Le Franco Phoney

I was lucky enough last weekend to get a personal tour of how champagne is made with champagne maker Philippe Chochina (who makes a very tasty drop and swears it’s impossible to have a hangover with well-made champagne), and I now understand why champagne is so expensive. Making champagne is quite a laborious task, involving two rounds of fermentation and turning bottles five degrees daily. After the initial fermentation in large silos, where the good stuff is then placed into bottles the way it is with wine, the second fermentation begins, and this is where the bubbles begin. Yeast and sugar are added, and the bottle is sealed like beer. When the yeast has consumed all the sugar, it dies, sinking to the bottom of the liquid. The bottle is stored sideways at first, and turned daily and eventually angled so the bottle top is face down, which will pull down any remaining dead yeast floating in the liquid. Eventually, the bottle is reopened to remove the dead yeast, aided by freezing the bottle top to -26°C. Extra alcohol is added to fill the gap and then the bottle is sealed with a big fat cork that starts off with an equal diameter from top to bottom, then gains its shape through the pressure in the bottle.

The entire process of making champagne is very manual. As you can see from this photo (click to enlarge), the grapes are pressed with the aid of people. They’re not stamping on the grapes — indeed, Monsieur Philippe Chochina said with some pride that he has never squashed grapes with his bare feet. That raised semi-circle of metal on each side flattens and lowers to press the grapes until all the juice is extracted into the vat on the right, like a giant orange press. However, after the initial pressing, these two guys get in with pitch forks and lift the grapes from the side, then press them again to squeeze out any remaining juice. The grape skins get added to a mountain of grape skins near one of the local villages rather than used as fertiliser to prevent too many pesticides, stuck to the grape skins, getting into the ground. Philippe did, however, add that this mountain of grape skins is used to make another type of alcohol. Fermented pesticides, anyone?

We also visited the vineyards where Philippe explained that horses are now replacing tractors, with wine-makers reverting to more traditional methods at every stage of the grape-growing and collecting process. We watched some horses being used to walk down each row of grapes, where boxes were placed on sleighs behind the horses — somewhere a tractor could never enter.

The only meals where champagne was not the staple drink were breakfasts, which made me realise just how similar this region of France is to where I live. Instead of talking about cheese and cows and eating some potato/cheese concoction regularly, people in the champagne-producing region of France talk about grapes and horses and drink champagne regularly.

When an English lady called Miranda got in touch to see if I’d be interested in a writers’ retreat just ten minutes from my house, I was hesitant. Okay, I’m a writer and it would give me a break from domestic life to get stuck into some fiction, but I already live in a beautiful part of the world so would it really make that much difference? I went to find out, and I can confidently say that it was worth every cent.

I was greeted by Miranda and Chris from Chalet La Giettaz just on the other side of the Col des Aravis which is the doorway to the Savoie region (La Clusaz is Haute Savoie). I met the lady who was going to crack the whip all weekend, Bidisha, and the three other writers over a tasty, relaxed dinner. As you may gather from this photo, Bidisha is not a harsh person, and the most fierce whip-cracking involved her insisting that we go on a walk to clear our heads on Sunday despite some resistance. I suspect one student may say that the whip only really came out when Bidisha demanded that each student submit 6,000 words of text prior to the weekend for her to critique. Bidisha provided some great feedback and the opportunity to ask questions about the publishing industry and finding an agent.

That might seem trite to someone living in London, but I’m surrounded by French people who speak mostly of snow, sports and cows, so the weekend was really valuable for me to learn about the British publishing industry (where I plan to get published) and writing fiction. Although I can’t say that the idyllic mountain scenery of La Giettaz motivated me to write any more than the idyllic mountain scenery out my window in St Jean de Sixt, the retreat really was a retreat, and the Brits around me seemed suitably satisfied with the views and peacefulness to aid their writing. The retreat enabled me to write for hours, which I’d  fail to do at home (partly thanks to the attention demanded by my cat Bruno and his cream-nagging, small-animal-regurgitating ways), and Bidisha has motivated me to get back to polishing this novel before another year passes me by. Watch this space.

