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.
