Life amid the rubble...

No, I’m not dead – well, not yet.

My extensive pause in writing has been due to a serious lack of time, what with our long-dragged-out renovation process, plus the fact that I’ve been in France alone since dropping Francesco off in Italy way back in January.

I’m our project supervisor and resident jack-of-all-trades, and it has been a wearying affair. I’ve been down on my hands and knees for hours refinishing floors, up on scaffolding painting beams, endlessly cleaning up the mess left by carpenters, plumbers, electricians, masons, plasterers, etc.

Life these days is just like being inside a giant vacuum cleaner bag.

I never know which workmen might show up each day (a fun guessing game) and I have to be good at adapting to excuses and delays. Handy that I was a high school teacher once, and thus am familiar with all those ‘the-dog-ate-my-homework’ type tales.

Then there are the wonderful days when everyone shows up at the same time – unannounced, of course. Two weeks ago I ended up with fourteen men in the house – the gas people, water meter folks, electric company workers, telephone and internet installers (all of whom we’d been begging to come for nearly a year) arrived on the same morning. Naturally they all commenced trying to work in about the same spot.

If you enjoy chaos, this is your place.

On the positive side, there might finally be light at the end of the tunnel. Friends who saw the apartments a few days ago, after an absence of many months, assured me they detect progress. Moreover, they say, the house is looking ‘fab’ and will be the talk of the town. I suspect it will when news gets around that I’ve leapt from our balcony – that lovely medieval terrace with the missing stone corbel that we’ve been waiting a mere five months for permission to replace.

Imperial cities…

We spent two days in the ‘imperial’ city of Fes, once capital of Morocco, now its premier artisanal town, with its storied ancient medina jam-packed with superb craftsmen. ‘Packed’ is the right word, for the medina is a rabbit warren of narrow alleys twisting and turning in all directions. Getting lost carries no shame.

We stayed in the heart of the city in a ‘riad’, one of the large multi-storied houses surrounding a courtyard, open to the sky. Technically ‘riad’ denotes a dwelling with the courtyard fountain imbedded in a wall, while ‘dar’ is reserved for the same kind of house with a fountain centered in the courtyard. Really fancy places have both.

The ‘riads’ and ‘dars’ are havens of peace and quiet, but out in the streets there is a hustle and bustle that defies imagination. Oh the humanity! I have never been bumped and jostled by so many people, not to mention dodging donkeys, the main mode of transporting goods to market, supplies to construction sites, even the trash. ‘Beasts of burden’ was a well-coined phrase.

Ever present are street hustlers loudly hawking wares, or worse whispering enticements that include offers of ‘kif’ (hashish) or prostitutes, even themselves. Francesco was approached by one young man who said, ‘I know you are hungering for a Berber man’.  Neither of us knew that fact yet, but now that the thought has been lodged – who knows?

Highlight of our visit was a tour - thanks to our hotel owner - of a government-sponsored school that trains Moroccan boys and girls in artisanal skills. Fes is the proud center of Morocco’s famed leather tanning industry – conducted exactly as it was 1000 years ago – and also home to the ‘blue of Fes’ ceramics and tile trade. Add to that brass-, copper-, gold-, and silver-smithing, jewelry making, rug and textile weaving, embroidery, ironmongery, and – fabulous art form! – piercing and engraving plaster panels by hand with elaborate designs. (What in the world do you call that?)

On our way home we diverted to the ruins of the ancient city of Volubilis, capital of the furthest extremity of the Roman empire, its far-flung province of Mauritania. What a treat, a treasure; what a delicious way to spend several indulgent hours on a sunny and warm winter day, admiring stunning mosaics amid graceful columns.

In a verdant valley, wild flowers abloom, the city is poised on a small stream, with wide cobbled streets descending gentle slopes in orderly grids, all dominated by a broad central square with its haughty forum and triumphal arch. Imperial Fes to imperial Volubilis – what contrast!

Jean Genet on the African Shore…

We weren’t quite sure it could be true – that Jean Genet lies buried in the sleepy seacoast Moroccan town of Larache. So we drove south from Tangier for about an hour on muddy roads, skirting long and deserted stretches of Atlantic beaches, low dunes topped with scrub brush and stunted pines, flat estuaries where storks and egrets mingled with herds of sheep and goats, with straying cows and donkeys.

Along the route smiling Moroccan shepherds waved us by; Berber women tended roadside stalls selling avocados, mint, onions, garlic; djellaba-clad men stood stoically amid the reeds and pines – doing what, thinking what, expecting what, god only knows.

We passed pretty Asilah, its stout walls and whitewashed houses agleam, and continued along the old coastal highway (eschewing the nearby modern turnpike) towards what the guidebook says was an important army outpost and regional capital under Spanish rule.

