Toujours Provence(46)

I told Régis that he might be able to use the bread guillotine in his Marquis de Sade cookbook, and he paused in mid-saucisson.

“Peut-etre,” he said, “but one must be careful, above all with the American market. Have you heard about the difficulty with the champagne?”

Apparently, so Régis had read in a newspaper article, the champagne of the Marquis de Sade had not been welcome in the land of the free because of its label, which was decorated with a drawing of the top half of a well-endowed young woman. This might not have been a problem, except that a sharp-eyed guardian of public morality had noticed the position of the young woman’s arms. It was not explicit, not depicted on the label itself, but there was the merest hint of a suggestion that the arms might have been pinioned.

Oh là là. Imagine the effect of such degeneracy on the youth of the country, not to mention some of the more susceptible adults. The fabric of society would be ripped asunder, and there would be champagne and bondage parties all the way from Santa Barbara to Boston. God only knows what might happen in Connecticut.

Régis resumed eating, his paper napkin tucked in the top of his vest. At the next table, a man on his second course unbuttoned his shirt to let the air circulate, and revealed a stupendous mahogany paunch with a gold crucifix suspended neatly between furry bosoms. Very few people were picking at their food, and I wondered how they could manage to stay alert at the wheel of a 50-ton truck all afternoon.

We wiped our empty plates with bread, and then wiped our knives and forks the same way. Our waitress came with three oval stainless steel dishes, burning hot. On the first were two halves of a chicken in gravy; on the second, tomatoes stuffed with garlic and parsley; on the third, tiny potatoes that had been roasted with herbs. Régis sniffed everything before serving me.

“What do the routiers in England eat?”

Two eggs, bacon, chips, sausages, baked beans, a fried slice, a pint of tea.

“No wine? No cheese? No desserts?”

I didn’t think so, although my routier experience had been very limited. I said they might stop at a pub, but the law about drinking and driving was severe.

Régis poured some more wine. “Here in France,” he said, “I am told that one is permitted an apéritif, half a bottle of wine, and a digestif.”

I said that I had read somewhere about the accident rate in France being higher than anywhere in Europe, and twice as high as in America.

“That has nothing to do with alcohol,” said Régis. “It is a question of national esprit. We are impatient, and we love speed. Malheureusement, not all of us are good drivers.” He mopped his plate and changed the conversation back to more comfortable ground.

“This is a high quality chicken, don’t you think?” He picked up a bone from his plate and tested it between his teeth. “Good strong bones. He has been raised properly, in the open air. The bones of an industrial chicken are like papier-mâché.”

It was indeed a fine chicken, firm but tender, and perfectly cooked, like the potatoes and the garlicky tomatoes. I said that I was surprised not only at the standard of cooking, but the abundance of the portions. And I was sure the bill wasn’t going to be painful.

Régis cleaned his knife and fork again, and signaled the waitress to bring cheese.

“It’s simple,” he said. “The routier is a good client, very faithful. He will always drive the extra fifty kilometers to eat well at a correct price, and he will tell other routiers that the restaurant is worth a detour. As long as the standard is maintained, there will never be empty tables.” He waved a forkful of Brie at the dining room. “Tu vois?”

I looked around, and gave up counting, but there must have been close to a hundred men eating, and maybe thirty more in the bar.

“It is a solid business. But if the chef becomes mean, or starts cheating, or the service is too slow, the routiers will go. Within a month, there will be nobody, a few tourists.”

There was a rumble outside, and the room became sunny as a truck pulled away from its place next to the window. Our neighbor with the crucifix put on his sunglasses to eat his dessert, a bowl of three different ice creams.

“Glaces, crème caramel, ou flan?” The black bra strap was hitched into place, only to slip out again as the waitress cleared our table.

Régis ate his crème caramel with soft sucking sounds of enjoyment, and reached for the ice cream that he had ordered for me. I’d never make a routier. I didn’t have the capacity.

It was still early, well before two, and the room was beginning to clear. Bills were being paid—huge fingers opening dainty little purses to take out carefully folded banknotes, the waitress bobbing and smiling and hitching as she brought change and wished the men bonne route.