We had double-strength coffee, black and scalding beneath its scum of brown bubbles, and Calvados in rotund little glasses. Régis tipped his glass until its rounded side touched the table and the gold liquid exactly reached the rim—the old way, he said, of judging a true measure.
The bill for us both was 140 francs. Like our lunch at Hiély, it was wonderful value for the money, and I had only one regret as we went outside and felt the hammer of the sun. If I’d brought a towel, I could have had a shower.
“Well,” said Régis, “that will hold me until tonight.” We shook hands, and he threatened me with a bouillabaisse in Marseille on our next educational outing.
I went back into the bar for some more coffee, and to see if I could rent a towel.
Fashion and Sporting
Notes from the
Ménerbes Dog Show
The Ménerbes stadium, a level field among the vines, is normally the setting for loud and enthusiastic matches played by the village soccer team. There might be a dozen cars parked under the pine trees, and supporters divide their attention between the game and their copious picnics. But for one day a year, usually the second Sunday in June, the stade is transformed. Bunting, in the Provençal blood and guts colors of red and yellow, is strung across the forest paths. An overgrown hollow is cleared to provide extra parking, and a screen of split bamboo canisse is erected along the side of the road so that passersby can’t watch the proceedings without paying their 15-franc entrance fee. Because this is, after all, a major local event, a mixture of Crufts dog show and Ascot, the Foire aux Chiens de Ménerbes.
This year it started early and noisily. Just after seven, we were opening the doors and shutters and enjoying the one morning of the week when our neighbor’s tractor stays in bed. The birds were singing, the sun was shining, the valley was still. Peace, perfect peace. And then, half a mile away over the hill, the chef d’animation began his loudspeaker trials with an electronic yelp that ricochetted through the mountains and must have woken up half the Lubéron.
“Allo allo, un, deux, trois, bonjour Ménerbes!” He paused to cough. It sounded like an avalanche. “Bon,” he said, “ça marche.” He turned the volume down a notch and tuned in to Radio Monte Carlo. A quiet morning was out of the question.
We had decided to wait until the afternoon before going to the show. By then the preliminary heats would be over, mongrels and dogs of dubious behavior would be weeded out, a good lunch would have been had by all, and the best noses in the business would be ready to do battle in the field trials.
On the stroke of noon, the loudspeaker went dead and the background chorus of barking was reduced to the occasional plaintive serenade of a hound expressing unrequited lust or boredom. The valley was otherwise silent. For two hours, dogs and everything else took second place to stomachs.
“Tout le monde a bien mangé?” bellowed the loudspeaker. The microphone amplified a half-suppressed belch. “Bon. Alors, on recommence.” We started off along the track that leads to the stade.
A shaded clearing above the car park had been taken over by an elite group of dealers who were selling specialist breeds, or hybrids, dogs of particular and valuable skills—trackers of the wild sanglier, hunters of rabbits, detectors of quail and woodcock. They were strung like a living necklace on chains beneath the trees, twitching in their sleep. Their owners looked like gypsies: slender, dark men with gold teeth flashing through dense black moustaches.
One of them noticed my wife admiring a wrinkled black-andtan specimen who was scratching his ear lazily with a huge back paw. “Il est beau, eh?” said the owner, and shone his teeth at us. He bent down and took hold of a handful of loose skin behind the dog’s head. “He comes in his own sac à main. You can carry him home.” The dog raised his eyes in resignation at having been born with a coat several sizes too big, and his paw stopped in mid-scratch. My wife shook her head. “We already have three dogs.” The man shrugged, and let the skin drop in heavy folds. “Three, four—what’s the difference?”
A little further along the track, the sales presentation became more sophisticated. On top of a hutch made from plywood and wire netting, a printed card announced: Fox-terrier, imbattable aux lapins et aux truffes. Un vrai champion. The champion, a short, stout brown and white dog, was snoring on his back, all four stumpy legs in the air. We barely slowed down, but it was enough for the owner. “Il est beau, eh?” He woke the dog up and lifted him from the hutch. “Regardez!” He put the dog on the ground and took a slice of sausage from the tin plate that was next to the empty wine bottle on the bonnet of his van.