Eventually Larache came into view, a wide grey smudge of jumbled buildings, just past a tall hill rising beside a river where the ancient Phoenician/Greek/Roman town of Lixus once stood. We traversed a sort of low causeway, past signs announcing the port of Larache (with its apparently thriving fishing industry) and finally rounded a long curve to the seafront of the town. Larache has seen better days - now down-in-the-mouth, ragged, soiled, smelly, and unkempt – yet one must acknowledge the friendly native spirit, the personal dignity, warmth, and kindness that abounds despite the poverty and disrepair.

We wandered through the old medina, past the most authentic market we have seen, to the ruins of the 16^th century Portuguese kasbah that once defended the port. There, on a seaward terrace café, a group of four young Moroccans greeted us - two boys and two girls - first trying French and then English. ‘Where are you from?’ they enquired. ‘Do you like Morocco? Have a nice stay!’

We retraced our steps to the oval Spanish piazza and found the Restaurant Commercial under the long curve of arches that encompass the place. With a flutter of hands and eloquent greetings we were seated – at a card table covered with oilcloth surrounded by plastic chairs. We duly feasted on a Moroccan version of fish & chips – fresh, delicious sole and cod – washed down by water, one of the only drinks available in this largely non-alcoholic Islamic country.

‘We will walk to the graveyard’, Francesco announced – and so we did. Along the seawall, past the mosque and Muslim burying ground, to the old Catholic cemetery beyond. Two small boys stood at the door of the gatekeepers lodge. ‘Jean Genet’? they asked, spying two obvious foreigners. Then they ran to fetch their mother.

Past the gate, amid a riot of cross-topped tombs, down the path to the sea. There, at the end, the simple gravesite; a whitewashed boulder with a plain marble slab. Jean Genet, divided by just a short wall from a large group of idle Moroccan men and boys gawking at fishing boats heading to sea. Perhaps among them a vagabond, a pickpocket, a thief or two. 

On An African Shore, part two

Chez Abdou at Sidi Kacem beach, south of Tangier.

It’s about the craziest place I’ve ever witnessed, like visiting a topsy-turvy, lop-sided version of Munchkin land: a patchwork of small terraces and enclosed palisades nestled in an acre or so of sand dunes, sagging thatched roofs and/or faded canvas tents strung overhead.

Dizzying circuits of flagged paths and small stairs, riots of potted palms and tropical plants sprouting from every kind of colorful container one can imagine. Jumbles of multi-hued plastic chairs and tables, torn swags of curtains, rusting Berber rifles festooning columns, large photos of various kings of Morocco in ornate golden frames.

And all the while the broad Atlantic roars in, pounding the widest and longest stretch of beach I’ve ever seen; cats mew at your feet, a chicken flutters around crowing for bits and pieces tossed from the steaming fish tajine, freshly simmered on the charcoal brazier in the open-air kitchen; sips of Moroccan rosé wine chilled in a tub of ice.

Abdou himself presides, a dignified intelligent looking man that belies, somewhat, his rumored past as a circus acrobat – although there is certainly the look of carnival in his décor touch.

An afternoon spent in a childlike vision of paradise; a good way to end a year and to start a new one. 

On an African shore…

We came to Africa to rejuvenate spirits, to recover a bit from the slow pace of our renovation work in Sarlat. And a sunny clime for Christmas and New Year’s Eve seemed a bright idea, as it was last year when we found ourselves in Lisbon.

So far Tangier has not disappointed us, either in regard to inspiration or to sunshine – although it is chilly when ocean winds blow from the Atlantic, just a stone’s throw over a tree-clad hill rising up behind our cottage. The house is named Lalla Yenou, ‘Princess of the Spring’, and one understands why when you see its long garden snaking down the incline. Bananas, other tropical fruits, poinsettia trees in full flower, bird-of-paradise, ferns, and (of all things in December) huge patches of narcissus blooming and scenting the air like mad.

When the sun goes down the million twinkling lights of modern Tangier echo the black night sky, pockmarked with another million stars. But in daylight before us spreads a majestic view of the storied city and bay below, where Phoenician, Greek, and Roman galleys sailed, corsairs issued forth to plunder and return with Christian slaves, and a dozen different 18^th century navies competed for power, glory, and lucre.

It is hard to imagine the crumbling old walls of the Tangerine kasbah bristling with cannon and thundering in response, yet it was so. Arab armies from the east, waves of Ottomans, Portuguese, Spanish, French, British wrested control of the city, time and again - from each other and from its poor native inhabitants, who finally kicked them all out and regained complete control only in 1957.

