And the winner of the next series of The Apprentice is....
After months in the markets Tanya and I have possibly become just a little complacent. We set up our stall, sit back on our chairs, munch a croissant and read La Provence. Even in a nation renowned for the liquid breakfast past experience has taught us that there is little point in trying to sell wine until 11’o clock.
Provencal markets have a more relaxed air than the average UK affair, where some beer bellied bruiser with industrial lungs bellows out his wares. In the dappled romantic light underneath the plane trees you don’t hear anyone shouting out that oranges are a euro a dozen. Instead shopping in Luberon markets is a serene affair and like the other traders we wait until the customers come to us. At least that was the case….
This week we were visited by an old friend from London. Readers of my books will be familiar with Peter Tate, a passionate Francophile and long term supporter of our crazy decision to give up our stable careers in London to work in French markets.
Tanya and I did the usual - set up, bought a pastry and waited for the rising sun to engender a thirst. Peter was having none of it. Standing in front of our stall like a sales rep at a mobile phone conference, he accosted anyone who came near. Noting the bottle neck of punters building up around his ample frame, one of my fellow traders commented that he was like a bouchon, the French word for cork or traffic jam. It was uncannily accurate. Nobody could move into the rest of the market until they got past Peter who was wielding our bottles of wine like a cowboy playing with his six shooters. Conscious of our budget we normally pour people a small sip, trying to ensure that a bottle lasts a whole market, but Peter took the view that the bigger the glasses the more guilty people would feel if they didn’t buy anything. His sales patter took no prisoners.
“Would you like to buy some wine?”
“I can’t I am a diabetic.”
“You can still buy it, you’ll just have to let me drink it for you.”
All winter we’d been cultivating a relationship with a lovely French lady called Lydia. Gradually she has begun to buy her wine from us. Tanya and I are polite charming and anxious not to offend, so poor Lydia didn’t know what had happened when we set Peter loose with his pidgin French. She foolishly mentioned she’d been invited for lunch and despite her protests that she’d already baked a cake as a gift she found a bottle of red pressed into her hands.
Tanya and I looked ruefully on, wondering how many of our business relationships would survive the morning. But at the end of the market, our stall was practically devoid of wine, and our money belts bulging with euros, leaving me thinking that Peter should put himself down for the next series of The Apprentice. The only problem is he’s in his sixties and would probably tell Alan Sugar to F-off.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
The law of the market
The markets we do come in all shapes and sizes, belligerent beasts where there’s a snarl of traffic at 6am in the morning as everyone tries to cram into narrow streets and genteel villages where speaking in a whisper sometimes seems to loud.
Out of them all the last place we expected any trouble was Ansouis. Every Sunday morning one of the most relaxed markets in Provence takes place. There’s a small square shaded by two plane trees. It’s covered in the type of loose earth which is perfect for a game of boule and the traders trickle along as and when it suits them. Nobody has ever been ready to sell anything until at least 9.
Barbara, who runs the mobile boucherie, makes everyone coffee. When we’re around there’s always a series of jokes about the English, and the morning passes peacefully accompanied by the soothing sound of water flowing through the adjacent ancient baths. It’s hard to think of a more pleasant way to spend a weekend morning.
But this Sunday was the 1st of July and the smell of tourists and money was in the air. Just as I was uncorking our bottles of wine I noticed problems on the other side of the square. An old man, with an elegantly pruned handlebar moustache had set up a small table and chair. Under a cloth was an enormous paella, cooked and ready to serve in plastic takeway dishes. The price was 5 euro a portion conveniently undercutting his rival, who, like us, had been in Ansouis all winter.
A lynch mob of gesturing French market traders quickly surrounded the interloper, almost driving him from his seat with the draught created by their whirling arms. Most markets have a municipal policeman to deal with just this type of dispute and ensure fair play, but in Ansoius the majority ruled. Ruefully fingering his moustache the paella vendor headed home for what must have been a large lunch.
Turning back to my stall I was accosted by a young Frenchman. His eyes were dark, his hair short, and his accent heavy with the local twang. The pantomime of a conversation we had went something like this.
“You’re in my place.”
“But we’ve been here all winter.”
“No, you haven’t”
“Oh yes we have.”
“Oh no you haven’t”
Anyway you get the idea. Our challenger turned out to be a local vigneron trying to bully us from our pitch. He must have scented blood. We were English and therefore vulnerable. Did we have permission from the local Mairie? Did we have an alcohol licence?
The aggressive questioning continued, until quite soon we were surrounded by the same whirling mob who’d driven the paella vendor away. We were fighting against a man who grew his wine no more than a 100 metres from where we stood. How could we win? Parochial interest in France always triumphs….. against central government....against European law.... and most definitely against a couple of English market traders.
But unbeknown to us there was a more powerful force at work - the law of the market. We’ve been working in Provencal markets for nearly 8 months. We’d turned up in the winter when customers were sparse, traders stuffed newspaper in their shoes to keep warm and the village dogs toasted themselves by lying on the pavement in front of the poulet roti stand. Winter service had to triumph over summer opportunism otherwise there would be chaos.
The vigneron was sent on his way. Our pitch was safe.
Out of them all the last place we expected any trouble was Ansouis. Every Sunday morning one of the most relaxed markets in Provence takes place. There’s a small square shaded by two plane trees. It’s covered in the type of loose earth which is perfect for a game of boule and the traders trickle along as and when it suits them. Nobody has ever been ready to sell anything until at least 9.
Barbara, who runs the mobile boucherie, makes everyone coffee. When we’re around there’s always a series of jokes about the English, and the morning passes peacefully accompanied by the soothing sound of water flowing through the adjacent ancient baths. It’s hard to think of a more pleasant way to spend a weekend morning.
But this Sunday was the 1st of July and the smell of tourists and money was in the air. Just as I was uncorking our bottles of wine I noticed problems on the other side of the square. An old man, with an elegantly pruned handlebar moustache had set up a small table and chair. Under a cloth was an enormous paella, cooked and ready to serve in plastic takeway dishes. The price was 5 euro a portion conveniently undercutting his rival, who, like us, had been in Ansouis all winter.
A lynch mob of gesturing French market traders quickly surrounded the interloper, almost driving him from his seat with the draught created by their whirling arms. Most markets have a municipal policeman to deal with just this type of dispute and ensure fair play, but in Ansoius the majority ruled. Ruefully fingering his moustache the paella vendor headed home for what must have been a large lunch.
