Monday, twelve thirty, Serviers (population about 200), Southern France. We were at the only restaurant in the village – the only commercial centre in the village too, there are no shops. We were met at the restaurant door by an older man, perhaps sixty, portly, greasy hair, and wearing a chef’s uniform minus hat.
– What do you want? he asked, barring the way with his body.
Me, defensively:
– We have a booking, we booked yesterday.
He looked sceptical.
– A booking, you say. Then I’ll have to let you in, I suppose.
Past two dark roomfuls of tables each set with cutlery, crockery, four glasses and a single flower in an elegant vase, he showed us our seats in a courtyard enclosed on three sides by walls trained with roses and wisteria, the fourth wall framed by enlarged wooden double doors. It was not a warm day for spring, and the gathered white cotton material that roofed the patio, faintly stained in places, transmitted cool air as it billowed in the breeze. The restaurant was completely empty.
– Please, he said gesturing us to sit down and handing us menus.
Where were we from? Sind Sie Deutsch?
No. My surname by which we’d booked was derived from a swiss ancestor, but we were Australian. I spoke hardly any German, in fact.
Australia! Kangaroos, Sydney! He sat himself down on the sofa against the wall opposite, and made himself comfortable to engage in a nice long chat.
While he made jokes about kangaroos and their pouches; a rendition of some jazz with imaginary saxophone; and a brief aside on the only other reservation for lunch (an older French woman from a nearby town who called to cancel, no doubt because she had been drinking too much, causing her apparent fall); a small, shadowy presence made itself felt in the canopy above.
The canopy swayed precariously, and the small dark figure stayed motionless above my head. We all looked up.
– Oh, Cerise [Cherry], called the chef’s wife, rushing over from the dining room behind us.
– Silly cat, said the chef, looking up with mild amusement at the animal and shaking his head.
The cat regained its purpose, stuck its claws in a bit further along, and moved again, the canopy swaying with every timid step.
Eventually, to exclamations from the chef’s wife (our waitress) and the silent curiosity of the chef, the cat reached the side of the wall and climbed tentatively, one foot at a time, over to the sturdy stem of the vine.
– Oh Cerise, said the waitress, and hurried closer.
– Do you have many cats? Steve asked, as she rescued him from the wisteria where he seemed to have got stuck.
– Yes, six, replied our host. ‘They eat a lot of food.’ He took the cat from his wife and patted it. I wondered whether he washed his hands before embarking on his work.
– So, he said, would you like an aperitif?
We had peach wine, slightly sweet and light orange in colour, $A21 for the glass. While we drank, he continued talking.
– He’s lovely, he said in French, pointing at Steve. Is he gay?
– No, we’re just married, I said.
– But I love him. Are you sure?
His attention was distracted by a figure, this time human-size, coming from the dining room behind us. An elderly woman supported by two walking sticks came into view, shuffling painfully slowly, her face drawn as she focussed entirely on her steps. She was too absorbed to acknowledge either us or our host.
He resumed his narrative, ignoring the new arrival, now telling us about his childhood in Italy and how he had been a jeweller, working for years in Switzerland before deciding to move to this small village with his family eleven years ago to open a restaurant and have a more relaxed lifestyle. He had two sons, both lived overseas, but one had another house in the village and came to stay in it during the holidays.
We listened politely with one eye on the old lady, who was inching past our table to the double doors opposite.
Acknowledging her at last, the chef paused to ask her jovially what she was doing that day, remark how good the weather was, and inquire of us whether we thought she would make the national ski team with her exemplary technique – he imitated the ‘swish swish’ of her stocks. She groaned and shuffled to the doors, which he opened for her, becoming serious for a moment as he kissed her goodbye.
– What’s wrong with her? I asked.
– Kidney disease, he said.
– Is she in a lot of pain?
– Yes, all the time. She’s going to have her weekly injections which help.
– Is she your mother?
– Yes. I’m her only son, so she left Italy five years ago to come and live with us.
He changed the subject.
– Would you like something to eat now?
– Yes please.
– A pity. There’s nothing to eat.
Eventually we had a chance to consult the menu, and the prospect of being fed became tangible. ‘Make sure you look at the prices’. He was right, l’Olivier was after all listed in the Michelin Guide and the lunch special at 22 Euros – $A40 – was the only affordable choice. We chose it. Finally, an hour after arriving, we were left alone. Our host retired to the kitchen to set to work.
First came a creamy watercress soup with sautéed chicken pieces. ‘Made with love. Not for you. For the food.’ It was light yet robustly flavoured, though slightly too salty for my taste. I ate it accompanied by a carafe of water – ‘Chȃteau la Pompe Serviers’ – i.e. from the tap. Steve drank the local rosé, the colour of pink grapefruit, not sweet and pleasantly chilled. Perhaps it was from the same co-op down the road that we bought bulk rosé from, good wine that was delivered by hose into our plastic bottle for an almost laughably low price.
Next came the main course, scallops on a skewer, interspersed with barbequeued vegetable pieces for me, drizzled with a creamy green sauce and served on an elegant rectangular white porcelain plate. Lamb and a mustard sauce for Steve, cooked rare, without asking for his preference, because rare is how it is done. They were small servings, but with good French bread and preceded by the soup, it was enough, perfect for lunch.
After dessert (chocolate pudding, I couldn’t resist, and two cheeses selected from a tray of probably fifteen for Steve), the chef said goodbye. He was more subdued, worn out from the talking and the cooking perhaps. His wife would do the coffees, he was going next door to his house to have a rest.
The wind picked up outside, it was nearly three o’clock and a car strained up the hill to the castle behind the village. We soon followed it on foot back to the house, full and smiling.
It had been a good meal.
