Looking out the front gates of the Chateau, on the way over to the Farmhouse as evening falls.
Chère amie, cher ami,
“Pas de photos!” exclaimed Madame Chantal with reproach. Although she smiled, perhaps there was a hint of melancholy in her eye. For many years and many years ago, she herself had been intendante of the Chateau. Her husband had been régisseur of the farm.
“No photos to show?”
But the conversation had been too lively, the company too engaging, and the food and wine too engrossing for any of us to step away from the cercle amical for a moment. This is only the second year that we have held a “diner de l’année” for our staff and close collaborateurs at Courtomer.
Perhaps we should have posed for a last photograph before we bid each other “adieu.” Instead, we had all stood outside saying good-bye.
The night was cold and clear. The sharp crescent of the waxing moon had risen mid-way up the horizon. The stars were out. A few shone intensely.
“Is that the North star?” Sophie had wondered.
“Etoile de Bergère?” proffered Aurélie, her sister. The Shepherd’s Star is the plant Venus.
That it could not be, answered Madame Heather, always knowledgeable about the natural world. At this time of year, the brightly-lit planet Venus is only visible in the early morning. Gradually, as it orbits around the sun and summer comes to an end, it will only be visible in the evening.
“That is why it can be either the Morning Star or the Evening Star,” she explained for the benefit of Monsieur Martyn, our gardener. English is his native tongue.
Nor was Sophie pointing to the North star, the Etoile polaire, Heather continued. That star, though constant, isn’t actually very bright. It stands out because it appears to be fixed in place, aligned with the Earth’s northern axis. Right now, it is practically over our heads.
The bright, celestial object at which we stared was Canis Minor, le Petit Chien, the “little dog.” He is one of a pair. The other hound is Sirius, le Grand Chien, the “big
dog.” But although larger and even twinkling – if one’s eyes were good enough to discern it – the Big Dog star hung down low in the horizon.
All winter, the couple of hounds hunt across the night sky of Normandy with the constellation Orion, named for the goddess Artemis’ companion. Soon, hounds and huntsman will slide away to the west, their place taken by another constellation.
I pointed out the three gently gleaming stars of Orion’s belt, lined up as if perched on a ruler.
Johannes Hevelius's chart of Orion shows the huntsman scaling the skies, from a 1687 edition of his "Uranographia.” The hounds are on either side of him, out of this frame.
While we pondered the celestial sphere, Aurélie’s husband arrived. The sisters climbed into his forgeon. The soirée had come to an end. Martyn and Madame Heather walked home. Inside, my husband and Franck, chef for the evening, were tidying up the kitchen with Jane.
What a lovely dinner it had been, we reflected, taking a final glass of wine before the crackling flames.
There is much to be thankful for, as I reminded our fellow diners that evening.
When a crooked picture and a pile of books are put straight, when an errant cushion finds its place, when the folds of a curtain are gracefully swept back from a window, Aurélie and Sophie sont passées. They reign over the laundry room and the linen closets. Against dust and mud, fingerprints on windows and light switches, sunlight that turns curtains to shreds and bleaches the furniture, they mount a constant guard.
Monsieur Martyn’s tenure as jardinier is more recent. Under his care, the old flower borders flourish. New essences, specimen trees, are planted. New roses and clematis climb up stone walls of the basse-cour. In the parc is now a spring garden and yellow iris along the stream. A wildflower meadow in the orchard. In hours of need, our English gardener also proves to be a redoubtable homme à toutes mains, willingly pitching in with those manly tasks involving ladders, wrenches, trash barrels, and the paintbrush.
Madame Heather shares the general management, the intendance, of the Chateau with Jane. And every summer while our family is visiting, and on special occasions, Jane’s husband Franck comes to stay as our chef. This year, he also rounded up a plumber, electrician, and cuisiniste to rush our new kitchen to completion before the arrival of Easter guests.
* * *
The eight of us had gathered in front of the Farmhouse fire at 7 o’clock. A sunny winter afternoon had darkened to the velvety blue of early evening. Franck brought out a platter of oysters from the coast and a paté he’d made from a boar hunted on the grounds.
