My Grape Escape by Laura Bradbury

Author:Laura Bradbury [Bradbury, Laura]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Europe, France, Nonfiction, Retail, Travel
ISBN: 9780992158309
Google: 037VnQEACAAJ
Barnesnoble:
Publisher: Grape Books
Published: 2013-12-01T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter 16

More than an hour later, and after a second carafe of white wine and a round of stiff espressos, René led us out of the bistro. Now that we had honored the breakfast traditions of Louhans, he would surely lead us to a car lot.

Like a raging river, the market mob carried us to a crosswalk commandeered by a majestic gendarme kitted out in a winter cape and square hat. He ushered us across, stopping oncoming cars with the sheer force of his sartorial splendour. We found ourselves on the other side of the road in a large square which, according to the blue enamel sign, was called Place de la Charité.

“Now are we going to look for a car?-” I began to ask.

Franck’s shoe came down hard on my foot. René flicked his cigarette.

“A car! That is easy. The perfect chicken…now there is a challenge.”

“A chicken?” I made the mistake of asking.

“Do not think you are in the presence of just any poulet!” he remonstrated, and proceeded to lead us on a circumambulation of the stands. Apparently, we were in the presence of the world’s only blue-footed chickens known as poulet de bresse. These pampered specimens were prized amongst chefs and French people from all walks of life including, it seemed, garagistes.

“Many believe that their unrivalled taste comes from the fact that the soil around here is lacking in calcium which makes their bones unusually fine,” René said. “Me, I am convinced that it is because they are fed only milk, sweet corn, and other hand-picked grains.” René stopped in his tracks, struck by a particularly plump specimen. He lifted its red wattles, ran a practised hand over the white feathers, and inspected its feet, which were indeed the same shade of indigo as the well-worn berets in the bistro.

René began to debate with the chicken’s equally robust owner who was dressed in a blinding fuchsia and orange patterned housecoat under her wool jacket. I glanced at my watch. Ten o’clock already. I wanted to be negotiating cars, not chickens. Besides, what was René going to do with a live chicken? Use it in some voodoo ceremony to help us decide on a vehicle?

I gave Franck a nudge and tapped my watch pointedly. He shrugged. He couldn’t, however, hide the shine in his eyes. He was enjoying himself. Immensely.

I had never been blessed with a patient nature, and my stint at Oxford had only compounded the problem. In the past two years, I had been so hard pressed to get my weekly reading and essays completed that I had to stay up two to three nights a week just to be able to get all the work done. Any minute spent doing something unproductive filled every cell of my being with guilt. Even now, this meandering through the day when we had something urgent to do made an invisible iron band tighten around my chest. I had to remind myself to breathe. Black dots danced in front of the white plumage of the chicken René was extorting me to admire.

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