IN SEARCH OF PETER MAYLE
by
Howard Brian Prossnitz
Delivered to The Chicago Literary Club
February 4, 2002
In July of last year, I wrote a letter to Peter Mayle care/of Knopf Publishing Company
in New York City that began as follows:
Dear Peter:
Your books starting with A Year In Provence have forever
changed my life. Reading the book was an epiphany for me -- much
more significant than lesser works by authors such as Shakespeare, Voltaire or
Zola. I immediately began planning my retirement in Provence and started writing
a novel to be finished there.
I concluded by inviting Mr. Mayle (who is a major celebrity of the 20th century having written
nine books about Provence in case you have never heard of him) to meet us for a glass of wine
when we were in France.
The prelude to my letter goes back to January 1989. It was a cold wintry Sunday
morning when I went to the newly opened Borders in Geneva, Illinois and I proceeded to the
narrative travel section. I picked up a copy of A Year in Provence and started
browsing through it to determine if it was worth buying. I followed my daughter Annie's advice
which is to read the first page of a book to see if you want to read more. For many books, you
know from the first page that it is not going to appeal to you, or sometimes, you may only want
to read a specific chapter in the store and not actually buy the entire book.
Peter Mayle's first page, however, had me hooked. He begins by describing New Year's
Day lunch at a restaurant in La Coste, a small village in the part of Provence called the Vaucluse.
The restaurant was Le Simiane. The proprietor is presiding over a menu of foie gras, lobster
mousse, beef en croute, salad in virgin oil, cheeses, dessert, digestifs and pink champagne. This
meal was the start of a new year in Provence for Peter Mayle and his wife. After years of
fantasizing about it, Mayle, an English advertising executive, and his wife had decided to say
good-bye to the cold grey dampness of London, to leave family and a workaholic career behind
to buy a "mas", which is a style of farmhouse common in Provence, in the part of the Vaucluse
known as the Petit Luberon. The house was at the end of a dirt track off the road between the
medieval hill villages of Bonnieux and Menerbes.
I bought the book, took it home, and read through it as though it was a John
Grisham page turner. It is a narrative full of delights and written with a markedly English sense
of humor about some of my favorite subjects: old house renovation, French food, wine
production, wine tasting, wine drinking, holidays in the sunshine, and the Mediterranean coast.
There were tales of incredible meals. It has stories of local plumbers and
electricians. They appeared at the mas for demolition and would then vanish for months at a
time. The tradesmen were wooed back to complete the project by being invited to a champagne
party to celebrate its conclusion, even though the work was not done. None of them wanted to
be embarrassed in front of their wives as the reason for non-completion so the invitation sparked
a burst of final construction activity. The book also contains episodes detailing the cultivation
of the vines on Mayle' s property.
You learn that people in Provence speak in an unmistakable dialect markedly
different from textbook French learned in our high schools. For instance, the pronunciation of
house is "mesong", not "maison". It is a region where the pace of life is slower. People are
preoccupied with mastering the subtleties of inherited family recipes for cooking and preparing
truffles, roast lamb, rabbit, garlic and goat cheese, not with reading commuter schedules.
In the same way that I was hooked on the Hardy Boys series as a kid, I anxiously
awaited the arrival of each new Peter Mayle book which occurred once a year. Later books
included novels set in Provence as well as additional tales of living there, and more importantly,
eating there. I went on to read Toujours Provence, Encore Provence,
Acquired Tastes, French Lessons, Hotel Pastis, Anything Considered
, Chasing Cezanne and A Dog's Life.
Just as watching the PBS Series This Old House with Bob Villa had
compelled me to buy an 1855 house in Geneva, Illinois, and undertake thirteen years of
renovation, A Year in Provence motivated me to plan a family trip to Provence with
the thought of deciding once and for all whether my retirement plans should focus on the
Luberon or Tuscany. Part of the plan was a desire to somehow meet Peter Mayle himself,
perhaps to run into him by accident in a local market and then talk in person with this weaver
of intoxicating vignettes of life in rural France. My fantasy life was no longer dominated by the
thought of Mick Jagger and the Rolling Stones appearing for a private show at my next birthday
party, but rather that I would be sitting pool side with Peter Mayle eating olives, and doing a
serious tasting of the fifty varieties of local goat cheeses, while discoursing about the relative
merits of Côtes du Rhone vineyards . The good news for my wife and children was that unlike
Peter Mayle, I did not plan on moving lock, stock and barrel to an old farmhouse in the French
countryside. I knew that my stay would be limited to a vacation only.
Yet, in my mind, this was to be an exploratory trip to size up the possibilities of
a later more permanent move. Of course, the fact that I read the book in January only added to
the anticipation of our trip. My search for Peter Mayle was to operate on two levels. One search
was to follow the footsteps of the man and the places he wrote about. The other quest was more
figurative, to see whether or not the lifestyle and character of Provence which he described really
existed.
To give you some geographical and historical background, Provence (click here for map)
is a large area in Southern France. It includes the departements of Bouches du Rhône, Vaucluse,
Alpes-de-Haute- Provence, the Var and Ile d'Hyères and the Alpes Maritimes. The region
extends from Nîmes in the Bouches du Rhône on the west, to the Alpes Maritimes on the east,
and from the Alpes-de-Haute-Provence on the north to the Var and Mediterranean on the south.
