The Franco Files Dining in France? Expect the unexpected. By Nancy Ross Ryan

Chef Herve Liegent of Le Vigneron, Reims

There are two French languages: the one we learn in college and the one spoken by the French. The infuriating arrogance of the French is nowhere more apparent than when you try to speak their language, and noway better confirmed than by French cab drivers -- especially in Paris -- who for decades have steadfastly refused to acknowledge a single French word or phrase I have ever spoken. Anytime over the past 20 years that I have climbed into a cab in Paris and said, for example, "Bonjour" (which does indeed mean good day, good morning or hello), le chauffeur de taxi will look at me, usually through the rear view mirror, and respond irritably, "Comment?" "Bonjour!" I repeat pleasantly and a bit louder. "Comment?" he demands, throwing both hands in the air in mounting exasperation. "BONJOUR, BONJOUR!" I fairly scream. This time le chauffeur doesn't see fit to favor me with another "comment?" but merely strikes his forehead while assuming an expression of exasperated bewilderment. Any attempt to communicate an address to a Parisian cab driver is and has been an exercise in utter futility -- no matter that the address I am speaking slowly and distinctly in French is the Arc de Triomphe or La Tour Eiffel. At the end of this drill I have learned to always have the address in writing to present the driver. The driver reads the address and responds with body language that says "Zut alors!" (Curses, then! why didn't you tell me that?), or "Bien entendu!" (Of course, why didn't you say so?). So for decades I have nursed a grudge against the French in general and French cab drivers in particular for their absolute refusal to meet me, even halfway, on this matter of an American tourist speaking their language. But I have finally forgiven the French, even the cab drivers, absolved them and laid my grudge to rest. Pourquoi this change of heart? Because on my most recent trip to France, I had an epiphany about French style -- that indefinable but absolutely identifiable quality that transforms the ordinary. And although other people and other places have style, the French have the most, which may be the root cause of their off-putting superiority. But it's a small price to pay for such pleasures as: dining with princes in castles, dining with (properly attired) dogs in restaurants, drinking 60-year-old Champagne just to prove it still bubbles, or munching on a fortune in fresh black truffles sandwiched between Brie. My last trip to France took me to Paris for a few days, and, after the usual exchange of pleasantries with French cabbies, then to Reims, the heart of the Champagne district to visit the House of Pommery. House is an understatement. It's a neo-Gothic Elizabethan-style castle fortified with turrets, bell towers and arrow slits, built in 1868 by Mme. Pommery (who invented the world's first brut Champagne). The winemaker is a real live Prince whose royal lineage dates from the 13th century: Prince Alain de Polignac, Mme. Pommery's great, great grandson, who has been Pommery's sole enologist for the past 25 years. Being an American means being unaccustomed to royalty and its etiquette. Does one curtsy, bow, genuflect? Prince Alain has degrees in chemistry, engineering and enology, and was easily the most elegant man I have ever met, from his fine calfskin leather shoes up to the navy blue cashmere scarf draped loosely across his shoulders. That scarf remained in perfect position from the time he shook my hand, to the tasting of Champagne (he poured), to the lunch in a castle dining room, to coffee in a small salon. In vino veritas. In wine there is truth and I suspect that Champagne loosens the tongue faster than still wine, because after my second glass I began asking somewhat personal questions: When did the Prince first realize he was a prince? "Always." When he was a little boy, what did his parents call him? "Alain." What did the servants call him? "Prince Alain." When he is not at the castle, where does he live? "In Paris." Does he have children? "A son and a daughter." Are they also called Prince and Princess? "Of course." And for some reason, I really wanted to know, if one abbreviates mister as Mr., how does one abbreviate Prince? The Prince smiled and wrote "Pce." in my notebook. That morning I had checked into Les Crayeres, Chef Gerard Boyer's four-star hotel in Reims, that was once a chateau, and that evening I looked forward to dining with several companions in the four-star restaurant. Dinner was a modest affair: one server for every diner. My waiter appeared at my elbow in anticipation of the smallest need -- to top off the water, offer another baguette, refill Champagne glasses, pull out my chair when I rose to leave the table and seat me when I returned to discover a fresh, folded napkin at my place. Of course it was the best French dinner I have ever eaten, but the piece de resistance was a veritable blanket of thinly sliced fresh black truffles that, 48 hours previously, had been sandwiched between two layers of Brie de Meaux (the real unpasteurized Brie that we can't import because of U.S. laws about raw milk cheeses). The earthy, seductive essence of the truffles had permeated the soft ripe ivory cheese, and the result was sensational. The following evening our party dined at Le Vigneron in Reims, a restaurant famous for food, for original wine posters (not reproductions) so numerous that some hung on the ceiling, and for the handsomely mustached proprietor, Chef Herve Liegent, who looked so much the part of the French chef that he might have been sent from Hollywood by Central Casting. Around 8 o'clock three of his regular patrons came to dine: a dog and his master and mistress. The dog was properly attired with a becoming blue scarf tied over one shoulder, and, although unlike the Prince's it wasn't cashmere and it did slip here and there, the dog was a perfect gentleman. He sat quietly at his owner's feet, drank from his dish of water and ate his specially prepared appetizer, entree and dessert from plates as they were served. You might say he was a prince. After dinner Chef Liegent invited us to his wine cellar across the street and opened for us successively older and older bottles of Champagne (beginning with a 60-year-old Champagne) to prove his point: "Great Champagne lives as long as any great wine -- see, it still has bubbles!" According to the English poet George Herbert, living well is the best revenge. I have only to remember this when next I am in France among the French who are masters of the art of living well -- and remember to keep my French to myself.

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