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?