The topography is extraordinarily varied. It ranges from rough craggy rocky mountainous
outcroppings in the north -- to lush valleys full of expansive vineyards and sunflowers in the
center -- to spectacular cliffs and coves called calanques on the Mediterranean in the south near
the town of Cassis.
The particular area which Mayle writes about is called the Petit Luberon. The
Petit Luberon is in the departement of Vaucluse, the southern end of which is forty-five minutes
by car from Aix-en-Provence traveling in a north by northwest direction. It encompasses 463
square miles including fifty colorful and historic villages such as La Coste, where Donatien
Alphonse Francoise (better known as the Marquis de Sade) had his castle; Lourmarin, where
Albert Camus is buried and Franz List was born; Bonnieux, where the first church was built in
the 12th century, whose population peaked in the 1300's when it had 3,500 residents and which
is now home to the Musée de la Boulangerie (Museum of Bread Making); and Menerbes, a
stronghold of 16th century Calvinists, now the site of the Musée du Tire Bouchon (Museum of
the Corkscrew).
The Luberon is officially designated as a national park region. It contains large
open expanses of fields, vineyards and forests, without any mini-malls, concrete housing, asphalt
parking lots, malls, or other vestiges of either urban or suburban development. The Luberon
Mountains rise up to 3,500 feet and extend along a 40 mile line from east to west. There is
abundant wildlife and bird life in the area including wild boar, eagle owl, rabbits, and game
birds. Flora and fauna include monkey orchids, expansive fields of lavender, and forests of
cedar, pine, and scrub oak.
The climate in the region is of greater extremes than most people realize. It is icy
cold in the winter when the fierce Mistral blows at speeds over 100 miles per hour. The wind
picks up everything loose in its path. Temperatures can drop 50 degrees when the wind starts.
During the summer, it is very hot and there is a danger of hill fires similar to those that break
out in Southern California. From June through September, the average temperature is 24 degrees
centigrade or 75 degrees Fahrenheit. Average rainfall during the summer is less than 2 inches
per month. The summer months average more than nine hours of sunshine per day.
Evidence of human settlements in the form of stone fertility figurines dates the
history of Provence back to 1,000,000 B.C. In early years, Nomadic tribes, northern Celts and
eastern Ligurians covered the area. Greek trading ships arrived in 600 B.C. From 500 to 400
B.C., the Greek traders set up trading posts along the coast at Nice and Antibes. It is believed
that the grape vine was introduced to the region by the Greeks and Phoenicians.
In 122 B.C., the remaining Celts were defeated by the Romans. The Gallo-Roman
era began. Provence became a province of the Roman empire. Nimes and Arles developed into
two of the most important Roman towns outside Italy. There remain ample reminders of the
Romans including an amphitheater in Orange which was built to hold 10,000 spectators, a
triumphal arch at Glanum built in the reign of Augustus, two temples also built at Glanum in 30
B.C. which were dedicated to Augustus' adopted sons Caius and Lucius, a triple arched Roman
bridge Pont Julien near Apt, and underground grain storage galleries in Arles.
After the fall of the Roman Empire, from the third to the sixth centuries, different
sets of barbarians, the Vandals, Visigoths, Burgundians and Ostrogoths plundered the countryside.
These raids led to the construction of fortified villages where local counts protected themselves
against the invaders. Franks raided Provence in 536. Hungarians sacked Nimes in 924. In the
eleventh and twelfth centuries, fortifications were built at Gordes and Les Baux de Provence.
These hilltop villages, particularly Gordes, remain very vibrant today. The medieval
architecture is intact and Gordes is the scene of one of the most popular weekly outdoor markets.
Provence was also a major base for the Christian crusaders with 1500 ships setting sail for the
Holy Land from Aigues Mortes under Louis IX on 28th of August, 1248.
In the 1300's, the papacy temporarily abandoned Rome and set up shop
in Avignon. There were seven French popes who ruled from 1309 to 1377. The Palais des
Papes was built from 1334 to 1352. It remains in excellent shape and attracts thousands of
tourists on a daily basis. It is a huge set of buildings with a maze of corridors and rooms
resembling the Vatican including a Great Chapel, a Papal Throne room, inner courtyards, and
a Stag Room with ceiling frescoes depicting hunting scenes.
The 15th century was the golden age of Aix-en-Provence, the capital of
the region. A university was founded in Aix by Louis II of Anjou in 1409 and thrived under
his son, King René. The Avignon school of art was created and its development was influenced
by the Flemish masters. The old quarter in Aix is very large and still completely intact with its
narrow winding streets and multiple squares. During the summer months, on market days, there
are simultaneous outdoor markets in these squares with one square devoted to flowers, another
to produce, cheeses and sausages, and another to clothing, furniture and bric brac. Aix has
numerous museums containing French, Italian and Flemish paintings.
It was during the 16th century that Nostradamus, the physician and
astrologer, whose predictions received renewed interest after September 11th , was born in St.
Rémy de Provence. After King René died, Provence was annexed by the French king Louis
XI. The 16th century was marked by brutal battles between Catholics and Protestants. In 1545,
there was a massacre of Protestants in Luberon villages; and in 1567, two hundred Catholics
died in Nimes. Among the other notable events of the 16th century was the arrival in Marseilles
of the first rhinoceros to ever set foot in Europe. It was a gift for the Pope and died in transit.