One nice historical footnote for me is the unwarlike story of amicable American-Moroccan relations that began in 1777 when the king of Morocco became the first world ruler to recognize the independence of the United States. The American Legation building in the old medina of Tangier was gifted by his successor in 1824 and is the only National Historic site overseas. It is a jewel worth visiting, quasi museum and quasi art gallery, and still functioning as a consulate.

Tangier had a hip international literary and art scene from the 1920s through the ‘beat generation’ and hippy days of the 50s and 60s. Francesco is particularly smitten by that part of its story and we have been frequenting places immortalized in the works of people like William Burroughs, Paul Bowles, Tennessee Williams, Allen Ginsberg: the El Minzah hotel, Dean’s Bar, Café de Paris, Café Central, and the streets leading up and down from Barbara Hutton’s fabulous kasbah palace, where she hosted decadent parties during her reign as queen of the city’s expat social circle.

We’ve also ventured out a few times by car, visiting Cap Spartel and the Atlantic coast between Tangier and the beautiful little seaside town of Asilah, some forty kilometers to the south. Yet to come is our planned two-day foray to the ‘imperial city’ of Fez, deep in the heart of the mountainous Rif country. It is sobering to realize that there are some five thousand further miles of this vast continent stretching southward from this very tip of northwest Africa.

Although touristy, full of little boutiques, vendors hawking souvenirs, hustlers stalking their prey, there is a touching naiveté and genuineness in the people we have encountered thus far, whether in busy Tangier or outlying places. Moroccans seem always smiling and welcoming, trying in various languages to signify goodwill and grace. It is a nice way to begin this holiday season and a good place, we think, to usher in a portentous New Year.

Véronique’s Feast

Despite living in one of French gastronomy’s celebrated enclaves, one thing we hardly mention in this blog is food. We converse at great length about terracotta tiles, plasterboard, fiberglass, oak versus chestnut beams, yet neglect all about pâté de campagne, foie gras, omelette aux cèpes or confit de canard. Since our renovation work drags on, why not take a pause to discuss good food? Especially because the subject involves, I fear, the quintessence of a slowly declining culinary culture in France.

The world has changed since Françoise, the impervious cook in Marcel Proust’s Remembrance of Things Past, held sway in his parents’ kitchen. She was entirely devoted to the preparation of meals, which involved daily trips to the market and calls on trustworthy suppliers. One cannot imagine a better connoisseur to judge the quality of a piece of beef or the freshness of asparagus. Advance planning and precise attention were required for all dishes, mundane and special. Françoise and her ilk were proud professionals who knew full well that their standards would be measured against other cooks and even fancy restaurants.

A perfect inspiration came to me via a dinner party that Dan & I arranged for friends when autumn began blushing in yellow and orange the chestnuts and oaks of the valley of the Dordogne. When I called Véronique Pardoux, mistress of the château de Régagnac, for the special favor of booking a dinner for eight, she was out collecting cèpes – porcini mushrooms – in her woods, taking advantage of their emergence after the first cloudburst of the season.

Véronique was our introduction to the rugged beauty of Périgord more than ten years ago when Dan and I alighted at the gate of her chambres d’hôte following a perilous drive across the dense forests between the villages of Montferrand and Cadouin. In a land of geese and ducks, looking for Véronique’s château almost turned into a wild goose chase. There, a most exotic duo – a lady with jet-black hair wearing a Vietnamese hat and her housemaid Arlette – showed us to our room for the night. 

On that first visit to Régagnac, having arrived late, we gave her table d’hôte a miss. We caught up years later – by then full residents of Périgord – for a meal that ranks among my most indelible eating experiences. That’s when I came to understand that the prestige of Régagnac cuisine reposes – with few exceptions – upon whatever the garden and the property supply.

The menu for this new affair was agreed weeks before. Véronique had just been given a leg of wild boar by the hunters whom she gracefully admits to her land. Nervous calls ensued and each time I had to reassure her that my guests would be delighted to taste her sanglier and that they would no doubt appreciate her home-made pâté. Devotees of today’s Roman cuisine, rich in the strong flavor of offal, would have to be similarly persuaded that someone else in the world could possibly enjoy such delicacies.

The night of the dinner, as the final touches were underway in the kitchen – the French coup de feu, that is – we guests nibbled on delicious miniature vegetables dipped in a thick mayonnaise and drank champagne in the relaxed atmosphere of the family room. Then curiosity prevailed and some of us sneaked into the dining room to snap pictures of the long table set with a maroon tablecloth, simple and beautifully faded Limoges china, battered silver, and old crystal ware. Véronique’s late husband had banned electricity from that room: only tall candelabras and the glow of the fire in the huge inglenook provided light for the looming feast.

