Wine Fest

                                                                   
                                                                    
                                                                    
                                            
It’s that time of year again when summer slowly gives a little room to autumn, allowing a crispness in the early morning and a mild cool darkening of the evening. Here ,in the street of fields, the house martins are sensing the change in the atmosphere and are frantic in their search for flies. From first light their shadows flick across our shutters as they swoop from the barns across the road to our open windows in the roof. They perch and chatter loudly, the sound echoing down through our stair well so clearly that I am sure they are trapped in the bathroom. I suspect they are discussing the quality of the local food and preparing their imminent route down south. Since the spring they have been training their young how to swoop and soar from our balcony and window sills, the babies losing their soft down as they fatten up to become the sleek aeronauts we enjoy so much.

And it is that season when all good Luxembourgers turn their attention to the local harvest. The summer has been spent bringing in the hay, letting the calves gallop out into the fields and devising ingenious ways of getting together to cook sausages, chops and, in the case of our local village, haunches of suckling pig, slow roasted in a contraption designed and engineered by our very own neighbour. This marvellous machine looked more like an instrument from the Spanish Inquisition, with its chains and spikes and the hot coals glowing and flaring at the flesh impaled along its length. It was truly effective, and I was at last able to use my year’s Luxembourgish study to order boiled potatoes and salad with the piglet haunch. A proud moment. Folks recognised us from the previous year, I chatted to a neighbour or two and we were introduced to the other Brit living in the village, who has lived here since he was married as a young man to a local lass some 40 years ago.

But I digress. That was the summer and the village marquee has been taken down, the benches and tables stored in their own special cupboard in the village hall. I dare say that the magnificent roaster has been oiled, stripped down and decommissioned ready for next year.

Now it is definitely autumn and it is time to think of the next harvest. Wine. The vines are heavy with glistening swags of grapes, and these last few days of sunshine will fatten and sweeten them up. To that end we thought that we would join in some celebrations of the grape in a village not far from home, Schwebsange just back a bit from the Moselle. The Weinfest has been advertised for weeks on signs planted carefully on the grass verges. We thought we would saunter along round about lunch time and sit with the rest of the world enjoying sausage grills or perhaps a salad with potatoes and we would sample the local wine with a view to buying a few ready for winter. However, our arrival at midday found a few stalls set up and ready with pottery displayed carefully along the huge single beam press that takes pride of place in the centre square. There were tables and chairs set up under a marquee as we had expected, but the sound man was still testing the equipment by the fountain newly decorated with ribbons and bouquets protected by railings.

“Aha” I thought having done some research. “This must be where they serve the free wine.”

But nothing was happening and nothing was heating on the grill. There was no grill. We were loath to leave because we had an excellent parking place. We opted for lunch in the Italian Bistro (lasagne for me, Spaghetti Carbonara for Dearly Beloved, our collective spirit of adventure numbed) and we waited. The meal arrived about half an hour later. Tout le monde, it seemed, was doing the same as us, from large family parties with patient grandparents walking  toddlers up and down (and in every gathering, is there not always a child with a squeal that could launch an Exocet?); older couples, Sunday dressed, the ladies’ jackets just so over their shoulders; younger couples, chic, thin, self- absorbed, cigarettes and smart phones on the go for aperitifs and between courses; and there was us, dressed for a street barbecue and with no clue what was going on or when it would happen. How long we thought, can we spin out a post prandial cup of coffee?

As we ate, more folks wandered through the square, admired the fountain and disappeared. It was not only us, then, who felt that midday would have been a great time to start. On reflection, I suspect that the battalion of dignitaries were themselves being fed and watered elsewhere.

The restaurant cleared away the lunchtime tables. Large groups began to gather, some to take une coupe or a digestif at the restaurant, others to mill about. They were,unusually, all clutching a wine glass. One lady had a plastic bag of them tidily wrapped in tissue paper, enough for each of the noisy band of family and friends now occupying most of the restaurant terrace. Surely something would happen imminently? Girls walked past in the ubiquitous National Dress of all European countries: black fitted waistcoat, white blouse, black dirndl skirt and black pumps. Is there a National Dress outfitters, discreetly placed in the forgotten parts of Brussels, Strasbourg and Luxembourg, gently regulating away any gingham excess, measuring the holes in any lace work, dictating that all men over the age of 65, if not in a suit, must wear a checked shirt at any semi- formal event, such as a wine festival? Who knows?