I went for a walk the other morning and found a mannequin being serenaded by another mannequin. I stopped to have a look at the silent scene and drank in the detail. As you can see from the photo below, the mannequin on the ladder is holding a real guitar. But wait, there’s more.

Apart from the girl on the balcony being serenaded, there’s a newly-married couple of mannequins behind the pretty little chalet with all those lovely, well-maintained flowers. The bride seems to have no hair or face, but the groom is decked out well with a top hat and a scarf around his neck. But wait, there’s more. A baby is sitting with a woman who, let’s face it, is dressed in much the same way as the baby. Who knows why the baby is propped on a log or why there’s a married couple with a bald bride in amongst the serenading couple’s scene. I just love the randomness of the scenes that regularly appear in this cluster of gardens and buildings.

And it’s great to know that the scene-setter has not given up; during the summer holidays, some of the mannequins were vandalised. They were placed head first in a water tank with their legs sticking out. Maybe this is why the bride’s face is blank — her features washed away by water. In a wave of crime the same weekend, some number plates were stolen and some houses, including mine, were strawberried. Someone threw strawberries at houses, causing no damage but a lovely smell. I’m pleased that even when vandalism does strike here in St Jean de Sixt, it’s not on the scale of what I’ve seen in the cities I’ve lived in.

Anyway, the little chalet pictured is no doubt just a storage shed. Is this not the most ornate and well-decorated storage shed that has ever existed? May the mannequins and flowers continue.

Local French people just don’t understand my excitement when I visit a place like the Mer de Glace in Chamonix. The rounded ‘mountains’ of the Australian Alps are really no comparison to the breathtaking sight of this glacier and its jagged mountainous cradle. That brown on the glacier is dirt and rocks that have fallen from the old banks of the glacier when it was bigger. Getting here was half the fun as it involved taking the Montvers-Mer de Glace rack and pinion railway, which has an additional spiky rail down the centre to keep traction I guess. It weaves up a summit with fantastic views on both sides and the occasional tunnel to protect the track from avalanches in winters. The railway itself was finished in 1909 despite the opposition from locals back in 1905 when work began.

My friends and I were all too excited to have a look around before heading down towards the ice cave. Although there’s a gondola/bubble/eauf (depending on your country) to take you most of the way down, we chose to walk, stopping for a picnic lunch on the way. The walk down involves a lot of steps and signs showing where the glacier used to be more than a hundred years ago and even just three years ago, with its thickness shrinking by up to four metres every year. This means that the staircase opposite the glacier has to be extended down every year, and the ramp to the ice cave works like a plane ramp at an airport gate. Each year, the ice cave is re-drilled because the glacier is of course moving downstream. This one moves up to 120 metres per year at the top. Massive white sheets are placed on top of the ice cave to reflect the sun’s heat and ensure minimal ice loss. One is just visible on in the top right corner of the photo showing the outside entrance to the ice cave. Inside, the cave is not as cold as I expected, and the walls are dimpled, but very smooth. Bubbles of air hundreds of years old are trapped within the ice and I had a strong inclination to lick the wall (which I resisted).

We climbed the 350 steps back to the gondola (when it was build in 1960 and again replaced in 1988, it must have met the ice cave entrance), which we took back to the top to save a very long, steep walk back up the hill. Our late start to the day meant we ran out of time to visit the other attractions at the top, such as the alpine fauna museum, lots of walks with great views of the next valley over, and the museum inside the Montvers Grand hotel, which was built before the railway in 1880. People used to get there via mule transport! So, if you’re interested in going, I suggest you get there early and save yourself the long queue that we endured at the ticket office to maximise your time in this truly amazing place. And with the price of the railway ticket, a picnic lunch really is the way forward.

On a walk through St Jean de Sixt yesterday, I noticed the garden scene below. Something’s a bit NQR (Not Quite Right), right? That’s not a real person! That’s not a real café either. The donkey is only two-dimensional. And, in fact, that’s a fake house there in the background. Let me explain.