Turning back to my stall I was accosted by a young Frenchman. His eyes were dark, his hair short, and his accent heavy with the local twang. The pantomime of a conversation we had went something like this.
“You’re in my place.”
“But we’ve been here all winter.”
“No, you haven’t”
“Oh yes we have.”
“Oh no you haven’t”
Anyway you get the idea. Our challenger turned out to be a local vigneron trying to bully us from our pitch. He must have scented blood. We were English and therefore vulnerable. Did we have permission from the local Mairie? Did we have an alcohol licence?
The aggressive questioning continued, until quite soon we were surrounded by the same whirling mob who’d driven the paella vendor away. We were fighting against a man who grew his wine no more than a 100 metres from where we stood. How could we win? Parochial interest in France always triumphs….. against central government....against European law.... and most definitely against a couple of English market traders.
But unbeknown to us there was a more powerful force at work - the law of the market. We’ve been working in Provencal markets for nearly 8 months. We’d turned up in the winter when customers were sparse, traders stuffed newspaper in their shoes to keep warm and the village dogs toasted themselves by lying on the pavement in front of the poulet roti stand. Winter service had to triumph over summer opportunism otherwise there would be chaos.
The vigneron was sent on his way. Our pitch was safe.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
It's like love - you never know
All year our fellow traders have been talking excitedly about the summer. “You just wait,” they advised with eager almost salivating eyes. And so come the end of May, caught up in the increasing hysteria about the arrival of the tourists I put in a bumper order from our suppliers. The cave was full, June arrived, and we were ready to make our fortune - well at least enough money to see us through the winter.
Unfortunately the Gods thought otherwise. There are few products as dependant on blue sky as rosé. Give us bright sunshine and the wine shines an almost luminous pink, even tempting euros from the pockets of the Dutch. But under limpid grey skies rosé loses all its appeal. And for the first few weeks of June a Dulux palate of grey is all we got. Then, as if to remind us how lucky we are, the deities sent the mistral for a week. Toying with (as flies to wanton boys) they followed this with the south of France’s first ever twister, which descended on Lourmarin market 10 days ago and sent parasols and small dogs twirling into the sky like Dorothy and Toto from the Wizard of Oz.
So come mid June our sales ledger was far from healthy.
Finally, finally, this Friday, the skies cleared to a vivid blue and everything was set. The rosé bathed luxuriantly in a transparent ice-tub winking at punters like a whore on a street corner. My money belt was full of the change I’d need for the avalanche of cash that was going to come sliding our way. I checked my watch. 10.00am and the market was getting nice and busy. As I uncorked bottle after bottle, a gypsy vendor passed with his wares mounted on an old wheelbarrow. I shook my head. He was trying to make a living with one of the most ridiculous products ever - bird whistles. Long flute like pieces of wood which, so he claimed, could be manipulated to make any sound from the harsh cry of the hawk to the sweet melodies of the nightingale.
Who on earth would buy these things?
Two hours later I'd sold a solitary bottle of wine. Conditions were as perfect for us as seam bowler on the first morning of the Lord’s Test but nothing had happened. And then I noticed it, the market had been transformed into aviary. To my left the song of a parakeet, to my right a lesser spotted tit, there wasn’t a child in Lourmarin who hadn't cajoled his parents into buying a whistle. The gipsy came by again and I offered him a glass of wine.
“Ca marche?” I asked.
“Pas du toute” he said with a grin, looking for signs of the tax man behind the mountain of rosé on our stall.
Later, I was commiserating with another trader who’d had a similarly barren morning. She gave me a consoling hug, and said, “It’s like love,"
I looked quizically at her - "What's like love?"
"The markets - you just never know.”
Unfortunately the Gods thought otherwise. There are few products as dependant on blue sky as rosé. Give us bright sunshine and the wine shines an almost luminous pink, even tempting euros from the pockets of the Dutch. But under limpid grey skies rosé loses all its appeal. And for the first few weeks of June a Dulux palate of grey is all we got. Then, as if to remind us how lucky we are, the deities sent the mistral for a week. Toying with (as flies to wanton boys) they followed this with the south of France’s first ever twister, which descended on Lourmarin market 10 days ago and sent parasols and small dogs twirling into the sky like Dorothy and Toto from the Wizard of Oz.
So come mid June our sales ledger was far from healthy.
Finally, finally, this Friday, the skies cleared to a vivid blue and everything was set. The rosé bathed luxuriantly in a transparent ice-tub winking at punters like a whore on a street corner. My money belt was full of the change I’d need for the avalanche of cash that was going to come sliding our way. I checked my watch. 10.00am and the market was getting nice and busy. As I uncorked bottle after bottle, a gypsy vendor passed with his wares mounted on an old wheelbarrow. I shook my head. He was trying to make a living with one of the most ridiculous products ever - bird whistles. Long flute like pieces of wood which, so he claimed, could be manipulated to make any sound from the harsh cry of the hawk to the sweet melodies of the nightingale.
Who on earth would buy these things?
Two hours later I'd sold a solitary bottle of wine. Conditions were as perfect for us as seam bowler on the first morning of the Lord’s Test but nothing had happened. And then I noticed it, the market had been transformed into aviary. To my left the song of a parakeet, to my right a lesser spotted tit, there wasn’t a child in Lourmarin who hadn't cajoled his parents into buying a whistle. The gipsy came by again and I offered him a glass of wine.
“Ca marche?” I asked.
“Pas du toute” he said with a grin, looking for signs of the tax man behind the mountain of rosé on our stall.
Later, I was commiserating with another trader who’d had a similarly barren morning. She gave me a consoling hug, and said, “It’s like love,"
I looked quizically at her - "What's like love?"
"The markets - you just never know.”
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
The world's first asparagus tourists
Tanya and I became the world’s first asparagus tourists this week. We’d been talking to Martine the honey lady who works next to us in the market and I, like the city dweller I used to be, confessed that I had never seen a field of asparagus growing. “Venez chez mois,” said Martine enthusiastically. And so we did.
