|No sex please, we're French|
He listened to our tale of woe and then, taking the obstreperous machine by surprise, wrestled it to the ground and had the bottom plate off in mere seconds. (Maybe this is why the French from around here are so good at rugby.)
I know I said that we went off to la nuit de la poésie on Saturday (and I flaked, pleading fatigue): I failed to mention one of the more amusing parts of such gatherings, which is that there is always a number of older persons, mostly male, casually dressed but spotless, chattering enthusiastically and showing every sign of the bon vivant. The meal was no exception to this general rule, and the conversation was more than usually fun.
|A bon vivant in its natural habitat|
Anyway, today being Wednesday it was market day at Lézignan, and having been duly warned by Margo - who'd headed off there last week with Janet and Kevin - I went early, like arriving at 8:05. Which was indeed a Good Thing, because I managed to get there just before the rush, and even found a park less than 2km away.
Me, I found a spice merchant (always handy) and a couple of stalls selling nowt but paella: the cheese selection was pretty limited though, and also hideously expensive. I mean, €26/kg for Morbier? Then there were any number of stalls with tiny dried sausages like matchsticks, and primeurs by the bucketful, and it was at one of these latter that, for the first time in my life, I bought a truffle.
Later ... that wasn't too bad. My cookbooks being still in the back wall of cardboard boxes and thus inaccessible, I resorted to the Great Google and came upon a recipe from Epicurious which I combined with another one I vaguely remembered, just for fun. Luckily I happened to have a duck breast, so I used my fingers and small ouch! ouch! sharpy knife to separate fat from flesh, leaving the two attached down a 1cm strip lengthways. (Are you following me here?)
When that was done, out went the duck and in went some cubes of potato, to fry in the duck fat with a bit of salt and be joined, ten minutes later, by some petits pois and chopped shallots ... then they too went into a bowl and into the pan went a couple of chopped mushrooms, finely chopped truffle, more shallot and, when browned, a sprinkling of flour.
Thursday Edgar's surrogate mother (Edgar, incidentally, has not been seen since Sunday morning, with any luck he's flown off and found a flock somewhere) came past and invited us to an apéro at midday. That sounded pretty good, so we pulled on our glad rags and headed round at the appointed hour ...
We started talking, as one will, and shortly into the conversation Philippe noticed that the bottle of white was empty, and headed off to get another one to go with the pizza ... must be evaporation or something, because they'd just promised to introduce me to the young Italian oenologue for the chateau, who also happens to be an impassioned cook, when he was obliged to find yet another bottle.
Mind how you go, now.
Oh yes, Orange seems not to have disposed of my e-mail address - at least, it still appears to work - so do keep using it if you feel the urge. Bye, I'm off to make dinner.