We joined the line of truck-drivers at the buffet. They were achieving small miracles of balance, piling their plates with an assortment that was a meal in itself: two kinds of saucisson, hard-boiled eggs in mayonnaise, moist tangles of céleri rémoulade, saffron-coloured rice with red peppers, tiny peas and sliced carrots, a pork terrine in pastry, rillettes, cold squid, wedges of fresh melon. Régis grumbled at the size of the plates and took two, resting the second with a waiter's expertise on the inside of his forearm as he plundered each of the serving bowls.

  There was a moment of panic when we returned to the table. Impossible even to think of eating without bread. Where was the bread? Régis caught the eye of our waitress and raised a hand to his mouth, making biting motions with bunched fingers against his thumb. She pulled a baguette from the brown paper sack standing in the corner and ran it through the guillotine with a speed that made me wince. The slices of bread were still reflating after the pressure of the blade when they were put in front of us.

  I told Régis that he might be able to use the bread guillotine in his Marquis de Sade cookbook, and he paused in mid-saucisson.

  ‘Peut-être,’ he said, ‘but one must be careful, above all with the American market. Have you heard about the difficulty with the champagne?’

  Apparently, so Régis had read in a newspaper article, the champagne of the Marquis de Sade had not been welcome in the land of the free because of its label, which was decorated with a drawing of the top half of a well-endowed young woman. This might not have been a problem, except that a sharp-eyed guardian of public morality had noticed the position of the young woman's arms. It was not explicit, not depicted on the label itself, but there was the merest hint of a suggestion that the arms might have been pinioned.

  Oh là là. Imagine the effect of such degeneracy on the youth of the country, not to mention some of the more susceptible adults. The fabric of society would be ripped asunder, and there would be champagne and bondage parties all the way from Santa Barbara to Boston. God only knows what might happen in Connecticut.

  Régis resumed eating, his paper napkin tucked in the top of his vest. At the next table, a man on his second course unbuttoned his shirt to let the air circulate, and revealed a stupendous mahogany paunch with a gold crucifix suspended neatly between furry bosoms. Very few people were picking at their food, and I wondered how they could manage to stay alert at the wheel of a fifty-ton truck all afternoon.

  We wiped our empty plates with bread, and then wiped our knives and forks the same way. Our waitress came with three oval stainless steel dishes, burning hot. On the first were two halves of a chicken in gravy; on the second, tomatoes stuffed with garlic and parsley; on the third, tiny potatoes that had been roasted with herbs. Régis sniffed everything before serving me.

  ‘What do the routiers in England eat?’

  Two eggs, bacon, chips, sausages, baked beans, a fried slice, a pint of tea.

  ‘No wine? No cheese? No desserts?’

  I didn't think so, although my routier experience had been very limited. I said they might stop at a pub, but the law about drinking and driving was severe.

  Régis poured some more wine. ‘Here in France,’ he said, ‘I am told that one is permitted an apéritif, half a bottle of wine and a digestif.’

  I said that I had read somewhere about the accident rate in France being higher than anywhere in Europe, and twice as high as America.

  ‘That has nothing to do with alcohol,’ said Régis. ‘It is a question of national esprit. We are impatient, and we love speed. Malheureusement, not all of us are good drivers.’ He mopped his plate and changed the conversation back to more comfortable ground.

  ‘This is a high quality chicken, don't you think?’ He picked up a bone from his plate and tested it between his teeth. ‘Good strong bones. He has been raised properly, in the open air. The bones of an industrial chicken are like papier-mâché.’

  It was indeed a fine chicken, firm but tender, and perfectly cooked, like the potatoes and the garlicky tomatoes. I said that I was surprised not only at the standard of cooking, but at the abundance of the portions. And I was sure the bill wasn't going to be painful.

  Régis cleaned his knife and fork again, and signalled the waitress to bring cheese.

  ‘It's simple,’ he said. ‘The routier is a good client, very faithful. He will always drive the extra fifty kilometres to eat well at a correct price, and he will tell other routiers that the restaurant is worth a detour. As long as the standard is maintained, there will never be empty tables.’ He waved a forkful of Brie at the dining-room. ‘Tu vois?’

