He told us to meet him in Avignon, at one of the cafés in the Place de l’Horloge, when he would reveal the first of his two chosen restaurants. He kissed his fingers noisily over the phone, and advised us not to make any arrangements for the afternoon. After a lunch such as the one he planned, nothing more energetic than a digestif would be possible.
We watched him as he billowed toward us across the place, moving lightly for such a big man in his black basketball boots and what must have been his most formal tracksuit, also black, with UCLA in pink letters on one meaty thigh. He was carrying a shopping basket and a zip-striped handbag of the kind that French executives use for their personal documents and emergency bottles of eau de cologne.
He ordered a glass of champagne and showed us some baby melons, no bigger than apples, that he had just bought in the market. They were to be scooped clean, dosed with a ratafia of grape juice and brandy, and left for 24 hours in the refrigerator. They would taste, so Régis assured us, like a young girl’s lips. I had never thought of melons in quite that way before, but I put that down to the shortcomings of my English education.
With a final fond squeeze of their tiny green bottoms, Régis put the melons back in the basket and addressed himself to the business of the day.
“We are going,” he said, “to Hiély, just over there in the Rue de la République. Pierre Hiély is a prince of the kitchen. He has been at the ovens for twenty, twenty-five years, and he is a prodigy. Never a disappointing meal.” Régis wagged his finger at us. “Jamais!”
Apart from a small framed menu at the entrance, Hiély makes no attempt to entice the passerby. The narrow door opens into a narrow corridor, and the restaurant is up a flight of stairs. It’s a big room with a handsome herringbone parquet floor, decorated in sober colors, tables spaced comfortably far apart. Here, as in most good French restaurants, the solitary client is treated as well as a party of half a dozen. Tables for one are not wedged into a dead corner as an afterthought, but in windowed alcoves overlooking the street. These were already occupied by men in suits, presumably local businessmen who had to snatch their lunch in a mere two hours before going back to the office. The other clients, all French except for us, were less formally dressed.
I remembered being turned away from a restaurant with airs and graces in Somerset because I wasn’t wearing a tie, something that has never happened to me in France. And here was Régis, resembling a refugee from the weight watchers’ gym in his tracksuit, being welcomed like a king by Madame as he checked in his shopping basket and asked if Monsieur Hiély was on form. Madame allowed herself a smile. “Oui, comme toujours.”
Régis beamed and rubbed his hands together as we were shown to our table, sniffing the air to see if he could pick up any hints of what was to come. In another of his favorite restaurants, he said, the chef allowed him into the kitchen, and he would close his eyes and select his meal by nose.
He tucked his napkin under his chin and murmured to the waiter. “Un grand?” said the waiter. “Un grand,” said Régis, and sixty seconds later a large glass pitcher, opaque with cold, was placed in front of us. Régis became professorial; our lesson was about to commence. “In a serious restaurant,” he said, “one can always have confidence in the house wines. This is a Côtes-du-Rhône. Santé.” He took a gargantuan sip and chewed on it for a few seconds before expressing his satisfaction with a sigh.
“Bon. Now, you will permit some advice on the menu? As you see, there is a dégustation which is delicious, but possibly a little long for a simple lunch. There is a fine choice à la carte. But we must remember why we are here.” He looked at us over the top of his wine glass. “It is so that you can experience the rapport qualité-prix. Any good chef can feed you well for 500 francs a head. The test is how well you can eat for less than half that, and so I propose the short menu. D’accord?”
We were d’accord. The short menu was enough to make a Michelin inspector salivate, let alone two English amateurs like us. With some difficulty, we made our decisions while Régis hummed quietly over the wine list. He beckoned over the waiter for another reverent exchange of murmurs.
“I break my own rule,” said Régis. “The red house wine is, of course, faultless. But here,” he tapped the page in front of him, “here is a little treasure, pas cher, from the Domaine de Trévallon, north of Aix. Not too heavy, but with the character of a big wine. You will see.”