Let them eat steak

When we first set up camp in Nowhere-in-France, we put up for a night at the local bar/hotel/resto, having a distinct lack of furniture in our new abode. It was thus that we came to know the patron, the lovely Yves, who has remained a close friend ever since.

At that time (and still) the premises, as is so often the case, belonged to the local commune, and the fonds de commerce to Yves. It had been a stipulation of the commune that the person running the business should live “over the shop”, but Yves has his own home, wife and children in the village and didn’t want to move into the then rather cramped accommodation at the bar.

Back then, the place was a thriving village bar, with baby-foot, billiards and an excellent menu du jour (or soir), where locals and a few of us non-locals would congregate for coffee, lunch, New Year and other occasions. Yves is a wonderful cook, and his pronouncement that he would knock up “something simple” for New Year’s Eve resulted in one of the best evenings in terms of food and company that we have ever enjoyed in France. The whole place was “proper”. Slightly fading, full of various characters from around the village, and, simply, a centre for life and exchange of gossip.

Yves, however, became tired of having to keep the place going whilst not living on the premises, and his family life and free time was suffering. So, some five or six years ago, the place was sold.

The new owners, a couple, fresh from running a catering operation at a seaside camp-site, clearly had delusions of grandeur. Over time, the menus became more and more pretentious, the prices more and more ridiculous, and the number of cheesed-off locals increased exponentially with each change. Gone was the homely atmosphere, replaced with transparent plastic chairs in shades of bright orange and green. The local youngsters were banned, along with the billiard table and the baby-foot, and vegetable accompaniments were served in minute Kilner jars whilst the meat was garnished with a floral tribute. The whole thing was a real triumph of style over substance.  The local building firm, whose workers regularly numbered a good 12-15 people, moved to a Routier some 10Km distant to take lunch, and the waitress suddenly had to wear a radio microphone to liaise with the kitchen.   Just about everyone in the village had a tale to tell about how they had been upset by the chef-patron.

There was thus a current of excitement running through the village last week, as the couple from hell packed up and left, and a new couple moved in. The Grand Reopening (well, just a very low-key opening of the doors at lunchtime) was scheduled for last Thursday, and along with a group of friends, I went along to see what was what.

The new owners (the wife of the partnership is English, from Newcastle, whilst her husband is French and the chef – of course) seemed very pleasant and welcoming. She seemed genuinely surprised to see so many customers wishing to eat there on their very first service, but maybe they reckoned without the natural curiosity and optimism of a village deprived for so long of a convivial place to enjoy lunch.

We were a table of seven. Other tables were occupied. Since my recent car accident, I cannot set foot outside the house without bumping into the woman who hit me, or her husband, and they were seated at the adjacent table! Yves also joined us. He never got on with the previous incumbents, and I think he was hopeful that “his” bar would slowly become a more pleasant place again.

Oh dear. Somehow I’d sort of forgotten how very little it can take to annoy the discerning French. Never mess with a Frenchman’s lunch. You may as well go round to his house and immolate his family.

1. The prices had gone up (not much, but too much for some)

2. The set menu price was one where the choices were Entrée/Main/Dessert or Entrée/Main or Main/Dessert (let’s face it, first day of opening..they had no idea whether they’d be catering to the masses or watching tumbleweed rolling across the village square)

3. The helpings were deemed too small

4. THE WINE WAS NOT INCLUDED IN THE MENU PRICE

5. WINE WAS BEING OFFERED BY THE GLASS OR BY THE BOTTLE (the latter only came to light later) 

During the meal, small mumblings of dissent could be heard. By the time we walked outside into the afternoon sun, there was the start of a local revolt. 

“Well, we won’t be coming back for at least a month until they’ve got their act together” said my car accident woman’s husband “the helpings are far too small” (I can see his point: he’s built like a Sumo wrestler and half a small cow could well be too small for him)

“I’m not standing for this ‘glass of wine’ business:  it’s absurd having to call a waitress every time your glass is empty” said one of my party “I think we should tell them! They bought the 'fonds' so they must still have the pichets!"

“And what’s happened to the idea of being able to have just a Plat and wine?” wailed someone else “I had to have a dessert, because I was going to have to pay for it anyway”

The thing is, I suspect that the outgoing tenants had intimated that the village yokels wouldn’t recognise haute cuisine if it came up and smacked them, and that a pretentious, overpriced restaurant is just what the village needs, whether they want it or not.

I sincerely hope that someone takes the newcomers aside and explains that they can be as upmarket as they like in the evenings, or when there’s an “R” in the month, but that the lunchtime core business is predominantly the steak-frites-and-a-pichet brigade, who need more than a couple of miniature new potatoes to sustain them until dinner.

They seem like lovely people. I so badly want them to make a go of things and to have our local bar-resto back as a pleasant place to be. I suspect, though, that no-one will step up and actually voice these concerns to them, and that they will plough a lonely furrow, trying to drag the locals “upmarket”…

I have to say that my lunch was extremely enjoyable. I had a delicious pork dish with a rich and flavourful sauce, followed by a café gourmand. No wine problems, as I stuck to water. Maybe I’m too easily pleased? Or is this one of those times when Not Being French is a real problem?