continental shift

If I say that I spent part of my weekend selling cards and crackers, with Dearly Beloved swinging his kilt, sporting his Braveheart shirt and pressing tots of whisky on strangers, could you guess where I have been? What if I were to add the  information that I also exchanged three kisses with friends from Zimbabwe and Texas, shook the hands of men from Germany and Surrey, waved at folk from the Midlands, ate soft Greek bread stuffed with sliced lamb doused in herby olive oil, sampled a Lumpia with vegetables, nibbled edamame, followed by a hot and creamy Irish coffee, avoided moose milk, stroked some thick whiskery Icelandic jumpers, bought a glittery Polish bauble and a Scandinavian cotton reindeer, topped up with felafel in pitta bread, all washed down with a shot of vodka shared with a man in a furry hat, would you then have a better idea?  Some will still be struggling.  How about if I say that DB was eyeing hats from Azerbaijan and entering a competition for an all round trip to Japan? What if I say that I was gently marshalled aside by burly men in uniforms while a Grand Duchess also enjoyed the wares on sale from South America? You must have it by now! 

Yes, a prize of a home made mince pie to aal those who guessed correctly that I spent most of Saturday in the company of Dearly B at the International Bazaar of Luxembourg in the mini version of Birmingham’s NEC, Lux Expo. Since its first appearance as a Church Bazaar held by the Anglican church here in 1961, it has grown to become one of the biggest fundraising events in the Duchy, and has raised millions of Euros for charities in Luxembourg and elsewhere. For locals it is a great opportunity to eat  their way round the world and to catch up with friends, as well as to buy for Christmas and other feasts. Huge fun and absolutely exhausting, we shall definitely put it in our calendars for next year and hope that prospective visitors  will do the same.

A more peaceful Christmas Fayre was held at Cons La Grandville, a name you may recognise from a previous sortie into the neighbouring French towns. We have previously pressed our noses against the gates to the  Priory  which boasts an enormous restored barn. The website offers tantalising glimpses only, and Dearly Beloved, who loves barn conversions, has been champing at the bit for months to get inside to  inspect.

Luckily, while shopping the other day at the market in Longwy, I saw a flyer , quite modestly displayed, stating that there would an exhibition of wooden toys and other useful objects in this magnificent setting. So despite our aches and pains from the day before, we  breached the November mists and entered the Great Barn. It is magnificent. The stonework has been cleaned and restored to its pale clover honey colour, contrasting with the dark grey slate roof. The thick oak beams, vaulting into the roof space some 30 feet high are grey and sturdy, held together in the traditional way with thick wooden bolts. There is still evidence of the stalls used for the animals and of the supports for half width platforms once used for storage. 

There was a happy buzz of shoppers, mellowed, no doubt by the wine tasting (I bought only three bottles of a dusky burgundy) in the creamery, the artisan bread in the cattle stalls and the beer and hams on the mezzanine floor.  Much of the display was devoted to toys.  With sturdy forts and open walled dolls houses with spiral staircases and even a hinged loo, all made in wood and to a scale and spacing that would make play so easy, we almost found ourselves longing for grandchildren! There were chunky tipper trucks and tractors, their wooden wheels lovingly carved to reveal deep treads. Dolls cradles, children's stools, all nicely finished and at modest prices too…another date to put in our diary for next year.

But all this talk of November mists reminds me that I did not even tell you about  how we at last found our local auberge open for business.The day after our return from the south, and despite the fact that we had said,  “Enough! We have eaten our fill of lovely lunches out. We must retrench!”, we displayed the breaking resistance of a kit-kat when, on our first Sunday back from holiday we went up the road to Piedmont (of pig-roast fame) for a short constitutional.

 “What about popping into the Auberge?” I said, “ It might be open because it is the summer. We could just have a drink.” 

“I’ll take my wallet,” said Dearly Beloved, obediently and without pause.  

It was hot and sunny at midday, ansd we strolled up the hill noticing who had done what with their gardens and houses since we had last gone by. Some had dug up drives and replaced them with paving, others had repainted the orginal “grise” covering of the house with a more toothsome buttermilk. The lintel that was being knocked out above an old barn door has now been replaced with sturdy breeze block pillars and the young couple doing the renovation were perched on cement sacks in the sun taking a fag break. 

We rounded the corner and saw that lights were on in the windows of the Auberge. “But is anyone home?” asked Dearly B.  The kitchen windows were open, and there was the homely sound of cutlery clinking against plate.

“Just open the door” I said, “and walk in.”

At last we had crossed the threshhold of  the Auberge, which has, since January, been shut whenever we have visited. In the inner hall, a fire was burning in a deep inglenook recess, next to a traditional bread oven. Two ladies greeted us.

“Could we just have a drink please?” 

 “A drink? Only a drink? Mais oui.”

A table was cleared in the dining room where two or three other tables were occupied. A couple about our age sat discreetly in the window and in the corner an older couple were joined by a friend.  We ordered beers and listend to the deep gravel filled voice of the elderly gentleman,with an accent that surely must have influenced Peter Sellars’ Inspector Clueseau…

The beers arrived swiftly followed by an amuse-bouche: two morsels of Quiche Lorraine, hot from the wood oven, the egg just set and the bacon melting into the buttery puff pastry. What a low and cunning trick!  

“Madame!” we cried, “we would like something to eat.”

“You would like to eat? Well, our specialities are here on the board.”

“ Monsieur would like something meaty.”

“Oh we have the Cassoulet Maison, cooked for seven hours, a confit de canard, a cous cous…”

“I’ll have the cassoulet please, “ said Dearly Beloved, beaming. 

“And I shall have the canard, please, with a demi carafe of rose.” 

We looked at each other somewhat shame faced. Today was meant to be the return to abstemiousness and exercise to regain the body beautiful in preparation for Christmas. Dearly B was facing into the room and his eyes widened as he saw the portions being served behind me. 

" It’s as well we didn’t order starters.” 

While waiting, we admired the room. The Auberge was built in the  mid eighteenth century and, structurally, had barely changed, with broad beams only just above our heads spanning the room. The walls were at least eighteen inches thick.  A radio set from between the wars sat on a squat oak dresser behind busts of Laurel and Hardy and a sempervivens. On the wall were some local artist’s impressions of the auberge and a couple of nudes. It was all very cosy.

Dearly Beloved admired the dresser, its sliding doors protecting all the glass ware within. Then the dinner arrived. The cassoulet was a mound of plump haricots  and even plumper saucissons, in a sauce of tomatoes, carrots and onion, competing for room on the plate with chunky cubes of fried potatoes. Man food.   

By comparison, mine was quite dainty although the food also covered the plate. A dark haunch of duck covered with thinly sliced soft mushrooms, a tomato steeped in roasted garlic and a poached nectarine stuffed with finely shredded red cabbage jostled for space with the same crispy potateos. The carafe of rose was light and fresh.

“Bon Appetit!” said the waitress with the certain knowledege that we would clear every morsel. 

Dearly Beloved’s eyes misted over. This was truly a dish made in heaven for a hungry walker.  Ironically, Cassoulet is a dish orginating from Toulouse, in the same region from which we had just travelled but where we had failed to find any on offer.  The duck was sweet and tender, and our conversation was reduced to  the happy gruntings and mumblings of the well fed. Madame came to  check on our progress. D Beloved could only kiss her hand …she seemed unfazed by this, evidently used to such praise.

“We shall return,” we assured her.  

But  two months have passed by and we have yet to go there. I feel a seasonal booking coming on.

A bientot!