The 17th and 18th centuries saw the rise of nationalization. Louis XIII
visited Aix and Marseilles in 1622; and Louis the XIV, the Sun King, made a royal progress to
Marseilles in 1660. A number of majestic country houses and châteaux were built during this
time. In 1720, half the population of Marseilles was wiped out by the plague which is thought
to have spread there from Syria. The city was isolated and giant walls were built around it in
a vain effort to keep the disease from spreading to other towns in Provence.
The Belle Epoque of the 19th century witnessed increased visits to
Provence by royalty, foreign visitors and others seeking out the favorable climate. Queen
Victoria, Empress Eugenie, the Aga Kahn and King Leopold of Belgium were some of the
luminaries who made their way south to enjoy the sunshine. Grand hotels, railroads, villas and
elaborate gardens were built to accommodate these travelers. The first casino was opened in
Monte Carlo in 1865 which was followed in 1879 by the Monte Carlo Opera. This was also the
time that the Impressionists including Van Gogh, Monet and Cezanne flocked to Provence to
capture the vivid intense colors and spectacular scenery on their canvases.
The area continued to hold an attraction to the rich and/or famous through
the 20th century starting in the 1920's with F. Scott Fitzgerald who wrote Tender is the Night
while in Southern France, then came Coco Chanel, and later on, personages such as Picasso,
Noel Coward and Wallis Simpson. Winston Churchill and Cocteau frequented Les Deux
Garçons café in Aix. The Cannes Film Festival was inaugurated in 1939. It was in 1956 that
Roger Vadim filmed Brigitte Bardot in St. Tropez in the movie And God Created Women.
1956 was also the year when Grace Kelly married Prince Rainer III in Monaco. Other
notable regular visitors included Princess Diana, and now Mick Jagger and Jerry Hall.
Much of the glamorous history focuses on the Riviera and Côte d'Azur.
It is more recently that the small villages of the Luberon have began to attract the attention of
numerous foreign tourists. While these villages were always summer vacation places for
Parisians, it is only in the last twenty or so years that broken down farmhouses and ramshackle
stone townhouses in the Luberon began to capture the imagination of well heeled visitors from
England, Switzerland and the United States who were willing to plunk down hundreds of
thousands of francs (now Euros) for the opportunity to rebuild the dilapidated structures and add
swimming pools and tennis courts. In the same way that Tuscany has grown exponentially in
its appeal to tourists, Provence has also geometrically increased in its popularity. We have
observed this in the years since we made our first trip to Lourmarin. One benchmark of the
growth is the size of the weekly market in Lourmarin which has now tripled in its number of
vendors.
Peter Mayle chronicles his first year living in Provence month by month.
We quickly learn about the character of the region, the exploits of its inhabitants, particularly
his neighbors, as well as the renovation of his stone farm house, and last but not least, we get
a mouth watering bite-by-bite narrative of his culinary adventures Consider his description of
a simple workaday lunch at a café located in the old train station at Bonnieux, "(w)e had a crisp
oily salad, and slices of pink country sausages, an aioli of snails and cod and hard-boiled eggs
with garlic mayonnaise, creamy cheese from Fontveille, and a homemade tart." (191). The
book ends up being a combination of This Old House and Patricia Wells' A Food
Lover's Guide to France .
Mayle's year began with January Mistral winds clocked at 180 kilometers
per hour in Marseilles. We hear that numerous water pipes in his house burst, but he does not
dwell on that misfortune. The scene quickly shifts to a description of one of the first dinners he
was invited to eat at a neighbor's house. Ten guests arrived. For an aperitif, pastis (a strong
licorice liqueur) was drunk by the men, while sweet muscat wine was served to the women. The
meal started with three homemade pizzas -- anchovy, mushroom and cheese. Two foot long
loaves of bread were used to clean the plates. The next course was pates of rabbit, boar and
thrush. Then came pork terrine punctuated with marc, a brandy like liqueur. Next were
saucissons or sausages with peppercorn in a sauce of sweet onions and tomato sauce. Magret
(duck) with wild mushrooms followed. Only at this point was the main entree brought in -- a
large, steaming rabbit casserole. After that came a green salad with bread fried in garlic and
olive oil together with crottins of goat cheese. The salad served as a transition leading to an
almond and cream gateau. Finally, coffee and more locally made digestifs ended the meal. Not
surprisingly, Mayle reports that after this meal, he walked home oblivious to the elements and
slept very well.
The February chapter begins with a reference to the news stories that
dominated the newspaper Le Provence such as pronouncements of local politicians,
and bulletins about supermarket holdups in the larger town of Cavaillon which is unflatteringly
referred to as "Le Chicago de Provence". Parenthetically, in my trips to Provence, I have
taken pains to explain to locals that Al Capone is actually dead, and that the windy city moniker
for Chicago is based on the legendary long winded politicians that frequented this town, not the
climate. February brought snow to Provence and the onslaught of workmen to Peter Mayle's
house. Like contractors everywhere, the ones working at his house would appear out of nowhere
for periods of intense activity where everything, particularly the kitchen, was turned upside
down, and then they would disappear for months on end only to reappear when least expected
as though there was no interval between their bursts of frenetic activity.