After cake and watching her husband make the honey we headed to the asparagus field. You can imagine the anticipation. Richard Branson’s prospective moon tourists have nothing on us. Cameras and binoculars swinging around our necks, controlling our breathing lest the excitement got too much we prepared for the moment. Just what did a field of asparagus look like? And here’s the exclusive for all you city dwellers a field full of growing asparagus - admittedly one that has been allowed to go to seed - looks just like a Christmas tree farm. All that’s missing is the fairy lights.
On the subject of tourists when we arrived home from the market this morning we noticed a strange car parked under one of the olive trees. On further investigation we also discovered a pink kneed couple complete with picnic rug, camp chairs, and Tupperware pots. They waved cheerily at us, saluting our passage by raising their glasses full of wine and lounging back and enjoying the view.
Our view! (Sorry to sound possessive)
I unpacked our gear from the market hoping our guests would realise they were on private property and leave. But after half an hour they were still there recumbent and sated after their long lunch. I thought at this point I would politely go over and point out the no-entry sign swaying in the wind above their head.
“Vous êtes Anglais or Francais?” I asked
Judging from the confused expressions - although it could have easily have been the poverty of my French - I assumed they were English.
“Hello,” I said in as friendly a manner as I could, “I am afraid this is private property, would you mind moving on.”
“No problem,” the man added wiping sweat from his perspiring brow, “since you are English I don’t suppose you have email, I had my phone stolen this morning and need to cancel the contract.”
What could I do. I led them over to the house, installed them at our computer, consoled them about the loss of their phone and even offered them a glass of wine.
Half an hour later our post market lunch was burning in the oven, and our impromptu guests were still here. I poked my head around the door and found that far from cancelling a mobile they were instant messaging their relatives to arrange being picked up from the airport.
“Any chance of a top up?” they flushed.
It was 3.30 pm when they finally left, having caught up with their extended family all over the world. “Thanks ever so much” they waved as they bounced off down the road.
“And you wonder why tourists get a bad name.”
“Shameless,” agreed Tanya.
“I wouldn’t allow them on the asparagus tour,” I concluded.
After cake and watching her husband make the honey we headed to the asparagus field. You can imagine the anticipation. Richard Branson’s prospective moon tourists have nothing on us. Cameras and binoculars swinging around our necks, controlling our breathing lest the excitement got too much we prepared for the moment. Just what did a field of asparagus look like? And here’s the exclusive for all you city dwellers a field full of growing asparagus - admittedly one that has been allowed to go to seed - looks just like a Christmas tree farm. All that’s missing is the fairy lights.
On the subject of tourists when we arrived home from the market this morning we noticed a strange car parked under one of the olive trees. On further investigation we also discovered a pink kneed couple complete with picnic rug, camp chairs, and Tupperware pots. They waved cheerily at us, saluting our passage by raising their glasses full of wine and lounging back and enjoying the view.
Our view! (Sorry to sound possessive)
I unpacked our gear from the market hoping our guests would realise they were on private property and leave. But after half an hour they were still there recumbent and sated after their long lunch. I thought at this point I would politely go over and point out the no-entry sign swaying in the wind above their head.
“Vous êtes Anglais or Francais?” I asked
Judging from the confused expressions - although it could have easily have been the poverty of my French - I assumed they were English.
“Hello,” I said in as friendly a manner as I could, “I am afraid this is private property, would you mind moving on.”
“No problem,” the man added wiping sweat from his perspiring brow, “since you are English I don’t suppose you have email, I had my phone stolen this morning and need to cancel the contract.”
What could I do. I led them over to the house, installed them at our computer, consoled them about the loss of their phone and even offered them a glass of wine.
Half an hour later our post market lunch was burning in the oven, and our impromptu guests were still here. I poked my head around the door and found that far from cancelling a mobile they were instant messaging their relatives to arrange being picked up from the airport.
“Any chance of a top up?” they flushed.
It was 3.30 pm when they finally left, having caught up with their extended family all over the world. “Thanks ever so much” they waved as they bounced off down the road.
“And you wonder why tourists get a bad name.”
“Shameless,” agreed Tanya.
“I wouldn’t allow them on the asparagus tour,” I concluded.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
The taxman cometh
The phone call came a week a go. A kind man, speaking slow understandable French explained that a new law was coming into force affecting the social security status of my wife, would I mind if he visited our house to help us understand the legislation? I said yes, and thought nothing more of it.
Then an hour before the scheduled visit I was hit by a panic attack. What if this had nothing to do with Tanya’s social security payments? The French were so notorious for sneaking on their neighbours that the process even had a name - “denunciation”. Did someone suspect we were living beyond our means? Had we been denounced?
My next thought was - so what if we have? I am sure every other trader in the markets slips some sales through on a cash basis, but so far I’d been scrupulously honest. I had nothing to hide….
…..except that as well as honest I was also terribly disorganised. After a long day in the market, one of the last things I felt like doing was filling in a spreadsheet detailing our exact sales. It was often not until a week later that I sat down and tried to reconcile what I remembered selling (as opposed to personally drinking) with the wine that had disappeared from our stock. There was plenty of margin for error and the bare minimum of paper records.
And so I began rushing around the house hiding any signs of wealth. I put the hood up on our convertible car to display the slashed rear windscreen we couldn‘t afford to replace, I changed into scruffy clothes and I arranged the sunshade on the terrace so that I wouldn’t have to show the inside of our apartment.
Ten minutes before our meeting was due to start a smart black Audi pulled up outside the house. I’ve lived and travelled in France for 3 years now and this is the first time I have ever known a Frenchman be early. On time - possibly, and only when there was a TGV to catch. Carelessly and forgetfully late after a long lunch - nearly always. So what was the inspector doing arriving at 2.20? I suspected some ploy to catch me shredding papers and anxiously guided the investigator, I mean social security advisor, onto our terrace.
I could see his eyes roaming over the garden furniture evaluating their cost, he looked up at the imperious green hills and made an excuse about wanting a coffee, presumably so that he could peer inside. By now I was really nervous. A jail sentence awaited me if I was caught defrauding the French treasury. The taxman removed some papers from his case and smiled at the suspiciously high quality of the coffee. His opening gambit couldn’t have been much better.
“Nice place you’ve got here.”
Then an hour before the scheduled visit I was hit by a panic attack. What if this had nothing to do with Tanya’s social security payments? The French were so notorious for sneaking on their neighbours that the process even had a name - “denunciation”. Did someone suspect we were living beyond our means? Had we been denounced?
