French Country Travel Life Saints are everywhere here. Down every obscure byway. In villages and cities. Always ready willing and able to effortlessly shower you with their self-less help and hospitality.

As you would expect, I’ve met many in my zillion and a half years of surfing the French Country Backroads. But two of the best I’m still in touch with. Is it just a coincidence that they share the same surname as the famous French religious celebration – “Toussaint?” (All Saints)

Whatever your take on coincidental veritie – Bernard and Marie-Andre Toussaint are the real saintly deal.

Example: They’re driving along a Northern  country road  and stop to offer a ride to a not too young heavily backpacked couple.

When the Toussaints find out this couple’s mission is to WALK to the South of France(can you say: “EXTREME?”) They kidnap them for two weeks of saintly R ‘n R at the Toussaint sanctuary.

My introduction to the natural goodness of Bernard and Marie-Andre began on a drizzly autumn day. One that was definitely promising to accelerate it’s quantity and force soon.

While, admittedly not the brightest light in the intellectual sky, I do have enough sense to come in out of the rain.! And Bernard and Marie-Andre’s door did look inviting. To be clear – not just “convenient” but inviting.

Was it the way the house was nestled in a mini-park with tall trees? It’s position farthest away from the road? The circular “come hither” driveway?

No idea. But it definitely called to me. And I answered the call. Marie-Andre answered my knock. With an instant genuine smile. And before I could say word one, She stated the obvious: “You’re all wet…..come in…”

Now, wouldn’t  most people’s first reaction be: “Who is this tall, wet stranger with a guitar on his back? And why is he knocking on our door?”

And if they were inclined to be hospitable, wouldn’t most folks say: “you’re all wet…..so take off your wet stuff before you come in?”

Bernard was quickly summonded and introduced. He quickly introduced me to some of his dry clothes.

Then, as you would expect, the obvious question for the exotic stranger from the far away lands: “Are you hungry?”

A former air traffic control supervisor, Bernard had taken an early retirement. An Active one. Tennis, Photography (winner of several Nikon competitions) playing guitar in a 50’s music rock n’ roll band with other retirees. Appropriately, and whimsically named “The Old Rabbit Skins.” Before retirement, add solo rock climbing (the chalky hands and no net kind) and motorcycle riding. The latter ended voluntarily.

Marie-Andre was a former solo acrobatic pilot. So – you can probably guess where and how they met. Can you not? Sadly, unlike Bernard ‘s voluntary “fini” to motorcycling, Marie Andre had a mandatory end to her solo flight career. You gotta quit at 50. (the diminishing reflexes thing.)

Since it was ordained that I would be spending the night Marie-Andre escorted me to my room. But, it wasn’t a room. It was a SUITE! Think large living room with huge sunken tub, monster bed, two adjoining wash basins with seperate mirrors, small cozy terrace with a view onto  the other side of their not so mini-park. (Catch yer breath yet?)

Saints. Gotta love ’em – yeah?

Part Two – Next Time

THROW ME A BONE HERE, PEOPLE!

What are ya thinkin’?

(authors note : Part One could give you some food for food thought.)

There is a third, rare, and unusual way to claim the GFC toque. The French call it : “autodidact.” Ok – it does sound like the name of a newly discovered dinosaur – but it means, simply : “book learning.” No tugging at Granny’s apron strings. No familial culinary passion. No famous chef Daddy. Just untold hours of recipie reading. And who knows how many flat soufflés.

And when, after countless years of solitary apprenticing, you’ve finally lifted yourself up by your saucepan – you get to raise money! So you can mortgage your soul for your dream. And thrill to the propect of losing money for a least the first five years. As you toil twenty four/seven. Constantly aware that one bad review could reduce your dream to the consistency of your first soufflé.

If I had a toque, dear reader, I would, with admiration, take it off. Saluting all the GFC’s who have done it “by the book.”

Since I began this ramble by asking : “Who is the greatest French chef?” – I will now, bien sur, give you my answer. His name is : Jean Luc Maurice. And although He derived inspiration from his retired chef Father, Jean Luc made it under his own steam. The apprenticeship way. England. Japan. France. Toiling for, and with, the GFC’s.

Constantly learning, increasing, and perfecting his talent. Until, finally, He was able to open his own restaurant.He lost his shirt. Shady business partner! No loan from Daddy. Jean Luc hit the bricks. Raised the cash. Before He was thirty , Jean Luc owned two bistros in Paris. (Hey, I told you these guys were dynamic!) Eventually, He sold two. But to the current chefs. His friends, and former associates.

However, as all the clients knew Jean Luc, He celebrated the sale with a private “regulars only” party – On the house! A six course plus meal. With every variety of alcohol imaginable. Two, four tier dessert trolleys groaning with goodies. All orchestrated by Jean Luc. Alternately behind the stove, and bouncing from table to table. A block party! And, to pile appreciation on appreciation – Jean Luc personally presented each client with a gift, relative to their specific interests.

Part Three – Next Time

THROW ME A BONE HERE, PEOPLE!

What are ya thinkin’?