In March, the Luberon began to wake up from its winter hibernation with
the sounds of birds who had been evading hunters all winter long. The workmen at Mayle's
house, however, were nowhere to be seen. Mayle learned about time keeping in Provence from
his contractors. Each of the important phrases about time would be accompanied by a hand
gesture or shrug to give the true meaning. The words themselves could only be interpreted in
the context of whether the speaker looked you in the eye when he delivered them, or if he
accompanied them with a general disclaimer of a flat palm stretched out towards the ground.
Here is Mayle's guide to time in Provence. "Un petit quart d'heure" (a quarter of an hour) means
sometime today. "Demain" (tomorrow) means sometime this week. "Une quinzaine" (fifteen
days) is most flexible term of all. It can mean three weeks, two months, next year, but never
ever 15 days.
March brings out the truffle hunters who use dogs to sniff down the
pungent delicacy. Truffles grow underground on the roots of oak or hazelnut trees. If actually
found, truffles command great prices at auctions. These auctions are conducted in semi-secrecy
with the participants guarding their treasures in well-worn handkerchiefs buried deep within the
recesses of their pockets.
In his April chapter, Mayle talks about the local markets which are at the
heart of Provencal life. Each village has a market day in which stalls are set out in the center
of the village, usually from 8:00 a.m. to noon. Each stall is devoted to a particular item. For
instance, at the Lourmarin market which is on Friday mornings, you can find separate stalls
selling roasted chickens, cheeses, sparkling dessert wines, white and red Rhône wine, tablecloths,
assorted fabrics, watches, knives, fish, ceramics, dresses, flowers, sausages, glassware, fruits,
melons, vegetables, toys, clocks, paintings, bread, spices, honey, lavender, flavored soaps
ranging from goat cheese to vanilla, nuts, vintage postcards, rabbits, books, belts, purses and
leather goods.
May welcomes the cyclists. Serious cyclists in France, particularly, rural
France, occupy a position of honor and prestige not easily understood by Americans. They wear
brightly colored body hugging tee shirts, and black form fitting shorts together with distinctive
cycling caps, gloves and shoes with metal clips for affixing their feet to the pedals. They
conquer long distances at a time, often mountainous uphill stretches. The result is that when
they come into a village to rest and get water from the medieval fountain which is usually in the
center of the town square, they are drenched in sweat. Due to this fact and their uniforms, they
are immediately recognizable. Cyclists throughout France are treated with the deference that
must be similar to how villagers greeted a fully armored knight dismounting his horse in
medieval times.
On our trip last summer, we emerged from a metro station in Paris into
a crowd of wall-to-wall people, helicopters buzzing overhead, television cameras, and policemen
everywhere. We had unwittingly fallen into the finish area of the Tour de France and beat a
hasty retreat back to the Metro to get off at a different station. Another time in Provence, we
were returning to the village of Lauris, and we were alarmed to see that the main road into town
had been cordoned off by blue and white police vans. I was trying to imagine what type of
disaster could have provoked such an overwhelming police presence in rural France. It was far
too many gendarmes for a simple head-on collision or roll-over accident. It turned out that the
village had closed its streets to host a bicycle race for high school teams that involved multiple
laps through the town. The main street was shut down for hours. Throngs of people stood on
the edge of the road to wildy cheer on the cyclists and throw water on them even though they
appeared only momentarily once every 30 minutes. On other occasions, we saw cyclists out on
the road near Chateauneuf du Pape or stopping for water in town. They are clearly the sports
heros of the French countryside.
Mayle's chapter on May starts with talk of cyclists, and not surprisingly,
ends up with a narrative on food. This time, he describes a Sunday lunch at the Auberge de la
Loupe in the very small hamlet of Buoux which he stumbled into by accident. None of his
memorable meals are planned. He sits down for a mid-day meal. Peach champagne arrives
followed by fourteen separate hor d'oeuvres including artichoke hearts, sardines, tabouleh,
creamed salt cod, marinated mushrooms, baby calamari, tapenade (a Provençal specialty of
either green or black olives, garlic and olive oil), small onions in tomato sauce, celery, chick
peas, radishes, and mussels. Next came paté, cold peppers, and white wine, while Châteauneuf
du Pape is aired in the shade, then lamb, beans, potato and onion galette, Banon cheese, lemon
sorbet, chocolate tart, creme anglaise, coffee and a glass of Gigondas marc -- all for a price of
650 francs for two -- about $45 a person including the two bottles of wine and after dinner
drinks.
We managed to eat at a similar place in Buoux. Part of the pleasure in
making our trips to Provence is the feeling that I have been there before through Mayle's book,
and then when we are in France, to refer again to the book to compare my experience with what
was written. Once in a while, Mayle engages in poetic license, or more unfortunately, his
writing about an quaint off-the- beaten path hole-in-the-wall moderately priced restaurant turns
it into just the opposite. One example was a place that he sought shelter in Aix on a cold wet
miserable day. The restaurant is reputed to have doubled its prices and plastered its walls with
Mayle's picture as soon as its name appeared in his book.
This was not the case, however, with the Auberge des Seguins in Buoux.