My next thought was - so what if we have? I am sure every other trader in the markets slips some sales through on a cash basis, but so far I’d been scrupulously honest. I had nothing to hide….
…..except that as well as honest I was also terribly disorganised. After a long day in the market, one of the last things I felt like doing was filling in a spreadsheet detailing our exact sales. It was often not until a week later that I sat down and tried to reconcile what I remembered selling (as opposed to personally drinking) with the wine that had disappeared from our stock. There was plenty of margin for error and the bare minimum of paper records.
And so I began rushing around the house hiding any signs of wealth. I put the hood up on our convertible car to display the slashed rear windscreen we couldn‘t afford to replace, I changed into scruffy clothes and I arranged the sunshade on the terrace so that I wouldn’t have to show the inside of our apartment.
Ten minutes before our meeting was due to start a smart black Audi pulled up outside the house. I’ve lived and travelled in France for 3 years now and this is the first time I have ever known a Frenchman be early. On time - possibly, and only when there was a TGV to catch. Carelessly and forgetfully late after a long lunch - nearly always. So what was the inspector doing arriving at 2.20? I suspected some ploy to catch me shredding papers and anxiously guided the investigator, I mean social security advisor, onto our terrace.
I could see his eyes roaming over the garden furniture evaluating their cost, he looked up at the imperious green hills and made an excuse about wanting a coffee, presumably so that he could peer inside. By now I was really nervous. A jail sentence awaited me if I was caught defrauding the French treasury. The taxman removed some papers from his case and smiled at the suspiciously high quality of the coffee. His opening gambit couldn’t have been much better.
“Nice place you’ve got here.”
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
It's competition time
It’s 8am on Sunday morning and Lourmarin should be slumbering, with just the odd early morning dog walker enjoying the silence of the streets. Instead there’s mayhem. All across the Luberon the village’s annual vide grenier (empty attic sale) has been advertised, and as one of the region’s property hotspots people have travelled for miles in anticipation of rich pickings. But to get the good stuff you have to be early, hence the series of rugby scrums developing as the church clock strikes the hour.
Why the intense competition? Most people who have been on holiday to France will have visited a brocante market - all weathered furniture, old iron work and rusty boule - and winced at the preposterous prices. How can things that look so battered cost so much? Well the joy of the vide grenier is that brocante quality pieces can be had for next to nothing….that is if you beat the professional dealers who are scouring the market for items they can take home, shine up and sell on for ten times the price.
Tanya and I join one of the rolling mauls through the narrow street and emerge at the other end with a Brucey conveyor belt full of items - 6 beer glasses, a watercolour painting, two old fishing nets, a painting of a lion, a coffee maker and an old fan, but no cuddly toy. The price of our early morning shopping expedition - €20. Everyone loves a bargain, hence the fight erupting near by over an old wine rack.
And now some news which will delight my relatives back in England - the Luberon is enjoying it’s wettest spring for years. All winter the locals have been muttering about the secheresse, the river beds have been at all time lows, water basins have been empty and the upcoming long hot summer was expected to knock the eco-system over the edge. Even some vines, the greatest hunters of water ever invented, were expected to die, in the coming drought. Then the rain started and it hasn’t stopped. As I write this there is an ugly grey drizzle falling outside, which is delighting everyone apart from me. The smiles are broad because it’s good rain, not the barrage of heavy droplets that ricochet off the hardened earth and are swept away in a deluge before the benefits can be felt, but rather an insistent trickle which will seep through the soil and fill the water basins - rather important if that’s all you’ve got to flush the loos all summer. No wonder people are smiling.
Finally the competition - win a ticket to the hottest party in town the launch party of La Vie en Rosé on August 4th just outside Lourmarin. Email the answer to this question to me and Tanya and will pick one lucky reader out of the hat. Unfortunately we can’t pay for flights and accommodation but we promise there will be plenty of free rosé .
Name two foods that Tanya doesn't eat.
Answers to me - jamie@extremelypalerose.com by July 4th.
Why the intense competition? Most people who have been on holiday to France will have visited a brocante market - all weathered furniture, old iron work and rusty boule - and winced at the preposterous prices. How can things that look so battered cost so much? Well the joy of the vide grenier is that brocante quality pieces can be had for next to nothing….that is if you beat the professional dealers who are scouring the market for items they can take home, shine up and sell on for ten times the price.
Tanya and I join one of the rolling mauls through the narrow street and emerge at the other end with a Brucey conveyor belt full of items - 6 beer glasses, a watercolour painting, two old fishing nets, a painting of a lion, a coffee maker and an old fan, but no cuddly toy. The price of our early morning shopping expedition - €20. Everyone loves a bargain, hence the fight erupting near by over an old wine rack.
And now some news which will delight my relatives back in England - the Luberon is enjoying it’s wettest spring for years. All winter the locals have been muttering about the secheresse, the river beds have been at all time lows, water basins have been empty and the upcoming long hot summer was expected to knock the eco-system over the edge. Even some vines, the greatest hunters of water ever invented, were expected to die, in the coming drought. Then the rain started and it hasn’t stopped. As I write this there is an ugly grey drizzle falling outside, which is delighting everyone apart from me. The smiles are broad because it’s good rain, not the barrage of heavy droplets that ricochet off the hardened earth and are swept away in a deluge before the benefits can be felt, but rather an insistent trickle which will seep through the soil and fill the water basins - rather important if that’s all you’ve got to flush the loos all summer. No wonder people are smiling.
Finally the competition - win a ticket to the hottest party in town the launch party of La Vie en Rosé on August 4th just outside Lourmarin. Email the answer to this question to me and Tanya and will pick one lucky reader out of the hat. Unfortunately we can’t pay for flights and accommodation but we promise there will be plenty of free rosé .
Name two foods that Tanya doesn't eat.
Answers to me - jamie@extremelypalerose.com by July 4th.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Bad news for the Dutch
The Provencal market trader is a verbose sort and when business is quiet he’s likely to sound off about all sorts of things - Pertuis’ new potato confrerie, illegal Luberon raves and of course foreigners.
I’d have thought the Americans would be public enemy number one - Iraq, George Bush, and global warming - there’s more than enough material to fill half an hour of idyll gossip, but no. Although the Americans take a hit for their inability to learn how to even say “Bonjour,“ or “Merci,“ without doubt, and rather surprisingly to me, it’s the Dutch who are the least welcome tourists in Provence.
