I looked at the program, and I had to admit that Madame had a point. It was entirely possible, and reading between the arias, a menu appeared:
DONIZETTI
(Insalata di carciofi)
CILEA
(Zuppa di fagioli alla Toscana)
ENTRACTE
(Sogliole alla Veneziana)
PUCCINI
(Tonnelini con funghi e piselli)
VERDI
(Formaggi)
MASSENET
(Granita di limone)
ENCORE
(Caffè e grappa)
There was another, more visible sign that the singing supper might not be just a figment of Madame’s imagination. Like everyone else, I had assumed that the white square draped elegantly through the fingers of Pavarotti’s left hand was a handkerchief. But it was larger than a handkerchief, much larger. I mentioned it to Madame, and she nodded. “Évidemment,” she said, “c’est une serviette.” Having proved her case, she settled back to enjoy the rest of the concert.
Pavarotti was unforgettable, not only for his singing but for the way in which he played to the audience, risking the occasional vocal departure from the score, patting the conductor on the cheek when it came off, making his exits and entrances with faultless timing. After one of his periods behind the curtain, he returned wearing a long blue scarf wrapped around his neck and reaching to his waist—against the cool night air, or so I thought.
Madame, of course, knew better. He has had a small accident with some sauce, she said, and the scarf is there to conceal the spots on his white waistcoat. Isn’t he divine?
The official program ended, but the orchestra lingered on. From the beggars and prostitutes’ section came an insistent chant—Ver-di! Ver-di! Ver-di!—and this time it spread through the crowd until Pavarotti emerged to give us a second helping of encores: Nessun Dorma, O Sole Mio, rapture in the audience, bows from the orchestra, one last salute from the star, and then it was over.
It took us half an hour to clear the exit, and as we came out we saw two enormous Mercedes pulling away from the theater. “I bet that’s him,” said Christopher. “I wonder where he’s going to have dinner.” He wasn’t to know, because he hadn’t been sitting next to Madame, what had been going on behind the black curtain. Thirteen thousand people had been to dinner with Pavarotti without realizing it. I hope he comes to Orange again, and I hope that next time they print the menu in the program.
A Pastis Lesson
Tin tables and scuffed wicker chairs are set out under the shade of massive plane trees. It is close to noon, and the motes of dust kicked up by an old man’s canvas boots as he shuffles across the square hang for a long moment in the air, sharply defined in the glare of the sun. The café waiter looks up from his copy of L’Équipe and saunters out to take your order.
He comes back with a small glass, maybe a quarter full if he’s been generous, and a beaded carafe of water. The glass turns cloudy as you fill it up, a color somewhere between yellow and misty grey, and there is the sharp, sweet smell of aniseed.
Santé. You are drinking pastis, the milk of Provence.
For me, the most powerful ingredient in pastis is not aniseed or alcohol but ambiance, and that dictates how and where it should be drunk. I cannot imagine drinking it in a hurry. I cannot imagine drinking it in a pub in Fulham, a bar in New York, or anywhere that requires its customers to wear socks. It wouldn’t taste the same. There has to be heat and sunlight and the illusion that the clock has stopped. I have to be in Provence.
Before moving here, I had always thought of pastis as a commodity, a French national asset made by two giant institutions. There was Pernod, there was Ricard, and that was it.
Then I started to come across others—Casanis, Janot, Granier—and I wondered how many different marques there were. I counted five in one bar, seven in another. Every Provençal I asked was, of course, an expert. Each of them gave me a different, emphatic, and probably inaccurate answer, complete with disparaging remarks about the brands that he personally wouldn’t give to his mother-in-law.
It was only by chance that I found a professor of pastis, and since he also happens to be a very good chef, attending class was no hardship.
Michel Bosc was born near Avignon and emigrated to Cabrières, a few miles away. For 12 years now he has run a restaurant in the village, Le Bistrot à Michel, and each year he has put his profits back into the business. He has added a large terrace, expanded the kitchens, put in four bedrooms for overtired or overindulged customers, and generally turned chez Michel into a comfortable, bustling place.
But despite all the improvements, and the occasional outbreaks of rampant chic among the summer clientele, one thing hasn’t changed. The bar at the front of the restaurant is still the village bar. Every evening there will be half a dozen men with burned faces and work clothes who have dropped in, not to eat, but to argue about boules over a couple of drinks. And the drinks are invariably pastis.