Food and Feuds

Just spent two weeks in France for rest and recreation with my fine lady, and upon my return I am struck with the fact that it was all about food and feuds. Feasts and grudges, banquets and vendettas, dinners and drama.

First we spent a week in the southwest, in a region called Le Gers, where my father lives in a two-hundred-year old farmhouse which has been in his wife’s family since the 60’s and which I have been visiting since shortly after my birth (long story for another time.) 

We were there for my step-brother’s wedding, and though it was a joyous occasion filled with family and friends, it was marred by some petty family squabbles of the most juvenile and unsavory variety. Even as we sat down to enjoy a seven course meal, (beginning at 9:30 at night with a charcuterie plate featuring foie gras, and ending with a cheese course, desert, and armagnac the same age as the groom at about 1AM, by way of confit de canard, shrimp éclairs, and countless other delights) various family factions drew lines in the sand and held grudges. Cousins snubbed cousins, brothers begrudged mothers, and all of it swirled around and left a slight stink that almost threatened to overpower the delightful aroma of the morbier. I chose to remain blissfully ignorant, or rather duplicitously ignorant, since I knew about all the scuffles but pretended not to. I played some Brassens songs with my uncle Yves and my brother-in-law Gerald for the guests, and danced till 7AM with my step-brother and his wonderfully international, educated, and cosmopolitan friends. Throughout the party, the bartender at the chateau cheerfully served up beer after beer as the party showed no sign of abating. His only request was for the DJ to turn down the music slightly at about 5Am, even as he served beers to the sweating dancers as the sun came up. At sunrise, I suggested we take a swim in the pool, so a few die-hards climbed the fence and washed away our cares in the pool as the birds started to chirp.

I woke up just in time for brunch the next afternoon, where I was late and therefore missed most of the family squabbling that was being recounted by various factions. 

It is worth noting that the wedding was a bi-cultural one between an English/French man and a Yemeni/French woman, and the guests and family members were French as well as Yemeni, spoke French as well as Arabic, and professed Christian and Muslim, as well as atheist religious affiliations. It is also worth noting that there was never the slightest tension or impropriety because of this fact. During the rehearsal dinner, I sat next to a 97-year old man who was a “pretre ouvrier,” meaning a “laborere-priest.” This distinction meant that he was not paid by the church, and instead traveled the world to aid the poorest and most afflicted. He was a family friend of the bride’s mother, a Yemeni who spent most of her life in Marseille. He was the officiant at the ceremony, and he made a point to include all philosophies and faiths. At the rehearsal dinner, he was seated next to the uncle of the bride, a Yemeni who made a heartfelt toast in Arabic, which was then translated into French by another family member. Unfortunately this did not help my wife Chelsea or my brother-in-law, who understand neither. But as the speech grew more impassioned and tears were shed, it became clear that there was strong spirit of common love and respect in the room generated by the lovely newlyweds. Unfortunately, other members of the family who were not in attendance were saving all of their special wedding party animosity for the following night. I don’t want to get into the details in case they read this… The food trumpet the feud. We spent the next two days enjoying the company of my eccentric French family and soaking up the countryside.

Then it was off to Corsica, an island that has been an aosis and a battleground for longer than history has been recorded. Before the Romans, there were the various celtic tribes, the indo-europeans, and others before them. And now this breathtakingly beautiful island flies the flag of Frnace, but really feels like the bastard child of southern Italy and Napa Valley. Speaking of feuds, the mafia has had an ongoing stake in the business dealings of Crosica for centuries. In fact, as we were flying from Toulouse to Ajaccio, I read in Le Monde that  the billionaire scion of a large manufacturing enterprise, Fabrice Vial, who had just purchased a luxury yacht line called Couach, was gunned down by sniper as he was sipping champagne with his young girlfriend on his own yacht, docked in the port of Porto Vecchio. No doubt the victim of very high stakes organized crime maneuvering, a modern-day descendant of the vendettas passed on from generation to generation since antiquity.

And as we journeyed all around this breathtaking paradise, it was easy to see how blood could be spilled competing for dominion of it. Huge volcanic mountain ranges ringed by crystal blue water and white-sand beaches reminded us of an endless Big Sur.

And the food. Holy Poseidon! The freshest, most delicious seafood I have ever eaten. Spicy fish soup with croutons and garlic mayonnaise. Grilled tilapia right out of the boat. A fish stew bursting with every kind of sea creature, fresh out of the ocean. Every restaurant we ate at seemed to be perched on the precipice of the most breathtaking view ever created by nature.

 There were cows on the beach.As I lay in blissful stupor, soaking in the Corsican sun, it occurred to me that cows have served as food for humans, oblivious to the battles and wars being perpetrated by the race of two-legged animals with which they share a world. In their case, the only way to avoid a feud is to become food.