After the girls, a handful of young musicians wandered past. The party at the next table finished their drinks, told us that it was all about to start now, assured us that there would indeed be speeches, wished us a good festival and left to mingle with the crowds that had now swarmed in as if from nowhere.

The sound system, hitherto belting out good old fashioned German drinking songs, was hushed by the band striking up and the dignitaries rolled into view, comfortable looking chaps with figures and faces honed by years of hard toil, testing and approving the vintage. The Waikinnigen (wine queens) and their princesses followed, dressed in robes of white, red and rose. Along with the band they gathered round the fountain. The speeches did indeed follow. I think, but was not sure, that the outgoing master of the vines was handing over to his successor. There were, of course, the long list of thanks, a summing up of the trials, tribulations and successes of the year past. Then gravely the incoming master explained how things would be better now, though the price of grapes would never be enough to maintain a worthy standard of living, but they would all continue to work cooperatively together to bring the beautiful country of Luxembourg its health giving nectar. Well, that may have been what they both said. How would I know? I have only done one year of Luxembourgish, and can introduce myself, discuss the weather and order three croissants.

But now, drum roll and crescendo fanfare, the fest was open and the wine could flow freely. Two buxom girls stood on a plank suspended over the fountain pool, and cheerfully dispensed a glass of wine to each of the dignitaries, wine queens, the band and then to the masses. But we had no wine glass. This is Luxembourg however, and no one should ever be caught out without a wine glass for free wine when it's on offer. So, Dearly Beloved queued at the special wooden cabin to buy one, and then queued for the laying on of wine. He has better elbows for this task than I do, queue being a merely aspirational term for the jolly crush bearing down towards the fountain.

The wine? Crisp,dry,acidic and fruity, undeniably local, we have no idea what it was. It would have been, I am sure, produced from the vines that comb their way down the hills round the village, along the sides of the houses and around the car parks. Whilst strips of vines are owned individually, the grapes are harvested and pressed cooperatively. We were free loading on the fruits of their endeavours.

I say free. What I really mean is that we got a glass of wine for the cost of a two course lunch (about 70 euros) and the cost of a glass (2euros), and three hours spent wondering if anything would happen, practising our small talk.

Next year, we shall be splendidly prepared, glass in hand and straight on to the cunning little parking spot we found behind the church on our way home. And I shall ensure that DB’s checked shirt is crisply ironed.

A di.

Porky

Happy New Year, if I haven’t already wished you Season’s greetings. 

Christmas was, yet again, different for us this year. Another country, another home, another roast. This time, we took our linguistic courage in both hands and visited the farm we pass daily to investigate its advertised porcelet. It’s a real farm, with odd and ancient equipment strewn in forgotten areas of the courtyard, a dog barking behind a shuttered window, something steaming behind the sheds, and a scrupulously clean butchery. We nearly lost our nerve, but just as we were hastening to the car, a young man appeared and wished us Moien. I explained in Luxembourgish that I only spoke a little of that language (namely enough to make that statement) so, of course, like all the business folk here, he tried again in French, German and a little English. (I do think the UK missed a trick in not introducing the learning of another language into primary schools.) As we explained our need for a Christmas Roast and that we had in mind a piglet big enough for three carnivores, his mother, the farmer, drove in to the yard. Looking relieved, he handed us over to her tender care, and she ushered us into the kitchen. 

It was a real farm kitchen. Banish from your mind any thoughts of scrubbed pine tables, cheery dressers and gingham bistro curtains. This was the dark cool kitchen where the farmhands could come in without shedding working clothes and boots, the dogs could lie on their own huge day bed without having to be sluiced down and the Portuguese daily help could swear gently into the huge deep sink in the corner. The farmer nodded towards her.  

“She won’t bother to learn Luxembourgish,” she said, disparagingly, “She can’t see the point. She only speaks Portuguese, French and a little German. English too, of course.”  

