Search This Blog

10 Nov 2013

Workers menus

When I first started coming to France often, in the early 1970s, finding so many good, cheap restaurants serving fresh, interesting food was a constant surprise. At that time, Britain was only just beginning to contemplate the idea of food as a pleasure, rather than a refuelling exercise. Elizabeth David's books had started a trend, but there was a long way to go. Apart from Chinese and Indian places, a few Italian restaurants and the Berni Inn steak houses, most towns had no restaurant at all, never mind one worth the name. 

There were the hotels catering for commercial travellers, and the places that catered for weddings etc, but the food was boring, overcooked, and unimaginative. A few pubs were moving on from the stale sandwiches and plastic pies, but then only into simple grills and fry ups. Having to move around the country for my work, I despaired of ever finding any reasonable place to eat with good food anywhere in the country. Even in London, there were not that many restaurants, other than in the very grand hotels like the Dorchester and the Ritz, way outside my income.

There was a feed back loop going on, of course. Because there was no British tradition of eating out regularly, there was no demand for restaurants. Because there were no restaurants, no one went out to eat. I remember at that time a German firm was looking at various places to set up a new, large factory, and Birmingham council was trying hard to attract them there, rather than somewhere in Italy or France. One of what the council saw as a strong attraction was the low wages that would have to be paid to get the right staff. The German management looked at the figures, and said 'But how can one of the workers afford to take his family out for dinner on Saturday night on those wages?' Birmingham said that no working people would do that, or want to, or expect to be able to. The Germans said that they did not want to be in the business of exploiting people, and that they wanted employees with more ambition and life, and set up their factory somewhere else. 

In the 70s, most British Francophiles knew about the Relais Routiers organisation. All the lorry drivers (routiers) used their guides to the best roadside restaurants catering for them, by having very large car/lorry parks, and providing very good lunches at reasonable prices. The idea that lorry drivers would expect to have a good quality, freshly prepared three or four course lunch every day was pretty extraordinary. That most of the meals cost very little in Brtisih terms, and usally included wine in the price, was a revelation. As was the fact that the drivers wanted to sit down at a table with others, and take two hours over their lunch. For us deprived Brits, particularly as for part of the 70s we were only allowed a very small amount of foreign currency each year (you collected it from a bank who recorded how much in your passport, and there were no credit cards), these relais were enough to justify a visit to France in themselves.

The Relais Routiers organisation is still going strong. The difference these days is that wine is not always included. The same tradition of good, fixed price, cheap meals of course is still important in France. Every where you go, there are bistros, cafés, auberges and restaurants with signs saying 'Menu Ouvrier' - workmens' menu - usually at around 8 to 12€ all in. Because of the catastrophic exchange rate, prices in France seem high to us, but are not in terms of French earnings. 8-12€ is in French terms really equivalent to about £5-6 - the same as a takeaway sandwich and coffee in London. But what you get is a choice of starter, such as a goat cheese salad, paté, hard boiled eggs with mayonnaise, or similar, or a buffet of all of them, followed by a choice of a steak, or pork chop, or beef stew or regional specialities, then two or three pieces of different cheese, then a dessert such as créme brulée, chocolate mousse or apple pie. Of course as much fresh bread as you want. In many places there are bottles of wine on the table, usually ordinaire, and you pay for (approximately) how much you drank: can be as much as 3€ for the whole bottle. Compare all this with a plateful of crap 'n' cholestorol for the same price in a greasy spoon truckstop in the UK.

Britain has improved beyond anything I could have contemplated thirty five years ago. There are many good, decent restaurants serving real food almost everywhere. Of course there are chains of rubbish places selling artifical pizzas, microwaved and boil in the bag ready meals, and other pretend food (tip: avoid places where you see a Brakes Bros or 3665 lorry making a delivery - they will be serving mass produced stuff in most cases). An aspect of this is that you can now eat as well in England as France, if you are careful, and at the same prices. That is a miracle.

Remembrance Day ceremony in a small village

In France, as in the UK, there are local commemorations of those killed in wars, in most villages. November 11 is an official public holiday. French administration is organised at its lowest level in communes, which can be as large as a major city, or as small as a village: the smallest near where I live has just 74 people., and ours now has about 260. Each commune has an elected mayor and council, a budget, and some significant powers. The mayor is the first port of call about any issue, from planning to roads to neighbour disputes.
Today, Sunday 10 November 2013, I went to the wreath laying ceremony in the commune in which I live. The actual ceremonies start with a mass in the church in the nearest small town, organised for all the small villages around. Although every village has a church, there are no longer priests. Even thirty years ago most of them would have had their own, powerful, curé, but as the old priests died they were not replaced. Now, there are some priests – mostly from Francophone Africa, interestingly - who serve half a dozen or more parishes, much as vicars in the UK, and hold masses, conduct funerals, christenings, marriage ceremonies, wherever and whenever they can. I did not attend the church ceremony.
From the church, the next step takes place at the war memorials in the individual villages. There is a guard of honour, made up from anciens combatants (former soldiers) from the commune, with flags of their regiments, or in one case, that of the group of former prisoners of war, who stand to attention facing the memorial.
These guards of honour also attend the funerals of former soldiers. When our friend Robert died in 2003, there were fourteen flags carried at his funeral, but each year there are fewer old soldiers left, and fewer of them who can hold up a heavy flag. There were six at a funeral of a neighbour that I attended a few months ago, and only two today at the commemoration. There is no one left from the first world war, and as we get to the 70th anniversary of D-day and the battle for Normandy, all those who fought then are in their eighties and nineties. Even those from the Algerian war are now pensioners. Soon, there will be no flags.
The mayor said that we are there to honour those who died, and read out the names of all those from the commune who were killed in 1914-18. As he said each name he paused, and everyone murmured 'Mort pour la France', died for France. There are 29 names, including four from one family. At the time the commune had a population of about 600, most of whom were agricultural workers, and many of those were exempt from the military because of the need to keep producing food, so the deaths were a high proportion of those who went to war. He read out four names from the second world war the same way. One former soldier laid a wreath at the foot of the memorial, the mayor asked for a minute's silence, and then it was over.
There were 21 people at the ceremony, mostly elderly, a few children. We then went to the mairie, the town hall, across the road from the memorial, for the traditional vin d'honneur , a glass of champagne. A few minutes later, the people from the ceremony in the next commune arrived to share the wine; next year we will go to their mairie.
Tonight, as every November 10, there is a communal meal in the Salle des Fêtes, used for all sorts of official events like voting, for celebrations and private functions. Most of them have stages at one end, and are used for theatrical and musical events as well. Ours is the former school, and large enough for about 120 people to sit down to eat. The meal will be an aperitif, probably a kir, an entree, a main course of grilled ham in a chive sauce, a wedge of camembert, and a dessert. It costs 13 euros, under £11. You have to take your own plate, cutlery and glass. There will be live music, and dancing until very late.
There is no tradition of wearing poppies in France. There is therefore no absurd pressure on everyone in the public eye to start pinning them on themselves from mid October. But the commemorations are sincere, and matter even to those who do not go. This was occupied France, and that time, and the subsequent battles and destruction of many towns and lives, is still felt.