These are just some of the props that used to grace the St Jean de Sixt roundabout at different times of the year. The guy who used to put the mannequins on the roundabout together with the corresponding props is obviously missing his roundabout antics, and is now turning his attentions to creating scenes away from the roundabout, closer to his house.

I had walked past a week earlier one evening and I saw a scene full of life — minus the actual life. The red mannequin dude in the background hadn’t moved, but there were chairs and tables populated by mannequins (including the one with the hat right in front of the camera, watching the scene from a distance while he was gardening at night). Apparently, mannequins party at night.

It might sound silly, but it’s a real treat to walk past this area in St Jean and watch the scene change over time. Security cameras and fences aren’t needed here, and that’s what I truly love. The mannequins have not been undressed, the donkey has not been turned upside down or stolen, and the fake café has no graffiti. I heart rural living.

Tête de veau means “head of calf” in English. So, why would there be a sign offering tête de veau and vegetables in Annecy recently? Because people eat whole heads of calves here in France, as well as in Italy and Germany.

And at just €6, you can see why it’s popular! Well, to be honest, I wouldn’t eat it if someone paid me. However, a couple of stories spring to mind. Back in the year 2000, when I had only just left Australia and had been talked into a quick bus tour of Europe, one of the fellow tour-goers ordered tête de veau when we stopped in Lyon, the culinary capital of France, for dinner. He had no idea what it was, but decided, since we were at this posh restaurant after days of eating boring tour-group food at pre-arranged locations, that anything on the menu must be good and that he would enjoy whatever came out. How bad could it be? The head went back uneaten, and the guy felt too ill (and guilty for contributing to the market of calf-head cooking) that he abstained from food for the rest of the night.

Recipes tend to involve the tongue wrapped around the head (minus the bone by the looks of it, but don’t quote me: I became too queasy just reading about it and had to stop), along with some boiled potatoes, capers and a vinaigrette. Brains are often served beside the meat.

Now, apart from the whole culinary delight thing, tête de veau is also an insult aimed at Parisians. The saying goes (spelling unknown, but it all rhymes with “go”): “Parigot, tête de veau”, so it’s really just a rhyme used by non-Parisians to make it clear they think that Parisians have calves heads. It’s a bonafide insult, albiet light-hearted most of the time. The only reason I found out about this was after a weekend ski contest in Le Grand Bornand for kids from villages nearby. Apparently, Manigod (pronounced “manny go”) did very well, much to the disappointment of the kids from other villages, who started chanting: “Manigod, tête de veau”. Parents were shocked and embarrassed and word got out — all the way down to the Australian (me) who doesn’t even know any truly local kids. Apparently, kids saying it to other kids is less light-hearted!

So, did I buy a tête de veau? No way! I’ll leave that up to the locals.

After challenging everyone to visit attractions close to home, I drove for two hours to Lyon last weekend and visited la Demeure du Chaos (the Abode of Chaos) with a friend who lives nearby (do I get half a point since it’s near her house?). Imagine the setting: a beautiful village with very posh houses and residents, then smack bang in the centre, some guy with enough money (Thierry Ehrmann) buys a large house with lots of land around it and turns it into a doomsday museum. Residents from the picturesque village of Saint-Romain-au-Mont-d’Or aren’t happy about the museum and have been pushing to have it destroyed. I’m not sure how I’d feel if I lived next door to it, but reading the quotes on the walls and looking at the artwork of varying detail but all with strong passion made me think a lot about what’s happening in the world. The museum is open from 3pm on weekends, but we got there at midday and were too pressed for time to stay until opening, although we could have spent three hours taking in everything viewable from the outside. Below are just a few photos from the huge property (my first gallery of images in a while). If you want to check it out for yourself, go to 17 rue de la République, Saint-Romain-au-Mont-d’Or, which is just north of Lyon centre.

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.

