The dining room of the farm was cool and noisy. A large television set in the corner, ignored by the clientele, jabbered to itself. The other customers, mostly men, were darkened by the sun and dressed for outdoor work in old shirts and sleeveless vests, with the flattened hair and white foreheads that come from wearing a cap. A nondescript dog whiffled in the corner, nose twitching sleepily at the spicy smell of cooking meat coming from the kitchen. I realized that I was ravenous.
We were introduced to André, the patron, whose appearance, dark and full-bodied, fitted the description of some of the wines we’d been tasting. There were undertones of garlic, Gauloises, and pastis present in his bouquet. He wore a loose shirt, short shorts, rubber sandals, and an emphatic black moustache. He had a voice that transcended the hubbub of the room.
“Eh, Michel! Qu’est-ce que c’est? Orangina? Coca-Cola?” He started to unpack the crates of wine and reached in the back pocket of his shorts for a corkscrew. “M’amour! Un seau, des glaçons, s’il te plaît.”
His wife, sturdy and smiling, came out of the kitchen carrying a tray and unloaded it on the table: two ice buckets, plates of pink saucisson dotted with tiny peppercorns, a dish of vivid radishes, and a deep bowl of thick tapenade, the olive and anchovy paste that is sometimes called the black butter of Provence. André was uncorking bottles like a machine, sniffing each cork as he drew it and arranging the bottles in a double line down the center of the table. Michel explained that these were some of the wines we hadn’t had time to try in the cave, young Côtes-du-Rhône for the most part, with half a dozen older and more serious reinforcements from Gigondas to help when the cheese arrived.
There is something about lunch in France that never fails to overcome any small reserves of willpower that I possess. I can sit down, resolved to be moderate, determined to eat and drink lightly, and be there three hours later, nursing my wine and still open to temptation. I don’t think it’s greed. I think it’s the atmosphere generated by a roomful of people who are totally intent on eating and drinking. And while they do it, they talk about it; not about politics or sport or business, but about what is on the plate and in the glass. Sauces are compared, recipes argued over, past meals remembered, and future meals planned. The world and its problems can be dealt with later on, but for the moment, la bouffe takes priority and contentment hangs in the air. I find it irresistible.
We eased into lunch like athletes limbering up. A radish, its top split open to hold a sliver of almost white butter and flecked with a pinch of coarse salt; a slice of saucisson, prickly with pepper on the tongue; rounds of toast made from yesterday’s bread, shining with tapenade. Cool pink and white wines. Michel leaned across the table. “No spitting.”
The patron, who was nipping away at a glass of red in between his duties, presented the first course with as much ceremony as a man in shorts and rubber sandals can muster, placing a deep terrine, its sides burnt almost black, on the table. He stuck an old kitchen knife into the pâté, then came back with a tall glass pot of cornichons and a dish of onion jam. “Voilà, mes enfants. Bon appétit.”
The wine changed color as Michel dealt out his young reds, and the terrine was passed around the table for second slices. André came over from his card game to refill his glass. “Ça va? Ça vous plaît?” I told him how much I liked his onion jam. He told me to save some room for the next course, which was—he kissed his fingertips loudly—a triumph, alouettes sans tête, prepared specially for us by the hands of his adorable Monique.
Despite the rather grisly name (literally, larks without heads), it is a dish made from thin slices of beef rolled around slivers of salt pork, seasoned with chopped garlic and parsley, bathed in olive oil, dry white wine, stock, and tomato coulis and served neatly trussed with kitchen twine. It looks nothing like a lark—more like an opulent sausage—but some creative Provençal cook must have thought that larks sounded more appetizing than rolled beef, and the name has survived.
Monique brought in the alouettes, which André said he had shot that morning. He was a man who found it difficult to make a joke without delivering the punch line physically, and the nudge he delivered with his forearm almost knocked me into a vast tub of ratatouille.
The headless larks were hot and humming with garlic, and Michel decided that they deserved a more solid wine. The Gigondas was promoted from the cheese course, and the collection of dead bottles at the end of the table was by now well into double figures. I asked Michel if he had any plans to work in the afternoon. He looked surprised. “I am working,” he said. “This is how I like to sell wine. Have another glass.”