Sundays and Feast days

In fine weather lunch is outside under the old lime tree that snows blossoms when the wind rustles. It is a feast day, one long delicious meal. There may be a Grand Aïoli: a huge stone mortar overflowing with yellow aïoli and surrounded by bowls of petits gris snails cooked in stock, poached salt cod, matchsticks of wild asparagus and green beans, chickpeas and tiny waxen potatoes. There is the local rose wine, chilled in the fountain, slices of smoky mountain ham, hard-boiled eggs stuffed with Tapenado-a peppery purée of olives and capers-and gleaming stone jars of wild mushrooms-lactaires délicieuses, chanterelles and giant cèpes. If there is no aïoli, there is for once a vies; metre-length spits of tiny birds; plump chickens or wild hare simmered in wine, the sauce thickened with blood; provençal stew-daube of mutton or beef, bubbling from dawn with strips of dried orange peel. The meal finishes with a caramellized pumpkin pudding or a shimmering custard. The women doze in the shade, to be wakened only by the crack-crack of the men playing boules (called pétanque here).