Le Franco Phoney

Ahh, France. Did they start the Slow Food revolution? What a great idea Slow Food is: enjoy your food, cooked lovingly for taste rather than speed. The concept seems to have oozed partially into France’s fast food. Pictured is the only vegetarian burger option at Quick, which is France’s answer to McDonald’s. Given that many restaurants have no vegetarian option, I praise Quick for their non-meat alternative, albeit the usual goats cheese deal. This burger is meant to have tomato in it too. Can you see any? There’s one slice hidden at the back that my bights have yet to reach, but I digress.

Back to the Slow Food revolution. Quick seems to have chosen just the elements of the Slow Food revolution that work for it — namely slowness.

I was unfortunate enough to have to eat at Quick after a friend said he was craving a burger. We had to wait for both burgers, fat fries, and condiments. I’m not sure how packages of salt and sauce can be held up, or why mayo turned up when we didn’t request it, then had to wait again while our trusty server went on a mission to find the correct condiments. The wrong fries turned up but we were so hungry by the time the rest of our food came that we thanked the server and walked away.

Pictured is the burger I bothered waiting for. What a waste huh? Burnt on top with one tiny bit of tomato inside, no cheese flavour, but some sort of oil-based mayo making up for that loss, I didn’t get a bit further before giving up. At least if I splurge on dessert, I enjoy it. Here was the equivalent in fat and sugar without the enjoyment factor. And it was slow. And they burnt it and still served it. Fine, it’s fast food, but that’s my point: it’s not even fast. If I’m going to buy fast food, I want it fast because I’m going for the food hit rather than the taste. Just gimme my food!

So, I ate a few skinny fries, watched my friend down all his food — along with the burnt ‘tomato and cheese’ burger (talking marks because  those ingredients are alleged, and I’m still not convinced it should be called anything but the cardboard burger).

I went and bought a crepe instead.

It’s been a few years since I mentioned the Fete du Reblochon, but watching the parade the other day made me realise it’s time to bring it up again. Where else in the world would you be ‘chased’ by a stuffed wild boar on wheels, led by a man dressed as a country bumkpin?

The boar was projectiled towards the crowd that had gathered for the parade and the man directing it seemed pretty happy with his job. Other highlights of the parade were the kids throwing hay and some sort of seeds that stung as they hit bare skin, and the men carrying an enormous amount of hay on their heads (like massive grass affros), the deafening bell ringers and best of all, the free samples of Reblochon cheese. The Fete du Reblochon is a really enjoyable day offering all sorts of rural entertainment. It swaps the Ferris wheel for a donkey race, the target shooting for wood chopping, hot dogs for local diot sausages, the man selling that amazing kitchen chopping device that peels, grates, chops, dices and more for the woman explaining how cheese is made, and the showbags of sweets for bags of cheese. It’s a great day out.

Now, back to the boar. Spain might have the running of the bulls and Rio might have Carnival, but La Clusaz is possibly the only place in the world that has the stuffed boar on wheels. And at least one person (the guy pulling the boar) thinks that’s a win.

Ever wanted to turn your old camper into a cow? Someone in Le Grand Bornand can help you. Although the eyes suggest the cow has been on the whacky tobaccy, the rest is in order, with a decent set of horns, four legs, an udder, a lovely tail hanging out the back, and a lovely big mouth and tongue chewing some hay. There’s even a tag on the ear.

The cow van has been on the hill up from Thônes to advertise last weekend’s Fête de l’Alpage (cow fields fete), which, as you can see from the photo, involved Reblochon cheese and probably a lot of cows. I missed it accidentally, but I’m not sure the fete could have been any better than the advertisement for the fete. In fact, I reckon I would have been let down if I’d gone and there were no other innovative cow art installations to take photos of. I’m looking forward to next year’s advertisement.

I was in Sweden last week to visit a friend. She showed me around her hometown of Stockholm and I couldn’t help but compare Sweden with France. Although the hut pictured is similar to the one I took in Switzerland last month, the feet are really unusual and like nothing I’ve seen in any other country. In the background is the city of Stockholm, merely a narrow stretch of water away. Stockholm is made up of a number of islands, and this hut was on the island that houses the Djurgården (a mini animal sanctuary, with antique farm houses and other traditional things), which overlooks the islands with the city centre and the old town, amongst others. I’m impressed that a city can have so much greenery so close to the centre of town.

One big difference is the options available for vegetarians. Of course, I’m comparing a capital city with the French Alps, but I’m not sure even Paris has vegie sausages available for takeaway (as pictured, mixed with mashed potato, salad and sauce). Gone are the tuts from meat eaters, replaced with a smile from the Swedish man who cooked the vegie sausages on a separate grill free of meat. Luxury!

But a lot of things are the same. Raclette, for example. Okay, there was an international food fair on in town, but still, my Swedish friend had just finished telling me that Raclette is not available in Stockholm, and there it was less than 24 hours later, luring people in with its description in English. If you’re interested, it cost about €6 for a plate of the cheesy goodness.

