Le Repas Chasseur à Coulx 2018

Hunters' Lunch  Coulx 2018

Low cloud the colour of steel hung over the hamlet. The bell of a 12^th century church chimed at midday as we walked the short distance from Jane and Tony’s place to where the feast was being prepared.

Faces moistened by drizzle, rugged up against the cold, we must have looked like a group of hungry pilgrims as we approached Coulx’s Salle des Fetes (community hall).

In the reception area, we hung our overcoats and paid our 20 euros.

Three long tables, each of 50 places, filled a room from which the stage had been removed to create more space.

A good proportion of the townsfolk had already arrived. Inside, we were met by Louis, the village patriarch, a kindly octogenarian whose face showed the creases of a full life, whose scalp was thinly carpeted with short-cropped, grizzled hair and whose eyes, narrowed to slits beneath arched eyebrows, shone, indeed sparkled as he chaperoned Jane and Tony and their “English” guests to their seats.

The tables were dressed with canary yellow cloths and decorated with mimosa, tiny pinecones and jugs of rouge, known as vin du pays (local wine). 

People brought their own “couverts” … plates, knives, forks etc ... and arranged these on the table as they sat down.

Once all the guests were seated, pre-lunch drinks (apéros) were served by the hunters and members of their families. Whisky, Ricard or Muscat.

The adults went around pouring drinks; little boys with arms outstretched made offerings of ice cubes in small aluminium bowls. 

Soup was a broth of tapioca in meat stock. This was a new savory experience as I’d only ever eaten tapioca in sago pudding.

I filled our wine glasses from a jug. Tony leaned over to me and said, “If you look around the room the French have not yet touched their wine.” I checked our table and the one in front and the one behind. It was true. Hardly anyone in the room had wine in their glasses. 

On each of the three tables, a few full glasses, here and there, betrayed the presence of foreigners … English, Dutch, Belgian.

It was only after the soup course that the French poured their wine. Dining protocols are always strictly observed.

Next on the menu was a plate of wild boar charcuterie with crudities (salad) consisting of a tranche of terrine and two slices of boar carpaccio, asparagus, a couple of cornichons and an artichoke heart filled with chopped cooked veg in mayonnaise.

After the entrèe came a slow-cooked ragout of venison. I looked around the room and wondered how many of these diners were in fact hunters. Some of these old men and young men were responsible for this feast, they had gone out on freezing mornings with guns and dogs and steely resolve. They had kept alive one of France's oldest traditions.

As well as the vin du pays in jugs, bottles of Haut Grand Champ Bordeaux 2014 began appearing on the table … and were replaced as we emptied them.

Next, steaks of sanglier (wild boar) with a mushroom sauce served with polenta. That was followed by boar cutlets … chargrilled and tender.

A slice of paysan cheese from the local Fromagerie Baechler at Temple sur Lot came with salad … and that was followed by tiramisu, a delicious melt in your mouth variation that was washed down with champagne.

Armagnac or Eau de Vie rounded off the lunch … and coffee.

This marathon of indulgence, blessed by Saints Hubertus and Vincent, went on until five thirty in the afternoon. A celebration of hunting and cooking, it began in muted fashion, but as the afternoon wore on it became louder and more convivial. 

Hospitality, fine food and good wine seem to have that effect.

As we left the hall, I noted the smile on Louis' face was as wide and warm as when we had entered … perhaps even wider.

It had been a memorable lunch.