La vraie cuisine francaise is only really appreciated when one becomes familiar with the regional dishes. And by regional dishes I mean those that are made in certain sections from the local foodstuffs. A Frenchman never looks down his nose at foods that happen to be abundant and therefore inexpensive. Mais non—that is when he goes to work on them to bring out all the most delectable qualities and evolve the dishes renowned the world over. Sometimes these regional dishes cannot be exactly duplicated away from the little sections which have made them famous. But usually it is possible to substitute a different vegetable or fish, another wine or cheese, and still achieve an unusual and distinctive dish.
Typical of this kind of cooking is matelote, a fish stew made from fish caught in the rivers that thread their way through France to the sea. There are many variations of matelote, each section using its own local fish. You can, in fact, find almost as many different fish in matelote recipes as you will see among the cupids and mermaids that decorate the Pont Alexandre III, that well-known bridge crossing the Seine at Paris. And that is a wide choice. Matelote is, however, pretty much a dish of the interior, a fresh-water fish concoction. The sauce of this stew must contain wine, the kind depending, as does the fish, upon the region where the matelote is made. In other words, the local fish is sauced with the local wine.
I write about matelote with the most nostalgic of feelings because it is a favorite of mon pays—of that interior section of France where I lived—far removed from the coastline of France and a part of the country where very little salt-water fish was available. In my youth the business of icing and transporting fish regularly from the Mediterranean and Atlantic Coast cities to small inland cities and towns had not been developed. So we depended on the local streams and lakes for our fish, all fresh-water kinds. And very good they were, I can assure you, the finest truite, carpe, tanche (tench), anguille (eel), goujon (gudgeon), and brochet (pike).
In the neighborhood where I was brought up, we didn't depend only upon the local rivers for fish. Almost every farm—and our verdant fields made the most splendid of farms—had its own fishpond. These were low spots in fields, covering perhaps an acre or more of ground, which were dammed up to hold in enough water to make a place for fish to live. From this source the farmers got most of the fish for their families—a very practical and economical way, in fact, for country families to have a regular supply of fish. Without these ponds they would have eaten very little fish and missed the variation and enjoyment that fish can add to the menu. Without them we would certainly have been denied the occasional treats of matelote that we were so fond of.
The fish in these ponds always seemed to breed more rapidly than they could be eaten and, in the course of two or three years, would have to be thinned out. With the many farms spotted over the countryside, this meant that every year several ponds would be cleaned out. These pond drainings were gala occasions for the neighbors who shared the event—and the fish. They were always masculine affairs, never shared by the women or small children. I can remember how grown up I felt the first time I was allowed to pull on my long boots in preparation for the trip in the two-wheeled cart with my uncle—and with what anticipation I watched my aunt pack the food hamper with saucissons, cheese and bread, with meat pies and fruit tarts. How eagerly I helped my uncle stow this provender into the cart, along with plenty of his favorite vin rouge, his long-handled nets, and the big, round fish tub. It comes back to me as a confused picture of food, wine, nets, and excitement with Tante Pauline waving “bonne chance” from the kitchen doorway, as we drove off, my young chest bursting with importance.
It took the water quite some time to drain out after the dam was opened, so our waiting lasted through one night at least, often a second one, and even sometimes a third night. The last night called for a big fire around which we sat and ate the good food, washed down with plenty of wine, and recounted stories of the neighborhood—many of them the exaggerations of bygone days that Americans call “tall stories”—the better to keep awake. Especially we kept a weather eye out for petty thieves from other sections who, hearing that there would be a pond draining, would drive quietly over on the other side of the pond and try to steal the fish to take away and sell. The flickering firelight on dark trees and glistening water, the tales of past exploits and rough fights when thieves became too bold, and the late hour of eating were all very exciting to a youngster and a generally satisfying kind of picnic for the men.
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