MRS M. & ATTICUS CROSS THE CHANNEL
Petites Grises on the Pier in Boulogne

It was a Wednesday afternoon in mid-October, and the M's were settling into their chairs near the windows on the upper deck of 'Le Cezanne' for the 5:45p.m. crossing from Calais to Dover. Atticus and Clarissa were on their way home from a week in a rustic barn in the Dordogne. They had decided to travel 'First', which is a bargain, more comfortable, less crowded, and only slightly more than 'Tourist'.

On the outward journey they had driven the old blue Volvo estate across France in nine hours. “This old battleship isn’t up to many more of these journeys,” Atticus had warned.

To spare the Volvo, nicknamed 'the Belgrano', as well as themselves, they had decided to break the journey home at Les Andyles, near Rouen. This picturesque Normandy village had been recommended as a stop over by friends who were old hands at the trip. Clarissa had called from the road, and lo and behold, there was a room available in an eighteenth century post-chaise inn, which sounded charming.

They had arrived at the hotel in Andelys just in time for dinner, and although the inn was advertised in the Michelin guide as moderately priced, the restaurant was not. They discovered this when they sat down and saw the menu. “I hate this ridiculous custom of women not having the prices on the menu,” said Clarissa, craning her neck to read Atticus’s menu. “It’s silly. All I really want is an omelette from a cheap and cheerful place on the boulevard.” But it was too late. The a la carte menu was expensive, and the cheapest set menu was 55 euros.

“I don’t want to eat all this,” she groaned, realizing she was in for six courses, including a 'plateau de fromage' and pudding, which had to be ordered at the start. “It’s misleading because most people would assume a moderately priced hotel would have a moderate restaurant.” Atticus ordered snails followed by pigeon on lentils, and Clarissa chose a potage St. Jacques followed by sea bream.

In spite of their feeling trapped into eating a big meal in a rather gloomy dining room, they agreed it was unusually good. “It reminds me of the really good French restaurants in Elizabeth David’s day, delicious and not at all inventive. Just good classic dishes. It makes me think of the Mirabel or maybe the Connaught Grill in the early 70’s. It’s just that after a week of foie gras and duck in the Dordogne, you look forward to a light dinner."

Actually, they had been in the Correze, just next door to the Dordogne. Atticus’s French publisher, Denis Tillinac, had come down from Paris and taken them out for an outstanding dinner in Turenne. Turenne was a castellated village perched high on a peak and seeped in a turbulent history dating back to the days of the crusades.

In Andyles their bedroom in the inn wasn’t much to write home about, but it was quiet. The Norman village of Les Andelys was spectacular. The inn faced the River Seine, and the white chalk cliffs over it were dotted with spike-roofed nineteenth century villas, which peeped through the mist over the tree line. This was where Normandy met Brittany and the Isle de France. They were only 60 miles from Paris. This was Flaubert country, and here he had situated Joingville, where Madame Bovary lived out her doomed married life. Atticus and Clarissa had read Madame Bovary several times over the years. They had been listening to it in the car on tapes read by Ronald Pickup. “His delivery is so fantastic, you are overwhelmed by the power of Flaubert’s genius, and Pickup’s.

The intensity of Flaubert’s detailed description of farm life, town life and the countryside and the interiors of people houses, as well as the interiors of their minds, make it difficult to listen for more than an hour at a time. “Of course, that’s what makes it a masterpiece.” The Volvo had flown along the peage as the fascinating story of Emma Bovary’s decline and fall unfolded in the very countryside they were observing. “There’s the Forest d’Orgueville where Emma strolled in the afternoons with Laon,” Clarissa pointed to a green area on the map, which indicated the very place they were passing through.

Their last morning they had spent two hours at near-by Giverny, Monet’s house and garden. Over-restored and over-visited, the house and garden reeked of “too much money” spent by the American foundation in charge of it. “Monet would have had to have been a billionaire to keep a garden like this,” Clarissa noticed. The yellow autumn sunflowers were six feet high and there were millions of them. Japanese tourists were snapping photos of every bloom. "There’s nothing of Monet here," sighed Clarissa. It looked like a case of a board of directors with too much cash to spend. “I didn’t learn a thing about Monet,” she said as they left. “It’s a Disneyland version of impressionism…dumbed down. I’ll never come back. Nor will I recommend anyone come here.

