Hammond - Pardon my French: from the north to the south of France

First published in Australia in 2007 by
New Holland Publishers (Australia) Pty Ltd
Sydney Auckland London Cape Town

www.newholland.com.au
1/66 Gibbes Street Chatswood NSW 2067 Australia 218 Lake Road Northcoate Auckland New Zealand New Edgeware Road London W2 2EA United Kingdom 80 McKenzie Street Cape Town 8001 South Africa

Copyright 2007 in text: Sally Hammond
Copyright 2007 in photographs: Gordon Hammond
Copyright 2007 New Holland Publishers (Australia) Pty Ltd

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publishers and copyright holders.

ISBN 9781741103960.
e-ISBN 9781921655609.

To the Mad Photographer.
Thank you for driving us sanely in crazy places,
for all the photos, the meals we shared,
and most of all for just being you.

Although Gordon and I mainly organised this trip ourselves, there are still many people who deserve a mention, especially those who offered invaluable information and advice, and in some cases practical assistance.

These include Maison de la France (French Tourism in Sydney); Thai Airways (in particular Sue Marr); Laurent Curvat and David Bitton; 2CV and Graeme Willingham; Victoria Palace Hotel, Paris; Renault Eurodrive and Paul Hodges; Relais & Chteaux; Mot Hennessy; and tourism offices in Champagne and Lorraine.

Then there were the many local people who are the real stars of this book. They smoothed the way, welcomed us into their homes and showed us better than anyone else what courteous, hospitableand, yes, fun people the French are.

Of course, this book would not be in your hands without the hard work and guidance of the team at New Holland PublishersLliane Clarke, Martin Ford and Fiona Schultz.

Merci beaucoup!

The only cooks in the civilised world are French cooks
Other nations understand food in general;
the French alone understand cooking, because all their
qualitiespromptitude, decision, tactare employed in the art.
No foreigner can make a good white sauce.
Louis Victor Nestor Rocoplan, 19th century French journalist.

The French call their country lhexagone because of its roughly six-sided shape. And this is precisely why planning a travel route there is so difficult. It might as well be an island. Once you start moving around France, there comes a point where you cannot simply retrace your steps. It is shorter and quicker to continue.

This still leaves the problem of the middle. Zigzagging would be ideal, but that takes time. Difficult, sometimes heartbreaking, choices must be made. Without meaning to, that is how it has worked out for my husband, Gordon, and me. Sometimes I call him the Mad Photographer, as he is so passionate about his craft. Im the one with the notebook and map (or fork) in my hand, for my addiction is the golden trio of writing, food and travel.

France is a broad countryportly, like a well-fed chef. However, instead of a slightly spattered white linen apron concealing its girth, this land is covered by vineyards and orchards and fields full of flourishing crops, cattle, goats and sheep. It is divided by precipitous mountain ranges and deep fissures, extinct volcanoes, plains and broad slow rivers, yet the real boundaries are created by rigid and chauvinistic local and regional food and wine preferences, held with cast-iron belief throughout the countrys thousands of tiny, grey stone villages.

France may be called lhexagone , but to me the country is shaped more like the palm of my hand. And when I think of it that way, instantly it appears open and welcoming.

It always starts this way, I think. Paper, a mapand a pencil, because, inevitably, much will have to be changed. These days I choose one with an eraser on the end. You have to be careful and think long and hard when you plan a trip to France if you want to more than simply scratch the surface. Even if you dont.

Over several days, I list dozens of names gleaned from guidebook notes and scraps of paper hoarded expressly for this opportunity. I intend to discover for myself if someone (a friend, some fellow dinner party guest, a columnist, or even a person met briefly on a plane) has been too extreme in their praise, or too flattering about a restaurant or a village. I want to find out if this is real treasurea clue to somewhere we will recall forever with a smile, or a nostalgic tear.

I write potential dates beside each place. Its all fun at this stage. Not real. A wish list of nebulous destinations; an anythings-possible dream plan in which we never tire, when a day can stretch forever, the roads are clear, and we never lose our way. Naively we fantasise that our room for the night will almost pop up from the side of the road waving a red flag saying here am I.

This fanciful stage eventually ends and then its time to cross out days or places, one or the other, or both. Add, subtractand suddenly theres the bones of an itinerary. Then, a trip, and thenin this casea book.

Gordon is always the driver for us in France. His nerve is stronger and his reflexes quickerespecially when confronted by Monsieur Le Road-hogue in his Citron on a tight, blind corner at 3pm Sunday afternoon, when one of them (and its not Gordon) has had a long wine-spiked lunch.

My responsibility is the map and the itinerary, and keeping track of where weve been and where were going next. As our trip progresses, the pile of pamphlets and guidebooks on the right-hand side of the car swells to a mini-library around my feet.

So now at last the siren call of France has tempted us to re-experience her back roads and country lanes. Reluctantly we have bartered the sites of past joyous experiences for the lure of the unknown, the yet-to-be, choosing to revisit only a few places seen on other trips.

Were off again! And heres the invitation:

Theres room in the back seat amongst the irresistible macarons from the last patisserie and the fast-maturing chevre bought yesterday from a tiny whitewashed dairy surrounded by the brown and white goats responsible for providing the milk.

Well find another corner for those bottles of eau de vie so youll have some leg room, and happily share the baguettes and grapes and apricots and cherries with youalong with some marvellous experiencesas we travel together. Please come along for the ride. Think of it as a tour de Francewithout the bikes.

This might be it! I whisper, opening the door. Weve been joking about finally eating a bad meal in France, and this place certainly looks as if it might deliver.

Before leaving home Id tempted fate when telling friends about our planned trip.

Ive never had a bad meal there, I asserted with apparent confidence. They didnt see me crossing fingers behind my back.

And its true. Ive been lucky enough to dine in some prestigious Parisian restaurants where you would expect the meal to be sensational, yet even forgotten country cafes have surprised us with farm fresh ingredients and careful attention to achieving the ideal balance of seasonings and herbs.