Our lovely French neighbour
French hospitality with Dutch fireworks
In France we had a neighbour who came to her second home a few times a year. She lived in Rouen, a city in the north-west of France. Her profession was putting people unconscious. No, not a boxer — she was an anaesthetist in a hospital, responsible for putting people under. A very corpulent woman and, as was often the case with heavier people, extremely convivial.
She was enormously fat, but the worst thing were her eyes. They bulged out, and when she coughed everyone watched nervously to see whether they might pop out. She talked incessantly, in a dialect that was hard to understand. Clothes clearly did not interest her and she was usually wrapped in something resembling a large tablecloth.
She had inherited the house from her late parents and hoped to spend more time there once she retired. She maintained a solid friendship with our other neighbour, a widow who was her exact opposite. Where ours was relaxed and almost rustic, the other was posh and dripping with mannerisms. Not a sentence went by without her mentioning some piece of real estate she owned — each one more impressive and expensive than the last. Our neighbour listened calmly. They only truly met when the conversation turned to food and cooking. On that subject, they could go on for hours. Stuffed calf’s stomach, sheep’s brains, kidneys, testicles and liver — lots and lots of liver. Sometimes they spoke so lyrically about their dishes — especially organs — that I could not shake the impression that, after years of operations in hospital, her mouth must water at the mere thought.
We shuddered at organ meat. It was not our kind of food.
One day we were invited to enjoy a real Provençal meal. We were expected at six.
Not knowing what awaited us, but aware that the other neighbours were also invited, we put on our Sunday best and went over.
As always, we were received on the terrace with a glass of champagne and a great deal of formal conversation. The stiffness and restraint of the French never ceased to puzzle us, especially when compared to their behaviour towards strangers in the street. Perhaps it had to do with extremes: the stricter the upbringing, the more violent the opposite reaction.
After an hour the sun disappeared and we went inside. The house had no heating. Cold as a tomb: damp and icy. The neighbour threw an extra blanket over her broad shoulders, while we sat freezing in our flimsy suit and dress.
If only the wine would arrive — champagne only made you colder. But no: wine was served with the starter, which came another hour later.
My partner discreetly slid her hands between my legs. I remarked that this was neither the time nor the place for such jokes. But no — she just wanted to warm her hands.
The starter was a homemade poultry pâté. You could tell: feathers were still sticking out here and there.
With plenty of bread we managed to mask the flavour, and we waited tensely for the main course, meanwhile pouring vast quantities of wine down our throats as antifreeze.
The neighbour made a yum-yum gesture with her hands. This would be delicious. A real treat.
She went into the kitchen and returned with a large dish holding several enormous, trembling, wobbling slabs of meat floating in blood. For a moment I thought she had brought it straight from the hospital.
“Unfortunately I can’t serve this to you,” she said to my partner, “because you’re pregnant. It’s the very best liver, just briefly seared…”
I nearly jumped out of my skin. My partner smiled at me with sadistic pleasure and I wanted to shout that I was pregnant too.
But the neighbour continued: “So you can have an extra-large piece.”
My thoughts raced. How was I going to get out of this? There was no dog. The atmosphere was far too formal to stuff the meat into my napkin and smuggle it to the toilet. Then the neighbour saved me.
“You do like liver, don’t you?”
I headed the ball straight into the goal:
“Madame, I sincerely apologise and I will certainly try a small piece, but I truly do not eat organ meat.” She remained perfectly calm. Not disappointed. It clearly didn’t matter at all. They would happily finish it themselves. How wonderful to have such a relaxed neighbour.
A lively discussion followed about foreigners who had absolutely no understanding of good cuisine, accompanied by the occasional astonished glance in our direction. My partner ensured, with the help of wine, that our future baby stayed warm. Her cheeks were glowing red, in stark contrast to her shivering body. She was almost chattering her teeth.
The anticlimax was yet to come.
It was an old house. The toilet door opened directly into the room — one of those doors with a gap at the bottom. All guests were seated less than two metres away, meaning everyone could hear — and vividly experience — whether a major or minor business was being conducted. I suddenly understood why, in France, going to the toilet during dinner was considered impolite.
Meanwhile, the minimal piece of liver in my intestines had already begun a small rebellion. Cramping forced me to make an exception, but I also knew my release would be accompanied by considerable sound effects. And I could be loud. I was not at ease. I was the type who strongly preferred to relieve himself at home. But I had no choice. I asked my partner whether there might be another toilet. She immediately burst out laughing. Of course not. She knew my intestinal cramps and had foreseen the situation long ago. She was already enjoying the thought of me desperately trying to suppress the sounds — which of course achieved the exact opposite.
Tant pis. I had no choice left. Either soil my trousers on the spot, or proceed en plein public to the half-open toilet in the middle of the dining room. I chose the latter. It became worse. And more unsavoury. I had barely pulled down my trousers and was about to sit when the liver and its companions left my body with a deafening roar. After the shame of the noise, I spent at least half an hour cleaning the wall, the toilet seat and everything around it.
When I returned to the room, red-faced, everyone — including my partner — stared fixedly in the opposite direction. Only the neighbour looked at me and said, with complete composure: “Well then, that was badly needed. Another glass of wine?”