tint, like mine. Marcel’s hair was already gray when I first met him—it’s pure white now—and his delicately boned face has rosy red cheeks and bright blue eyes. Back then he usually dressed in the standard blue worker pants and jacket with a heavy sweater underneath, and a wool cap as needed. Today, he’s more likely to be seen wearing Nike sweats and a logo baseball cap.
The harvest lunches began promptly at noon. Marie picked grapes until eleven, then went home to finish the meal so that everything was ready when the workers, about ten in all, Donald and me included, tromped up the narrow, twisting staircase that led to Marie and Marcel’s apartment in the huge, old stone farmhouse. Once owned by a single family, the house had since been divided between three owners, one of them the proprietor of the land Marcel farmed. Marcel and Marie got the apartment as part of their land tenancy contract.
After the workers sat down around the large Formica kitchen table, Marcel poured
pastis
for everyone who wanted it. As soon as it was drunk, the first course of
charcuterie,
homemade, of course, was served. Thick slices of
jambon cru
and
saucisson
were stacked on platters, and jars of juniper-and-rosemary-scented
pâté
,/i> were set out, along with
baguettes
and bottles of red winefilled by Marcel from the vat he kept in his cave. We all helped ourselves to the platters and bottles as they passed among us. The second course was invariably pasta, a different shape and size each day, dressed with a meat sauce made from the previous day’s leftovers and tomato sauce, a practice I readily adapted to my own kitchen. The pasta was served with
fromage rouge
sprinkled over the top, a dry orange cheese sealed in red wax that was far less expensive than Parmesan. Marie wouldn’t let anyone off with just one helping.
“Servez-vous! Servez-vous!
Have more, please, that’s not enough. Eat more,” she would say, pushing the bowls and platters toward us. “Go on, go on, serve yourself.”
It was hard to resist Marie’s attention and even harder to resist the food. You would think that
pâté
, cured ham and sausages, bread, olives, and two healthy servings of pasta would be enough, even for strong men and women in their prime. But no. Marie wanted to be sure no one left hungry and that no one thought she was cheap. She didn’t ever want it said that you don’t get enough to eat at her house.
Charcuterie
and pasta were only the prelude.
Other farmers’ kitchens were rumored to be stingy with the lunches they served to their workers, keeping the good food for
le patron
and his friends. Not at Marie’s house. The pasta was followed by platters heavy with braised rabbit, chicken, or guinea fowl, all raised in the cages and pens in the open barns below the kitchen. They were seasoned with mushrooms she and Marcel had collected and dried the previous fall, and with wild thyme and rosemary and a little dried orange peel. Sautéed zucchini, stuffed tomatoes and eggplant, and freshly dug potatoes accompanied the meat dish. And always more wine and bread. I usually tried to pass up seconds of the
charcuterie
and pasta in order to have room for the main dish and the vegetables. A salad made from garden-picked greens or maybe wild dandelions came next,the vinaigrette heavy with garlic, and then a platter of cheese. The cheese was always followed by melons, because Marcel was, and still is, a notable melon grower, and grape harvest and melon season coincided.
Toward the end of every meal, Marcel would get up from the table, go down to the
cave,
and bring up four or five melons of different kinds, which he put on the table before sitting down again. Next, he would carefully select one melon and cut a slice from it, scraping the seeds directly onto his plate and cutting the flesh away from the crescent of the skin. Everyone waited. If he pronounced it good, and he usually did with a “Mmhupm,” the melon was cut up and passed around on
The harvest lunches began promptly at noon. Marie picked grapes until eleven, then went home to finish the meal so that everything was ready when the workers, about ten in all, Donald and me included, tromped up the narrow, twisting staircase that led to Marie and Marcel’s apartment in the huge, old stone farmhouse. Once owned by a single family, the house had since been divided between three owners, one of them the proprietor of the land Marcel farmed. Marcel and Marie got the apartment as part of their land tenancy contract.
After the workers sat down around the large Formica kitchen table, Marcel poured
pastis
for everyone who wanted it. As soon as it was drunk, the first course of
charcuterie,
homemade, of course, was served. Thick slices of
jambon cru
and
saucisson
were stacked on platters, and jars of juniper-and-rosemary-scented
pâté
,/i> were set out, along with
baguettes
and bottles of red winefilled by Marcel from the vat he kept in his cave. We all helped ourselves to the platters and bottles as they passed among us. The second course was invariably pasta, a different shape and size each day, dressed with a meat sauce made from the previous day’s leftovers and tomato sauce, a practice I readily adapted to my own kitchen. The pasta was served with
fromage rouge
sprinkled over the top, a dry orange cheese sealed in red wax that was far less expensive than Parmesan. Marie wouldn’t let anyone off with just one helping.
“Servez-vous! Servez-vous!
Have more, please, that’s not enough. Eat more,” she would say, pushing the bowls and platters toward us. “Go on, go on, serve yourself.”
It was hard to resist Marie’s attention and even harder to resist the food. You would think that
pâté
, cured ham and sausages, bread, olives, and two healthy servings of pasta would be enough, even for strong men and women in their prime. But no. Marie wanted to be sure no one left hungry and that no one thought she was cheap. She didn’t ever want it said that you don’t get enough to eat at her house.
Charcuterie
and pasta were only the prelude.
Other farmers’ kitchens were rumored to be stingy with the lunches they served to their workers, keeping the good food for
le patron
and his friends. Not at Marie’s house. The pasta was followed by platters heavy with braised rabbit, chicken, or guinea fowl, all raised in the cages and pens in the open barns below the kitchen. They were seasoned with mushrooms she and Marcel had collected and dried the previous fall, and with wild thyme and rosemary and a little dried orange peel. Sautéed zucchini, stuffed tomatoes and eggplant, and freshly dug potatoes accompanied the meat dish. And always more wine and bread. I usually tried to pass up seconds of the
charcuterie
and pasta in order to have room for the main dish and the vegetables. A salad made from garden-picked greens or maybe wild dandelions came next,the vinaigrette heavy with garlic, and then a platter of cheese. The cheese was always followed by melons, because Marcel was, and still is, a notable melon grower, and grape harvest and melon season coincided.
Toward the end of every meal, Marcel would get up from the table, go down to the
cave,
and bring up four or five melons of different kinds, which he put on the table before sitting down again. Next, he would carefully select one melon and cut a slice from it, scraping the seeds directly onto his plate and cutting the flesh away from the crescent of the skin. Everyone waited. If he pronounced it good, and he usually did with a “Mmhupm,” the melon was cut up and passed around on
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