THE MAIN ROAD THROUGH PÉGUILHAN SWERVED TO GO ROUND the crumbling, moss-covered wall that encircled the grounds of the château. Set behind massive iron gates, the château stood almost in the centre of the village, but defiantly apart from it. It was a private home and the gates were nearly always locked. The building stood on an elevated terrace. It had a forbidding, unwelcoming appearance. The front was long and flat, with repetitive rows of green wooden-shuttered windows along each storey; the shutters were mostly closed. It was the biggest building in Péguilhan, although everything is relative: it was a very small village, and this was more a manoir than a full-sized château.
The owners were still spoken of by the villagers in Péguilhan with a sense of feudal reverence as les Gens du Château, the people from the château, the folks at the big house. The phrase was said as if it was all one word, les-gens-du-château. The owners were away for most of the year and only descended on the village occasionally. They were quite distinct from people in the village. There were les-gens-du-château and les-gens-du-coin or, as they said in the local accent, les-gens-du-cwaing.
When they returned in July, Monsieur and Madame from the château phoned to book a table for dinner in the restaurant.
‘Les-gens-du-château, they’re coming to dine at the Auberge!’ said Jacques-Henri, as he put down the phone.
This was a coup. It was more important than ever to create a good impression. Les-gens-du-château had booked a few days ahead and asked for something typical. Jacques-Henri and Marie-Jeanne had a long, animated discussion about what to prepare, and in the end they decided on daube d’oie, casseroled goose, a rich and hearty peasant stew.
The dish took a day and a half to prepare. Generous pieces of goose were marinated in a whole bottle of red Madiran wine, flavoured with herbs, bay leaves, cloves and seasoning. After marinating them overnight, Marie-Jeanne fried the goose pieces in goose fat, along with onions, carrots and celery. She poured the marinade back over the meat and left the daube to simmer for about three hours in a big marmite, adding a bouquet garni of fresh herbs tied with string. As the slow-cooking daube bubbled gently in the pot, the lid rattled quietly from time to time, as if to let us know that all was well. The kitchen was filled with the most enticing smell, which drifted into every corner of the building.
‘Ça donne de l’appétit!’ Marie-Jeanne remarked, noticing me sniffing the aroma.
While the daube was simmering, Marie-Jeanne made a croustade aux pommes for dessert, with a good splash of Armagnac on top and crème anglaise to go with it.
Jacques-Henri wrote out by hand two copies of a souvenir menu, one for Madame, one for Monsieur. Using an old-fashioned black-and-gold fountain pen, his strong farmer’s hand produced surprisingly neat handwriting. He signed both copies of the menu with lou paisan gascoun. By signing himself the Gascon peasant, Jacques-Henri wasn’t putting himself down, he was showing how he belonged there, how his place in the village was as certain as that of the people from the château. Besides, he hoped they’d tell their friends about the excellent food. It could only be good for business.
Marie-Jeanne was in the kitchen giving orders.
‘Can you prepare those vegetables?’ she said to Florence.
‘Can you rearrange the tables to make more space?’ she said to Paul.
‘And now can you lay the tables?’ she said to Anja.
‘Pattes – dehors!’ she ordered Pattes.
At about half past seven, everything was ready.
Les-gens-du-château drove the short distance through the village from the château to the Auberge in their Range Rover, la Range. It was important to have the right transport.
Jacques-Henri and Marie-Jeanne greeted them at the front door, shaking hands very cordially, and showed them to their table by the front window.
Monsieur was tall, with an aquiline nose and an aristocratic mien. He was dressed carefully casually in an Argyle-pattern sweater. Madame had long dark hair tied back in a neat French plait. She was dressed more smartly in a slightly old-fashioned charcoal-grey New Look dress. It was hard to tell how old they were. Their impassive expressions gave little away.
All the proper formalities were observed; well, as formal as formalities ever were at the Auberge.
‘Madame, Monsieur, asseyez-vous,’ said Jacques-Henri, pulling out their chairs.
As soon as they were seated, he presented them with their handwritten menus.
First, an aperitif. The classic Gascon aperitif is floc de Gascogne, a blend of Armagnac and grape juice. Floc means bouquet of flowers in Gascon. At the Auberge some things tended to be improvised. Jacques-Henri made a homemade version of the drink. He uncorked a bottle of grape juice, poured out a glassful, carefully poured in a glass of Armagnac, then pushed the cork back in, gave the bottle a swirl and served the aperitif.
It accompanied the starter of whole foie gras, with puréed apricots and fingers of bread. A composition for refined palates.
‘I would like to propose for you a very good Madiran wine,’ Jacques-Henri suggested, pronouncing Madiran as Madiraing, and showing them a bottle of Madiran Château Vézac. Monsieur graciously accepted the proposal.
Marie-Jeanne and Anja brought out the main course of daube in a big serving dish. As Marie-Jeanne lifted the lid of the pot, meaty nuggets of goose trembled ever so slightly in the still-simmering stew. Dinner was served.
‘Je vous souhaite un très bon appétit,’ Jacques-Henri said respectfully, stressing the word très.
Monsieur and Madame from the château took their time over their meal. Jacques-Henri talked with us in the kitchen. He’d had a few slugs of Armagnac by then; after all, the bottle was open…
Jacques-Henri was a wily peasant. He saw through the rituals associated with food and the play-acting of eating out in restaurants. He said that restaurants as we know them are a modern idea, so everyone can afford to go out sometimes, to be waited on and play the role of the petitmarquis. In a funny way, he observed, Monsieur and Madame were doing the opposite, stepping out of the château to enjoy peasant fare at the inn.
When they’d finished their meal, les-gens-du-château retired to the terrace outside for a petite pause and a relaxing Armagnac digestif. In the end they showed themselves to be quite unassuming. They asked questions about the food, and seemed pleased that the restaurant was open and doing well, right on their doorstep. I think the experience was something of a novelty for them: it was the first time they’d been able to eat out in Péguilhan. Les-gens-du-château went home impressed. The evening had gone well. Jacques-Henri and Marie-Jeanne were pleased with themselves. The meal was perfectly composed: foie gras as a mark of respect for their status and daube for a taste of true peasant fare.
Foie gras is as essential to Gascony as the haricot and the beret. You can join the debate over which birds produce the finer foie gras, ducks or geese, but in Gascony there is no debate over whether or not it has a place on the table.