BACK IN BRITTANY

Apologies for having left you blogless for what must seem like aeons. I'm back in the saddle now - after a break that took me ...

Back in Brittany

I was back in Brittany just three weeks ago. When I tell English people that I’m popping off for another few weeks they often assume that I am going to a sunnier place and express a good-humoured envy that is not soundly based. My little part of Brittany is not so very different from my little part of England. Yes, if you draw a line East to West at the bottom of the British Isles this bit of Brittany (called the Côte d’Armor) is well South of that line and so, in the Summer, it gets warmer but take a look at all the greenery that surrounds you there and you’ll realise that it is no stranger to rain. But it is, this French place … somehow … I’m searching for words … more congenial? More interesting? Just plain different? I do know that when my car moves off the ferry at Saint Malo and my first sight is that beautiful coastline and that lovely city (post WW2 rebuilt) my heart soars. Silly old me.

It’s not that the French people are without fault and France is not a paradise but what I experience is through the filter of imperfect understanding. By not ‘getting’ the subtleties of language what I pick up are the high points of the communication landscape and I just don’t perceive the dark valleys of politics and prejudice. Add to this the ubiquitous politeness which protects the visitor from discomfort and you have a superficial but extremely comfortable relationship with those you meet. I experience an extreme example of this phenomenon when at a dinner party where most present are French. At first politesse requires them to speak, or at least, attempt English and for us to speak or at least attempt French. At first. Later, a few glasses later, the French move into full throttle conversation in their own language and then the sounds you hear become choral. The sopranos and contraltos use distinct inflections and pitch and they are underscored by the tenors and basses with their own distinct characteristics. The trick is not to listen for meaning but to listen to the music of the voices. In a perfect world this complex tapestry of sound is overlayed by an atmospheric wreath of tobacco smoke.

During that recent trip to Brittany I stopped at the Information Centre of a small seaside town, Lancieux, which is a few miles from where I stay. On one side of the building was a plaque commemorating the fact that the English poet Robert Service (born in Preston 1874, died in Lanceux 1955) had spent the last years of his life in the town and was buried there; this is a fact of almost no relevance to any French person nor to most visitors from other countries but it is, I suppose, an aspect of la politesse that the French would honour the presence of a poet who once enjoyed considerable fame amongst the working class of another country.

The sloes have been prolific this year. It’s been one of my various eccentricities (one that I am happy to share as opposed to those I choose to keep secret) that I only make my sloe gin from French sloes. Not merely French sloes but sloes that grow on a southerly path - one of the sentiers des douaniers (that is, the paths that were once trodden by coastguards who kept their eyes open for smugglers and the English) – facing the Baie de la Frenais. Not only are these sloes plump and juicy but my desire to use them and only them guarantees that I am in France at the appropriate time.

The French are, as you will no doubt know, passionate about food but what you may not know is that they are even more passionate about free food. So, when walkers see me plucking sloes they ask me why I am doing it. The prunelle has no place in any cuisine. Bite into one and you’ll see why. The acidity makes one’s face contort into an appearance not dissimilar to a prune, with all the wrinkles focused on the mouth. God, but they’re horrid. ‘I am going to make sloe gin, gin de prunelles', I tell them. They are incredulous because they know how horrid they are. Over the years a few French friends have attempted to make the stuff but they never seem to be able to cross the comprehension barrier that requires them to drink the liquid and discard the sloes once they have fulfilled their function. The French, along with many other Europeans, steep fruit such as plums and apricots in alcohol and sugar and then, eventually, eat the fruit as a dessert and drink the now fruit-flavoured hooch. My French friends are drawn to the notion that the sloes may be eaten once the gin has coloured up a bit – and they become very disappointed. The ‘dead’ sloes are hard as leather and don’t taste half as nice. So, if sloe gin is on their minds, they visit me just as I visit them if I fancy a petit gout of calvados or cognac at 11 am pour remonter le coeuras the saying goes.

I’ll pass on another piece of advice before I leave you for a while. Lobsters. The lobsters of Brittany are plentiful and … expensive? Cost is relative. The current price of a live Brittany lobster is around 27 Euros a kilo. Gosh, that’s dear. Go to a small, run-of-the-mill, cheapo restaurant and order mussels and chips for two and a couple of glasses of the house muscadet. The bill will come to around 34 Euros. Now, go to market and select a live lobster weighing about 650 gms: that’ll cost you 17.55 Euros. Buy a bottle of muscadet for – go on, go mad, spend 5 Euros. You’ve spent 22.66 Euros. Buy a baguette for .85 Euros. This brings it up to 23.4 Euros – you are still more than 10 Euros short of the price of that meal of moules frites. Go home and put your pot half filled with water on the stove and bring to the boil. Harden your heart, introduce lobster to the boiling water and put the lid on. Wait until the various rustlings stop. Turn the heat down to simmer actively for 12 minutes. Extract lobster from pot when time is up. Oh, don’t forget to turn the gas or electricity off – do I have to tell you everything? Leave lobster to cool down. When lobster is cold cut it into halves lengthwise – a big sharp knife, start at the head and cut and split until you have two lobster halves. As a refinement take the yolk of an egg and make some mayonnaise using sunflower oil and a drop or two of cider vinegar. This will put your costs up by a few cents. Your meal consists of the most expensive and delicious shellfish that money can buy with a homemade mayonnaise, the best tasting bread ever devised and you can drink half a bottle each of a not-at-all-bad Muscadet (not your miserable little restaurant glassful). All for less than £20 English money. Expensive? I think not.

PS The lobster shown above is a tiny bit larger than the 650gm version referred to above. Well, I was feeling flush. ... But it is still cheaper than moules frites, so there.