Fete Gauloises

The day-glo green sign tied to the traffic lights at the end of our Rue certainly caught our attention, with its picture of a tractor and its promise of a Fete Gauloise, featuring Brocante, Artisanats and Cochon a la Broche. Such signs are now two a centime at the moment locally, promising all sorts of delights over the next few weeks including, tantalisingly enough in this landlocked part of the world, a Beach Party in a village some 3 km from us. But the immediate appeal of the Fete Gauloise was that it was in Piedmont, the picturesque little commune up the road from us on the other side of the viaduct. We could actually walk it and stagger home down the hill. 

We started off promisingly enough by walking up the hill on Saturday, only to realise that it was to take place on Sunday. But we rallied well and continued our walk along the Chemin de Longwy which featured in an earlier expedition. Instead of turning right this time and heading into Belgium, we pursued the path into Longwy, taking in a closing down sale in a sports shop where Dearly B at last found a new pair of trainers at a substantial reduction. I have, since we arrived here, cherished the notion of sitting in the sun at a café table nursing a glass of beer, watching this French part of the world go by. Finally I have achieved it. Although the Café a La Crème on the corner of the square seemed not to have noticed the bright warm sunshine set for the afternoon and had not put out its tables and chairs (again), the Gothic café, Le P’tit Troc, on the corner of the ramparts along the main road had thoughtfully provide a few wobbly tables and garden chairs on the road side. Dearly Beloved was despatched for beer and to practice his French and we sat back and soaked up the sun.  

There was a lot of the world passing by that afternoon. A coach was parked on the corner, alongside the rampart wall, just beyond the zebra crossing over the main road connecting Longwy Haut to Longwy Bas. Cars inched forward as others parked and people crossed themselves as they stepped out onto the stripes. Horns blaring, hand waving, revving of motors: the whole Gallic driving experience was manifest, not two metres from where we sat. It was particularly busy because the coach was in fact waiting for the schoolboys’ rugby teams to assemble in their club house in the casemates under the ramparts before whisking them off for their final match of the season. Boys and Dads appeared, shook hands with the coach, the bus driver, each other and, I believe, if we had joined them, we would have got a handshake too.  Once the boys drove off to their match, it all got a lot quieter. The bar man came out for a quiet cigarette; we paid up and went home. En route at the chocolaterie, which has been refurbished and is now selling fair-trade products and therefore to be revisited, we found a more detailed poster about La Piedmontaise Fete Gauloise. Times and numbers were given and I left our details on an answering machine saying that we would very much like a pig dinner.

 

The day was bright and breezy and the stalls were arrayed up and down La Grande Rue. There was a lot of “brocante” to be had. The same car boot items are to be had everywhere: Greying children’s vests; foot spas; a number of chipped plates; old chisels and files and a set of samurai swords. Local produce was available. I bought some mirabelle jam from a very sweet lady who took great pains to explain to me how the jam was very much “epluchee” – without stones. I also thought the quince jelly would go nicely with our roast dinners. Sadly, on getting home, the former proved to have a good coating of mould and the latter had something suspended in the jelly which I was unwilling to identify. Tant pis.

Inside the old school house I found two ladies selling a vast array of crocheted doilies, mats, shawls and, bizarrely, pottery clowns. I bought a doily or rather a very sweet daisy pattern mat which looks great on the 18^th Century French Cabinet, although Dearly Beloved was concerned that I was becoming obsessed with such things. I think not - there is no such thing as too many doilies. 

It became very breezy and the contents of an entire stall and its Ricard Umbrella spilled across the street. Others, including our large old friend from the market in Longwy Bas selling his own dubious saucissons, had held their tables and brollies down with more sensible weighty things, like crates of beer. The top half of the road was lined with tractors. I liked the pretty blue one best but Dearly Beloved took photos so that you can choose your own favourites. One ancient machine has evidently toured all the steam shows in the UK and is currently registered in Luxembourg.  An expat hobby, perhaps?

