Chapter 9 Chapter nine

This time the food will make people with weight problems want to die: whipped cream, cottage cheese, chocolate cake covered with chocolate, puff pastry, layer cake, rum-flavored fruitcake, fruit pie, sorbet, flavored strawberries, Syrup fruit... foodies in tracksuits (1) We heard about Regis from some friends.He is said to have been invited to his home for dinner.That morning, he called to inquire about the evening menu.Even in a country like France, where people generally have a special interest in gastronomy, this is not often the case.The hostess was curious, why did he ask this?The menu includes shellfish-encrusted cold cuts, short ribs in a truffle sauce, cheese, and homemade sorbets.Is there a problem?Is he allergic to certain foods?Or only vegetarian?If not on a diet?

Of course not, Regis said.These dishes all sound delicious, just a little problem.What's the problem?He had hemorrhoids and couldn't sit there for long enough to eat a whole meal.The time for one dish is the limit he can bear, so he wants to pack the dish he thinks is the most delicious and take it home, believing that the hostess will understand his predicament. Because he is Regis, the hostess agreed.Later, she told us that Regis is a person who regards eating as his life, almost obsessed in the world of eating and drinking.But don't think of him as one of those gluttons who overeat and drink too much.Regis is a foodie who just happens to have a big appetite and is well-informed.She also said that Reggie was also amused by his fanaticism. He had some unique views on the attitude of the British towards food. We might be interested. We might as well get to know him after his "hidden disease" healed.

We met him one night a few weeks later. He arrived in a hurry, still holding a bottle of cold Kruger champagne in his arms.He spent the first 5 minutes of his arrival wrestling with the ice bucket as the wine wasn't iced enough.To keep the wine at a drinkable temperature, which he says is 5 to 7 degrees, he gently turns the bottle in the ice bucket while telling us that he experienced a "disaster dinner" last week.He said the only moment he felt happy came at the end of the dinner, when a female guest said goodbye to the hostess and said, "It's really a special night. Everything is cold, except the champagne!"

Regis laughed tremblingly, and then slowly pulled out the cork. He was very careful, and there was a soundless burst of foam, and the bottle was already opened. Regis was tall, dark and fat, with the kind of deep blue eyes rare in Provence.Unlike our traditional dinner attire, he just relaxed in a tracksuit, light gray with red trim, "Le Coq Sportif" embroidered on the chest, which means "cock who loves sports", and a pair of kicks on his feet. Sneakers, intricately styled, with layers of plastic soles in different colors, making him look more suited to running a marathon than sitting at a table for a dinner party.He caught me looking at his clothes.

"I have to be comfortable when I'm eating, and tracksuits are perfect." He pulls the elastic on his trousers, laughing again. "And it helps to leave room for the second round. That's important." He raised his glass. "To our England and Britons, if they are so complacent about their food!" Most of the French people we meet usually don't understand British food and make unreasonable comments.But Regis was different. He had studied the British and their eating habits.Over dinner, he correctly pointed out to us exactly what went wrong with the British.

He said that from infancy, British babies are fed some tasteless mush, which can only be used to feed chickens that are not picky eaters, and has no taste at all.French babies, on the other hand, are treated as people with a sense of taste long before they have teeth.Regis gave an example that the menu of the famous French baby food manufacturer "Gaul" listed flounder steak, chicken porridge, tuna, lamb, liver, veal, cheese, soup, vegetables, fruits, warm quinces, etc. Lingonberry pudding, brown sugar cream, cream cheese.All of the above, and many more not mentioned, are for babies under 18 months old. "Now do you understand?" Reggie said, "This is how the sense of taste is trained." He closed his mouth, lowered his head to the tarragon chicken that had just been served, took a deep breath, and settled down. Napkins tucked neatly under sports collars.

He then moves on to the enrollment stages of these future gourmets.He asked me, "Do you remember what you ate at school?" Of course I do, those horrific experiences are unforgettable, and Regis nodded with a very understanding expression.He said that the food in British schools is notoriously inedible, it is always a cloudy mass, it looks mysterious, and you never know what you are forcing yourself to eat.But in France, where his five-year-old daughter is attending the elementary school in the village, the weekly menu is posted on the bulletin board in advance so as not to duplicate the dishes at home.There are at least three courses for lunch every day. For example, yesterday little Mathilde ate celery salad with cheese and ham, sausage rice and grilled bananas.Check it out!This is how the little tongue continues to be educated. No wonder the French appreciate food better than the British and have better taste.