We went looking for La Loube in Buoux which Mayle had written about. Instead we found
Auberge des Seguins which is outside Buoux proper, ie. in the middle of nowhere, since Buoux
itself consist of about six buildings. Our meal there was just as good as the one described in the
book at the other Auberge. It was a bank holiday and we did not have a reservation, but we
were lucky enough to find seating on the outside terrace under a billowing canvas awning. With
friends from London, we sat down for a delicious three hour meal that like Mayle's meal started
with about fifteen hors d'oeuvres and then proceeded to course after course of local specialties
such as stuffed mussels, rabbit and roast lamb. We had no difficulty consuming several bottles
of chilled rosé with the meal. There was a beautiful view of the surrounding green valley and
gigantic rock cliffs towered over us.
June is the beginning of the foreign tourist season. In his June chapter,
Mayle talks about the Deux Garcons Café in Aix. He describes the ritual of arriving at a French
café. The preferred method is for a young French male to roar up on large motorcycle,
disembark, put the motorcycle up on its kickstands, nonchalantly take off his helmet and
sunglasses, then unexpectedly encounter une jeune fille, kiss her once on each cheek (sometimes
three or four times for good friends), sit down, check out the other women in the café, put the
sunglasses back on, light up a cigarette, order an aperitif, and only then possibly study the menu
or inquire about the specials. The estimated time for completion of this ritual prior to ordering
any food is at least half an hour.
Our first visit to Provence was in June. I had begun the planning by again
going to Borders and browsing the travel guides. I was looking for a Provencal bastide or gite
to in which to stay. A bastide is an old farmhouse; and a gite is a rural rental that is often a
room in someone's home, farm or cottage . I found a guide that featured pictures of the places
to stay. I settled on a mas called La Lombarde located in Lourmarin.
A Provencal mas is a low, short farmhouse built with thick stone walls,
small windows with strong wooden shutters, and reinforced doors. The roofs are of thick red
terra cotta tile known as tuiles romanes (roman tiles) and are applied two or three layers thick
in a canal shape to allow water to run off the roof. The reason the structures are so solidly
constructed and are built so low to the ground, often facing the southeast, is to afford the greatest
possible protection against the blistering mistral. Windows are built on three sides of the house,
but not the northern exposure, once again to keep the wind out in the winter.
The mas we stayed at conformed to all of these specifications. It was built
in the 17th century and it has five guest rooms, two studio apartments and a bungalow. La
Lombarde has been in the same family since it was built. It is impossible to describe the shape
of it, except to say that the building is irregular and is built into sloping ground so that the
northern wall only protrudes a few feet above ground level. There is an inner courtyard where
breakfast is served; and the owners/hosts, Gilbert and Eva Lebre, live in one wing. In addition,
there is a small swimming pool which was made from what used to be a watering hole for cattle.
The farmhouse is surrounded by vineyards and offers a grand view of the surrounding
countryside including Mt. Sainte Victoire, a favorite subject of Cézanne.
We had flown to Paris and after taking the Train de Grand Vitesse (Train
of Great Speed) directly from Charles de Gaulle Airport to Marseilles, we rented a car and
proceeded to get lost. After circling the villages of Lourmarin, Pertuis and Puyvert for the better
part of an hour, we managed to find the small Chambre d' Hôtes sign that marked the entrance
to La Lombarde. A dusty dirt road between rows of vines lead to the mas. Gilbert turned out
to be a large, jolly man with an infectious deep laugh. He put us at ease immediately. My first
question to him was: "do you know where Peter Mayle lives?" He responded by raising his arm
and pointing to the distant horizon, and saying in a matter of fact fashion, "that way, over the
hills, not that far, in the next valley over...". It was clear, however, that he did not share my
fascination with the English author.
Gilbert is an author in his own right, and has had several novels published,
including one that features scenes in turn of the century Waukegan, Illinois. He writes about the
town as a grand fashionable place of high society before it was marred by industrial factories.
I told him that I had never thought of Waukegan as an elegant place; and that perhaps he had
confused it with Lake Forest. Gilbert, however, disagreed. He is so affable that he had me half
convinced that I was wrong and that Waukegan indeed used to be the Beverly Hills of the
Midwest. We learned that not only is Gilbert an author, but that he had also worked as a bush
pilot in South America and that he offers flying tours of the Luberon.
We were not disappointed with our first foray into the village of
Lourmarin. We had known very little about it before we departed and had just looked at it as
a jumping off point for touring the rest of Provence. We discovered, however, that Lourmarin,
has a rich cultural and literary history. It was founded in the early 16th century by Benedictine
monks and was rebuilt after being ravaged in early Protestant-Catholic fighting. The château in
Lourmarin was owned by the mother of composer Franz Liszt. Once a week during the summer,
the château remains true to its heritage by serving as a venue for classical music concerts.
Gilbert told us that when he was growing up that he played
with the children of French author Henri Bosco who in turn hung out with Albert Camus.
Camus bought a house in Lourmarin in the 1950's and is buried in the village cemetery.
We asked Gilbert and Eva for restaurant recommendations and they
suggested Le Fournil in Bonnieux. Le Fournil now ranks as my favorite restaurant on the planet.
