LUNCH IN RHEIMS

 

One of the simplest meals but exquisite was had, this past long weekend, in Rheims.  My host, an elegant attractive European celeb, circa Mitterrand years, welcomed me to his villa in the Rheims Champagne area of France.

Apple orchard surround the graveled road leading to the villa, a small fountain is the main center; the scenery could have taken me back a century ago, delivered to the door from a horse carriage instead of this rented Audi SUV. My favorite Lilly of the Valley sprouted in large potted vessels either side of the wooden door, the apple blossoms triggered a few sneezes announcing the arrival of spring.

Dining alfresco, we walked through the villa to the back of the garden to a  setting that was devoid  of today’s  frenzied city life.  Outside temperature only slightly cool, the best cuvee of Perrier-Jouët poured, bubbles rising to the top, whizzing closely at the rim of the tulip glass. 

The first sip made all my world’s heavy baggage seem to have suddenly lessened in load; the mortgage-worry far into the distance; the health or mortality issues no longer exists; I was soaking in the ambience that settled my spirit, balancing the importance of life, sweet sorrows mingling with victorious conquests; sharing a friendship whose world I wish to belong.  ………. Only briefly.

Freshly baked baguettes wrapped in checkered linen served with steaming home made chicken soup.  Un-French?  Not, at all.  Shredded chicken swimming in real stock with leeks, potatoes, carrots and celery sprinkled with chopped parsley, warmed and sustained me immediately. Not moderately hungry but ravenous, I waited patiently as most French people partake lunch stylishly late.   The fresh Baguette buttered on its own was delicious enough but eaten together with this nourishing soup, I began to peel layers of facade I might have brought along with me, and we started on subjects of the dilemma of either Macron or Le Penn winning, changing the backdrop of France.

The French housekeeper, wearing a flowered apron securely wrapped around her waist brought in the second course.  Ouefs Jeanette came in the largish hot caste-iron skillet placed in the middle of the table.  More baguette, more Perrier-Jouët poured, slightly heady, I realized how easy it was to let go.  Ouefs Jeanette, (a dozen or so it seemed) on a much higher level than the American version of deviled eggs, are delicately fried in sizzling butter, lavishly sprinkled with finely chopped spring onions and fresh oregano. To eat the French way; after finishing the eggs, break a chunk of bread and wipe the skillet clean, the herb butter soaking onto the baguette made me greedier.  Drizzled with dressing over spinach and bacon salad, I was fast losing  my guard.  

More Perrier-Jouët, interspersed with Evian, I consumed with great appetite on my food and couldn't get enough of this man's philosophy and  French politics;  Macron’s much older wife; on whether this kind of union applied in my Oriental society.  My oh-so tall European host, oblivious to Napoleon’s Complex of my Oriental male species, whose smallness fights for full control over his several subservient young partners, should ask such a question.    In his full sexy French accent, arguing what constitutes masculinity “small, big is not the problem, it is how you apply.”   

With that last remark, he pops open another bottle, this time its Piper-Heidsieck Rare pairing with the villa’s own garden fruit compote of blackberries, raspberries, gooseberries, topped with crushed almond meringues and fresh cream.   Two hours into lunch, two bottles of Champagne between two people, we are now ready to devour Trump and his 100 days of office and of course his controversial immigrant laws having had two immigrant wives.

By 4:00pm (my usual pseudo-Anglophile tea time with crumpets) I had only just tucked into a soft aged Brie, a slice of Comte and grapes and downing my eighth glass of bubbles, it is time to take a sip of Expresso so that I can jump in my Audi, turn on the Nav-Guide and slowly but cautiously drive back to my Hôtel.  My demeanor has turn European, my accent becoming Franco/Anglaise and my Oriental disposition tucked back somewhere in the corner not seen.

À bientôt..............until dinner.