In the local imagination Holland is little more than a massive car park for camper vans. Apparently all that flat land makes an easy marshalling point for these white tanks before they bulldoze their way south laden with cans of Amstel and a month’s supply of Edam. The last thing any self respecting Dutch person would do on holiday is buy any regional produce - so my fellow traders rant - instead they illegally park their vans in the municipal parking - who needs to pay for a campsite when there’s a parking so close? And who cares if the residents have to lug their shopping and their children a couple of hundred metres to get to their houses? Camp chair in the next door parking space, country of origin proudly displayed by a bumper sticker, the Dutch sit under the trees, congratulating themselves on their ability to holiday on the cheap.
“Never ever spend any time serving the Dutch,” my neighbouring trader continues. “They’ll taste absolutely everything you have on offer, they’ll talk to you for hours and prevent you from engaging with other customers, and then they’ll just walk off. Forget “oursins” in the pocket (see blog dated May 22nd) the Dutch have whopping great Portuguese men of war. If their fingers so much as stray near a spare euro, they risk being stung to death. No wonder they don’t spend anything,” my neighbour concludes triumphantly.
He’s on such a roll that I hate to tell him I’ve always found the Dutch rather pleasant.
Finally apologies to anyone who came to see us in Ansouis market on Sunday, as you’ll have noticed we bunked off. Our excuse - the weather was a little bit iffy and there was water jousting to watch in Cuceron.
Health and Safety prevents this type of thing in England, which is a shame because as a betting spectacle it beats greyhound racing - Two boats with outboard motors line up at the opposite end of a stretch of water, and members of the crew stand on a podium mounted at the stern, holding a wooden lance. Then, you guessed it, the pilots cut the outboard motors loose and the two water knights hurtle towards each other. Carnage follows. The event was eventually won by a stocky young girl, whose low centre of gravity, much to the chagrin of the competing boys, prevented anyone from dislodging her.
I’d have thought the Americans would be public enemy number one - Iraq, George Bush, and global warming - there’s more than enough material to fill half an hour of idyll gossip, but no. Although the Americans take a hit for their inability to learn how to even say “Bonjour,“ or “Merci,“ without doubt, and rather surprisingly to me, it’s the Dutch who are the least welcome tourists in Provence.
In the local imagination Holland is little more than a massive car park for camper vans. Apparently all that flat land makes an easy marshalling point for these white tanks before they bulldoze their way south laden with cans of Amstel and a month’s supply of Edam. The last thing any self respecting Dutch person would do on holiday is buy any regional produce - so my fellow traders rant - instead they illegally park their vans in the municipal parking - who needs to pay for a campsite when there’s a parking so close? And who cares if the residents have to lug their shopping and their children a couple of hundred metres to get to their houses? Camp chair in the next door parking space, country of origin proudly displayed by a bumper sticker, the Dutch sit under the trees, congratulating themselves on their ability to holiday on the cheap.
“Never ever spend any time serving the Dutch,” my neighbouring trader continues. “They’ll taste absolutely everything you have on offer, they’ll talk to you for hours and prevent you from engaging with other customers, and then they’ll just walk off. Forget “oursins” in the pocket (see blog dated May 22nd) the Dutch have whopping great Portuguese men of war. If their fingers so much as stray near a spare euro, they risk being stung to death. No wonder they don’t spend anything,” my neighbour concludes triumphantly.
He’s on such a roll that I hate to tell him I’ve always found the Dutch rather pleasant.
Finally apologies to anyone who came to see us in Ansouis market on Sunday, as you’ll have noticed we bunked off. Our excuse - the weather was a little bit iffy and there was water jousting to watch in Cuceron.
Health and Safety prevents this type of thing in England, which is a shame because as a betting spectacle it beats greyhound racing - Two boats with outboard motors line up at the opposite end of a stretch of water, and members of the crew stand on a podium mounted at the stern, holding a wooden lance. Then, you guessed it, the pilots cut the outboard motors loose and the two water knights hurtle towards each other. Carnage follows. The event was eventually won by a stocky young girl, whose low centre of gravity, much to the chagrin of the competing boys, prevented anyone from dislodging her.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Sayings
In the market this morning I learnt some new sayings and had a chance to reflect on some old ones.
First the new ones:
“Oursin dans les poches,” - A disparaging label for tourists who refuse to buy anything. Literally it means that they have sea urchins in their pockets. If you’ve never seen a sea urchin before visualise a miniature second world war mine floating at sea - they are round, small, spiky, salty, balls of anger and if you had one in your pocket you certainly wouldn’t be rooting around for loose change.
“Le Gibier d’Ete” - I first read about this saying in Peter Mayle’s excellent A-Z of Provence, but had never heard it used before. Once again it’s a derogatory way to describe tourists, in fact a market traders worst nightmare is that the Gibier D’Ete might all end up having Oursin dans les Poches. Gibier in French is an umbrella term for game and includes wild boar, hares, partridges, in fact pretty much anything that can be shot at. In summer when hunting is banned, the locals have to prey on the tourists instead. Hence their nickname “les gibiers d’ete.”
And a couple of old ones from England:
“The grass is always greener on the other side” - this expression came to mind as a delightfully eccentric French lady lectured me about the superiority of English society. She reflected on her visits to Kent villages, and described how people made way for her as she drove down the street, opened the door to her car, let her cross the road and generally behaved in a gentlemanly way. England she concluded was a much more polite society than France. I didn’t dare point out that nearly seven million English people a year thought differently and chose to spend their summer holiday in France.
“There’s no such thing as a free lunch” - Well there is if you are a Provencal market trader (and you are prepared to stand in the markets all winter making friends with the other vendors). As I set up at 7am this morning, Martine the honey and asparagus saleswoman who has the stand next to us, handed me a bag full of fine asparagus. “It’s perfect for soups and omelettes,” she advised. Later in the morning with my stomach rumbling I went in search of eggs. Barbara who runs the boucherie wouldn’t hear of me paying for a dozen of her free range, and so back at home at 2.30 I sat down to my lunch and started thinking about writing something on sayings, and whether they were true.
I’ll let you know whether the tourists really do become our prey or whether they turn out to have sea urchins in their pockets. As for the grass being greener, I am on the side of the 7 million English who come to France, it’s really rather idyllic here.