The restaurant is open all year round. The inside dining room is a warm comfortable place to
be in the winter with thick stone walls and a massive fireplace. In the summer, dining takes
place outside. Tables and canopies are set up in the adjoining medieval courtyard which has a
fountain in the center. Invariably, there is a cat sunning itself on the fountain and occasionally
sticking a paw into the water. The courtyard is at the base of an ancient clock tower and
fortifying wall which seem to extend upwards for hundreds of meters. It is important to make
reservations early, particularly for a Sunday noon meal, which is when many local residents dine
out. Reserving early also ensures a table on the side of the courtyard which will have the most
shade as the sun clocks it way overhead -- not an unimportant consideration for a three hour
meal. If you arrive on a Sunday without a reservation, you will be politely turned away.
The food at Le Fournil is simple and elegant without being pretentious.
The owners/chefs take full advantage of the local fresh products. There is a three course set meal
for the reasonable price of 150 French Francs, $22 U.S. dollars. Fresh melons, tomato aspic,
olive oil, rabbit, lamb, pork, tuna, mousse chôcolat, fromage blanc, café noir mousse are on the
menu. The food is prepared in a way that is artful and decorative. For instance, goat cheese
is cooked as a small warm soufflé and served on toast with a garnishment of radishes.
One of the reasons that a meal can easily take three hours is that the
owners are more than willing to discuss at length with you how each dish is prepared, what
would make a suitable entrée given your preference in appetizer, and which local rosé would be
the most appropriate for your meal. Of course after eating a meal like this, the air seems to get
hotter and heavier and it is best to retreat pool side for an afternoon nap in the shade. Provence
becomes very quiet from about 3:00 to 5:00 in the afternoon when many people are inside
dozing after a long lunch.
July is one of the two very hot months. Air conditioning is rare in France
especially in Provence. Instead, the houses have thick wooden shutters which can be opened
halfway so as to let in air while keeping the sun out. The dining at most restaurants will be on
an outside terrace or courtyard under canvas canopies.
Mayle's chapter on July describes a trip down to the Côte d'Azur and the
incredible traffic jam that he encountered. He recommends that the best way to get a parking
spot for dinner in St. Tropez is to arrive at 7:30 a.m. in the morning. Our day trip to St.
Tropez also encountered horrific traffic jams. However, my primary memory of the beach
outing to St. Tropez is that even though we were surrounded by scores of topless women of all
ages, that my daughters and wife insisted on locking themselves into the only public toilet on the
beach in order to change into their bathing suits. Their decision to barricade themselves
immediately produced an onslaught of very angry French women pounding on the door
demanding to be let into the bathroom so that it could be used for its intended purpose.
August is the month when Provençal heat reaches its extreme. The first
weekend of the month heralds the worst congestion of the year on the Autoroute du Sud.
Everyone literally leaves Paris at the same hour. Twenty mile long traffic jams develop.
Unfortunately, we managed to be part of them. The good news is that the restaurants at the
tollway oases in France offer fresh fruits, vegetables, pastries and buffet style casserole dishes
of roasted meats together with plenty of espresso machines. Moreover, there are picnic rest
areas spaced halfway between the highway exits so at lunch time you see many families breaking
out a picnic that easily rivals the average Ravinia meal with bottles of water, wine, and numerous
bundles of food spread out on the wooden tables.
This year, the 450 mile car trip from Paris to Provence took us ten hours,
an average speed of 45 miles per hour, except when we were actually moving I had the Mercedes
at 180 kilometers per hour or somewhere near 110 miles per hour so we were either flying or
standing still. Our primary diversion was trying to interpret the numerous warning signs that
come on in the car. Many of these warnings consisted of red triangles with exclamation points
inside. We thumbed through the two hundred page driver's manual and interpreted the French
to say that a triangle with an exclamation point meant "Risk of Inundation". Another warning
on the overhead panel appeared to mean "Abandon your car immediately". Either our
translations were off, or the warning lights were overly sensitive because the car did not
disintegrate, explode or otherwise self-destruct.
Two prior journeys down the Autoroute du Sud were worthy of Peter
Mayle chapters. For the sake of convenience, I will refer to them as Gazole I which involved
myself, and Gazole II which involved my brother. Gazole I began in the subterranean recesses
of the Gare du Nord.
The Gare du Nord is the train station on the north side of Paris where the
Chunnel train called the Eurostar arrives and departs. With the exception of the Eurostar
departure lounge, the Gare du Nord is the epitome of the dirty, crowded, and somewhat scary
foreign train station. Upon entering it, you immediately feel lost and in danger of falling prey
to a pickpocket. All the restaurants are seedy. Gypsies love the place. There is a vague smell
of urine in the air. The rental car desks occupy a windowless room on the basement level. It
is not a place where you want to spend a lot of time. Unfortunately, that is exactly what
happens. You do spend a lot of time there because renting a car in France is much more
complicated than buying or leasing a car in Chicago. Invariably, the person ahead of you in line
does not speak any French or English and gets into an extended discussion
about whether or not the 18.6% VAT tax should be applied to the rental price of the car prior
to, or after, application of collision damage waiver insurance.
It was in these ignoble surroundings that Gazole Chapter I began. After
close to an hour of involuntary imprisonment at the Avis counter, I was happy to have a car.
I am confident that the word "Gazole" never entered into any of my discussions with the rental
agent. Finding the car in the parking structure next to Gare du Nord was a challenge. The
parking structure begins on the ground level and then descends downwards. So, level number
8 is actually 8 floors below the ground, not above it. After you figure this out, the next step is
to try to start the car and distinguish between the windshield wipers, defroster and the headlights.
