Camping in France – Part 5

I walked to Pierre’s farm. It was much bigger than I expected. The barns were bigger. There were more cows, and the farmhouse was three times the size of Frederic’s. But on the whole I preferred Frederic’s farm. It was more homely, less industrial.

As I walked to the front door the farmhands appeared, dusting off their overalls before entering.
“Hey Anglais,” they called, coming up to me and shaking my hand.
Pierre was waiting inside. “Ah Michael. Welcome.” At least he remembered my name instead of calling me “Hey Anglais” all the time.

We went into the dining room, which was huge, with floor-to-ceiling windows and every wall painted white. In the centre was a long Breton table made of chestnut, like Frederic’s but longer — big enough for sixteen places. In the corner of the room was a small bar with many glasses arranged on top.

Pierre’s wife, Camille, came in from the kitchen. “Apéritif?” All the men nodded. She quickly looked around the room — seven — then went to the bar, produced a bottle of whisky and poured seven generous shots. No water, no ice, just neat whisky. The workers eagerly took their glasses and started drinking. I sipped mine. It was OK.

Camille went back into the kitchen. Meanwhile Pierre instructed everyone to sit. We each had a plate in front of us. Camille returned with a pan full of yellow haricot beans. I’d never seen yellow haricot beans before, only green ones. She placed a portion on each plate, accompanied by a drizzle of melted butter. That was it. Just yellow haricot beans. Really nice, though.

The beans eaten, Camille went back into the kitchen and Pierre followed. They came out with a tray of roast beef and bowls of potatoes, carrots and gravy — and they call us ros bifs.

But of course with the roast beef we must have wine: huge glasses of red wine. The workers tucked into their dinner, gobbling up the food and the wine, their glasses refilled whenever they were empty. I tried to keep up.

After that we had dessert: lemon tart, sweet and tangy, a palate cleanser. Except where was the meringue topping? Who cares. It was great.

Dinner over, I sat back in my chair, full up and tired. I could sleep the sleep of the dead. But no — it wasn’t over. To complete the meal we absolutely must have brandy to finish with. I didn’t know if I could take any more.

While Camille poured the seven glasses of brandy, this time in small wine glasses, I leaned over to Pierre.
“I hope this wasn’t just for me.”
“No. We do this every day for our workers. You are a worker, so you eat as well.”
“But every day?”
“Of course. My men work very hard. They need food so they can keep working very hard.”
“In England workers are lucky if they have their own sandwiches and a cup of coffee.”
“Yes, but this is France. My men won’t work if they are hungry. You know? So we give them dinner.”
“They are very lucky.”
“Lucky? This is business. You look after your men or they go somewhere else.”

I drank my brandy. By now I was distinctly wobbly. The workers looked like they’d been drinking lemonade all day. They climbed onto their tractors and headed back to the fields.