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French Life – Hospitality
It was a soft summer night. Still light at 8:30. And comfortably warm after the day’s searing heat. Yer hero(that’s me, folks) was in his third hour of surfing this tiny perfect French village. It was the ole “good news – bad news” deal. The good news – everyone I met was more than overjoyed, delighted, and, yes, salivating at the prospect of having the exotic stranger from the far away lands(thats me, again, folks) dazzle them with his guitar artistry in exchange for a bed n’ grub. The bad news – all of the everyones were otherwise committed.
No Room at the Inn
The village Mayoress DID have guests. So, would have been perfect – except she’d already booked a cellist. Oh well! Jean-Marc, the baker had a housefull. Lucian, the IT guy(“information technology” – the French way of saying – “computer nerd”) had, not only a young baby, but also a 6 am wake-up call. (Read – no sleep for anyone in that house!) Logically, this village was a loser. Lotsagood vibes, but no possibility.Logically, most folks woulda shuffled on down da road.
Quitters never Win
But, as my regular readers know, da BG’s battery does not run on logic. It’s fired by heart. By the vibe of the people and the place.My engines fuel is FAITH. Unquestioned, unshakeable faith in the goodness of human nature. All this, unconciously confirming that the magic combo of interest and possibility DID, indeed exist here. Simply a matter ‘o keepin’ on, keepin’ on.
Faith rewarded
Earlier in my noble quest, I was advised by three sisters(not really sisters, actually, but, more on that later)to knock on a certain door down the street from them. This I did. Several times over the course of three hours. To no avail. However, as I made yet another pass through perfect village-land, I did spy a booty-ful woman(and are’nt they the best kind?) walking in my direction on the opposite side of the street. Naturally, I was instinctively compelled to point my steed in her direction. And, after her very friendly, smiling “bonjour” was further compelled to explain my gig.
Jana, then suggested it might be possible at her house. And beckoned me to follow. You know what’s coming next, dear reader, do you not? Indeed. Jana’s house was the one I was pointed to by the 3 (faux) sisters.
A Load off my Brains
After installing me on her sun dappled patio with a tall, cool one,(non-alcoholic) Jana warned soberly :”It’s alright with me, but, of course, my Husband could say no.” You’re ahead of me again, are’nt you? Happily for me (and this non-ribald tale) Roland, the Husband not only did’nt say no, but enthusiastically peppered me with questions, while Jana made up my room. (Actually, a suite!)
The Thick Plotens
After a long, refreshing shower, I returned to the patio to find the three (faux) sisters. Who were, in fact, Grandma, Daughter, and (teen-age) Daughter. They had each, thoughtfully, arrived with a bottle. To compliment the massive two litre one Roland had produced. Muchies festooned the table. Twilight crept on. The night stayed warm. The welcome was warmer. And so, a very memorable evening of wine,women(two men) and song. (Not to mention some great grub!)
Theres got to be a Morning After 
Next am, after a deep and peaceful sleep, I awoke to freshly baked goodies and strong Italian coffee on the patio. Again caressed by sun and a soft breeze.
After the farewell photos, exchanging emails, etc. your hero saddled up, and rode happily into the daybreak. But wait – There’s More! As I passed the house of the three(not really) sisters, poised to give them a hearty goodbye wave, they were on the front lawn wavin’ me in.
My Arm Twisted Again
Now, I ask you dear reader, after the wonderful night we’all had passed together, it would have been the height of bad manners NOT to accept their luncheon invitation – would it not?
But wait – (again) – This is NOT the punchline. The punchline is – This was two years ago. And since then, at every possible card/email sending opportunity – Christmas, New year’s, Easter, I get a message along the lines of “we never forget the wonderful time we spent together, and hope all is well with you.” Now that, folks, is HOSPITALITY! N’est ce pas?
THROW ME A BONE HERE PEOPLE!
What are ya thinkin’?
French Legend
It happened the very first time I toured France. And it’s happened, more than once, every tour since. The moment my froggie friends find out I’m from the land of fiscal irresponsibility and Elvis. The inevitable anticipatory question : “So, you know Johnny in America?” The Logical response would be, of course, “which Johnny?” But as I was soon to discover(and never forget!) – to French people of “a certain age” – “Johnny” is, and will always be – Johnny Hallyday. France’s answer to Elvis, Buddy Holly and every other 60’s swivel hipped, guitar slingin’sensation.
