Le réveillon, part deux

To see the first part of this posting, click here.

It really was raining. I had my back to the window, which faces west, and I couldn't see it without craning my neck. But Brassia kept commenting on it. Look at the rain beating against the window, she would say. Regardez cette pluie qui tombe. Il tombe des cordes. (That means it's pouring.) Oh là là, mes carreaux. Je viens de les laver, et maintenant il faudra recommencer. I just washed my windows and now I'll have to do it all over again.

When the duck came out of the oven, Brassia asked for a volunteer to do the carving. Florence stepped up to the task. Pretty soon, the green beans were on the table, and so was a dish of sautéed potatoes. Then they brought the duck over, cut into wing, breast, thigh, and leg pieces.

Brassia had said earlier that she was making canard à l'orange, but it wasn't that at all as far as I could tell. The last (and maybe only) time I had duck with orange sauce was last March in a restaurant in the village of Genillé, not too far from Saint-Aignan. We were having lunch with Susan and Ray. Canard à l'orange is not a dish you see often on restaurant menus in France — at least not in the kinds of restaurants I go to.

Brassia's duck was served with the pan drippings from the roasted duck -- c'est le jus. But it didn't taste orangey at all. It was, however, pretty spicy and salty. Somebody asked how she had seasoned the duck, and Brassia brought over a container of spiced coarse salt. She said she had sprinkled it with the spicy salt and let it marinate for a few hours. Then she had cooked the ducks in a slow oven under aluminum foil for six hours.

It was very good but it was sufficiently salty and spicy that I didn't want or need to eat much to be satisfied. That was probably a good thing. Most French people don't like spicy food, so I was a little surprised. But then Brassia is not French per se. Her mother was Vietnamese, and he father was Senegalese. Her cooking tends toward the exotic, and it's always excellent.

To accompany the duck, Gilles opened a bottle of 1994 Bordeaux. I didn't really get to see the label. He tasted it and said he wasn't sure if it was going to be good. Denis tasted it and said yes, just let it breathe -- Laisse-le s'aérer un peu. And good it was.

Everybody except Walt tasted the Bordeaux. No, he wasn't feeling poorly. He had designated himself as the driver for the trip home in the wee hours. He had a little champagne with the hors-d'œuvres, early in the evening, but then he switched to water for the duration of the dinner. Quel sacrifice !

It was getting close to midnight. I can't remember whether the cheese was served before or after the big event, which was the Happy New Year midnight explosion. I think it must have been before.

I had brought a half-dozen cheeses to the party, and Brassia had bought even more. The ones that seemed to have the most success (as we say in French) were four little goat cheeses that I had bought at the market in Noyers that morning and which were enrobés — one had been rolled in raisins, another in chopped walnuts, and a third in paprika. I can't even remember what the fourth one was.

Somebody commented that it was like having cheese and dessert at the same time. But Gilles and Denis, especially, called out for more a couple of times. Walt said there was another cheese on the platter that seemd to have walnuts in it. It was very good, he said. I had a big piece of a beautiful roquefort that Brassia had bought, and it was delicious.

Gilles opened a second bottle of the 1994 Bordeaux and decanted it into a nice glass carafe. It was as good as the first. Remember, there were eight of us drinking wine, so two bottle wasn't all that much. Besides, at this point we had been at the table for 2½ hours.

And then it was midnight. Gilles turned on the radio, which was playing silly pop music that appeals mostly to children and French people having a silly New Year's Eve party. The children were called out. Somebody pulled out bags of what were called indoor fireworks — feux d'artifice d'intérieur — and various adults started reading all the labels to see how they worked.

It was pouring rain outside still, so going out to do fireworks was not an option.

Some of the feux d'artifice were sparklers (cierges magiques) and others were miniature plastic bottles with a string coming out of the cork. When you held them upside-down and pulled the string, the bottom of the bottle flew off with a loud pop and a mass of crepe paper streamers came flying out. Pretty soon, the big light fixture over the dining room table had streamers hanging all over it.

At midnight, it was time to do the French kisses. No, it's not what you think. Valérie, who was sitting next to me, said Bonne Année and kissed me on both cheeks. I had forgotten that that was what you do in France at midnight on New Year's Eve. Brassia, Florence, and Christine came over for cheek kisses too.