The day was saved, however. En route to Calais, they realized they had time to stop in Boulogne for a quick lunch on the pier at an old friend’s, the Brasserie La Mer, which was always a favourite.

“People who say you can eat as well in England as in France are off their rockers,” Atticus had laughed as he surveyed his delectable assiette of fruits de mer. “Just look at the quality of these shrimps. Each one is more delicious than the one before, and the langoustines are even better. Then come the petites grises, which are better than all the rest. They all taste of the sea, as though they’ve only been on dry land for a moment or two.” He downed a St.Vaast oyster. “That is pure heaven. And I know the bulots will be the pick of the bunch!” Sure enough the sea snails did not fail to delight, served with freshly made mayonnaise spiced with a few drops of Tobasco. Clarissa had agreed. Her moules frites were superb as always. Atticus was right. Everything tasted fresh and wild and like recent inhabitants of the sea. This was probably their best meal of the whole trip… and the cheapest. The whole thing for two was only £30, including a pitcher of perfectly decent, cold, house dry white wine, espressos and service.

“You couldn’t eat like this anywhere on the west coast of Scotland, even though the seafood there may be the best in the world. You would have to pay a fortune in London for something not nearly as good. I don’t care what anybody says. There is still value for money in France, and excellent food.” Atticus paid the bill and smiled. They still had plenty of time to catch the ferry in Calais.

On board Le Cezanne, Atticus went to get pernods for them from the ferry bar. As he handed her the drink he was summing up the trip, “Basically, the most comfortable night was the first night in the Grenouilliere. There were too many ‘amuses gueles' between courses, but the dinner was excellent, the room was charming and the breakfast was worth the trip alone!”

The M's had been staying at the Grenouilliere since the late seventies, when it was run by two ancient flame-haired matrons, who smoked like chimneys and dressed like sailors. The menu then was simple but memorable. There are still only four rooms, which overlook the slow-flowing Canache canal along a woodland path. It’s just a few miles below the walled city of Montreil in Madelaine-sous-Montreil. The dining room is painted with an elegant but humorous frieze from the twenties, depicting a gentleman frog in black tie and his soignée wife in evening dress having dinner. In the final scene, he explodes from eating to excess. The artist was English and an illustrator for Punch magazine. Clarissa loved this dining room with only eight tables, a big log fire and flawless service. A double room is only 90 euros and a further 10 euros a head for breakfast, which comes on a huge tray overflowing with homemade croissants, plum jam from the garden and honey from their own bees. Over the years the rooms have improved, and now there was a lovely toile de Jouy fabric used as bedcovers and curtains.

“I’m just going to the shop to buy some more of that champagne we bought on the way over.” Clarissa picked up her handbag and looked through her change as the ferry tilted slightly to one side.

“Why,” groaned Atticus, “we have a cellar full of champagne.”

“No we don’t. And where on earth could you find Laurent Perrier for £11 a bottle? It was only 17 euros on the way over to Calais, and I think that’s the best bargain I’ve come across in a long time. She headed off.

“You and your bargains are going to ruin us.” He called after her. Secretly he agreed that was pretty cheap for good champagne. Still, they were trying to economize.

Fifteen minutes later Clarissa returned carrying three double boxes of Laurent Perrier. “It just goes to show they mark up prices for the British market. The same champagne today is £17 a bottle, not 17 euros.”

“Maybe you got the price wrong coming over, said Atticus. “Surely they don’t change the prices in the shop every time the ferry turns around.”

“That must be exactly what happens. Don’t you remember we sat down and calculated the prices? I know I paid l7 euros a bottle coming over. I asked the wine salesman, “Mais quand nous etions dernierment sur 'Le Manet' en route a Calais le champagne coutait 17 euros'. He looked at me condescendingly and answered in English. 'We don’t have the same offer.'

“And you have just proved their point. You bought six bottles anyway, at the higher price. No wonder they think they can charge the English more.”

Atticus felt satisfied that he had made his point. And he was still convinced hours later as they drove along the Thames to their house on Cheyne Walk, where the glow in the windows welcomed them back like a beacon of tranquillity. “Now this is value for money,” he thought, as he opened the door.