The Times Cook in France

The first meal I ever ate in France is still vivid in my memory. It was a warm day in the year of ‘les événements de mai’, and I had arrived in Albi on the overnight train from Paris to begin a year at the École Normale as assistante. After meeting the formidable directrice, I was taken into the dining room for a solitary lunch.

It was late enough in the year not to bother with shutters, and the tall, generously proportioned windows let in the afternoon sun. About twenty round tables with bent-wood chairs were arranged around the cool tiled floor. At one end of the room was a long, wooden dresser on which woven red and green napkins and tablecloths were piled next to water jugs, bread baskets and litre bottles of red wine. The table des prof was laid for one. I was given a crisp, new napkin, and a bread basket lined with a red, linen cloth containing a newly baked baguette chopped into pieces by the guillotine at the end of the sideboard. I poured a glass of the rough red wine from Labastide de Levis and ate the plate of blanquette de veau put in front of me. It was followed by a perfectly ripe Passecrassane pear and a slice of Cantal. All this was a hint of what was to come in this tranquil establishment where the chef was paid more than the principal. This young man, not long out of his apprenticeship, was already well known in the region for the banquets he would prepare when off duty for christenings and first communions. He was not generous with his recipes and tuition, but would allow me into his kitchen to watch what he was cooking.