  I looked around, and gave up counting, but there must have been close to 100 men eating, and maybe thirty more in the bar.

  ‘It is a solid business. But if the chef becomes mean, or starts cheating, or the service is too slow, the routiers will go. Within a month, there will be nobody, a few tourists.’

  There was a rumble outside, and the room became sunny as a truck pulled away from its place next to the window. Our neighbour with the crucifix put on his sunglasses to eat his dessert, a bowl of three different ice creams.

  ‘Glaces, crème caramel ou flan?’ The black bra strap was hitched into place, only to slip out again as the waitress cleared our table.

  Régis ate his crème caramel with soft sucking sounds of enjoyment, and reached for the ice cream that he had ordered for me. I'd never make a routier. I didn't have the capacity.

  It was still early, well before two, and the room was beginning to clear. Bills were being paid – huge fingers opening dainty little purses to take out carefully folded banknotes, the waitress bobbing and smiling and hitching as she brought change and wished the men bonne route.

  We had double-strength coffee, black and scalding beneath its scum of brown bubbles, and Calvados in rotund little glasses. Régis tipped his glass until its rounded side touched the table and the gold liquid exactly reached the rim – the old way, he said, of judging a true measure.

  The bill for us both was 140 francs. Like our lunch at Hiély, it was wonderful value for money, and I had only one regret as we went outside and felt the hammer of the sun. If I'd brought a towel, I could have had a shower.

  ‘Well,’ said Régis, ‘that will hold me until tonight.’ We

  shook hands, and he threatened me with a bouillabaisse in Marseille on our next educational outing.

  I went back into the bar for some more coffee, and to see if I could rent a towel.

  10

  Sporting and Fashion Notes from the Ménerbes Dog Show

  The Ménerbes stadium, a level field among the vines, is normally the setting for loud and enthusiastic matches played by the village football team. There might be a dozen cars parked under the pine trees, and supporters divide their attention between the game and their copious picnics. But for one day a year, usually the second Sunday in June, the stade is transformed. Bunting, in the Provencal blood and guts colours of red and yellow, is strung across the forest paths. An overgrown hollow is cleared to provide extra parking, and a screen of canisse is erected along the side of the road so that passers-by can't watch the proceedings without paying their 15-franc entrance fee. Because this is, after all, a major local event, a mixture of Cruft's and Ascot, the Foire aux Chiens de Ménerbes.

  This year it started early and noisily. Just after seven, we were opening the doors and shutters and enjoying the one morning of the week when our neighbour's tractor stays in bed. The birds were singing, the sun was shining, the valley was still. Peace, perfect peace. And then, half a mile away over the hill, the chef d'animation began his loudspeaker trials with an electronic yelp that ricocheted through the mountains and must have woken up half the Lubéron.

  ‘Allo allo, un, deux, trois, bonjour Ménerbes!’ He paused to cough. It sounded like an avalanche. ‘Bon,’ he said, ‘ça marche.’ He turned the volume down a notch and tuned into Radio Monte Carlo. A quiet morning was out of the question.

  We had decided to wait until the afternoon before going to the show. By then, the preliminary heats would be over, mongrels and dogs of dubious behaviour weeded out, a good lunch would have been had by all and the best noses in the business would be ready to do battle in the field trials.

  On the stroke of noon, the loudspeaker went dead and the background chorus of barking was reduced to the occasional plaintive serenade of a hound expressing unrequited lust or boredom. The valley was otherwise silent. For two hours, dogs and everything else took second place to stomachs.

  ‘Tout le monde a bien mangé?’ bellowed the loudspeaker. The microphone amplified a half-suppressed belch. ‘Bon. Alors, on recommence.’ We started off along the track that leads to the stade.

  A shaded clearing above the car park had been taken over by an élite group of dealers who were selling specialist breeds, or hybrids, dogs of particular and valuable skills – trackers of the wild sanglier, hunters of rabbits, detectors of quail and woodcock. They were strung like a living necklace on chains beneath the trees, twitching in their sleep. Their owners looked like gypsies: slender, dark men with gold teeth flashing through dense black moustaches.