Regis sliced ​​a large pear to go with the cheese and pointed his knife at me as if I were responsible for the failure of the British palate education. "Okay," he said, "now it's time to talk about the restaurant." He shook his head sadly, and spread his hands out on the table, palms up, fingers clenched. "Here," he raised his left hand a few inches, "you have a small hotel, yes, but the food provided can only be eaten with beer." The other hand was raised higher, "and here, you There are high-end restaurants dedicated to businessmen, and the prices are ridiculously expensive, but it doesn't matter, the company pays the bill anyway."

"But what about the middle?" Reggie looked at the gap between his hands, the corners of his mouth drooped, and his chubby face showed disappointment, "the middle is a desert, and there is nothing." Where's your small restaurant?What about your middle-class restaurants?What about your roadside store?How is it possible for anyone but the rich to afford a good meal in London? I wanted to refute him, but I couldn't find the words.The questions he pointed out were exactly the ones we asked ourselves countless times while living in the UK.Choices are indeed limited in the UK, ranging from small hotels to fancy restaurants, with meager food and plenty on the bill.Finally, with microwaved food and table wine in a hamper, and nice but crappy waiters named Justin or Emma, ​​we had to give up.

As St. Regis stirs his coffee and decides between apple brandy and iced perry from Avignon, I ask him which restaurant he likes best. "The Beaumanai restaurant in Les Baux, of course," he said, "but it's too expensive!" He shook his entire palm as if his fingers were on fire. "It's definitely not enough to eat every day. Generally speaking, I like more restrained restaurants that are not so international." "In other words, a French restaurant," I said. "Exactly! Compared to French restaurants, the value for money is excellent. There are all kinds of grades here, and I have done research." St. Regis said.

