still alive he must be at least ninety by now – must have dug his heels in. Entering it had always been a treat. He wondered if it still smelt of old leather hunting jackets and tarred rope: it had been a treasure house of dog chains, screws, nails, nuts and bolts, fencing; anything and everything to do with the countryside. And if it wasn’t in stock it would arrive the next day by the ancient delivery van that plied between the village and Roanne until the war eventually put a stop to it.
Those few things aside, the village of Pouligny might well have been renamed Dulacsville. Most three Stock Pot establishments had irons in other fires these days – the state of the economy dictated it – but Dulac had really pulled out all the stops.
Sandwiched between the old
Crédit Mutuel
, now sporting a gleaming new façade, and a kitchen shop with cookery books elegantly displayed alongside gleaming pots and pans and other culinary equipment, there was a boutique displaying what he assumed were the latest fashions. It was a far cry from old Madame Armoury (Late of Paris and Rome); rumour always had it that she had only been to those two places while on holiday.
Without moving another step he could see a smart winery, a
pâtisserie
, its windows full of pastries and jars of
confiture
, a delicatessen, the carefully restored remains of the original hotel, now turned into a museum and a hair-dressing salon.
Trade was not brisk in any of the shops; a sprinkling of Japanese and some Germans in the boutique – the former probably on the lookout for Hermès scarves and ties; some Americans were browsing in the kitchen shop; an English couple were gazing in awe at the window of the
pâtisserie
. It wasn’t hard to identify the different nationalities.
He wondered what the local inhabitants thought of it all. Doubtless it had been part of the deal thatin return for Dulac getting planning permission, all the roads and pavements had been relaid at his expense. The old guard would be up in arms, the younger generation probably embraced the arrival of a hairdressing salon and a hi-fi shop, for unlike many such places in the Auvergne, which over the years had seen the population dwindle, that of Pouligny must have increased threefold.
And then, a short way along the street leading out of the square, on the other side of a tiny stream that ran through the village, a tributary of the Loire – when he was small he’d thought it was the Loire itself – he came across another anachronism: slap, bang, where it had always been and badly in need of a coat of paint, looking for all the world like an abandoned film set, stood the Hôtel du Commerce. He remembered it well. In its day it had been a rival to the Hôtel Moderne, the forerunner of Dulac.
Monsieur Pamplemousse supposed people must stay there still, perhaps the odd commercial traveller trying to save on his expenses. Welcome wasn’t exactly written in large letters on the mat, but then it never had been.
As he drew near he glanced at a menu held inside in a glass-covered board by the entrance. Undated, it had an air of permanency about it. What must once have been written in dark blue was now purple withage. It was also very predictably a menu of the region, founded on ham, eggs and cheese. A choice between roast pork with chestnuts
à la clermontois,
pig’s trotters with lentils and Cantal cheese, or
Truffade auvergnate
– cheese, bacon and potato pancakes, followed by the ubiquitous
clafoutis
– tiny black cherries cooked in batter. Wine included – thirty francs. To anyone as hungry as he was beginning to feel, it made tempting reading (and on the face of it, not bad value), but he wondered.
The hotel had never made
Le Guide
, or any other gastronomic publication as far as he knew. It had been owned by another branch of the Dulac family; someone who called himself Claude Le Auvergnat, and in truth Claude had never been rated very highly as a chef. Authentic recipes they
Those few things aside, the village of Pouligny might well have been renamed Dulacsville. Most three Stock Pot establishments had irons in other fires these days – the state of the economy dictated it – but Dulac had really pulled out all the stops.
Sandwiched between the old
Crédit Mutuel
, now sporting a gleaming new façade, and a kitchen shop with cookery books elegantly displayed alongside gleaming pots and pans and other culinary equipment, there was a boutique displaying what he assumed were the latest fashions. It was a far cry from old Madame Armoury (Late of Paris and Rome); rumour always had it that she had only been to those two places while on holiday.
Without moving another step he could see a smart winery, a
pâtisserie
, its windows full of pastries and jars of
confiture
, a delicatessen, the carefully restored remains of the original hotel, now turned into a museum and a hair-dressing salon.
Trade was not brisk in any of the shops; a sprinkling of Japanese and some Germans in the boutique – the former probably on the lookout for Hermès scarves and ties; some Americans were browsing in the kitchen shop; an English couple were gazing in awe at the window of the
pâtisserie
. It wasn’t hard to identify the different nationalities.
He wondered what the local inhabitants thought of it all. Doubtless it had been part of the deal thatin return for Dulac getting planning permission, all the roads and pavements had been relaid at his expense. The old guard would be up in arms, the younger generation probably embraced the arrival of a hairdressing salon and a hi-fi shop, for unlike many such places in the Auvergne, which over the years had seen the population dwindle, that of Pouligny must have increased threefold.
And then, a short way along the street leading out of the square, on the other side of a tiny stream that ran through the village, a tributary of the Loire – when he was small he’d thought it was the Loire itself – he came across another anachronism: slap, bang, where it had always been and badly in need of a coat of paint, looking for all the world like an abandoned film set, stood the Hôtel du Commerce. He remembered it well. In its day it had been a rival to the Hôtel Moderne, the forerunner of Dulac.
Monsieur Pamplemousse supposed people must stay there still, perhaps the odd commercial traveller trying to save on his expenses. Welcome wasn’t exactly written in large letters on the mat, but then it never had been.
As he drew near he glanced at a menu held inside in a glass-covered board by the entrance. Undated, it had an air of permanency about it. What must once have been written in dark blue was now purple withage. It was also very predictably a menu of the region, founded on ham, eggs and cheese. A choice between roast pork with chestnuts
à la clermontois,
pig’s trotters with lentils and Cantal cheese, or
Truffade auvergnate
– cheese, bacon and potato pancakes, followed by the ubiquitous
clafoutis
– tiny black cherries cooked in batter. Wine included – thirty francs. To anyone as hungry as he was beginning to feel, it made tempting reading (and on the face of it, not bad value), but he wondered.
The hotel had never made
Le Guide
, or any other gastronomic publication as far as he knew. It had been owned by another branch of the Dulac family; someone who called himself Claude Le Auvergnat, and in truth Claude had never been rated very highly as a chef. Authentic recipes they
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