Day three

Eastside Road, August 4, 2010—

SLIGHT VARIATIONS TONIGHT; of course it's the variations, slight or not, that give texture to daily life. Soup, cold roast chicken, baked potato this time, peas. No green salad.

When we have soup I always think of l'Atre Fleuri, a country hotel-restaurant we stayed in (or near) a few summers back in the 1970s. The first two times we were there it was owned by a young chef, recently mustered out of the French Air Force (which maintains vacation chalets for its members nearby — what an elightened policy). He'd bought it from the two ladies who were made famous by Roy Andries de Groot's remarkable book The Auberge of the Flowering Hearth, which had attracted us to the place.

The second time we were there there was one other couple staying en pension, a charming old couple from the south of France, I think. They must have been in their eighties. We saw them at mealtime, and we occasionally walked past them on one of the trails through the flower-filled pastures; they'd invariably be sitting on a bench, as close as lovers, he in tie and jacket and cradling his cane in his folded hands, she in cardigan and skirt, nestling against him. We'd nod and smile; we never spoke.

Every dinner began with a soup course; we quickly took it for granted. Once, though, Madame the wife of the chef and the patronne of the dining room (and the waitress) told us, in almost a conspiratorial voice, that tonight the Chef proposed a bouillabaisse, and that for that reason our first course would be an omelet. I quickly looked across the dining room toward the other couple: how would these creatures of habit take this departure?

Madame crossed to their table, bent down, and spoke quietly to them, setting their omelets before them. Then: "Oui, Madame, oui, je comprends, bouillabaisse, c'est superbe. Mais où est la soupe?

She apparently repeated her explanation, because he then became almost agitated. No: that's not true: he was always perfectly calm and reasonable. "Mais, Madame, nous acceptons la bouillabaisse, c'est superbe: mais où est la soupe? C'est pas possible dîner sans la soupe."

And Madame shrugged and walked into the kitchen, and a few minutes later came back out again, carrying a small tureen of soup, and two soup-plates, to their table.

Rouge du pays de l'Hérault, Moulin de Gassac, "Guilhem", 2008