Several Crises Back…

By: Andrew M. Manshel

March 23, 2020

On Monday, October 19, 1987, Heidi and I were in Les Beaux de Provence, on our second trip together to Europe. We had a week left on our two-week vacation. We had driven south on the Route du Soleil through a raging rain storm, one that was in the process of destroying the Gardens of Kew in London as we heard on the tinny car radio. At one point during the drive, as we passed over a hill leading down to Orange, the clouds cleared and the sun came out. A dramatic introduction to the South of France. We were taking what we had denominated the “Patricia Wells Tour of France,” using her book, A Food Lover’s Guide to France, as our close advisor and companion on what markets to visit, which épiceries to check out and what restaurants to eat in. It being October, everything was pretty quiet and we found ourselves generally one of the very few people in each hotel we stayed and each place we dined. 

            On Sunday evening, the 18^th,  just before bed, Heidi decided that we had to go to the Bistrot du Paradou for lunch the next day. According to what I remember the book said, it was a small place that had been started by a banker from the town of Paradou, and it was the place where the grandees of Paradou gathered each day for a classic Provençal lunch. They only served lunch. According to Ms. Wells, it was heaven on earth. It had a problem, though, for a provincial American eater like me (this was only my second trip to Europe) – they served one set meal at lunch. I said to Heidi over breakfast, “But what if it’s rabbit?” And she said, “then you will eat rabbit,” a very grim prospect for me, indeed. But I was then, as I like to think I continue to be, a good sport and said “fine.” Worst comes to worst, I can eat the salad. 

            It also became clear as we ate our breakfasts and read our International Herald Tribune (where Ms. Wells’ spouse, Walter, was an editor) that the stock market was seriously tanking. There were very long faces among the few, much older, other American guests at the hotel (also a Well’s approved place, that had a Michelin three starred restaurant that was closed for the season. We had dined the night before at the other restaurant in town, that was unstarred, but also with Wells’ imprimatur). That news didn’t bother us in the slightest. We hadn’t a nickel to our names, except for a few sous in our checking account. We were renters and had no equity to lose in an over-priced Manhattan apartment. We could care less, and we watched our countrymen fret and make travel arrangements to return home ASAP. One gentleman we had chatted with and knew was a major Hollywood film producer. He and his, of course, much younger spouse, looked like death warmed over. And this was before cell phones and the internet. The news sources were the HT and the radio, and the way to reach American Airlines was on a phone in the lobby that had a dial. So news traveled slow, and making arrangements was frustrating. 

            Off we drove in our tiny rental car to the center of the charming town of Paradou. We arrived at the restaurant, which had open doors to a patio and chairs and table spilling out onto the street/plaza in front. It looked exactly like a French small town bistro should look. And, indeed, it looked like tout de Paradou was settling in for a real, classic French dejuner. The crowd was mostly older gentleman in ties and suits with vests – a couple of Americans we recognized from the hotel were there trying to make the best of it. The market closed while we were getting seated, and the news had just gotten worse and worse all morning. But there we were with our French francs in our pockets – not a dime in the financial markets – and not a care in the world. Two thirty-somethings in the south of France enjoying the warm October sun. My law firm job would be there when I got back. 

            And then the moment of truth arrived! The blackboard with the day’s menu. At the time my French was even more limited than it is today (53% proficient according to Duo Lingo) – but I knew what Andouillette was. 

“Andouillette (French pronunciation: ​[ɑ̃dujɛt]) is a coarse-grained sausage made with pork (or occasionally veal), chitterlings (intestine) pepper, wine, onions, and seasonings. Tripe, which is the stomach lining of a cow, is sometimes an ingredient in the filler of an andouillette, but it is not the casing or the key to its manufacture. True andouillette will be an oblong tube. If made with the small intestine, it is a plump sausage generally about 25 mm in diameter but often it is much larger, possibly 7–10 cm in diameter, and stronger in scent when the colon is used. True andouillette is rarely seen outside France and has a strong, distinctive odour related to its intestinal origins and components. Although sometimes repellent to the uninitiated, this aspect of andouillette is prized by its devotees.” (italics added)

I could not help myself but quote the entire Wikipedia definition. Please note in particular the italicized portions. In part, I knew what it was because I had ordered it at a touristy café in the middle of Avignon a day or two before to see what it was. It was foul. The smell was definitely pronounced. At Bistrot du Paradou it came with copious amounts of mashed potatoes to soak up every last drop of piggy innards juice. Heidi’s draw dropped. She said, “That’s nasty. I’m not eating that.” I said with the profoundest schadenfreude, “Well, I guess you can eat the salad.” The lunch also included the local plonk, which came in pichets. So, after the appetizer (and I can’t recall what it was, the rest of the meal was so memorable), out came the andouillette and mashed potatoes. I figured, OK, I’ll try it. I cut off a small bit and tasted – it was terrific. Tons of garlic, notwithstanding Wikipedia. Nothing at all like what was previously served to me. I finished it. In fact, I finished Heidi’s and took great pleasure in watching the other Americans in the internationally acclaimed, Patricia Wells’ certified Bistrot du Paradou, pushing their sausages around on their plates. The Frenchmen present (and they were all men) also cleaned their respective plates, and leaned back with their post-prandial cigarettes. I did not stint on the pichets. There was also desert (I’m pretty sure it was a very competent tarte tartin) and coffee. The other Americans stared glumly into their Herald Tribunes while their vacations were ending on a Monday. 

            We drove around Provence (before anyone had heard of Peter Mayle) with several other Patricia Wells approved stops, flew home from Nice and went back to our jobs. In the thirty years since we’ve become proper bourgeoisie, with an apartment and 403(b)s. We had children. I made partner at the law firm (which then proceeded to go belly-up). Life happened. But we survived Black Monday and the andouillette (the latter with relish).