If you make it to the exit, further problems develop. What happened to me was that at the
exit booth where the movable parking arm is located, I got stuck behind someone who had
broken down. I desperately tried to find reverse, only to get it confused with the 5th gear while
the French person ahead of me gesticulated wildly and told me in French exclamations to back
up. I countered in a combination of broken English and French that I could not find reverse.
Anyhow, we made it out of the Gard du Nord parking structure and on to
the Autoroute du Sud. Traffic was bad. It was early evening but still light when we pulled off
at an oasis somewhere south of Lyon to gas up. We figured that we had another three to four
hours to go so we called Gilbert and told him not to wait up for us. The pumps were self serve.
I filled up and I took my credit card to the cashier to pay for the tank load of gas. I still don't
know why, but the attendant must have been a mind reader. Why he decided to inquire about
the type of gas our car used, I can't guess. But for some reason, he inquired and during several
minutes of my trying to comprehend the nature of his question, he started repeating the word
"gazole". To cut through the language barrier, he walked over to our car, consulted the owner's
manual, and pointed to the yellow cap on the gas tank. The light slowly came on in my mind.
The mental fog cleared and I realized that gazole meant diesel; and that I had just filled our
diesel car with a tankful of unleaded gasoline. My ability to understand his French improved
dramatically as he began to elaborate with more expansive hand gestures on the consequences
of my negligence. My error would surely destroy the engine, it would cost tens of thousand
francs to buy a new engine, this calamity was the only misfortune that our automobile insurance
would not cover, and it was a felony under the French penal code to have done what I just did.
His lecture was delivered while he was simultaneously smoking a cigarette
and attending to numerous other customers. There were at least four gas islands at this oasis
with three pumps each and he was the only attendant on duty. Without waiting for my assent
to fix the problem, he pulled out a jack, raised up the back of our car, and began siphoning all
the gas out of the tank while continuing to run back and forth to the cashier's booth to wait on
other customers. How he managed to wait on all these other persons during this time is still a
dim memory, although I think it involved hand gestures telling them to wait a moment which
is something the average French motorist does not want to hear. Eventually, he finished and had
refilled the tank with gazole. We expressed great thanks, gave him a big tip, took his
photograph for our souvenir book, and went on our way. When we returned to Chicago, I told
the Gazole story to my brother.
Now for Gazole Chapter II. My brother and his family went to Provence
the year after we did. They too rented a car and drove down the Autoroute du Sud. They,
however, unlike us, were forearmed with the knowledge of Gazole Chapter I. Notwithstanding
this fact, they somehow managed to file their gazole car with unleaded gas. At this point, the
difference in temperament between my brother and myself becomes clear. To put it in charitable
terms, my brother is more of a risk taker than I am. He decided, that he would continue to
drive his car and periodically put gazole into the tank so as to dilute the unleaded gas. He was
confident that the car would function on a mixture of gazole and unleaded. After all, the car still
started when he had filled it with unleaded gas, so how much of a problem could it be?
Moreover, it was getting late and he did not want to be delayed in his
arrival at Lourmarin. After driving for an hour or so without incident, he stopped to get
groceries in a small town. He turned off the engine and when he returned to start the car, it was
utterly dead. Undaunted, he went into a local bar looking for a phone book to call a service
station. Obviously, all that was needed to bring the engine back to life were some minor
adjustments by a knowledgeable French mechanic. The likelihood of finding a knowledgeable
French mechanic at work at 9:30 p.m. on a Saturday night in a small town in Southern France
was not something that crossed my brother's mind. However, this problem proved to be
hypothetical in nature since he did not surmount the first challenge of getting a phone book.
He entered the nearby bar looking for the phone book. The place appeared
to contain many people who had been thrown out of Marseilles which is one of the roughest
towns in France to start with. Most of the patrons were missing digits, eyes, limbs and other
body parts. The bartender was distinguished from his clientele by the fact that his body parts
were in excellent working order. In fact, he was a strong beefy man with thick forearms who
looked like he could easily crush at will any of his patrons. Still undaunted, my brother said
to the bartender in his most grammatically correct Evanston High School French, "Les pages
jaunes s'il vous plait". This inquiry evoked no response. Convinced that the absence of a
response was simply due to a lack of volume on his part rather than any mispronunciation of the
French language or any unwillingness to assist on the part of the bartender, my brother repeated
his request at a significantly higher decibel level. "Les pages jaunes s'il vous plait".
No response. Perhaps, the problem was the failure to include the standard prefatory appellation.
"Monsieur, les pages jaunes s'il vous plait!" This time there was a response,
although it was non-verbal in nature. The two hundred pound bartender started rummaging
around underneath the counter, brought out a staunch wooden billy club, knocked it hard against
the bar, and bellowed out, "Quesque vous voulez? Quesque vous voulez?" (What do you want?
What do you want?) At this point, my brother ascertained a certain unwillingness to
accommodate and he left the premises.