Finally for those of you who are regular readers of this column, the promised update on our big cat. Since I wrote the piece there have been no more sightings, but we did have a visit from a South African tracker, Owen, a man who’d spent a lifetime working in the Kruger national park. He disappeared into the trees near where we’d last seen the cat and within minutes signalled us over with a piercing whistle.
“Look here, and here,” Owen said pointing with a stick at impressions in the earth, “no way that’s a dog, put your hand in the mark and you can feel the five pads.”
We complied.
“That’s a cat, and it’s a hell of a big one.”
As a result sunbathing continues to be a nervous occupation.
First the new ones:
“Oursin dans les poches,” - A disparaging label for tourists who refuse to buy anything. Literally it means that they have sea urchins in their pockets. If you’ve never seen a sea urchin before visualise a miniature second world war mine floating at sea - they are round, small, spiky, salty, balls of anger and if you had one in your pocket you certainly wouldn’t be rooting around for loose change.
“Le Gibier d’Ete” - I first read about this saying in Peter Mayle’s excellent A-Z of Provence, but had never heard it used before. Once again it’s a derogatory way to describe tourists, in fact a market traders worst nightmare is that the Gibier D’Ete might all end up having Oursin dans les Poches. Gibier in French is an umbrella term for game and includes wild boar, hares, partridges, in fact pretty much anything that can be shot at. In summer when hunting is banned, the locals have to prey on the tourists instead. Hence their nickname “les gibiers d’ete.”
And a couple of old ones from England:
“The grass is always greener on the other side” - this expression came to mind as a delightfully eccentric French lady lectured me about the superiority of English society. She reflected on her visits to Kent villages, and described how people made way for her as she drove down the street, opened the door to her car, let her cross the road and generally behaved in a gentlemanly way. England she concluded was a much more polite society than France. I didn’t dare point out that nearly seven million English people a year thought differently and chose to spend their summer holiday in France.
“There’s no such thing as a free lunch” - Well there is if you are a Provencal market trader (and you are prepared to stand in the markets all winter making friends with the other vendors). As I set up at 7am this morning, Martine the honey and asparagus saleswoman who has the stand next to us, handed me a bag full of fine asparagus. “It’s perfect for soups and omelettes,” she advised. Later in the morning with my stomach rumbling I went in search of eggs. Barbara who runs the boucherie wouldn’t hear of me paying for a dozen of her free range, and so back at home at 2.30 I sat down to my lunch and started thinking about writing something on sayings, and whether they were true.
I’ll let you know whether the tourists really do become our prey or whether they turn out to have sea urchins in their pockets. As for the grass being greener, I am on the side of the 7 million English who come to France, it’s really rather idyllic here.
Finally for those of you who are regular readers of this column, the promised update on our big cat. Since I wrote the piece there have been no more sightings, but we did have a visit from a South African tracker, Owen, a man who’d spent a lifetime working in the Kruger national park. He disappeared into the trees near where we’d last seen the cat and within minutes signalled us over with a piercing whistle.
“Look here, and here,” Owen said pointing with a stick at impressions in the earth, “no way that’s a dog, put your hand in the mark and you can feel the five pads.”
We complied.
“That’s a cat, and it’s a hell of a big one.”
As a result sunbathing continues to be a nervous occupation.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Be careful what you wish for....
It was 8.54 am on Wednesday morning and thanks to the Aix rush hour and the legendary punctuality of TGVs, some kamikaze driving was called for. The short term car park was the wrong way up a dual carriageway, but for some reason that didn’t seem to matter, instead I felt like I was playing Frogger as I slalomed past onrushing trucks. Discarding the car we dragged our heavy suitcases down the road, furiously pumping our arms but going nowhere fast.
“If only we lived in England,” shouted Tanya as we grappled for our tickets, punched them and wheezed our way through the sliding doors. Sure enough, there was the TGV, smooth and sleek with its engine purring a challenge to the station clock. Panting our way to our seats we reflected that engineering works and replacement bus services had their upsides.
We were returning to London for a wedding but rather than anticipating seeing family and friends I spent the 4 hour journey to Lille fretting about an incident in the market, which had the potential to make Tanya’s comment prophetic.
A boy and a girl had approached the stand and studied the wine list. If I’m generous to my conscience they were 17 but it’s possible they were no more than 14. They selected a bottle and handed over some money, “it’s a present for our father” they chimed.
Tanya was off shopping and I simply didn’t know what to do. In France the journey from nipple to grape is one of the shortest in the world. Once a child is able to walk parents are happy to dilute water with a touch of wine and the two eager young palates before me probably knew more about tipicite and terroir than I did. Should I serve them? Culturally - never mind for now legally - was this type of transaction acceptable in France? Mechanically I counted out the change and handed it to them.
It was only after they left, bottle in hand that I pondered the consequences of my actions. “A present for their father,” - what type of fool was I? In a couple of hours they’d be swaying down the main street of the village singing the Marseillaise and when the gendarme picked them up and asked them where they got their wine from, that would be the end of our nascent rose empire.
And yet, perhaps I was right, perhaps French children were more honest and adult about alcohol than the English. They’d certainly showed no sign of embarrassment as I served them. Had I refused it could have been another Anglo-Saxon faux pas to add to a long list embarrassing errors.
More on the big cat next week - a south African tracker is coming to search for paw prints, that’s if we haven’t been deported in the meantime.
By the way for those of you who have read Extremely Pale Rosé , the wedding we were attending in England was Peter Tate’s daughter’s. She looked beautiful!
“If only we lived in England,” shouted Tanya as we grappled for our tickets, punched them and wheezed our way through the sliding doors. Sure enough, there was the TGV, smooth and sleek with its engine purring a challenge to the station clock. Panting our way to our seats we reflected that engineering works and replacement bus services had their upsides.
We were returning to London for a wedding but rather than anticipating seeing family and friends I spent the 4 hour journey to Lille fretting about an incident in the market, which had the potential to make Tanya’s comment prophetic.
A boy and a girl had approached the stand and studied the wine list. If I’m generous to my conscience they were 17 but it’s possible they were no more than 14. They selected a bottle and handed over some money, “it’s a present for our father” they chimed.
Tanya was off shopping and I simply didn’t know what to do. In France the journey from nipple to grape is one of the shortest in the world. Once a child is able to walk parents are happy to dilute water with a touch of wine and the two eager young palates before me probably knew more about tipicite and terroir than I did. Should I serve them? Culturally - never mind for now legally - was this type of transaction acceptable in France? Mechanically I counted out the change and handed it to them.