I was amused to see that France isn’t the only country with symbols that need some explanation. Pictured here are some train symbols. The first one could be misconstrued entirely (a gap between the train and the platform), and the second one just screams “No drunken disco dancing”, but it is, of course, remember not to get your hand stuck in the door when the automatic doors close.

Best of all was this chocolate bar called Plopp. Sometimes, in France, I see French words that are amusing when they mean something else in English (almost like “sucre daddy“, but not quite). With Swedish people apparently more fluent in English, I was surprised to see this chocolate bar. Not only does it sound like a excrement, but it kind of resembles the shape and colour too. Thankfully, with a caramel centre, it tasted much better than that.

How do you make Reblochon cheese? Well, that’s still a bit of a mystery to me, thanks to a rather odd night in Le Grand Bornand to learn more about it. The lovely people who run the resort put on a display of cheesemaking last week for the tourists — in a nice, warm tent-like structure, complete with seats for the audience and a little stage for the cheesemakers. So why is it still a mystery? Presuming my French is good enough to understand the guy with the microphone, I’d also need to be standing right next to the speaker to hear him, thanks to the crowd of locals (the musicians waiting to play after, staff ready to serve meals to those willing to pay for a plastic tray of steaming sausage, mushy stuff and cheese after the cheesemaking display, and friends catching up) who were hanging around the bar.

The kids at the tables just wanted some food and the adults looked bored, but we were all entertained when a piste basher trundled past outside, overpowering the noise created by the bar flies as well as the man on stage, who hammered on regardless. People tried to turn their attention back to the stage on its second zoom past the window. Why was a piste basher going past? Because the cheese tasting was not in the centre of town as expected, but further away at some place that was announced on a sign in the centre of town, but without directions or a map to show where it was. We circled the resort like a police helicopter before eventually finding some lights and a big tent by the cross country piste. It seems that nobody co-ordinated the half-hour demonstration with the piste basher staff. For me, it was a bonus anyway, since I couldn’t hear what the guy on stage was saying anyway. Cheesy entertainment indeed!

I recently saw a blog entry entitled: “Travel Inspirations: Looking Further Than Your Own Backyard” and it got me thinking about how I explore. I’ve travelled a bit, and lived in three different countries, crossing the equator to do so. Is it because I’m Australian and we tend to value exploring the world? Is it because I’ve achieved a financial independence that my foremothers were always denied by the ones who were supposed to love them most? Is it because as a society, we never seem to be happy with what we’ve got, and look further afield for satisfaction? For whatever reasons, I tend to look way beyond my backyard for travel inspiration. And I think that’s a problem. Let me explain why.

Everywhere I’ve lived has gems that I’ve never discovered. When people discover I’m from Melbourne, they mention the Twelve Apostles or The Grampians, or broader Australian attractions such as the Great Barrier Reef and Uluru (aka Ayers Rock). Have I travelled to any of these places? Nope. And now that I’ve spent more than three years in France, I’m doing it again. When I first arrived, I was so excited to learn of a cheese maker in Thônes who does tours, the farm across the road from my place in La Clusaz where you can feed the cows in winter when they’re bored in their sheds, and the farm just up the road that sells fresh eggs and butter which I thought I’d visit regularly for such treats. There are cheese caves in Le Grand Bornand where visits can be arranged! Have I done any of these things? Nope. Okay, I’ve discovered all sorts of other great things around this area, but why do I look beyond my own backyard when there’s still so much more to explore on my doorstep?

This week, I asked my friends if they do the same. One has been in a cheese cave at Le Grand Bornand, but it was to do with work. Nobody had been on the cheese making tour, and one friend had fed the cows right opposite my old place in La Clusaz when she was with some children. I trumped them all with my multiple visits to the goat farm, with extra points for regularly buying cheese from it. But still, we’re all a bit hopeless.

So, my challenge to myself and to you is to explore more of the local treats in your area and see just what’s there to discover and enjoy. Time starts now.

My blog statatistics tell me what some visitors have searched for before they arrived at my site, and they’re mostly on track with the content of this blog. The number one search every day is ‘how to pronounce French words’. I’ve discussed this, but there’s certainly no lessons coming from me, considering I’m still struggling to make the rolling ‘r’ sound!  So, for those visitors, try going to the BBC learn French website or the Indo-European Languages free online tutorials.

Now that I’ve lost half my audience, let me carry on with some other search queries. Someone found my blog by searching for “haloumi cheese in france”. Haloumi cheese is stocked in Paris, apparently, although I don’t know how widely available it is. It is not available at any of the shops in the vicinity of Annecy, Thônes, Moutiers or Bonneville. Yes, I have searched.

Another one: “how is ‘goat’ spelt in French language”. It’s ‘chevre’ and that can also mean goats’ cheese. So, if you order a salade chevre chaud, which translates directly to ‘hot goat salad’, rest assured that it’s actually warmed goats’ cheese salad and not a hot goat.

Another one: “music in Annecy”. The live music scene in Annecy is often limited to Savoyard thigh-slapping bands with big horns and matching outfits, but Annecy does offer some more modern live music too. Head to La Brise Glace (French for ‘ice-breaker’) on almost any night of the week and you’ll get some sort of music act. It varies from death metal to open mic nights and despite its diminutive interior, has often drawn popular international and local acts.

