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shewhomust) wrote2007-11-21 08:31 pm
shewhomust) wrote2007-11-21 08:31 pm
Recettes et paysages
Among the many charms of Minerve is the Librairie Paroli, a bookshop with chairs outside, and a couple of tables inside, where they serve tea and coffee. Like the little town, it is on several levels, with steps down from the reception area to a larger bookshop space on the right, and even further down to the tiny room where the proprietor sits at the back.
After nosing around the obscure poetry and the collectable and very expensive comics, I selected a book published in 1951 as the second in a series of illustrated guides to the regions of France, their scenery, cookery and and traditions. This was the volume about the south-east (the south-west, where we now were, had been volume 1) and it cost 20 euros, which was more than I'd usually spend on a whim - but perfectly reasonable, and it was a very charming book. The lady who took my money made polite conversation, asking me "Vous aimez cuisiner?" I said, yes, I did like to cook, and I also liked old books. So she leafed through it, and conceded that yes, it was a nice book, it had pretty illustrations. She called down to the boss: "The lady is buying Recettes et Paysages." The answer came back up "Oh, that's a nice book." I felt quite vindicated.
No name appears on the book as that of the author, although the copyright credits P-E Lamaison as editor. I was growing quite indignant that more credit had not been given to the other contributors - mainly the artists, whose full-page illustrations are a great part of the book's attractions - by the time I reached the very end of the book, where I found full credits for both authors and artists, not only for the full-page plates, but also those who had composed the (rather unappetising, colour printing being what it was) still life photos, and every last page decoration. Lamaison had written very much less of the book than I had thought, compiled rather more, and I now wonder how much it is an anthology of previously published material, stitched together into this "suitable gift for a woman of taste" (that's what it says on the jacket flap!).
After some general introductory material, the book is arranged into chapters, one for each of the regions covered, all following roughly the same format. Since I've been writing about the Auvergne, I'll take that as my example. Each section begins with a full-page colour illustration, some of which are signed, some not, showing people in traditional costumes doing traditional things - or not. The Dauphiné, for example, is represented by an almost abstract arrangement of items (cowbell, tobacco jar, skis, gloves) on the shelves of a cupboard. This is followed by a black and white photo of a location, with a fragment of verse underneath it - this is invariably awful: cryptic, allusive and usually flirtatious in a way that makes me want to beat the poet about the head with an umbrella. Then comes a still-life of some representative foodstuffs (the Auvergne has two, one showing what I think is a chaud-froid of ham, the other some apparently raw fish curled around something very pink. There is an introduction to the cuisine of each region by Curnonsky, a handful of recipes, some miscellaneous information - an essay about Gergovie (where Caesar defeated Vercingetorix), a picture of a lacemaker, and another of a workshop (presumably a cutler's workshop) with the verse:
"Est-ce à Thiers, au cours du voyage,/ Demandais-tu d'un air naïf,/ Que pour cadeau de mariage, / Tu fis l'emplette d'un canif?" And that's by no means the worst of them. There follows a summary of the local wines, which manages to find something good to say about each region, and finally, this being the Auvergne, a note about the local cheeses (the art of cheese-making is very ancient, but was not known in the garden of Eden, which is why Adam was reduced to eating an apple for his dessert...)
And so on. There are some genuinely pleasing pictures in this book, and some genuinely interesting information: but the ensemble is so much of its time that if you didn't love it, you could find it very irritating indeed.
After nosing around the obscure poetry and the collectable and very expensive comics, I selected a book published in 1951 as the second in a series of illustrated guides to the regions of France, their scenery, cookery and and traditions. This was the volume about the south-east (the south-west, where we now were, had been volume 1) and it cost 20 euros, which was more than I'd usually spend on a whim - but perfectly reasonable, and it was a very charming book. The lady who took my money made polite conversation, asking me "Vous aimez cuisiner?" I said, yes, I did like to cook, and I also liked old books. So she leafed through it, and conceded that yes, it was a nice book, it had pretty illustrations. She called down to the boss: "The lady is buying Recettes et Paysages." The answer came back up "Oh, that's a nice book." I felt quite vindicated.
No name appears on the book as that of the author, although the copyright credits P-E Lamaison as editor. I was growing quite indignant that more credit had not been given to the other contributors - mainly the artists, whose full-page illustrations are a great part of the book's attractions - by the time I reached the very end of the book, where I found full credits for both authors and artists, not only for the full-page plates, but also those who had composed the (rather unappetising, colour printing being what it was) still life photos, and every last page decoration. Lamaison had written very much less of the book than I had thought, compiled rather more, and I now wonder how much it is an anthology of previously published material, stitched together into this "suitable gift for a woman of taste" (that's what it says on the jacket flap!).
After some general introductory material, the book is arranged into chapters, one for each of the regions covered, all following roughly the same format. Since I've been writing about the Auvergne, I'll take that as my example. Each section begins with a full-page colour illustration, some of which are signed, some not, showing people in traditional costumes doing traditional things - or not. The Dauphiné, for example, is represented by an almost abstract arrangement of items (cowbell, tobacco jar, skis, gloves) on the shelves of a cupboard. This is followed by a black and white photo of a location, with a fragment of verse underneath it - this is invariably awful: cryptic, allusive and usually flirtatious in a way that makes me want to beat the poet about the head with an umbrella. Then comes a still-life of some representative foodstuffs (the Auvergne has two, one showing what I think is a chaud-froid of ham, the other some apparently raw fish curled around something very pink. There is an introduction to the cuisine of each region by Curnonsky, a handful of recipes, some miscellaneous information - an essay about Gergovie (where Caesar defeated Vercingetorix), a picture of a lacemaker, and another of a workshop (presumably a cutler's workshop) with the verse:"Est-ce à Thiers, au cours du voyage,/ Demandais-tu d'un air naïf,/ Que pour cadeau de mariage, / Tu fis l'emplette d'un canif?" And that's by no means the worst of them. There follows a summary of the local wines, which manages to find something good to say about each region, and finally, this being the Auvergne, a note about the local cheeses (the art of cheese-making is very ancient, but was not known in the garden of Eden, which is why Adam was reduced to eating an apple for his dessert...)
And so on. There are some genuinely pleasing pictures in this book, and some genuinely interesting information: but the ensemble is so much of its time that if you didn't love it, you could find it very irritating indeed.