  One of them noticed my wife admiring a wrinkled black-and-tan specimen who was scratching his ear lazily with a huge back paw. ‘Il est beau, eh?’ said the owner, and shone his teeth at us. He bent down and took hold of a handful of loose skin behind the dog's head. ‘He comes in his own sac à main. You can carry him home.’ The dog raised his eyes in resignation at having been born with a coat several sizes too big, and his paw stopped in mid-scratch. My wife shook her head. ‘We already have three dogs.’ The man shrugged, and let the skin drop in heavy folds. ‘Three, four – what's the difference?’

  A little further along the track, the sales presentation became more sophisticated. On top of a hutch made from plywood and wire netting, a printed card announced: Foxterrier, imbattable aux lapins et aux truffes. Un vrai champion. The champion, a short, stout brown and white dog, was snoring on his back, all four stumpy legs in the air. We barely slowed down, but it was enough for the owner. ‘Il est beau, eh?’ He woke the dog up and lifted him from the hutch. ‘Regardez!’ He put the dog on the ground and took a slice of sausage from the tin plate that was next to the empty wine bottle on the bonnet of his van.

  ‘Chose extraordinaire,’ he said. ‘When these dogs are eating, nothing will distract them. They become rigide. You press the back of the head and the rear legs will rise into the air.’ He put the sausage down, covered it with leaves and let the dog root for it, then placed his foot on the back of the dog's head and pressed. The dog snarled and bit him on the ankle. We moved on.

  The stade was recovering from lunch, the small folding tables under the trees still scattered with scraps of food and empty glasses. A spaniel had managed to jump on to one of the tables and clear it up, and was asleep with its chin in a plate. Spectators moved with the slowness that comes from a full belly and a hot day, picking their teeth as they inspected the offerings of the local arms dealer.

  On a long trestle table, thirty or forty guns were laid neatly in a row, including the new sensation that was attracting great interest. It was a matt black pump-action riot gun. If there were ever to be a mass uprising of bloodthirsty killer rabbits in the forest, this was undoubtedly the machine one needed to keep them in order. But some of the other items puzzled us. What would a hunter do with brass knuckledusters and sharpened steel throwing stars, as used, so a hand-printed card said, by the Japanese Ninja? It was a selection that contrasted violently with the rubber bones and squeaky toys on sale at English dog shows.

  It is always possible, when dogs and owners gather together en masse, to find living proof of the theory that they grow to resemble each other. In other parts of the world, this may be confined to physical characteristics – ladies and basset hounds with matching jowls, whiskery little men with bushy eyebrows and scotties, emaciated ex-jockeys with their whippets. But, France being France, there seems to be a deliberate effort to emphasize the resemblance through fashion, by choosing ensembles that turn dog and owner into co-ordinated accessories.

  There were two clear winners in the Ménerbes Concours d'Élégance, perfectly complementary and visibly very pleased with the attention they were attracting from less modish spectators. In the ladies' section, a blonde with white shirt, white shorts, white cowboy boots and white miniature poodle on a white lead picked her way fastidiously through the dust to sip, with little finger cocked, an Orangina at the bar. The ladies of the village, sensibly dressed in skirts and flat shoes, looked at her with the same critical interest they usually reserve for cuts of meat in the butcher's.

  The male entries were dominated by a thickset man with a waist-high Great Dane. The dog was pure, shiny black. The man wore a tight black T-shirt, even tighter black jeans and black cowboy boots. The dog wore a heavy chain-link collar. The man wore a necklace like a small hawser, with a medallion that thudded against his sternum with every step, and a similarly important bracelet. By some oversight, the dog wasn't wearing a bracelet, but they made a virile pair as they posed on the high ground. The man gave the impression of having to control his massive beast by brute force, yanking on the collar and growling. The dog, as placid as Great Danes normally are, had no idea he was supposed to be vicious or restive, and observed smaller dogs passing underneath him with polite interest.

