Our House is Definitely Not in Paris by Susan Cutsforth

Author:Susan Cutsforth [Cutsforth, Susan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Biography - Memoir, Travel Writing
ISBN: 9781922129710
Publisher: Melbourne Books
Published: 2015-03-05T05:00:00+00:00

Fini — for the Working Week

The alarm wakes us with its strident shrill. It’s Friday, the last day of our French working week, which has been yet another one of beaucoup travail. We stagger out of bed. By only nine, the sun bursts through with its expected sting. Its rays are like needles scattered from a pincushion. Excitement pushes us through our last working morning, for we are rewarding ourselves with an early finish and heading to another favourite restaurant in Martel, Auberge des 7 Tours. We aim to be there on the stroke of midday, for Friday déjeuner is the most popular of all and by now we even have a favourite table on the terrace, with a panoramic view. We rush to get ready like Tour de France competitors.

I am ecstatic on several counts. Firstly, our ability to hastily transform ourselves to go out into the world is now a well-tuned, fine art. Secondly, as we walk onto the elevated terrace on the dot of twelve, our punctuality rewards us with our table of choice. The church bell solemnly strikes the sacred déjeuner hour, and we celebrate being the first to arrive with a glass of chilled rosé. The table is shaded by a spreading mûrier platane, a tree that is a cross between a mulberry and plane tree; its large leaves offer superb summer respite. There is a sweeping view of the soft green hills of Martel, and a church spire spikes the cerulean sky.

Somehow, we have transformed ourselves in record time to look the picture of the perfect tourists. I am wearing one of what I consider to be my perfect French frocks; light cotton, pleated to the knee, in blue, pink and yellow stripes, and the finishing touch of a sweet white collar. I have matched it with my chapeau from our own vide-grenier, my favourite black hat in the inimitable style of Audrey Hepburn. No-one observing us would believe what I usually look like in my rustique jardin; scratched and ripped to pieces by brambles, dirty and dishevelled beyond belief.

This is a déjeuner we deserve after a punishing week. It is extraordinary. If anyone spared us a glance or thought, they would assume we had spent the morning over a leisurely petit déjeuner, perhaps a spot of sightseeing or a luxurious matin relaxing next to la piscine. Non, non. This is not the case at all.

Lunch is all that a French lunch should be. Gérard and Dominique join us. There is a soft breeze, another glass of rosé and menu du jour, the soft hum of conversation with our French amis. The young and charming waiter is in fact the son of our English real estate agent. He takes the time to explain the menu choices. Today the entrée is Salade Gourmande or Terrine de Foie Gras, followed by Confit de Canard, Poisson du Jour or Lapin. Dessert is always where my eyes fly to first. Mmm, Mocha Pots de Crème, a rich chocolat

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