I was a paying guest at a meal which my sister was helping to arrange - a summer supper for the English Ladies Group hereabouts. This group of British expats has recently lost its chairman who has gone back to live in Blighty, and they had resolved not to have a chairman, as such. However, a highly energetic character (shall we call her ‘Beady’?) has apparently taken it upon herself to jump into the role and had decided the annual supper would be at her house. The catering was to be organised by another woman, but she - very unfortunately - had developed a series of worrying medical symptoms and was rushed to hospital. My sister and her husband were suddenly in the forefront of organising at short notice an emergency stand-in programme as regards the food.
Consequently in the 36 hours leading up to this event we were all flung into the logistics of who was buying what, where, and when, and who would bring what … In France, to order a super-pretty desert, or dessert as they say, you have to go to the supermarket a day or so beforehand and speak to someone. Telephone orders will not suffice. The only supermarket with 'un résponsable' on duty was of course much further away than the local Carrefoure… so we traipsed over there and ordered. Then there was the always-mutable discussion about what the menu was to be - and my sister is good at giving orders and remembering, but her husband is the only one who cooks. So there was a certain amount of shrugging of shoulders, and swearing….
In the event, we loaded their car with trays and trays and trays of cooked chicken, chilled burgers, bowls of salads, dressings, sauces, marinades and the like and set off for Beady and George’s house…. It’s far far away, and sits behind a long lawn with a central ornamental long pond surmounted with a diving beauty-queen. There are endless sheds, lights, ornaments, troughs, tubs, swags, stone footsteps set into the grass… The hostess had clearly taken her responsibilities very seriously, because there were about 12 tables set out with plastic covers and then paper cloths, bread, condiments, stuff. Each of us was to bring their own plates, cutlery, drinks, glasses, etc.
My bro-in-law was i/c of the Pimms but the hostess did not after all have the promised ginger beer, so the Pimms was extremely strong and eager punters rapidly went in search of something to slacken it a bit.
The house was stunningly beautiful - underneath a groaning burden of terrible art, furniture, ornaments, ceramics, ironwork, rugs,… who knows? Amongst all this is a thread of beautiful items - artisan crafts, silk wall hangings, framed paintings, a pretty piano. But the hostess, Beady, thin as a rake, wearing shiny low-heeled slingback sandals, was clattering about in a frenzy. Her voice was high pitched, screeching, ill-toned and strident. She screamed at her patient small husband to tell him off every few seconds, criticised everything he did, ignored the guests, said “I’m far too busy to talk to you!”, brushed past, answered no questions, ran, clattered, screeched, made sure everyone knew how busy she was, how important, how much in control. It was a tragic and painful thing to watch. She is so very needy, so off-putting, so organised and so rude that the entire party - as they arrive, one by one, couple by couple, avoid her, look somewhere else, sneak away.
The meal, in the end, proceeds with some merriment - small groups gathering at different tables as dusk falls, ignoring the cries of the hostess as she comes round with trays of roasted potatoes, or pans of tinned sweetcorn…. We move on from barbecue to cheese to dessert…. We meet a few new people but it’s hard as there isn’t enough room to move on the crowded terrace, despite the sweeping lawns. Someone breaks a solar lamp in the darkness and chucks it into the hedge. There are jokes, swapped contact details, and then we eventually gather up our dishes and bottles and glass and head out across the darkened lawn to the car. Back and forth carrying bags, saying goodbye to the mournful dogs, making plans with friends for tomorrow.
No thanks are enough for the hostess… she barely hears them, still busying herself with collecting cash from the diners, carrying bowls, doing everything. It was one of the saddest things, that she never once sat down, or talked, or listened, or relaxed. Her husband told me how he had mended the rain-sagging roof of their barbecue cover by inserting some cheapie Ikea plastic floor panels which hold the covering up into an arc so the rain actually falls away. He looked hunted.
But today, a lunch with two from that supper, Martin and Laura, was at a restaurant called Nazère, a bit of a spa….. And how wonderful that was. The setting is a suite of ancient building all restored at great cost, with gardens, pool, verandahs, walks, old oaks. The menu is leisurely and loving. The serving staff are highly informed, careful, attentive. The patron asks: do you know what kir is? and from nowhere I find an answer…. a dash of crème de cassis and then white wine - Bourgogne Aligoté. And that turns out to be absolutely correct. If not that wine, it is not a kir. It can be a kir maison, or something else. If you add red wine, any, then it is a cardinale. The courses succeed each other. The cheeses are utterly divine - from a factor in Toulouse called Xavier… Actually I couldn’t really afford to be there, but I will be back and I predict it will become a famous place, because it is aiming high, it all looks fantastic, with many resources for people staying for a night or two, and the host and his wife are charming and attentive. Ten out of ten.
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