  We were wondering how long the Great Dane's good humour would last before he ate one of the tiny dogs that clustered like flies round his back legs when we were ambushed by Monsieur Mathieu and his tombola tickets. For a mere 10 francs, he was offering us a chance to win one of the sporting and gastronomic treasures donated by local tradesmen: a mountain bike, a microwave oven, a shotgun or a maxi saucisson. I was relieved that puppies weren't among the prizes. Monsieur Mathieu leered. ‘You never know what might be in the saucisson,’ he said. And then, seeing the horror on my wife's face, he patted her. ‘Non, non. Je rigole.’

  In fact, there were enough puppies on display to make a mountain of saucissons. They lay or squirmed in piles under almost every tree, on blankets, in cardboard cartons, in home-made kennels and on old sweaters. It was a testing time as we went from one furry, multi-legged heap to the next. My wife is highly susceptible to anything with four feet and a wet nose, and the sales tactics of the owners were shameless. At the slightest sign of interest, they would pluck a puppy from the pile and thrust it into her arms, where it would promptly go to sleep. ‘Voilà! Comme il est content!’ I could see her weakening by the minute.

  We were saved by the loudspeaker introducing the expert who was to give the commentary on the field trials. He was in tenue de chasse – khaki cap, shirt and trousers – with a deep tobacco voice. He was unused to speaking into a microphone and, being Provençal, he was unable to keep his hands still. Thus his explanation came and went in intermittent snatches as he pointed the microphone helpfully at various parts of the field while his words disappeared into the breeze.

  The competitors were lined up at the far end, half a dozen pointers and two mud-coloured dogs of impenetrable ancestry. Small clumps of brushwood had been placed at random around the field. These were the bosquets in which the game – a live quail which was held aloft by the quail-handler for inspection – was to be hidden.

  The chasseur's microphone technique improved enough for us to hear him explain that the quail would be tethered in a different bosquet for each competitor, and that it would not be killed (unless it was scared to death) by the dogs. They would simply indicate its hiding place, and the fastest find would win.

  The quail was hidden, and the first competitor unleashed. He passed by two clumps with barely a sniff and then, still yards away from the third, stiffened and stopped.

  ‘Aha! Il est fort, ce chien,’ boomed the chasseur. The dog looked up for a second, distracted by the noise, before continuing his approach. He was now walking in slow motion, placing one paw on the ground with exaggerated care before lifting another, his neck and head stretched towards the bosquet, unwavering despite the chasseur's admiring comments about his concentration and the delicacy of his movements.

  Three feet away from the petrified quail, the dog froze, one front paw raised, with head, neck, back and tail in a perfect straight line.

  ‘Tiens! Bravo!’ said the chasseur, and started to clap, forgetting that he had a microphone in one hand. The owner retrieved his dog, and the two of them returned to the starting point in a triumphant competition trot. The official timekeeper, a lady in high heels and an elaborate black and white dress with flying panels, marked the dog's performance on a clipboard. The quail-handler dashed out to replant the quail in another bosquet, and the second contestant was sent on his way.

  He went immediately to the bosquet recently vacated by the quail, and stopped.

  ‘Beh oui,’ said the chasseur, ‘the scent is still strong there. But wait.’ We waited. The dog waited. Then he got tired of waiting, and possibly annoyed at being sent out on a fool's errand. He lifted his leg on the bosquet and went back to his owner.

  The quail-handler moved the unfortunate quail to a new hiding place, but it must have been a particularly pungent bird, because dog after dog stopped at one or other of the empty clumps, head cocked and paw tentatively raised, before giving up. An old man standing next to us explained the problem. The quail, he said, should have been walked on its lead from one bosquet to the next so that it left a scent. How else could a dog be expected to find him? Dogs are not clairvoyants. The old man shook his head and made soft clicking noises of disapproval with his tongue against his teeth.

  The final competitor, one of the mud-coloured dogs, had been showing signs of increasing excitement as he watched the others being sent off, whining with impatience and tugging at his lead. When his turn came, it was obvious that he misunderstood the rules of the competition. Disregarding the quail and the bosquets, he completed the circuit of the stade at full speed before racing into the vines, followed by