HOLD THE MAYO - 28 September 2011
28th September, 2011
We did make it to Oppedette yesterday. After all, if you're not going to die you may as well reach an intermediary destination!
We were starving as we steered the car along the remaining curvaceous 4 k's to the village. It was nearly 2pm, and we were both praying something would still be open. I was craving a good, French sandwich, but thought I'd better let go of that desire and take whatever was available - if need be, the emergency ration of of almonds and raisins which we keep on hand in the car. We knew, from what Paul had said, that Oppedette is a small mountain village, but I don't think either of us were prepared for how small and mountainous. Perched on the side of a gorge, the village consists of perhaps 20 houses, 1 cafe and a phone booth. Remember them?
The cafe had 3 metal tables outside, painted the ubiquitous French blue, alleviated here and there by the perseverance of rust spots. Inside there were 2 tables, a small counter and a sturdy older woman right out of a French Resistance film. A small piece of cardboard propped up on the counter declared the full menu:
SANDWICHES
Jambon
Jambon Cru
Camembert
Saucisson
Pate de Campagne
I asked if I could have a Jambon and Camembert sandwich. "Non," came the simple reply. Ok. I'll have ham. Joel went for the Camembert. Was it possible to have some tomato on mine? "Non." Ok. Then came the offer of du beurre. Great! And a carafe of water.
It was extremely hot yesterday and as we sat outside we both felt that pinch-pinch quality of being there in that tiny village on this glorious September day. And then Madame brought the sandwiches. Mon Dieu. A ficelle each - the long thin baguette - each loaded with their singular content: on Joel's slabs of Camembert and on mine, thick slices of ham as tender as a baby's derriere. Of course, we gave each other half of our contents so that we could have the ham and cheese sandwich we had wanted. When Madame de la Resistance arrived with the carafe of mountain water and saw what we had done she gave a great snort, closer to approval than derision.
It had been 17 years since a sandwich sent us to paradise. That one had also been a ficelle of Camembert, accompanied by bowls of cafe au lait and eaten with the same relish and gratitude on the Ile St. Louis in Paris, at 9 in the morning, perhaps an hour after landing at Charles de Gaulle. A perfect antidote to jet-lag if ever there was one.
You see, the French are so quintessentially French. The food here, the real earthy, country food, not the stuff tricked-out with cream sauces, is so damn good. There is a purity and depth of flavor that is immensely satisfying. You don't need the tomato, or the mayo. Just bung a slab of cheese between the cheeks of a baguette and try not to make a fool of yourself.
Lunch cost 7 Euro, about 10 bucks. If you'd bought that much Camembert alone, in New York it would cost you $20. We'd tell you the name of the cafe but it didn't have one. But no matter...it's the only one there.
The village, like all French villages after lunch, was sleepy. The 3 tiny streets each boasting a fig tree and then, that's it, you're at the end and looking down some 800 ft or more into the gorge. And not for the first time we felt the wildness of the terrain. For all its culture, both of the land and the arts, Provence is also tough and primitive and satisfyingly untamable. And that cafe owner and her menu were a prime example.
