Another questionable adventure was to join Pascale, Jacky, and friends for a grilled-eel BBQ out in a field east of La Rochelle. Pascale said she was hesitant to ask me, since it was a bit la France profonde, which basically means in the middle of the countryside where tourists rarely venture, with regular, village people who might have an accent or way of speaking that I would have trouble understanding. I was undaunted. Well, maybe a bit daunted about the eels. I didn’t take photos, since that felt like it would have been rude and intrusive during their annual multi-village gathering, but I had a great time. The hardest part was pronouncing the name of the village!
Most of Pascale and Jacky’s regular crew of friends were there–one couple, Jean-Marie and Jocelyne, had grown up in neighboring villages that were participating in the BBQ, which is how we were invited in the first place. It was row after row of picnic tables under a big tent. Benches were planks on iron supports, not always ideally positioned. At one point a man got up from one end of his bench, which threatened to unseat the elderly woman just behind me. Fortunately I was able to grab the bench before she toppled. It was all over in less than a minute, but Pascale and friends teased me that I’d be the next headline of the local newpaper, “Une Américaine a sauvé Madame” (roughly, American Woman Saves Madame).
Of course it was a huge, traditional French multi-course meal. First the guys disappeared over to the bar tent for pastis or some other scary-strong apéro. Then as they drifted back the actual apéritif course was served (little crunchy nibbles with champagne, I think — it all blends together a bit). Then halves of the small round melons like cantaloupe, filled with Pineau des Charentes as a first course (a revelation–WHY do we not eat it this way in the states?). Then the grilled eels, which are scarier to look at than to eat. They just taste like fish, since that’s basically what they are. More wine. And bread, of course. Then cheese, more bread, salad. Then dessert and a bit more wine! (By the way, penalties in France for drunk driving are VERY severe. There is always someone who drastically limits their wine or does not drink at all.)
We capped the day with a detour to play a bit of pétanque.
We had three couples, plus me, obviously extraneous, but they insisted I play anyway. I redeemed myself with my last throw, a completely random lucky shot that hit the little cochonnet and launched it away from the boules the men had so skillfully thrown and over among the boules the women had thrown, resulting in a win for the women. “Jamais encore !” Antoine vowed. (“Never again!”)
So plenty of smiles and laughter, the best kind of day.
I’ll save my other reluctant (but excellent) adventure in France for another post. Even writing about these happy memories has cheered me up, and of course snuggles with baby Beckett, time with friends, and making plans for future events help too.
I guess I’d better just keep saying, “Oui !”