The most-repeated Jeffreys family story concerns the time my grandfather tried to explain the joke “an oeuf is an oeuf” to a waiter in France. My father squirms with embarrassment when he recalls it, yet it never stopped him indulging in painful repartee with the locals on family holidays, and I have to admit when it comes to Franglais jokes I am a chip off the old block. Yet this great family tradition may be coming to an end. On a recent visit to Bordeaux, whenever I tried some of my schoolboy French on the locals, they would reply in perfect English.
In Pauillac, however, it was a different story. Despite being home to the most famous names in wine – Lafite, Latour and Mouton – the town itself has a rather forgotten feel about it. Christopher, the patron of the Phoenix B&B where my wife and I stayed, only spoke a little English. Just as we were on our way to dinner he invited us to have a drink with him and the other guests, who were all French. He poured us a glass of something golden-brown with a look of great pride on his face. He made it himself, je pense, by mixing rum from Martinique with local grape juice and then steeping it with herbs and spices. It was sweet, strong and actually rather delicious. He called it Pauntillac – I thought he was saying Pontiac at first – but it turns out to be a portmanteau of Pauillac and Antilles. After a few sips of the fiery liqueur, the Franglais flowed and we spent a happy half-hour chatting with our new friends.
We are not so different I thought, the British and the French. We all like drinking and eating salty snacks. Whereas the British like beer and pints of pinot grigio before the meal, the French run to something sweeter. They consider port and sauternes aperitifs. The classic old Frenchman drink is something not dissimilar to the mighty Pauntillac, called pineau des Charentes. It’s a blend of grape juice and cognac matured in oak casks. A good one can be a delightful drink – very sweet of course, but also mellow and tangy. There’s even a West Country version called Pomona, made from apple juice and produced by the Somerset Cider Brandy Company.
We arrived at the restaurant a little drunk and, feeling full of entente cordiale, I ordered the local speciality, andouillette (tripe) sausage. When it arrived, I cut in and the rank smell of pig’s colon filled the restaurant. The waitress asked in French if everything was OK. I’m sure my grandfather would have come up with a witticism in pidgin French to baffle her, but I just grimaced and made a mental note never to order tripe again.
Henry Jeffreys’ first book, Empire of Booze, will be published by Unbound in 2016. @henrygjeffreys
