Toujours Provence(44)

As one waiter departed for the cellar, another arrived with a snack to keep us going until the first course was ready—small ramekins, each filled with a creamy brandade of cod, topped with a tiny, perfectly fried quail’s egg and garnished with black olives. Régis was silent with concentration, and I could hear the moist creak of corks being eased from bottles, the low voices of the waiters, and the subdued chink of knives and forks against thin china plates.

Régis wiped his ramekin clean with a scrap of bread—he used bread like an implement to guide food to his fork—and poured some more wine. “Ça commence bien, eh?”

And lunch continued as it had begun, bien. A flan of foie gras in a thick but delicate sauce of wild mushrooms and asparagus was followed by homemade sausages of Sisteron lamb and sage with a confiture of sweet red onions and, in a separate flat dish, a gratin of potato that was no thicker than my napkin, a single crisp layer that dissolved on the tongue.

Now that the edge was off his appetite, Régis was able to resume conversation, and he told us about a literary project that he was considering. He had read in the paper that an international center for Marquis de Sade studies was to be opened during the Avignon arts festival. There would also be an opera performed in honor of le divin marquis, and a champagne named after him. These events indicated a renewal of public interest in the old monster and, as Régis pointed out, even sadists have to eat. His idea was to give them their very own recipes.

“I shall call it Cuisine Sadique: The Marquis de Sade’s Cookbook,” he said, “and all the ingredients will be beaten, whipped, trussed, crushed, or seared. There will be many painful words used in the descriptions and so I am sure it will be a succès fou in Germany. But you must advise me about England.” He leaned forward and his voice became confidential. “Is it true that all men who have been to English public schools are fond of … comment dirais-je … a little punishment?” He sipped his wine and raised his eyebrows. “Le spanking, non?”

I said that he should try to find a publisher who had been to Eton, and to devise a recipe that included flogging.

“Qu’est-ce que ça veut dire, flogging?”

I explained as best I could, and Régis nodded. “Ah, oui. Maybe with a breast of chicken one could do flogging, with a very sharp sauce of citron. Très bien.” He made notes in a small, neat hand on the back of his checkbook. “Un bestseller, c’est certain.”

The bestseller was put aside while Régis took us on a tour of the cheese trolley, stopping frequently en route to instruct us and the waiter on the correct balance between hard and soft, piquant and doux, fresh and aged. He chose five out of the twenty or more cheeses on offer, and congratulated himself on having had the foresight to predict that we would need a second bottle of Trévallon.

I bit into a peppery goat’s cheese, and felt a prickle of perspiration on the bridge of my nose under my glasses. The wine slipped down like silk. It had been a wonderful meal, completely satisfying, served with easy efficiency by highly professional waiters. I told Régis how much I had enjoyed it, and he looked at me with surprise.

“But we haven’t finished. There is more.” A plate of tiny meringues was put on the table. “Ah,” he said, “these are to help us prepare for the desserts. They taste like clouds.” He ate two in quick succession, and looked around to make sure the dessert waiter hadn’t forgotten us.

A second vehicle, larger and more loaded than the cheese trolley, was wheeled carefully up to the table and parked in front of us. It would have caused deep distress to anyone with a weight problem: bowls of fresh cream and fromage blanc, truffled chocolate cake covered in more chocolate, pastries, vacherins, rum-soaked babas, tarts, sorbets, fraises des bois, fruits bathed in syrup—it was all too much for Régis to take in while sitting down, and so he got up and prowled around to make sure that nothing was hiding behind the fresh raspberries.

My wife chose ice cream made with local honey, and the waiter took a spoon from its pot of hot water, scooping the ice cream from the bowl with a graceful roll of the wrist. He stood with plate and spoon, poised for further instructions.

“Avec ça?”

“C’est tout, merci.”

Régis made up for my wife’s restraint with what he called a selection of textures—chocolate, pastry, fruit, and cream—and pushed the sleeves of his tracksuit up above his elbows. Even on him, the pace was beginning to tell.

I ordered coffee. There was a moment of shocked silence while Régis and the waiter looked at me.