His detractors uncharitably label Johnny as “an aging rock star.” Literally true. But the implication that he’s a legend in his own mind,is totally false. True, Johnny does’nt constantly burn up the charts. But whenever he does pop out a new disc, it routinely sells a million plus. And radio play has virtually nothing to do with it. Unlike today’s rock stars, Johnny does’nt need radio. Or the teen-age ipod crowd. Johnny has something much better. Like Formula One drivers. Like Movie Stars. Like bloggers with 90,000 monthly readers(Curse you Yaro Starak!) – Johnny has fans! Obsessively loyal, dyed in the jeans, “Johnny Rules” fans. In the Millions. Hanging on his every word. Devouring the daily tabloids chronicling the joys, sorrows, and breakfast cereal choices in “Johnny World.” Buying the sunglasses the king endorses from every other billboard.
But wait – There’s more! Lest you think(shame, shame)Johnny is just a big fish in a small pond -when the Rolling Stones(aging rockers anyone?) were last in Paris, they only managed to sell out one and a half shows in the ginormous “Stade du Paris.” Johnny(routinely) sells out BOTH shows(or however many he may offer) in half an hour. Not an hour. Not 45 minutes. 30 minutes. 20,000 seats filled. At 100 euro plus a ticket. Aging Rock Star? Yup.Celebrity money machine? You betcha!
It’s a curious fact of French celebrity-dom that more than a few of it’s iconic Stars – the ones we folks from “over there” regard as the quintessence of French Culture, are not French. Yves Montand. Italian. Jacques Brel. Belgian. Johnny Halladay, though born in Paris, was the child of a Belgian Father and a French Mother. Johnny rose to fame basically by singing French versions of American and English Music. As evidenced by his 1962 album(you remember “albums, don’t you?) -“Johnny Halladay sings America’s rockin hits.” Several of the musicians who were later to become stars in their own right – Jimmy Page and Peter Frampton – to name two, played on Johnny’s discs.
Johnny’s personal life, like most artists, has been as rough as his career has been smooth. His 1965 marriage to Bulgarian-French(now there’s a combo) singer Sylvie Vartan, lasted until 1980, producing a son, David. Now an “emerging musical artist.” During that marriage, Johnny and Sylvie were the “golden couple.” Darlings of the tabloids(of course), and role models for the musical wanabees of both sexes. Johnny is now on Marriage number four. A bout with colon cancer and an artifically induced coma to faciliate recovery from surgery, obviously have taken their toll. As they would on any 67 year old veteran of the “rock n roll lifestyle.”
In a career spanning 50 years, “Johnny” has done 100 tours, sold 110 milion discs and scored Platinum 18 times. So – Where’s the money? Where all the smart money is. In Switzerland. Johnny wanted to relocate to his Father’s native Belgium, but his lack of permanent residency there proved the deal breaker. So, not wanting to give the majority of his income to the French tax man – Switzerland’s fixed rate(on assets there – NOT your income) and more relaxed residency requirements, got Johnny to the mountains.
It was’nt until I saw my first “Johnny video” that I understood why his fans think he’s big in the land of “67 channels and nuthin’ on.” See- Leatherclad Johnny, shades glinting, cruising Sunset Bouldevard. Thrill to -Johnny at the beach. Palm trees. Beach volleyball with girls who’ve never seen their feet. Sing-along with Johnny in the California recording studio. That folks, is show biz.
Now, offically”retired”, and with a second home in California, Johnny’s anonimity allows him to ride his motorcycle through the desert to his heart’s content. Knowing that when he stops for the night at “motel nowhere-ville,” he is unlikely to hear : ” Uh…… Mr. Hallyday….could I have your autograph?”
Bottom Line : Whether his music lights your fire, or puts it out – for 50 years Johnny Hallyday has been doing what he loves,making people happy,and making money. Sounds like a success story to me. N’est ce pas?
THROW ME A BONE HERE PEOPLE!
What are ya thinkin’?
French Cheese
French Cheese is not a food. It’s a religion. Actually, a “co-religion.” Along with Wine and “L’Amour.” So, dontcha be fooled by the official French motto of “Liberte,Egalitie ,Fraternitie.” The French real’raison d’etre” be Cheese,Wine and LLLLLLLuv!
Another time for Wine and Love. Today, we be getting’ down wit da frommage. Which could be a long, boring limp of Squirrel dookie,considering there are more French Cheeses than days in the year. The late French President Charles DeGaulle,with typical French logic, once cited this factoid as a reason for his difficulty in governing the Country.(“Cheese outnumbers Bureaucrats….film at 11!”)
