Toujours Provence(45)
“Pas de dessert?” said the waiter.
“It’s part of the menu,” said Régis.
Both of them seemed worried, as though I had suddenly been taken ill, but it was no good. Hiély had won by a knockout.
The bill was 230 francs a head, plus wine. It was astonishing value for the money. For 280 francs, we could have had the long menu dégustation. Maybe next time, said Régis. Yes, maybe next time, after three days of fasting and a 10-mile walk.
The second half of the gastronomy course was postponed to allow Régis to take his annual cure. For two weeks, he ate sparingly—three-course meals instead of his customary five courses—and soaked his liver in mineral water. This was essential for the rejuvenation of his system.
To celebrate the end of the régime, he proposed lunch at a restaurant called Le Bec Fin, and told me to meet him there no later than quarter to twelve to be sure of a table. I should be able to find it easily enough, he said. It was on the RN 7 at Orgon, recognizable by the number of trucks in the car park. It would not be necessary to wear a jacket. My wife, wiser than I in the heat, decided to stay and guard the pool.
By the time I arrived, the restaurant was completely surrounded by trucks, their cabins jammed tight against tree trunks to take advantage of the scraps of shade. Half a dozen car transporters were drawn up, nose to tail, on the hard shoulder opposite. A latecomer cruised off the road, squeezed into a narrow strip next to the dining room, and stopped with a hydraulic hiss of relief. The driver stood for a moment in the sun and eased his back, the shape of his arched spine repeated exactly in the generous swell of his stomach.
The bar was full and loud; big men, big moustaches, big bellies, big voices. Régis, standing in a corner with a glass, looked almost svelte by comparison. He was dressed for July, in running shorts and a sleeveless vest, his handbag looped over one wrist.
“Salut!” He tidied up the last of his pastis and ordered two more. “C’est autre chose, eh? Pas comme Hiély.”
It could hardly have been less like Hiély. Behind the bar, damp from the wet cloth that Madame was using in great swoops, was a notice that said DANGER! RISQUE D’ENGUE-LADE!—watch out for a slanging match. Through the open door that led to the lavatory I could see another notice: DOUCHE, 8 FRANCS. From an invisible kitchen came the clatter of saucepans and the hot tang of simmering garlic.
I asked Régis how he felt after his period of self-imposed restraint, and he turned sideways to show off his belly in profile. Madame behind the bar looked up as she flicked the froth from a glass of beer with a wooden spatula. She inspected the long curve that started just below Régis’s chest and ended overhanging the waistband of his running shorts. “When’s it due?” she asked.
We went through to the dining room and found an empty table at the back. A small dark woman with a pretty smile and an undisciplined black brassiere strap that resisted her efforts at adjustment came to tell us the rules. For the first course, we should serve ourselves from the buffet, and then there was a choice of beef, calamari, or poulet fermier. The wine list was brief—red or rosé, which came in a liter bottle with a plastic stopper and a bowl of ice cubes. The waitress wished us bon appétit, performed a little bob that was almost a curtsy, hitched up her bra strap, and went off with our order.
Régis opened the wine with mock ceremony and sniffed the plastic stopper. “From the Var,” he said, “sans prétention, mais honnête.” He took a sip and drew it slowly through his front teeth. “Il est bon.”
We joined the line of truck drivers at the buffet. They were achieving small miracles of balance, piling their plates with an assortment that was a meal in itself: two kinds of saucisson, hard-boiled eggs in mayonnaise, moist tangles of celeri rémoulade, saffron-colored rice with red peppers, tiny peas and sliced carrots, a pork terrine in pastry, rillettes, cold squid, wedges of fresh melon. Régis grumbled at the size of the plates and took two, resting the second with a waiter’s expertise on the inside of his forearm as he plundered each of the serving bowls.
There was a moment of panic when we returned to the table. Impossible even to think of eating without bread. Where was the bread? Régis caught the eye of our waitress and raised a hand to his mouth, making biting motions with bunched fingers against his thumb. She pulled a baguette from the brown paper sack standing in the corner and ran it through the guillotine with a speed that made me wince. The slices of bread were still reflating after the pressure of the blade when they were put in front of us.