Véronique came from the kitchen and sat at the head of the table, an anxious look still on her face. A monogrammed plate out of kilter caught her attention and caused a hissed rebuke. Arlette, a lopsided white lacy cap on her head and an apron to match over an incongruously masculine outfit, began to serve mushroom soup from a massive silver tureen. Seven kilos of cèpes had ended up in that dense and fragrant potage. Sounds like a cliché, but tasting, as for any work of art, ought to reach for the brain and translate into a story embedded in our conscience. The first spoonful of the soup thus transported me into the dripping woods of my Italian childhood home, la Cervara, the sounds of footsteps muffled by layers of musty-smelling leaves, the air saturated by the decay of sodden tree branches.

I overheard Arlette whispering to Véronique that the sanglier ‘was thirsty’. Whether good or bad news, she excused herself and went to the kitchen to attend to the poor animal. Back to the table she explained that the gigot (the leg) had been marinating in a broth of garden vegetables for nearly a week, a preparation that required a daily change of the liquid.

Then came a platter of pâté de foie gras studded with caramelized figs and looking crumply like slices of Christmas pudding, accompanied by chilled Monbazillac, a sort of local Sauternes. Its entry provided an opportunity for Véronique to launch into a comparative account of nearby markets and suppliers of fine foie gras before disclosing her source with the same pride as an Edwardian lady would drop the name of her Bond Street milliner.

Porcini mushrooms reappeared, their large russet caps spread on a silver platter. Sautéed and slow-steamed without butter or garlic, said Véronique. Just a hint of shallots. Butter and garlic made everything heavier and spoiled the flavor, she added. Yet this was what most restaurants did, she said, although she went out to eat once in a blue moon. Gault & Millau, she recounted, came to Régagnac once under cover and included her cuisine in their guide, the only private person to be so honored in all of France. Her husband insisted later that she be removed.

Véronique retreated to the kitchen. The gigot de sanglier needed her supervision once again before Arlette could bring it to the room for people to marvel at it. She carried the whole leg on a platter and stood briefly grinning in front of the fireplace like an actor in a curtain call. The wild boar was expertly sliced and served tucked under the silky cover of its light brown gravy. Arlette was sent for the wine, a rare Bordeaux from 2003, the year of the canicule. The heat wave killed 13,000 that summer in France. Yet the year proved exceptional for winemaking.

To finish came the chestnut cake, sumptuous as a Sicilian cassata. Véronique turned to me. I made it for you, she said. I can no longer do that. My chestnuts are small, thus infinitely tastier but a pain to shell. Une galere! This is the last time, she swore. We savored the rich natural texture – almost no sugar, just a dollop of fresh cream – thinking with a pang of nostalgia we might no longer taste such a miracle.  Beauty is a fragile thing. Time, neglect, and ignorance threaten it everywhere, at all moments. In comparison ugliness seems invulnerable; still to have good days ahead.

Véronique is now a frail lady in her eighties striving to keep up with a demanding and isolated property. One of our American friends asked Véronique if she would allow her to come and watch in the kitchen for a week. A week!, exclaimed Véronique. You must stay with me a year, starting in the spring when I plant my garden.

In a nutshell, isn’t that the secret of good cooking? 

We really must be mad…

We’re doing it again and have no one to blame but ourselves. Or as Pogo said, 'we have met the enemy and they are us.'

More dank empty spaces, more musty smelling rooms, more broken windowpanes, scarred woodwork, lousy plumbing, ancient electrical cables.

Here and there one finds the faint memory of graceful 18^th century features, even two older (and monumental) Louis XIV fireplaces that would look at home in a fine chateau. There are interesting stone carvings, probably surviving from some former medieval structure, slit windows for shooting arrows (handy!) and a magnificent balcony overlooking a tiny winding street, paved with cobblestones.

But all in need of TLC, all in need of refurbishment, all in need of money!

This is #5 rue d’Albusse in the historic (and pedestrianized) center of Sarlat-la-Canéda, a long strip of a building with enormous old shuttered windows giving light and breath to the six apartments and a storefront that all face the street – the long back wall being shared with the elegant and important ‘Presidial’ complex to our rear.

Now our dreams include visions of carefully restored rooms, shining parquet floors, bronze & crystal chandeliers, spacious and luxurious bathrooms, beds draped in flowery canopies à la française.

We sold our lovely country property, with its 36 acres of woodlands and prairies, and are now installed in a building that has absolutely ‘zero’ garden – just that balcony for potted plants, and the large windows that will sustain household plants.

A sea change for us and for poor Arcadio who now has only city streets to roam instead of his forest haunts.