So, rather than list all 365 plus cheeses(which you can find at cheese-o-pedia) here be
Da BG’s French Cheese Starter Kit
CANTAL – (pro – con- tal)Two flavors to choose from here. Both made from the milk of the Salers(pro – sal-airs) cow.
Fermier. Raw(as in unpasturized) And the oldest.
Laitier. Pasturized.(as in un-raw)
Both are semi-hard with a soft interior. Close to, but not, cheddar, Cantal has a strong, tangy, buttery taste.
COMTE – (pro – com – tay) Sometimes referred to as “Gruyere de Comte”, this unpasturized semi-hard cheese from the Franche-Comte region of Eastern France has a strong sweet taste. 
It’s an A.O.C. cheese. Meaning, it’s certified by the French Government as definitely produced in that region from the milk of local cows.
Appellation Origine Controle, in a sentence, is assurance to the consumer that the product, be it cheese, wine, or, yes, even chickens, are the real local deal.
ROCHEFORT – (pro – roke – afor) This is the Rolls-Royce(perhaps even the Bentley) of the Bleu(that’s blue to us folks) family of frommage. Which includes “Bleu d’Auvergne”,”Stilton” and “Gorgonzola”, to name a few.
Authentic Rochefort, is an A.O.C. cheese. And, as such, must originate from the Combalou caves of Rochefort-sur-Soulzon.
Appearance wise, it’s a white and crumbly, peppered with veins of green mould. If you have’nt already guessed – it DOES have a “tangy” taste.
MORBIER – (Mor-bee-a) Yet another unpasturized A.O.C. treasure. Rich and creamy with a slightly bitter after taste. And a strong “aroma.”
BEAUFORT – (pro – bo – four)Three varities of this unpasturized A.O.C. teeth cleaner(honest – ask your dentist!) It’s a “sharpie” taste-wise. Similiar to Gruyere and Comte. And produced in the French Alps.
CHEVRE – (pro – chev-ra) This is the generic name for goats cheese. of which there are about 6 million(ok – maybe a little less) varities. With textures ranging from rock hard to creamy soft. Flavors generally subtle and mild, and often mixed with herbs. Three of the more celebrated are Saint Maure de Touraine, Selles-sur-Cher, and Crottin du Chavignol.
BREBIS (pro – bro –bee) des PYRENNES – This lush,semi-frim textured cheese is made from sheep’s milk in the Pyrennes mountains. Nutty, buttery flavors. Which are absent from the Un-pasturized version of Ossau-Iraty.
SAINT MARCELLIN – (pro – san- mar-cell –an) from the Isere region of the Rhone Valley, this mild, creamy wonder, 50% butterfat gets progressively runny with age. Starting out creamy white, and morphing blue and yellow as tempus fugits.
MAROILLES – (pro – mar-wahl) Outside an Orange-Red washed rind. Inside – A Strong Aroma. Not for the processed cheese crowd.
EPOISSES – Napolean’s favorite cheese. The renowned Epicure Brillat-Savarin was also pretty high on it. Produced from the village of the same name in the Cote D’Or region of Burgundy,(serious wine country) this pungent cheese with a soft Red-Orange color, has it’s rind washed in Marc de Burgogne. The local Brandy. How “pungent” is it? WWWell……it’s banned from public transport. If that gives you a clue.
Even if you’re an athesist,you will believe there’s a God and a Heaven when the cheese plate arrives. Because your hosts,with more fervour than a Baptist revival meeting, will not only preach and praise the virtues of their fav. frommage – but passionately regale you with their most memorable up close ‘n personal Cheese experiences.
P’s ‘n Q’s
It is at this moment,dear reader, you should be devoutly,religiously attentive. Or your chances of a return invite are toast! But, be warned, Cheese,’though innocent in appearance, is dense in reality. A little goes a long,long way.(Especially after a monster French meal!)
Suggested M.O.
On the first invite, you should be tasting all the goodies. Appreciative nibbles interspersed with appropriate “Tres Bonnes.” Your “piece de la resistance” should be rhapsodizing over one particular frommage.(a good faux rhapsody will suffice if the real deal is not available.)
The Payoff
This will establish you in the stomachs of your hosts, as a person of refined taste and elegance who should definitely be invited back to Cheese heaven.
OK – finishing a serious French chow down with dense chunks ‘o dairy is a step learning curve for us folks from “over there.” But after you get you head(and your teeth)around it – it’s as natural as rosé on a hot day.
And are we ready for the “Cheese Wars” now?
THROW ME A BONE HERE PEOPLE!
What are ya thinkin’?