We went on to discuss porcine matters. Would there be a porcelet ready in time for Christmas? What size would she recommend for said carnivores? Would we want it jointed or whole? We explained that our oven was only so big, and Mme Farmer recommended something in the area of 8 kg. Did she sell any other products? “Well, of course,” she said, reeling of a list of hams and pates. Dearly Beloved’s ears pricked up at the sound of Boudin Noir. Did Madame have any Boudin Noir? Was it homemade? She disappeared into the darkness of the corridors beyond the kitchen. In the meantime, a portly, moustached and blue hatted elderly man appeared, boots and overalls caked with the by-products of his trade. He nodded, grunted a Moien, and sat at the cluttered table to roll a cigarette. Mme Farmer re-appeared with a list and a vacuum packed Boudin.

“You can have that,” she said, “It’s the last one for now.” Pressing it into DB’s eager hands, she refused to accept payment for it. Nor would she take any advance money for the promised piglet and took only our phone number. We would see her again on Christmas Eve and collect the little chap then, all oven ready. It was as easy as that.

Having really missed our friendly butchers in Back Lane in Coventry where the butcher knew the names of, or at least the homes of, all the beasts he was selling, we had been looking for a similar enterprise in Luxembourg. We also feel that food miles should be kept to a minimum, and this little piggy would be able to run home the 1.5 km if he so wished. 

In the interim, we invited a hungry looking couple from church to join us on the day to assist our pig handling.

Christmas Eve arrived and Dearly B was dispatched to bring home the bacon. He rang the doorbell on his return and through the entry phone, suggested I came downstairs. A little worried that there was a problem with the pig, that it might perhaps be too small and we would have to go shopping to feed our supplementary guests, I dashed down the two flights of stairs. The boot of the car was open and stretched across its depths was Hubert. All of him, his tiny trotters extended before and behind, measured at least two and a half feet.

“Where shall we put him?” I asked. “He won’t fit in the fridge like that.”

 

“He won’t fit in the oven like this,” said DB, a little panicked. “We shall have to do something. It’s too warm to keep him in the garage.”

 

It was particularly mild that day. But our drive way is on the north facing side of the building, and stays relatively cool, so Hubert spent the day in the back of the car, coming with us to Thionville  and Remich on a shopping and sightseeing tour with my visiting elder son. So much for reducing food miles. Hubert did a round trip of about 100 miles that day. And what if we had been stopped by the police or customs officers, and found to be crossing borders with a corpse in the back? An excuse of “Sorry officer, we just wanted to keep him cool” sounded rather flabby. Hubert also enjoyed his trip to Midnight communion in the city and spent the night quietly on our drive way. 

Christmas morning started with the slightly gruesome sound of sawing. Even with his feet tucked under him, it would be too tight a squeeze to get all of Hubert into the oven without some serious cosmetic surgery, so Dearly Beloved removed his little piggy head.

 

“I wish they had shut its eyes,” he said. “It’s a trifle off putting.”

 

Hubert beamed at us, his ears flapping back and his tiny teeth grinning beatifically. Dearly Beloved prized open Hubert’s mouth and I pushed in a Satsuma, the apples being far too big. Dearly B trussed the piglet’s back legs under his tummy, and folded the front legs under it. Thus arranged, Hubert fitted snugly into the roasting tray, his legs forming enough of a ridge to allow him not wallow in the roasting juices. DB had already poured boiling water all over him to ensure crispy succulent crackling and so he was oven ready. His head was popped face up into the corner of the tray but slightly disconcerting was his little whip of a tail. It was too small to be trussed, but just long enough to brush against the side of the oven. It went in anyway and singed gently, for half an hour or so in a hot oven, to be basted and then to sit in a slightly cooler temperature for several hours.

Much basting later, Hubert emerged glistening mahogany brown, having spat out his Satsuma. The meat fell apart. The crackling was crispy and melting. Served to loud and cheery toasts of cremant, accompanied by spicy braised red cabbage and roasted potatoes, Hubert was the perfect Christmas dinner companion. Five greedy grown ups had their plates filled high. We had a cold meat lunch the next day, also on the greedy side. And Dearly Beloved made five cartons of porky goulash for the freezer. We abandoned the head and the trotters due to lack of imagination and appetite. And the ham bone supplement we had bought in case there was not enough stayed in its sealed sleeve for another week.

Dearly Beloved is making plans for a pig roast in the summer. Watch this space.

“A di!”