Now, some odder ones. Someone arrived at Le Franco Phoney after searching the net for “guys pee pee”. Mate, off you go to find what you want somewhere else! Other searches include:

• gay snowman
• angry tractor
• monster real life

Is this one person searching on several rather bizarre subjects? I’m afraid I can’t help this person/people or anyone who searches for these topics in the future. You’ve arrived at the wrong site. Is there a right site?

A French reader of my blog sent me these photos of a roundabout where he lives, based on my previous posts about ornate French roundabouts. He said: “April, I thought you’d like to see my local roundabout since you write about French roundabouts on your blog. I’m sure you can find something funny to write about it if you decide to put it on your blog.”

Actually, I’m so impressed with this roundabout that I don’t know if I can find anything funny to write about it! What’s not to love about this roundabout? It’s in Morbier, which is why there’s a giant Morbier cheese (appropriately with a section cut out of it to show the layer of ash that runs through the centre), and although I don’t understand why there’s a grandfather clock in the middle of this roundabout, I do appreciate that it’s made mostly of plants. How can this be? How cool is this clock? It looks like it has a coffin lining of satin which is a little freaky, but this roundabout really illustrates just how well the French do roundabouts. Not only does it have a decorative clock and cheese, but it’s also very informative. It tells you what time it is, and it tells you where you are (Haut Jura, as it says on the right). It’s also a friendly roundabout, as it says “Bienvenue” (“Welcome”) on the left. Does a better roundabout exist? I challenge you to find one.

If you’d like to see a bigger version of the roundabout, click on the photo.

Something else that happened last weekend between the DONGing of church bells was a visit to some cheese caves. My friends who live there are in the cheese business (I love being able to say that), and one of them took us to the cheese caves where he himself matures the cheese. Cheese shops are one thing, but I have never seen so much cheese in one place in my life. The cheeses ranged from 10kg blocks of AOC Emmental to something Italian and going grey (apparently a good thing) in the corner, right through to cheese donuts which I don’t know the name of, and these lovely tiny cheese cones (photo taken by my friend Katie after I forgot to bring my camera). The cones and donuts were actually in a drying room, which smelt less pungent than the other caves. That’s not to say it didn’t smell: it’s just that the more humid caves were almost overpowering — and one of them was newly emptied, but still stunk.

Apparently, finding a good affiner de fromage is a hard task, so if you’re in the know when it comes to maturing cheese and you feel like a change of scenery to a little village in the middle of France, apply now! Anyone who can stand the enormous stink when standing in one of those caves all day has my respect. It reminds me of the time I went to the Savoyarde restaurant down the road that has the cows downstairs, with a glass roof for diners to look at them through. Despite the glass, the smell of the cows was very strong, and I could smell manure for days after . Thankfully, the smell of the cheese was not quite that bad. Still, I think I’ll leave it to the experts and those as passionate about cheese as my two friends are.

I’ve been in the north of France this week and I’ve noticed something about French food. Yes, it’s acclaimed as carefully crafted cuisine, created by chefs who take great pride in their work, but there is at least one exception and I believe I’ve found it. Melted cheese is, in fact, at the heart of French cuisine! Please hear me out before you protest.

I live in Haute Savoie, and prior to that, Savoie. Fondue Savoyarde is on most, if not all, local menus in both regions. Although the Swiss and the Savoyardes still dispute who has the best fondue and where it originated, I think everyone would agree that Savoie and Haute Savoie are the leading departments for cheese in France.

But wait: what about Nord-Pas-de-Calais? It’s nowhere near any mountains and it’s by the sea. You’d think restaurateurs would scoff at cheese in favour of delicious and abundant seafood. Seafood is indeed always on the menu, but so is cheese — melted. It’s a bowl of warm cheese with some bread swimming in it. You can choose whether or not a slice of ham and an egg is added. This dish is in competition with fondue for several reasons. First of all, it’s melted cheese with bread and meat, except everything has already been dunked into the cheese for you. Secondly, although the French have made it theirs (as the Swiss would also argue about fondue), it was originally a British dish. Which dish? Welsh rarebit!

If you’re not familiar with Welsh rarebit, it’s basically cheese on toast with a few things added to the cheese, like Worcestershire sauce and beer. The French dish, Welsh, is served with Worcestershire sauce, and from what I can tell, the cheese they use (something called ‘Chester’, which tastes a lot like Cheddar to me), beer is also added to the cheese before it’s ladeled onto a lonely slice of baguette sitting at the bottom of a big bowl.

Known by my friends as the Queen of Fondue, I was somewhat surprised when the Welsh beat me. The one pictured was my lunch, and I felt sick for most of the afternoon despite not finishing it off. This is by far the most stodgy meal I’ve eaten. It beats fry-ups and it beats the Austrian kaiserschmarren (huge steamed dumpling covered in custard). After my meal of melted cheese, dinner was a salad, and even that was a struggle. And there I was thinking that French cuisine was renouned for its refined chefs’ attention to detail. No problem for me though: stodge is great!