Pictured is a Krispy Kreme custard-filled, chocolate hand-dipped donut (halo by me). How on earth does this relate to living in the French Alps? It doesn’t really. I just wanted to find an excuse to talk about these delicious donuts. See, there are lots of foods that I miss here in the Alps. Vegetarian supplies aren’t in much demand, so during my visit to England last week, I stocked up on Beanfeast vegie spag bol, Quorn vegie products and Haloumi cheese (which isn’t just for vegetarians, obviously, but very hard to find anywhere in the Alps). As I waited to board my flight with my bags full of English goodies, I kept my little bag with my single Krispy Kreme donut close to me, careful not to squash it. Then I saw a lady with an entire box of Krispy Kreme donuts. Then another lady. Then a teenage girl. Presuming their boxes were filled with the typical dozen, that’s 36 donuts on my flight, not including mine.

Once seated on the plane, the stewardess saw my bag and quizzed me about whether these donuts really are as good as everyone says. “Of course!” I said, “They’re fantastic.” She explained that she has resisted sampling them because she doesn’t want to start a new addiction. We chatted and joked about a donut for a few minutes — the longest I’ve ever spent talking to any airline staff apart from the check-in man who made me take some of my British food goodies out of my overweight suitcase despite my friendly pleas that I was only carrying minimal hand luggage — which was a few minutes later brimming with 1.5kg of food that had been in my suitcase. Maybe I should have arrived at the check-in desk with a Krispy Kreme donut to sway him.

When the stewardess got on with her pre-flight duties, the man sitting next to me carried on. “You shouldn’t have mentioned the Krispy Kreme donut,” he said, “because if you fall asleep, it won’t be there when you wake up.” As the conversation continued, I learnt that my donut, just like the one pictured here, was not his favourite. He wanted a simple sugared donut with raspberry filling. He said my donut was safe: chocolate icing is all wrong even on a Krispy Kreme, and anything but jam filling is just as bad.

As soon as our donut discussion came to an end, he turned his head to look out the window, and eventually buried his head in a newspaper. My donut managed to soften this otherwise silent seat neighbour!

So, I was wondering what would happen if Krispy Kremes came to France. Would we all finally discover a language that we all understand? Would Savoyardes, other French and non-French people all just be friends? And would the shop owner keep a few of the favourites hidden so that there’d be some for the regulars coming in later on? Would they be pronounced “Krispy Krem” by the French, causing massive confusion for locals serving the tourists (“what is zis ‘crispic ream‘ thing zey are talking about?”). Perhaps I could open a shop on the St Jean de Sixt roundabout that no longer has a hut on in. Imagine the new friendships! Imagine the donut love! Imagine the chaos of the queues. Maybe, then, the roundabout mannequins wouldn’t seem like such a health and safety risk.

Below is a photo of a typical communal oven in France. A communal oven? What? Back in medieval times, these ovens, known in French as a “four banal” were used in many areas of the Alps as a way for villagers to cook bread. That sounds nice, doesn’t it. However, such privileges came at a cost: those wanting to use the oven would have to pay the village lord a fee, and according to some sources, home ovens were often outlawed so that villagers had no choice but to use the community oven. I can’t imagine living in such a rugged place during the drafty medieval days, let alone living without the heat of an oven. What a great monopoly for the village lord.

The oven pictured here, taken last week on a snowy day in Les Allues, just down the road from Méribel, and one of many communal ovens in the valley, is no longer the only oven in town. The locals tell me that the community oven is still used sometimes, but only for special occasions such as town fêtes. Looking at it closely, you can see the darkened wood and bricks from previous baking sessions.I guess the wood has been replaced more than once over the years, and probably some of the bricks too, but when I lived in Les Allues many years ago, walking past the big old oven always led me to imagine the villagers’ way of life and what a relief it must have been to have this great big warm room to sit in, waiting for their bread to cook. The oven sits in the centre of the village, which, although modernised to a certain extent, still bears the charm of an old French farming village despite its proximity to the pistes. The village has found a balance between the medieval charm of its buildings and the twin-tip skis and inverted camber snowboards that are now as prevalent in town as personal ovens. Les Allues have certainly seen some changes, but its communal oven remains, thankfully.