Gilles shook my hand and then he kissed me on both cheeks too. Denis and John just shook hands. Walt said Gilles just shook his hand too. French men do exchange cheek-kisses with their good friends, brothers, fathers, sons, uncles, and even cousins, but not usually with other men unless they are very close friends. So Gilles had surprised me, and it probably showed. I was flattered.

Then the place went wild. Denis started blowing up balloons. He particularly enjoyed some of the fireworks, including a bunch that were these foot long strings with a middle section that had been dipped into a red substance that resembled the stuff that coats the head of a match. When you pulled the string, the red stuff exploded with a loud bang. The kids were fascinated.

Balloons were flying around the room, and Denis kept blowing up more. His son Louis was having a good time stomping on balloons to pop them as fast as his father could blow them up. Other kids were pulling the strings on the streamer bottles so that the crepe-paper ribbons were going everywhere. Teeny-bopper music was blaring. It was pandemonium, and it went on for at least 30 minutes, maybe more.

There were also pea-shooters and everybody was pelting everybody else with the little styrofoam balls that they shot. They weren't pellets that could injure anybody, thank goodness. And there were horns and hat. Horns tooting, balloons popping, steamers flying, teeny-bopper music blaring, indoor fire crackers cracking, and children running around like chickens with their heads cut off. It was dizzying.

The children were getting very tired and cranky. Suddenly I noticed that Emma and Alizée were standing behind Denis and joyfully popping one balloon after another by stepping on them. Then Louis came running from the other side of the room yelling : Mes ballons, mes ballons ! Elles ont pété tous mes ballons ! They've popped all my balloons. He burst into tears. Mais pourquoi mes ballons à moi ? He literally sobbed.

Considering all the balloons he had popped in the mêlée that had reigned for 30 or 40 minutes, his upset was kind of surprising. I guess I just don't understand children. Denis told his son to go outside and calm down. It was pouring rain, somebody pointed out. That's OK, Denis said, he can stand just outside the door where he won't get too wet.

At least it was warm outside. Probably 60ºF. Louis didn't stay out more than 2 or 3 minutes. Then his father blew up some more balloons for him and he was happy.

We all remarked on how tired the children must be. And then Brassia gave them their dessert. It was a very sugary-looking chocolate bûche de Noël, a yule log. Well, the sugar high set the children off again, so they kept bouncing off the walls until we left for home.

Some of the adults also had the chocolate dessert, but I declined, as did Florence and maybe a couple of others. I was more interested in tasting the apple tart that Walt had made for the occasion, and the gâteau basque that I had made.

Brassia served me a piece of tart, and it was delicious. Walt made it with ground hazelnuts and apple sauce with sliced apples on top, glazed with apricot jam.

I never did get a piece of the Basque cake. Valérie, sitting next to me, had one, and I could tell she was enjoying it. It looked fantastic, with the plum preserves as a filling. There were big pieces of plums in the jam, and one slid out of the cake onto Valérie's plate. She scooped it up with a spoon and ate it with obvious pleasure.

John, Gilles, and Denis also had some gâteau basque and they all said it was great. So I was pleased. But I didn't get any.

With dessert, Gilles served a pink champagne that was as good as all the other wines had been. It was champagne — I looked at the label. At first I thought it might be a local Touraine bubbly rosé. They make a lot of those around here, and they're good too.

The children finally calmed down by about 1:45, and Denis was starting to nod off at the table. He had to work the next morning. Yes, work on New Year's Day. I guess that's the life of a farmer. Pretty soon, he and Valérie had their kids all dressed and were out the door. Walt headed out too.

Brassia wouldn't let me leave without some food. She gave me a big tupperware container of duck and green beans (we had that for lunch yesterday), about a quarter of the Basque cake (yippee!), and some other odds and ends. With all that, I ran out into the rain and found Walt sitting in the car with the motor going and the heat on.

He drove home, as I said. We saw very few cars and no gendarmes. We didn't see any wildlife either. On past late-night trips, we have seen big white owls that rise up out of the ditches along the side of the road like ghosts and make you think they are going to crash into your windshield. And deer and rabbits and foxes and even wild boars. But it was pouring rain. I guess all the animals had sought shelter that night.