It was only after they left, bottle in hand that I pondered the consequences of my actions. “A present for their father,” - what type of fool was I? In a couple of hours they’d be swaying down the main street of the village singing the Marseillaise and when the gendarme picked them up and asked them where they got their wine from, that would be the end of our nascent rose empire.
And yet, perhaps I was right, perhaps French children were more honest and adult about alcohol than the English. They’d certainly showed no sign of embarrassment as I served them. Had I refused it could have been another Anglo-Saxon faux pas to add to a long list embarrassing errors.
More on the big cat next week - a south African tracker is coming to search for paw prints, that’s if we haven’t been deported in the meantime.
By the way for those of you who have read Extremely Pale Rosé , the wedding we were attending in England was Peter Tate’s daughter’s. She looked beautiful!
Friday, May 04, 2007
The Provencal Panther
When we moved into our house the landlord promised we’d see wild boar at the bottom of the garden, spinning a romantic tale about mothers and their babies coming down from the mountains in the hot summer months to look for water. While he was on the subject of wildlife you’d have thought he would have mentioned the panther. “There’s a tile on the roof that’s a bit loose, the hot water tank only lasts for one shower, and oh by the way there’s a man eating cat on the prowl.“ It must have slipped his mind. Still caveat emptor we’re stuck with our new companion.
It certainly puts a novel twist on sunbathing. First we check which direction the wind is blowing - I’ve seen Big Cat diary and the lions always make sure they’re downwind of their prey - and then we position the sun-lounger. Orientation with the sun is irrelevant, all that matters is a clear view of the tree line and an escape plan.
The Provencal Panther, as we’ve dubbed our new feline friend has been spotted twice. At first I was sceptical - the feral domestic black cats that inhabit the countryside are pretty large and the house guest responsible for the first sighting had been up all night drinking coffee and looking after his child. Fairy stories and caffeine were obviously a potent mix.
But a day later Tanya rushed to the window and reported an animal twice the size of the domestic cats, and one which moved in a totally different way, a kind of elegant elongated tiptoe with its belly pressed close to the ground and its nose quivering for scents. It slipped into the shadows before I got a chance to see it, but now we’ve got a long lense camera trained on the trees and a hotline to the picture desk at La Provence.
In another unrelated development a group of tourists have started hugging our olive trees. We emerged from the house one afternoon to discover a trail of hand holding hippies traipsing through the grove. They selected a suitable tree and formed a human circle around it, resting their backs against the trunk and emitting a low humming sound. Tree by tree they made their way around the field oblivious to the lurking danger. I had to presume that the invisible energy source they were tapping into would protect them if the panther attacked. Anyway I had washing to hang up.
Many thanks to www.Copyright-free-photos.org.uk for the free images
It certainly puts a novel twist on sunbathing. First we check which direction the wind is blowing - I’ve seen Big Cat diary and the lions always make sure they’re downwind of their prey - and then we position the sun-lounger. Orientation with the sun is irrelevant, all that matters is a clear view of the tree line and an escape plan.
The Provencal Panther, as we’ve dubbed our new feline friend has been spotted twice. At first I was sceptical - the feral domestic black cats that inhabit the countryside are pretty large and the house guest responsible for the first sighting had been up all night drinking coffee and looking after his child. Fairy stories and caffeine were obviously a potent mix.
But a day later Tanya rushed to the window and reported an animal twice the size of the domestic cats, and one which moved in a totally different way, a kind of elegant elongated tiptoe with its belly pressed close to the ground and its nose quivering for scents. It slipped into the shadows before I got a chance to see it, but now we’ve got a long lense camera trained on the trees and a hotline to the picture desk at La Provence.
In another unrelated development a group of tourists have started hugging our olive trees. We emerged from the house one afternoon to discover a trail of hand holding hippies traipsing through the grove. They selected a suitable tree and formed a human circle around it, resting their backs against the trunk and emitting a low humming sound. Tree by tree they made their way around the field oblivious to the lurking danger. I had to presume that the invisible energy source they were tapping into would protect them if the panther attacked. Anyway I had washing to hang up.
Many thanks to www.Copyright-free-photos.org.uk for the free images
Friday, April 27, 2007
An election joke from Lourmarin market
Le Pen, Royal, and Sarkozy meet at St Peter's Gates. Floating on a cloud nearby they see God. In a great booming voice God says:
"Monsieur Le Pen - what did you do for France."
Le Pen replies with a salute: "Oh Lord I tried to save her."
God thinks for a bit and then says: "Very well come and sit on my right hand side. Now Sego what did you do for France."
Sego gives a curtsy and sweet smile "Oh Lord, I tried to make every Frenchman happy."
God thinks again and then says, "very well come and sit on my left hand side." He turns to Sarkozy. "Now then my little Nico where shall I put you?"
Nico looks at Sego and Le Pen and replies "Oh Lord, I think you'll find you're in my place."
"Monsieur Le Pen - what did you do for France."
Le Pen replies with a salute: "Oh Lord I tried to save her."
God thinks for a bit and then says: "Very well come and sit on my right hand side. Now Sego what did you do for France."
Sego gives a curtsy and sweet smile "Oh Lord, I tried to make every Frenchman happy."
God thinks again and then says, "very well come and sit on my left hand side." He turns to Sarkozy. "Now then my little Nico where shall I put you?"
Nico looks at Sego and Le Pen and replies "Oh Lord, I think you'll find you're in my place."
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
A trip to the coast
This weekend we were in Cannes for the Concours Mondial du Vin Rosé , the biggest rosé tasting in the world.
But first we had to get over the culture shock - on the Croisette people’s sun glasses looked like they’d had an optical version of baby bio sprinkled all over them. Triffid frames engulfed tanned faces barely affording their wearers an opportunity to breath. Men draped themselves in white linen suits looking like modern day Don Johnsons, ageing women ignored the effect of gravity on their cleavage and wore plunging tops and heavy jewellery which counted time as they tottered along. There were sofas on beaches, cocktails sprouting tropical fruits and queues outside nightclubs. It may only have been April but we saw more marcha in an afternoon on the Cote d’Azur, than the whole winter in the Luberon.
