In the mid-sixties, when I was a sophomore at Vanderbilt University, I took spring semester in Aix-en-Provence with the Vanderbilt-in-France program. (See dianacoogle.blogspot.com for more essays about living in France.) Before I left for France that February, one of my mother's painting students, a French woman, gave me the address of her parents, who lived in Marseille, urging me to get in touch. Though I thought the connection tenuous, I did write them after I settled in Aix. My mother's student had told her parents about me, so they were expecting my letter and invited me to visit.
The M. and Mme. Brun—Mr. and Mrs. Brown—who met me at the bus stop were older than my parents, white-haired, small, and full of Old World social graces. I found them utterly charming, and, for different reasons, they were equally charmed with me, a shy young girl with the American innocence Europeans sometimes found contemptible and sometimes quaint. M. and Mme. Brun took me to dinner that night in a tiny, unpretentious restaurant on the shores of the Mediterranean, just at the corner of a long fishing pier. From our table by the window I looked out at the blue Mediterranean curving into the horizon. Looking down, I saw the sea lapping below. M. and Mme. Brun told me that the fish served at this restaurant was caught from the pier and was only an hour or so from sea to table. Our waiter displayed a tray of this fresh fish, artfully arranged on ice, for us to choose our dinner. M. and Mme. Brun helped me make a choice. M. Brun ordered the wine. When the salad and bread arrived, I said, "Bon appétit." Pleased, they repeated, "Bon appétit." We beamed at each other.
After our meal the Bruns suggested we have coffee at their apartment. To me, at that time, "apartment" meant a small, dumpy couple of rooms like my Aunt Zip's home in Atlanta, crowded with stuffed furniture and knickknacks. M. and Mme. Brun's apartment was a dazzling surprise, large and spacious, with big windows and, even though night had long since fallen, rich with light because everywhere—on chandeliers, in cabinets against the walls, from table surfaces—crystal sparkled and glittered: wine glasses, water glasses, bowls, candy dishes, and large chandeliers with scores of twinkling teardrops dangling from their heights. The apartment danced with crystal. Glossy hardwood floors, Persian rugs, lace tablecloths, fine china, and polished wooden furniture added a sense of wealth and good taste, but it was all that crystal that made me feel I had entered a fairyland.
While the coffee was brewing, M. Brun offered me a liqueur. I wasn't sure what a liqueur was, though I knew it was alcohol, so I knew better than to gulp it. But I made the classic mistake of inhaling before I sipped, and a long, choking, coughing fit turned my face crimson and spoiled my façade of worldly aplomb. But M. and Mme. Brun never thought me an uncouth hillbilly. True to the social graces of their class and their country, they treated my faux pas like nothing more than a rough swell in the smooth sea of our conversation. When I left, they kissed me on both cheeks and told me to come back often.
M. and Mme. Brun became special friends while I lived in France, fulfilling something in the French experience I wouldn't otherwise have had. The hours with other students drinking coffee at the outdoor cafes, the blood sausages and custards at the university lunchroom, the invariable French bread and cafe au lait for breakfast at my boarding house were a part of France I cherished, but outside of that, whenever I went to Marseille, I could enter the Old World elegance of a different France, where M. and Mme. Brun taught me to order dinner in a fine French restaurant, to eat off crystal plates, and to drink liqueurs.
Next week: "Costa Rican Cuisine"
Recipes from this post
Fish in the French fashion
Salade verte
FISH IN THE FRENCH FASHION
I can't give a duplication of the recipe for the fish I had in Marseille, first because the fish was probably of a variety not found here and then because I don't have the recipe. What I offer below is a simple French-based recipe for cooking fish fillets. It'll have to do.
The sauce
Ingredients
2 tablespoons butter
2 tablespoons flour
2 cups fish stock
1/4 cup mushroom peelings
pinch of nutmeg
other seasonings
To make
Melt butter in the top of a double boiler. Stir in the flour to make a roux. When it is smooth, gradually pour in the stock, stirring or whisking well to keep the mixture smooth. Cook over low heat until well combined and thickened. Add the mushroom peelings. Return to the double boiler and simmer about 1 hour, stirring occasionally. Strain through a fine sieve. Add nutmeg and other seasonings, if desired.
The fish
Ingredients
4 skinned fish fillets
3/4 cup sliced mushrooms
1 shallot
1 teaspoon chopped parsley
2/3 cup dry white wine
Preparation
Rinse and wipe dry the fish fillets. Finely slice the mushrooms, mince the shallot, and chop the parsley.
To make
Put the fish in a buttered skillet and cover with the vegetables. Pour the wine over everything and cover with a poaching paper. (See instructions below.) Simmer 10-15 minutes. Remove the fish carefully and place on a hot ovenproof serving dish.
To finish
Pour the sauce over the fillets and broil until sauce is lightly browned.
To make a poaching cover
Cut a piece of parchment paper slightly bigger than the diameter of your pot. Fold it in fourths and, beginning at the folded tip, roll it diagonally. Hold the cornucopia-shaped roll with its tip at the center of your pot and snip off the part that hangs over the edge of the pot. Snip the pointed end to make a vent. Place the poaching cover over your food instead of a tight lid.
SALADE VERTE
This means, simply, green salad, and though I can't be sure what salad I had so long ago at that little restaurant on the Mediterranean, surely it was made in the French fashion for producing a superior green salad.
Ingredients
Only the freshest greens should be used, augmented with whatever wild greens are available (dandelion greens, miner's lettuce, sheep's sorrel, etc.). These days many packets of cleaned greens are available, and convenient, but the salad is always inferior to those using a variety of fresh greens torn into salad size pieces by the cook. Fresh herbs are a great addition.
Only the best olive oil of course, and white wine vinegar.
Good fresh garlic is essential.
Preparation
Rub a wooden bowl with a broken clove of garlic. Rub it well. Wash and dry the greens. Tear (don't cut) them into bite-size pieces.
To make
Place salt, freshly ground black pepper, and some vinegar in the bowl and mix well. Whisk in olive oil a little at a time. Finally, throw in the greens and herbs and toss well.
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