As you know, we have been harbouring desires to obtain a Lorraine farmhouse and due to this event we were actually able to do our first viewing. Some of the stall holders merely opened up their barns and allowed you to look at the wares within, having priced them with sticky labels. We were not particularly interested in obtaining an old plastic Christmas tree or a pair of stiletto heels, but we loved the high dark barn, its plaster crumbling away revealing the lime and horsehair underneath and the monumental king pin firmly supporting the half floors above us. Swallows swooped in and out, beaks full of grass, busy renovating their nests.

But Dearly Beloved was keen to pursue an encounter of the meat eating kind. Following the smell of the smoke, we found the field behind the houses where an enormous electric rotisserie was slowly turning three whole pigs, while two enthusiastic members of the Fete committee continually basted each beast with the dark oily juices being collected in the trough below. At this stage the pigs were a light mahogany and smelt of hot fat and smoke. 

We were directed to the organisers’ tent where I explained that I had reserved a place, he added our names to the list and we bought our dinner for the evening and the frites for lunch. We were given little laminated cards depicting our choice for the day, to exchange at the food tents. I particularly liked the picture of the jolly wild boar and the cheese being pulled by a tired mouse. Oh yes, it would be a four course meal – entrees of boar pate, the main repas of pork and frites, fromage and les desserts.  We ate our frites, took a beer from the beer tent where the bartender’s cigarette never left the groove in his lip, even when he was explaining about the deposit for a real glass, and went home to prepare for the evening, with a pre-prandial nap.

 

The smell of smoked cochon a la broche drifted down the hill in the evening sunshine, the stall holders were all but gone, save for the last plants, jewellery and espadrilles and the village of Piedmont was now fully en fete. The tractors had been driven away and we never found out which had won for the day – but I am sure the blue won took it, wheels down. The pigs were blackened and ready to eat.

  Our tickets provided us with a bottle of rose and we settled on a bench in the huge marquee opposite the wooden platform where the Colorado River lien dancers were stamping their stuff to such old western favourites as the piano accordion versions of “Y Viva Espana and “The Birdie Song”. No matter, they were nattily turned out in white jeans, shirts and Stetsons and in what other country would you expect to hear a piano-accordion? During a pause, the stout DJ for the evening explained how we were to queue for our entrees, and suddenly the evening took on its own flavour. The chunky garlicky Ardennes pate was served with a lightly dressed salad and seemed to need the whole bottle of rose to do itself justice. Dearly Beloved queued for the Cochon while I negotiated with the bartender for another bottle of rose. It had been very popular this evening, and now, malheureusement, there was only the one glass to be had in the whole place. But I had paid for a bottle so what could he recommend that was chilled? Well, there was a very nice Pinto Gris which would suit madam well and would complement the fine cochon. I waited for Dearly Beloved to return after a long wait, because a new pig was being prepared by the butcher in the tent behind the tables. He scraped away the old carcass as the armed guard from the rotisserie approached with the offering.  Dearly Beloved was the first to put his hand up for the crispy trotter that was offered round and appeared with a tray laden with of chunky slices of pork and piles of fresh frites. In the meantime, another family had joined our table. We exchanged pleasantries and I explained how to use the tickets to obtain the meal. They expressed surprise that we were not here just for the holiday and delighted that we had turned up at the Fete.

But it was time to turn our attention to the dish of the day. The meat was tender and the fat had melted away, leaving the taste of the herbs, the smoke and the olive oil it had been saturated with for the last ten hours.  Even the dancers on stage had succumbed to the feast and the DJ thoughtfully played romantic Argentinian Tangos as a serenade to the great beast before us.

A camembert with salad to follow, a dish of profiteroles and we were pretty much replete. The gentleman was sitting next to us offered us a cigarillo and told us that he had always lived in Piedmont. We explained why we where there and tried to explain what Dearly Beloved does for a living which is hard enough to explain in English let alone in French after the better part of two bottles of wine and over a the sound of the piano accordion and the chatter of hundreds of happy diners.
We exclaimed at the lateness of the hour -  it had taken three hours to eat our meal - shook hands al round and rolled home down the hill, in the moonlight.

We were somewhat subdued the next day - perhaps we had  caught a chill or something.

 Next time: The Fete de Rhubarb

A bientot.