I believe he did, except that he didn't tell me the name of any restaurant other than the one in Lebertown, which is the only restaurant you can afford if you win the lottery. "Is there any other cheaper restaurant?" "If you like, there are two very unique restaurants with no less quality." Regis poured another sip of Calevado into his mouth, "helps digestion." He leaned back in the chair superior. "That's it. I'll take you there as a contribution to strengthening the food education of the British. Your wife will also come." Of course, it's a pity that Mrs. Regis can't participate in our feast, she has to stay at home prepare for dinner. ＊＊＊ He asked us to meet at a café in front of the Clock Square in Avillon, and he would reveal where we were going to eat.On the phone, he sucked his thumb loudly and advised us not to plan any activities for the afternoon.After this lunch he arranged, there is nothing more important than drinking "digestive wine"! He walked across the square towards us, a brisk walk for his size.Wearing a pair of black basketball shoes and his most formal tracksuit, also black, with "UCLA" embroidered in pink on a pair of chunky trouser legs, he carried a shopping basket and a French businessman for documents and emergencies Cologne Zipper Tote. He ordered a glass of champagne and showed us a small melon he had just bought at the market, about the size of an apple. "Washed, hollowed out, with grape juice and brandy in the fridge for 24 hours," Regis assured us, "drinks like a girl's red lips." Blame it on the inadequacy of British education. Regis happily squeezed the little green balls one last time, happily put them back in the basket, and got down to business. "Today we're going to Erly's restaurant on Republic Street. Mr. Pierre Erly is a well-known figure in the culinary world. He has been in this business for 20 or 25 years. He is a genius. The food never disappoints." Reggie wags his plump fingers and repeats "never." Aside from a wooden-framed menu displayed at the entrance, Erly's doesn't try to advertise anything to lure passers-by.The narrow door opens into a narrow corridor, and the restaurant is at the end of the stairs.A large room, with handsome herringbone planks, of sober colours, with tables comfortably spaced between them.Like most high-end French restaurants, solo guests and groups of more than six people enjoy the same treatment. The table for one person is not crowded in a deserted corner, but in a windowed cubicle facing the street. Inside.The booths were filled with suit-clad guests, local businessmen, who had to grab a quick lunch and head back to the office in two hours.The rest of the guests, with the exception of us, were all French and more casually dressed. Gourmet in tracksuit (2) I remember being turned away from a fancy restaurant in Somerset once in England for not wearing a tie, but never in France.And here, Regis in tracksuit, looking like he just escaped from a weight loss center, is being treated like a king by the proprietress.He handed her the shopping basket and asked Mr. Early how he was doing. The proprietress smiled and said, "Okay, it's still the same." When we were ushered to our seats, St. Regis was smiling, rubbing his hands together, sniffing the air and trying to figure out what was on the menu today.At another favorite restaurant, he said, he would close his eyes and select dishes with his nose when the chef let him into the kitchen. He tucked his napkin into his neck and whispered to the waiter. "A big bottle?" the waiter asked. "Big bottle!" Reggie replied.A minute later, a large glass bottle filled with liquid was placed in front of us, and the walls of the bottle became transparent because of the ice.Regis turned professional right away and we were about to start our classes. "In any serious restaurant, everyone can trust its special table wine, which is produced in the Rhone region, cheers!" He took a big sip of the wine, tasted it in his mouth for a few seconds, and then He let out a long breath, expressing his satisfaction. "Now, how about I give you some advice on how to order food? You see, there is a "tasting menu" 9, which is delicious, but it may take too much time for a simple lunch. way." He looked at us over his glass, and said, "Remember what we're here for, so you can understand what good and cheap are. For five hundred francs a head, any good cook can make you eat very well. Good. The biggest test is how to satisfy you with less than half the price. Therefore, I suggest ordering this short menu, agree?" We agree, this pared-down menu is enough to make a Michelin Guide reviewer drool, let alone two amateur Brits like us!Regis reads the wine list softly, and we struggle to make a final decision.He beckoned the waiter to come, and the two of them started discussing in low voices again. "I relapsed!" Raj said. "The red wine here is good, but there is a better wine, not expensive, produced in Trevallon (Trevallon) in the north of Aix (Aix). It is not too strong, but it has the characteristics of a famous wine. Drink Just drink and you'll know." He patted the wine list in front of him. While the waiter was picking up the wine from the wine cellar, another waiter brought some nibbles so we wouldn't have nothing to do until the first course, a small cheesecake filled with buttercream. Cod, topped with a grilled quail egg and black olives.Regis remained silent, buried his head and concentrated on eating.I heard the uncorking of the wine bottle, the soft voice of the waiter, and the soft clink of the knife on the china plate again. Reggie ate his cake and poured more wine, deftly nudging the food to the knife and fork with the bread. "How about it?" The ensuing lunch was as delightful as it began, with a foie gras patty drizzled with a rich mushroom and asparagus gravy, followed by homemade sistronella lamb sausage and sage with a sweet red onion sauce; on another pan On the other hand, there is a layer of baked potatoes as thin as a napkin, and the crispy thin skin melts in your mouth. With a little more stuff, and now that the focus can shift a little bit away from the food, Regis was able to continue our conversation, telling us he was thinking about doing a cultural project.The Marquis de Sade 10 International Research Center will open during the Avillon Festival, the newspaper said, with an opera in honor of the holy Marquis and a champagne wine to be named after him.The events suggest a revival of interest in the old monster, and as Raj said, sadists need to eat too, so he's devising