Two Men In a Car (A Businessman, a Chauffeur, and Their Holidays in France). Mike Buchanan

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      Mark and I put the world to rights over the course of an hour or two, and I asked him what the secret of his happy marriage was. ‘Luck’ was his conclusion, explaining that you couldn’t know how you would get on with a partner until the years rolled by. Not exactly the blinding insight into happy long-term relationships which I had hoped to gain from the conversation.

      MONDAY 6 AUGUST

      It was an overcast morning and we decided to drive to Cognac and maybe see a museum or two. But first we had to visit the dentist in Mirambeau. We soon found it and the receptionist looked strikingly like René’s wife Edith in ‘Allo ‘Allo. I explained in French that my friend had a problem with his teeth. ‘Obvieusement’, she noted drily, before pursing her lips and looking away theatrically, to the obvious delight of a couple of old people in the waiting room. I asked if Paul could see a dentist that day, at which point she stabbed her finger vigorously on the appointments diary, and explained in warp-speed French that the earliest possible appointment would be in four days’ time.

      Paul and I were starting to develop our own French vocabulary, and by the end of this day it had extended to:

      -un plonkeur / une plonkeuse

      -un tosseur / une tosseuse

      -un wankeur / une wankeuse

      -Château Breezebloque – a house with exposed breezeblock walls

      -un chitôle – one or a few adjacent unkempt houses with paint peeling off shutters, dirty windows etc. On occasion, a street or even a whole village or town merited this description

      The term un chitôle emerged as we were passing a couple of old farm cottages. I was admiring them when Paul exclaimed, ‘What a shithole!’ And I had to admit that maybe he had a point. But this was France and you weren’t supposed – at least in more refined circles – to even think such things, let alone say them. You were supposed to find such buildings quaint. Whenever we passed a well-kept house, particularly one with a garden of any merit, Paul would remark cheerily, ‘obviously owned by an Englishman!’

      Paul then suggested that the French state should allow in 50,000 East European immigrants a year, to:

      -clean house exteriors

      -clean windows

      -clean cars

      -strip and paint the wood on shutters etc.

      -tend the gardens, or at least plant a number of roses

      We arrived in Cognac around midday, and Paul wasn’t impressed that most of the shops would be shut for two or three hours – ‘Lazy tosseurs!’ But we sat down for a coffee and tea in one of the cafés on the main square. Paul didn’t like the tea – Lipton’s yellow label – and complained about not being able to order ‘a simple cup of English breakfast tea’.

      Ten minutes later a short man walked by, whose eye level was barely above our own – and we were seated. A few moments after he passed, Paul and I exchanged a glance and burst into laughter. I mistakenly thought the man looked like Asterix the Gaul, but Paul got it right. The man was the spitting image of Super Mario, the computer game character. I wanted to stop the man and take a photograph, but couldn’t think of a reason for doing so, which wouldn’t upset him.

      We both walked around the excellent Musée des Arts du Cognac which made me thirst for a tasting, so we strolled a few yards up the road to the Hennessy building. Paul wasn’t too keen on a tour but I was, and in a group of maybe 40 English-speaking tourists I was alone in paying the 20 euro price for the tour inclusive of a tasting of Hennessy XO (Extra Old) at the end. The French tour guide was a young lady and her English was flawless. The tour was interesting and really brought the subject alive, from growing the grapes to barrel making, distilling, blending, and all the rest. The tour included a visit to the warehouse on the opposite bank of the Charente river, where Hennessy holds stocks of cognacs from as far back as 1800, for blending purposes.

      The lady explained that the cellarmaster decided on how to blend the many cognacs together. Since 1800 the position had always been held by a man, and kept within the same family for seven generations. But the current cellarmaster had ‘only’ a daughter, and it was long ago decided that only men had the fortitude to manage all the tasting that the job required. The current cellarmaster was training his nephew to take up the position when he retired. All this led to predictable groans from the tour members of the female persuasion.

      At the end of the tour I tasted a sample of Hennessy XO and was most impressed. But it cost 110 euros a bottle and I decided to restrain myself for once, buying a bottle of VSOP (Very Superior Old Pale) for 32 euros instead.

      On the way back from Cognac to Mirambeau we went into a supermarket where Paul – with his back to a huge neon Fromages sign 5 metres away – asked, ‘So where’s the fuckin’ cheese then? I want a normal cheese, like you’d find in Tesco.’ It transpired that by ‘normal’ he meant cheddar cheese, but we couldn’t find any. After a lengthy search Paul remarked, ‘Fifty varieties of fuckin’ goat’s cheese with fuckin’ garlic, but no fuckin’ cheddar. Wankeurs!’

      While I was making dinner – rabbit fillets poached in white wine, onion, garlic and basil sauce, with sautéed leeks and potatoes – Paul was writing his postcards nearby, and something was clearly agitating him. All became clear when he said, ‘Even their stamps are shite! Thin cheap fuckin’ paper, with a gnat’s gob of glue on the back. They slide off the fuckin’ cards! It’s obviously all just too much for the French. Tosseurs!’ But he enjoyed the meal and remarked I should teach him how to cook such dishes, ‘because I’d get into a couple of women’s knickers, if I could cook something like this!’

      TUESDAY 7 AUGUST

      An overcast day, and we decided to go to Bordeaux. Over breakfast we realised that we needed a proper index to define our various terms of description of the French, and soon developed The French Helpfulness Index (Table 1.1).

      TABLE 1.1 – THE FRENCH HELPFULNESS INDEX (1)

Category	Points	Key pointers to identification
Un bon œuf	9 – 10	This person is friendly, helpful, maintains a well-repaired and clean house, a clean car and a well-tended garden. In response to a request for directions, this person will cheerfully point you in the right direction. We met a number of French people in this category, to our disappointment.
Un plonkeur / une plonkeuse	6 – 8	This person doesn’t clean his windows, nor his car, nor repair his house, nor tend a garden. Many French people are in this category. Will respond to the enquiry ‘Parlez-vous Anglais?’ with ‘Oui, a leetel’, and actually make an effort if in a good mood. Best approached after lunch, i.e. 3.15 p.m.
Un tosseur / une tosseuse	3 – 5	This person is unhelpful by nature, but more so once he / she discovers you are English, or you speak anything other than flawless French. Will respond to the enquiry ‘Parlez-vous Anglais?’ with ‘No, ah do nod spick a zingle wort of ze Onglish lonkwich, ah’m afret we shell eff to convorse in Fronch. Kandly prozeed wiss your onquerry.’
Un wankeur / une wankeuse	1 – 2	This person refuses СКАЧАТЬ В начало < 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 > В конец