“This one won’t tear up the lawn anymore,” said Martyn, smacking his lips as he tried the pâté de sanglier.
Jane pointed out proudly that her husband had added dried canneberge, cranberries, to the mixture. Franck likes to test the limits of la cuisine classique.
Madame Heather looked pained, although it wasn’t the challenge to classic cooking. Her love of nature extends even to wild boar, despite the damage they inflict on grass and farmers’ fields. She took an oyster.
It was the right moment for a toast. I rose to my feet with a glass of champagne.
There were difficult passages this past year at Courtomer. We lost a key member of the staff. There was the trying kitchen drama and several others. But “on a serré les bras!” We hung together. We helped each other out. And in the end, it had been a good year. Fittingly, I concluded, lifting my glass to all, Franck had prepared us a feast.
“A table!”
The menu began with an entrée of velouté de potimarron, a creamy pumpkin soup.
“Noix de coco,” hazarded Aurélie. “Gingembre?”
“Et cannelle, cumin, poivre,” beamed Franck, looking around to make sure we were properly savoring each spoonful.
Délicieux! The cream of coconut, the cinnamon, cumin, pepper, and ginger infused a French winter classic with subtle accents of the Orient.
The bottles were served. There was the reliable and charming Mouton Cadet, a “second” wine from the Rothschild vineyard in Bordeaux. A burgundy, too.
Franck had made us canard à l’orange, with fresh duck purchased from his neighbor. With it were red cabbage and pommes de terre confites, potatoes roasted in duck fat.
As we allowed ourselves to be tempted by another helping, Henry arrived from Paris.
Our son has been moving out of an actual garret, his apartment on the top floor of an 18th-century building with no elevator. He had carried many boxes and suitcases down a narrow, winding stair. His eyes brightening, clearly famished, he joined us at the table. Franck had saved him a duck breast.
After a suitable interval, it was time to change our plates. We passed around le fromage. It is important, Franck told Martyn, to associate a variety of textures and tastes. There was, bien sûr, Normandy’s specialty, Camembert. There was sharp Abondance from the Alps, bleu de Causses from the Massif Centrale, a cinder-covered chèvre from a local farm.
Tarte Tatin was last, served with a dollop of crème fraiche. Scrumptious! Admirable! we all agreed.
“It’s very easy,” said Franck, modestly.
The secret, he explained, is to cook it long enough to melt the apples and completely caramelize the sugar and butter. This should cover the apples with a slightly chewy, slightly crisp coat. I wondered if Franck might take for granted crucial details, like temperature and length of cooking. I would have to ask.
On a winter morning in the Orangerie, lights were already on. Monsieur Martyn was painting the French doors.
Later, as I recounted our “diner d’entreprise” for Madame Chantal, I recalled that she herself had cooked many a good meal at Courtomer. When we first came to Courtomer, the task of organizing the household had been hers. It was Madame Chantal who had first hired Aurélie and her sister. She had recognized their qualities, shown them how to make beds, remove stains, revive bouquets, and use leftovers. She had insisted on the importance of clean windows.
And she had set them a fine example of pride and exactitude in their work. Then, too, there had been a sense of camaraderie, an “esprit de corps” at the Chateau.
Courtomer’s elegance, the beauty of its architecture and its park, the variety and charm of its outbuildings, its pastures and fields are the product of many who were here long before us. Its warmth and sense of home today is thanks to those who care for it now.
Times change, as the history of the Chateau itself reminds us. The past fleets away as ineluctably as Orion and his dogs hunting their way across the night sky. Nevertheless, the modestly shining Etoile polaire still fixes the way North, constant and unchanging.
We look forward to many another diner sympathique at Courtomer as the years roll by.
To all, from Madame Chantal to our dinner companions this winter in the farmhouse, we give heartfelt thanks.
A bientôt,
P.S. If at the Chateau (or elsewhere) on a starry night, here is useful link to the skies. This image shows tonight's sky; simply type in “61390” or “Courtomer.”
The grand feast sounded like it tasted wonderful as described.