a special recipe for it. "I'm going to call this set 'Sadistic Cooking: The Marquis de Sade's Recipe,'" he said. Painful word. I'm sure it'll be a hit in Germany. But you'll have to tell me something about the British." He leaned over and asked cryptically, "Do all the men who went to British public schools like How should I put it, a little punishment?" He drank his drink and raised his eyebrows and said, "Like a slap in the face, right?" I told him he should try to find an Etonian-educated publisher and devise a recipe that includes whipping. "What is whipping?" I explained it to him as best I could, and Reggie nodded, "Yeah! Maybe a chicken breast whipped and drizzled with a zesty lemon juice would be great!" He jotted it down on the back of his checkbook. , "It will definitely be a bestseller, that's right!" Bestsellers put aside for now, St. Regis took us on a tour of the cheese display trolley, stopping now and then to teach us and the waiter how to tell the difference between hard and soft, sharp and mild, fresh and mild. aged.He chooses five of 20 different cheeses and congratulates himself on having the foresight to guess that we'll be ordering a second bottle of Tevalon. I bite into the pungent feta, and the bridge of my nose under my glasses tingles.At this time, the wine slid down the throat like silk.The meal was extremely satisfying with efficient and high-level service.I told Raj I enjoyed my meal, and he looked at me with a surprised expression. "But we haven't finished eating yet! There's still a lot." A plate of meringue was brought to the table, "This is for the dessert that will be served next, and it tastes nothing at all." He ate in quick succession Dropped two pieces while looking around to make sure the dessert server hadn't forgotten us. A second cart, larger and loaded with more food, was carefully pushed toward us and stopped in front of us.This time the food will make people with weight problems want to die: whipped cream, cottage cheese, chocolate cake covered with chocolate, puff pastry, layer cake, rum-flavored fruitcake, fruit pie, sorbet, flavored strawberries, Syrup fruit... Reggie obviously couldn't see it from his sitting position, so he stood up and walked around the cart to make sure there wasn't anything missing hiding behind the fresh raspberries. My wife chose ice cream made with local specialty honey. The waiter took out a spoon soaked in hot water and gracefully scooped out a beautiful ball of ice cream from the bucket. He stood with a plate and spoon waiting for the next instruction. "What ingredients should I add?" "That's it, thank you!" St. Regis ordered all the wonderful desserts that the wife was afraid to order—chocolate cake, pastry, fruit, whipped cream.He rolled the sleeves of his tracksuit up to his elbows, and even for him it was starting to speak volumes. I ordered coffee, and there was a surprised silence, as both Regis and the waiter looked at me. "No dessert?" the waiter asked. "Dessert is included in the menu!" says Regis. They both looked worried, as if there was something wrong with me all of a sudden.But it wasn't necessary, Irley's had me down. At checkout, 230 francs per person is really good value.For 280 francs per person, we can savor his long "tasting recipes". "Next time!" Raj said.yes!Next time, go three days without eating plus a 10 mile walk. ＊＊＊ The next round of food class has been postponed, and Regis will have his annual routine treatment.For two weeks he ate very little, three courses instead of the customary five, and drank only mineral water.This is very important for the metabolism of his digestive system. To celebrate the end of the fast, Regis proposed lunch at a restaurant called Le Bec Fin.He wanted me to be there by 11:30 to secure a seat.The restaurant is on Highway 7 in Orgon, as long as you see a lot of trucks parked in the parking lot, it should be easy to find, no need to wear formal clothes.My wife is smarter than me on a hot day like this, and she decides to stay home and watch the swimming pool. When I arrived, the restaurant was completely surrounded by trucks, packed tightly in the shade under the trees.More than half a dozen trucks carrying cars were lined up on the barrier, one after the other.The latecomer had to pull off the boulevard, squeeze into a narrow space next to the restaurant, and let out a sweaty sigh of relief.The driver stood in the sun for a while, his back relaxed, the curve of his spine matching the shape of his high, bulging belly in front of him. The bar was packed and very noisy, full of big, big men with beards, beer bellies, and loud voices.Reggie, who was standing in the corner with a cup, was almost slender compared to them.He was dressed “summer”—running shorts, a sleeveless tank top, a tote bag dangling from his wrist. "Hey!" Regis drank the ouzo in his hand and ordered two more glasses. "It's nothing like Ely's, is it?" Can't find anything like it at all.There is a notice on the back of the bar with wet marks. It is obvious that the proprietress often throws a rag on it to vent her anger. It says "Dangerous, beware of being scolded!" A sign: "Shower, 8 francs".The sound of spatulas clashing and the spicy smell of stewed garlic came from the kitchen somewhere. Gourmet in tracksuit (3) I asked Reggie how he felt after fasting, and he turned to show off his belly in profile.The proprietress behind the bar, who was patting the foam off the beer with a wooden spoon, looked up at him.She studied the curve of Reggie's chest below, her eyes finally settling on the elastic at the waist of his running shorts. "When will it be born?" she asked. We walked into the restaurant and found an empty table in the back.A small, dark-skinned woman with a smile on her face, showing a black bra strap that couldn't be adjusted evenly, came over to tell us the rules of the restaurant-the first dish is to be taken from the buffet area by oneself; Sample main course - choose one of beef, squid, and local chicken.Their wine list is also short, red or rosé, all in one liter bottles with a plastic cap and a bowl of ice.The waitress wished us a pleasant meal, bowed to us, yanked on the bra straps, and walked away with our order. Regis exaggeratedly uncapped the wine bottle, sniffed the plastic bottle cap, "Var's wine, no fake, real." He took a sip and slowly pushed the wine to his front palate, " good." We join the truck drivers queuing up to pick up food, each of them performing a balancing act, with plates stacked high in their hands, containing all kinds of