Feature Story July 2015 : My Husband Learns to Cook Provençal Cuisine
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Nyons, france
In November 1996, Mark, Charlotte and I were invited to a French-inspired dinner at a friend's house. It was late in the afternoon. A couple of us were in the kitchen cooking - actually, my friend was cooking; I was drinking a glass of wine and kibitzing. Mark and Charlotte were outside playing with the dogs.
I got right on the phone, and expected to get an answering machine. But, to my surprise, Lydie herself answered. I blathered on for a while, about her cookbook, how we loved her recipes – she's famous for her down-to-earth French cooking – and finally came around to my reason for calling: Was there room for one more in her June class in Nyons? Mais oui, of course! Mark was in!
On New Year’s Eve – also Mark’s birthday – I told him about his present. He got a little teary-eyed.
Summer arrived, and we took our usual vacation in Provence. After a couple of days, we packed Mark's things and drove him 45 minutes north to cooking class in Lydie’s lovely feudal chateau perched at the top of the village of Nyons. The other students, all couples, stayed in the chateau; but because Mark was on his own, he was assigned to the teeny-tiny Gatehouse for the week. The Gatehouse – round, with a WC, sink, chair and dresser on the ground floor – had a tiny staircase up to the 2nd floor, with just enough room for a double bed.
Charlotte & fish, ready for a Provençal bouillabaisse
During the week of classes, the students learned how to make all sorts of goodies... pâte brisée, bouillabaisse, fougasse. So when Charlotte and I were invited to join the class for their big feast on the last day, we were really excited. We grabbed a bottle of wine, donned our Provençal party clothes and off we went!
The food was wonderful - I think this is where Mark learned his best recipes! There was a table beautifully set "en famille" (family style), at least 6 courses and Lydie’s cats – everywhere! Lydie's husband was very happy with the wine we brought: Gigondas, of course. One of the new “chefs” performed magic tricks during breaks, which Charlotte still remembers, though she was only 6.
At the end of the evening, we were very full, and very tired. Charlotte, Mark and I retired to the tiny Gatehouse where we all slept side-by-side in that cramped double bed.
Later that night we were visited by a large scorpion. But that’s a story for another day…
My husband says...
The cooking classes were no picnic: one entire week, two meals a day, all cooked by you. At the end of it I couldn’t wait to spend the day just reading, on the porch, with a glass of wine. Dinner the last night after our final class, was our no-effort, help-yourself Provence special: bread, tomatoes, olives, sausage, cheese and fresh picked cherries.
Lydie is great. At that time, she spent half the year in New York, half in Nyons. She knows, I think, everybody. She knows Calvin Trillin, which I still can’t get over. As far as I can tell, she doesn’t actually own any of those cats (and there are a lot of them) – she merely doesn’t send them away when they show up. One day, before being put to work, the class had a chance to shop at the local outdoor marché. I’d been to enough marchés already, so I stayed back to help Lydie do some prep work. Her husband comes into the kitchen carrying one of the cats, and commences a conversation with her, in French. It becomes a bit animated; Lydie explains to me that the cat is sick. Her husband wants to take it to the vet, Lydie wants to just let it be. They continue a bit; her husband leaves, the cat still in hand. Lydie continues peeling vegetables for a bit, and then, staring out the window, says to no one in particular, “F#@&%ing cats”.