At the Concours things were very serious. In a backroom over 1,400 wine bottles had been wrapped in little black plastic body bags and a great sheet of plastic tarpaulin had been spread across the carpet. It reminded me of a crime scene.
Out front teams of tasters were methodically working their way through all of the wine. Now you would have thought that being a taster at a Concours would be one of the great jobs in the world, on par with being the swimwear correspondent for Sports Illustrated. And when we arrived late morning after the tasters had already evaluated over thirty bottles, I’d expected the chatty conviviality of a pub before closing time. Not a bit of it.
Instead everybody sat hunched over a small handheld personal computer from which their tasting notes were immediately uploaded to the central server. Tanya commented that it could have been a conference of engineers. Nobody seemed to be taking any sneaky sips to relieve the monotony of all the spitting and the lunch that followed was as dry as the Sahara, with the professional oenologues no doubt preserving their palates for an afternoon of data input.
On our return to the Luberon, things had changed. Spring had arrived. Just a week ago one of our vigneron friends, Rupert Birch, (http://www.labrillane.com) confided that he was worried he’d killed his vines. Then the fields around his domaine had been full of rows of inert skeletal fists but in the space of a weekend they’d sprouted long green fingers. The plane trees, lifeless for so long, have finally started to provide shade. It’s as if God finally decided to put up the parasols for the summer. Our house is now surrounded by yellow fields of rape, wild poppies grow in red swathes, and the whole thing looks a bit like an impressionist painting.
You can find the results of the Concours at: http://www.mondial-du-rose.fr/fr/resultats,mondial-du-rose.php?langue=fr
But first we had to get over the culture shock - on the Croisette people’s sun glasses looked like they’d had an optical version of baby bio sprinkled all over them. Triffid frames engulfed tanned faces barely affording their wearers an opportunity to breath. Men draped themselves in white linen suits looking like modern day Don Johnsons, ageing women ignored the effect of gravity on their cleavage and wore plunging tops and heavy jewellery which counted time as they tottered along. There were sofas on beaches, cocktails sprouting tropical fruits and queues outside nightclubs. It may only have been April but we saw more marcha in an afternoon on the Cote d’Azur, than the whole winter in the Luberon.
At the Concours things were very serious. In a backroom over 1,400 wine bottles had been wrapped in little black plastic body bags and a great sheet of plastic tarpaulin had been spread across the carpet. It reminded me of a crime scene.
Out front teams of tasters were methodically working their way through all of the wine. Now you would have thought that being a taster at a Concours would be one of the great jobs in the world, on par with being the swimwear correspondent for Sports Illustrated. And when we arrived late morning after the tasters had already evaluated over thirty bottles, I’d expected the chatty conviviality of a pub before closing time. Not a bit of it.
Instead everybody sat hunched over a small handheld personal computer from which their tasting notes were immediately uploaded to the central server. Tanya commented that it could have been a conference of engineers. Nobody seemed to be taking any sneaky sips to relieve the monotony of all the spitting and the lunch that followed was as dry as the Sahara, with the professional oenologues no doubt preserving their palates for an afternoon of data input.
On our return to the Luberon, things had changed. Spring had arrived. Just a week ago one of our vigneron friends, Rupert Birch, (http://www.labrillane.com) confided that he was worried he’d killed his vines. Then the fields around his domaine had been full of rows of inert skeletal fists but in the space of a weekend they’d sprouted long green fingers. The plane trees, lifeless for so long, have finally started to provide shade. It’s as if God finally decided to put up the parasols for the summer. Our house is now surrounded by yellow fields of rape, wild poppies grow in red swathes, and the whole thing looks a bit like an impressionist painting.
You can find the results of the Concours at: http://www.mondial-du-rose.fr/fr/resultats,mondial-du-rose.php?langue=fr
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Welcome to the all new Extremely Pale Rosé website.
Just to update those who have read Extremely Pale Rosé, Tanya and I are now running our own wine business in the south of France. We live near the village of Lourmarin and our shop front is the local markets. When we started trading in October last year one of the locals observed that we would be "living on love and cold water." They were right. We survived a long cold winter and sold practically no wine. But we made friends with the other market traders and secured our pitches in three local villages for the summer and now at last the tourists and the sun have arrived.
As I write this I am just back from the market in Cuceron, where I was approached - or should I say interogated by a middle-aged English lady. As well as wine we sell my book on the stand. The lady flicked through it and looked up. I prepared to explain the story. Instead of asking a polite question she pointed the spine into my face: "Why isn't it translated into French?"
I replied that we had recently found a Dutch publisher and that we were searching for a French one.
"People like you are wrecking this place. It's an English invasion," she said and stalked off.
I wish I'd had the opportunity to continue the conversation. I sat there thinking over her (un) righteous indignation. The honey lady next to us makes her own honey and the potter his own pottery and they both sell it. But for some reason a writer is unable to sell his own books. Had she been French I could have understood her ire, but from a Brit it was the worse kind of snobbery - for some reason she believed she had a right to live here and yet none of her fellow country men did.
Where was she in January when the fountains in the village were frozen and our clients were just the locals? Back in England?
Just to update those who have read Extremely Pale Rosé, Tanya and I are now running our own wine business in the south of France. We live near the village of Lourmarin and our shop front is the local markets. When we started trading in October last year one of the locals observed that we would be "living on love and cold water." They were right. We survived a long cold winter and sold practically no wine. But we made friends with the other market traders and secured our pitches in three local villages for the summer and now at last the tourists and the sun have arrived.
As I write this I am just back from the market in Cuceron, where I was approached - or should I say interogated by a middle-aged English lady. As well as wine we sell my book on the stand. The lady flicked through it and looked up. I prepared to explain the story. Instead of asking a polite question she pointed the spine into my face: "Why isn't it translated into French?"
I replied that we had recently found a Dutch publisher and that we were searching for a French one.
"People like you are wrecking this place. It's an English invasion," she said and stalked off.
I wish I'd had the opportunity to continue the conversation. I sat there thinking over her (un) righteous indignation. The honey lady next to us makes her own honey and the potter his own pottery and they both sell it. But for some reason a writer is unable to sell his own books. Had she been French I could have understood her ire, but from a Brit it was the worse kind of snobbery - for some reason she believed she had a right to live here and yet none of her fellow country men did.
Where was she in January when the fountains in the village were frozen and our clients were just the locals? Back in England?
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