food, rich enough to constitute a "meal"— Two kinds of sausages, poached eggs with mayonnaise, celery salad with vinaigrette, rice with red and yellow bell peppers, sliced ​​carrots with small beans, pork puff pastry casserole, rillettes, cold squid, sliced ​​melon.Reggie complained that the plates were too small, so he took two at once, and he put the second plate on the inside of his forearm like a professional waiter, and then took the dishes one by one. There was a panic when we got back to our seats, and we couldn't imagine eating without bread. "Where's the bread?" Regis motioned to the waiter, raising one hand to his mouth, fingers and thumb curled up in a biting motion.The waiter took a loaf of baguette from the corner paper bag and sliced ​​it under the bread slicer with astonishing speed, not recovering from the pressure of the blade when it was placed in front of us. I said to Regis that maybe he could include "bread guillotine" in his "Marquis de Sade cookbook".He was eating his sausage, and he stopped and said, "Maybe! But be extra careful with the American market, have you heard of the trouble champagne has had getting into the American market?" Obviously, St. Regis read the news in the newspaper.Sade champagne is not popular in free countries because of labeling problems!There was a photograph on the label, a bust of a young woman, who looked very intelligent, and supposedly there was nothing wrong with it.But sharp-eyed defenders of public morality thought the woman's arm was in the wrong position.It wasn't drawn on the label, but they felt there were subtle signs that her arms were bound. God!Consider how much this illiberal act will affect young people across the country, let alone some emotionally charged adults.The very fabric of American society might be torn apart, with champagne and slave parties everywhere from Santa Barbara to Boston, and who knows what's going to happen in Connecticut? Regis continued to eat, the tissue crumpled up in front of his chest.The gentleman at the next table was eating his second course, his shirt buttons unbuttoned for air, revealing a mahogany belly with a golden crucifix chain hanging from his fluffy chest. No one was sipping, I wondered how they could sit behind the wheel of a 50 tonne truck all afternoon and stay awake? We wiped the plate clean with bread, and the knife in the same way.The waiter brought three piping hot oval stainless steel plates, the first with two slices of chicken drizzled with gravy, the second with tomatoes with garlic and cilantro, and the third with roasted mini potatoes.Regis sniffed everything before handing it to me. "What do long-distance truck drivers eat in the UK?" Two eggs, bacon, chips, sausage, baked beans, a slice of toast, a pint of tea. "No wine? No cheese? No dessert?" Although my knowledge of long-haul truck drivers is limited, I guess there are probably no such things.I replied that they might take a break at the bar.However, the law provides severe penalties for driving under the influence of alcohol. Regis poured some more wine. "In France, I heard that the law allows for an aperitif, half a bottle of wine, and a glass of digestive wine." I said that I read a report somewhere that the rate of traffic accidents in France is higher than in other parts of Europe, even twice that in the United States. "It has nothing to do with the alcohol," Regis said. "The problem is the general French personality, impatient, speeding. Unfortunately, not everyone is a good driver." He emptied his plate , to a lighter topic. "This chicken tastes good, don't you think?" He picked a bone from the plate and put it in his mouth to bite. "The bones are strong. This chicken is well-raised and raised in the wild; the bones of the feed chicken taste like chewy meat." The chicken was indeed delicious, firm and tender, cooked just right.The same goes for potatoes and garlic tomatoes.I was amazed by the level of cooking and portion sizes of this place, and I can assure you that the checkout shouldn't be a pain in the ass. Regis cleared his knife and fork again and motioned for the waiter to bring the cheese. "The reason is simple," he said. "The truck driver is a good customer and very loyal. He would rather drive an extra 50 kilometers just to get something delicious and cheap, and then advertise for the restaurant for free. As long as the standard is maintained, here It'll be full!" Regis pointed at the dining room with a fork of Buri cheese in his hand, "Look!" I looked around and gave up the idea of ​​counting. There must be no less than a hundred truck drivers eating in the restaurant, and there might be thirty more at the bar. "It's a real business. If the chef gets petty or cheats or the service is bad, the truck driver won't come back, and within a month, no one will come to the door. It will only be two or three at most. tourist." There was a rumbling sound outside, and the restaurant suddenly became bright and sunny. It turned out that the truck parked by the window had driven away.The guest with the cross at the next table put on sunglasses and ate his dessert—a bowl of ice cream with three different flavors. "Ice cream, crème brûlée, or flan?" The waitress finally got the bra straps up, only to slip again as she cleared the table. Regis sucked contentedly as he ate the crème brûlée, and ate the ice cream I had ordered.I know I'm never going to be a truck driver in my life, I just don't have that big appetite. It was still very early, before two o'clock, the restaurant slowly emptied.Guests pay their bills one by one, thick fingers take out folded bills from delicate little purses, waitresses bow, smile, pull bra straps, give change, and finally wish guests a pleasant journey. We drank espressos that were foamy brown on the outside and black and piping hot, and Calevados served in small round glasses.Regis tilted the glass, and when its round wall touched the table, the golden liquid in the glass just filled up to the rim.He said this is the old way of judging whether there is any shortfall. The combined bill for the two came to 140 francs, as good as our lunch at Irly's.The only thing I regret is that as soon as I went outside, the heat of the sun suddenly overwhelmed me.If I had brought a towel, I could have a shower. “This meal will keep me going until the evening,” says Raj. We shake hands and say goodbye, and he threatens me that the next extra-curricular activity will be bouillabaisse in Marseilles! I turned back to the bar for some more coffee and to see if I could rent a towel.