Back on the street, he lowered his expectations to hailing a taxi and he was
willing to abandon the rental car. He was successful in getting a taxicab. Amazingly, he found
a driver that had no problem with the idea of making a trip that would result in a $200 fare. The
rest of my brother's vacation was consumed in making semi-daily trips back and forth between
Lourmarin and the garage where the car ended up being towed, engaging in numerous telephone
conversations with the rental car company in Paris, securing a replacement car (with which he
had minor ignition problems) , and in a testimony to his adversarial skills, getting the rental car
company to pay not only the full cost of the repairs, but also his frequent taxi rides. Needless
to say, Gilbert's normal hearty laughter reached epic proportions when he heard this tale. Last
summer when I rented a car, the first thing I did was to look at the color of the gas cap. It was
yellow and I knew that yellow means one thing on a French gas cap -- Gazole.
August is when Lourmarin is overrun with chic Parisians who are
constantly talking into their cell phones at the cafes, parking their BMW's on any available open
piece of sidewalk, and clogging the stores. Restaurants fill up and long lines crowd the aisles
of the only supermarket in the area which is small to start with by American standards. Last
year, we were happy to be staying in Lauris which is only five minutes from Lourmarin, but
not so crowded. We arrived at night in the midst of an August street fair and proceeded down
the middle of the Main Street surrounded by inebriated local residents. It was a bit like trying
to drive down Columbus Drive in the middle of the Taste of Chicago.
We headed up a very narrow lane with stone walls on either side and found
Brume de L'Aube (Dawn's Mist) which was the villa we were renting. The house and the pool
offered an excellent view of Mt. Saint Victoire in the distance. The place was well equipped with
guides, maps, cookbooks, wine treatises, and Grateful Dead C.D.'s. The property
owner had left detailed instructions which were reminiscent of the notes left by the owner of the
Tuscan villa in John Mortimer's Summer's Lease. For instance, one small note said
"do not under any circumstances, use the microwave and the toaster at the same time" without
spelling out the consequences. The typed instructions also cautioned to "watch out for scorpions
in the early fall". Much to my surprise, I did find a live scorpion in the entrance hall soon after
arrival and quickly dispatched it before the rest of the group learned of its existence.
Returning to A Year in Provence, Peter Mayle describes
September as the month when Provence goes back to normal after all the tourists depart which
sounds like a very pleasant sequel to the August crush. It is the month for harvesting for the
vines. Mayle describes a petite degustation of wine that he enjoyed at a cave that was nothing
to behold from the outside. The tasting ended up taking up most of the afternoon.
We made two trips to Châteauneuf du Pape for the purpose of tasting and
buying wine. I think that the only people that take wine tasting more seriously than the French
themselves are the English visitors to Provence. The owner of the house we rented lives in
London. From a large photograph hanging in the entrance hall, we wrongfully assumed that
he is a ruddy looking man with a full white beard who could do a favorable impression of Santa
Claus without the costume. (In fact, the photo was of his father.) He left copious notes on
where to buy wines and included his personal ratings of each vineyard and vintage. In addition,
the bookshelf in the kitchen was filled with books on wine. Each book resembled one of my law
school text books in that it had extensive underlining, frequent yellow highlighting and detailed
marginal notations on each vineyard.
Armed with this voluminous material, we set off for Château Beaucastel
which is one of the premiere vineyards in Châteauneuf du Pape. There are thirty-five domains
in Châteauneuf du Pape dating back to 1317 when Pope John XXII planted the first vineyards.
Arriving without an appointment, we were promptly turned away but sufficiently interested in
the wine to schedule a visit a few days later. This time we were greeted like visiting royalty and
the six of us got an extensive tour of the vineyard including a freight elevator descent reminiscent
of the coal mine ride at the Museum of Science and Industry. Instead of going down into a
pretend coal mine, however, we emerged in a vast storage area of thousands and thousands of
bottles, some of which go back to the early part of the 20th century. The primary lesson we
learned was the strongly held belief of our guide was that any bottle of Chateauneuf de Pape
worth drinking should be kept in a cellar for at least fifteen years before being uncorked.
October through December are months where Mayle writes of mushroom
hunting, a lavish dinner with a group of wine growers, and the end to the work on his house.
The hunting season begins in November. December and Christmas bring special foods and
pastries. The year ends with his champagne party.
How did my 2001 search for Peter Mayle, the person, fare? Well, we
went off to Provence and I did not hear from him in response to my letter which did not surprise
me. He is inundated with many letters every day. In a magazine interview, he said that he
longed for a secretary to help him answer the flood of mail with which he was overwhelmed
after the success of A Year in Provence. After getting back to Chicago, there was
an envelope from France. I assumed it was from the housekeeper in Lauris. I had called her
and asked her to search for the clothes that my sixteen year old daughter had left at the house.
I opened the envelope and inside was a tasteful ivory card on which the following note had been
carefully inked:
Dear Howard:
Your extremely kind letter has just reached me. Too late, alas, to
catch you in Lauris. Maybe next year. Meanwhile, I hope your
vacation was sunny and well-fed. Many thanks for writing, Pete
M.
What about the search not for Peter Mayle, the person, but for the type of life that he
writes about where people take things slower, enjoy good food, good company, and good wine?.
Yes, I found that life this summer when we traveled to Provence with friends from London and
enjoyed meals where neither the food nor talk ebbed. I also, realized, however, that you need
not travel to Provence to enjoy what Peter Mayle is writing about. It can be found right here
in the Chicago Literary Club every time we sit down to a convivial dinner, even when the
temperature outside is minus 10 degrees Fahrenheit. In that spirit, I hope that you will pay
particular attention to the wine and brandy table tonight.