what he was up to and saying they were there to prevent a coup d’état ! He had a hard time explaining his way out of that one, until he took the gendarmes to the sty and introduced them to his pig in person.’
Mathieu guffaws appreciatively, slapping his hand on the table.
‘Ah, yes,’ I say, nodding gravely, ‘I can see that naming one’s pig could be fraught with jeopardy.’
After we’ve consumed the best part of a wheel of creamy camembert, Mathieu uncorks an unlabelled
We make yards of sausages, flavoured with onions, and thyme, sage and fennel seeds from the potager (the herbs are my suggestion), and add garlic and seasoning to the minced meat to make farmhouse pâté. Once the mixture has been packed into jars, each with its rubber seal, and the glass lids wired tightly shut, the pâtés are stacked into a large pressure cooker that Eliane has sitting ready on top of her stove in the kitchen. She fills it with water to cover the jars and then slots the top onto the pot, screwing down the lid so that the steam can’t escape, other than through the valve that regulates the pressure, and ensuring that the pâtés will be cooked thoroughly at a high temperature.
We work all through the day, pausing only for a lunch of jimboura , a surprisingly delicious broth made from the water which has been used to cook the black puddings (yes, we even used the blood!) and then had carrots, leeks and cabbage added to make a filling soup. Mathieu uncorks a bottle of red wine and pours generous glasses for each of us.
‘Oh, this is all so good,’ I exclaim as I mop my soup plate with a crust of bread.
‘You won’t find dishes like this in any restaurant these days,’ Eliane observes. ‘Traditional cooking has all but died out. Everyone is in such a hurry nowadays, wanting to cut corners and use ready-made stock or instant sauces. Whatever happened to taking your time, making simple food with love and a true understanding of the ingredients? You know,’ she continues, fixing me with her clear gaze, ‘there’s scope for someone to open a really good traditional bistro around here. Rose tells me you used to run such a restaurant in London.’
I nod. ‘I learnt my cooking from my grandmother and she was a woman after your own heart. When I was at the cookery school in Paris, we studied traditional French cuisine. You’re right; there’s a good deal to be said for a return to the old ways, cooking seasonal, local food. Better for the planet as well.’
I should have known better than to mention global warming, even obliquely, because Eliane launches into another diatribe about the very bizarre weather that we’re having nowadays, accompanied by frequent sighs and shakings of the head from Mathieu as he ladles more jimboura into his bowl from the china tureen on the table in front of us.
To try and distract them from the doom and gloom, I ask, ‘Do you ever name your pigs?’
Eliane shakes her head firmly. ‘No, it wouldn’t do to name something that we were going to end up eating.’
Mathieu raises his head. ‘Tell her about the President.’ He gestures with his spoon and then tips a little rough red wine from his glass into his bowl to help flush out the last dregs of soup, which he relishes with another appreciative slurp.
Eliane grins. ‘Ah, yes, that was a good story! The mayor of a neighbouring commune, over at Coulliac I think it was, decided to name his pig one year and called it Le Président . When the time came to butcher it, he was having a drink at a bar with some friends and was overheard saying, “So who will come and give me a hand tomorrow. We’re going to be killing Le Président .” Well, of course, someone overheard and the next thing the mayor knew, he had a posse of policemen on his doorstep demanding to know what he was up to and saying they were there to prevent a coup d’état ! He had a hard time explaining his way out of that one, until he took the gendarmes to the sty and introduced them to his pig in person.’
Mathieu guffaws appreciatively, slapping his hand on the table.
‘Ah, yes,’ I say, nodding gravely, ‘I can see that naming one’s pig could be fraught with jeopardy.’
After we’ve consumed the best part of a wheel of creamy camembert, Mathieu uncorks an unlabelled
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