The thing about France which charms and flabbergasts the observant traveler is its incorrigible diversity. It is an area smaller than Texas (a time-worn statistic which l've never bothered to check), but within its borders it packs every art and science and industry, every twist of geography—and forty million Frenchmen besides. (That forty-million cliché should be revised soon, by the way, for the newer generation of French couples is setting records in fertility.)
Less than a century ago, there was a flaw in France's geographical perfection—she had no outstanding lakes. But when the kingdom of Sardinia began to fall apart, a treaty was signed in 1860 which returned the province of Savoy to France, provided that the population approved. The secret plebiscite which followed produced a landslide which could occur only in the Alps—130,833 votes in favor, 235 opposed—and with no armed NKVD guards standing near the urns looking ominous, either. Thus the bejeweled lakes of Annecy and Bourget, and a southern strip of lac Léman, became a part of the French diadem. For good measure, the valley of Chamonix was thrown in, a fact which means a lot, to present-day skiers. Furthermore, the Comté de Nice, a priceless strip of the Riviera, indeed, returned to the tricolor under the same treaty.
It was a little deal in history which had a profound effect on succeeding generations of travelers. They have been flocking to the Riviera by thousands ever since. It is a pity that a greater proportion of them haven't also explored Savoy, the other prize package of ninety yean ago. They would find comparable beauties of nature and almost as much man-made comfort. Savoy's climate, one must admit, is not what one finds on the Azure Coast, but its cooking (at last, he's getting to the point!) runs a phetofinish with the best that Riviera chefs can produce.
This is a land of well-organized hotels, planned alike for the summer vacationist, the fanatic skier, and the rheumatic toddler. Aix-les-Bains, Annecy, Chamonix, Mégève, Chambéry, Evian—they are names straight from your travel folder, and their hotels have been catering to foreign visitors for decades. “Cushioned comfort” has become standard commodity in most Savoy hotels. That's fine, if a certain standardized “international” cooking doesn't accompany the comfort. Some hotels find it prudent to serve routine, banal, nobody-can-object fare, and their clientele doubtless adores it. But such hostelries aren't for the cooking-conscious readers of this family magazine, and we won't be so indelicate as to mention the painful subject again. But Savoy also rejoices in many country inns and hotels, particularly around lac d'Annecy, where you can have your comfort and inspired regional food at the same time. These are the ones we have sought out. Frequently you will observe that the feminine touch rules supreme in these country kitchens. Savoy is noted for its capable cuisinères, and a Carême en jupon may well prepare your finest meal. She has plenty to work with!
The culinary lockbox of Savoy is munificently stocked. Abundant game hides on those mountain slopes—hare, partridge, quail, woodcock. The forests are fragrant with the smell of wild mushrooms and fraises des bois. The honey of Savoy, gathered from wild Alpine flowers, is surpassed in fragrance only by the linden-blossom nectar of Crimea. The green slopes tinkle musically with the sound of cowbells, for pedigreed cattle graze here eight months a year, assuring the Savoyard epicure of good beef, wonderful milk, cream, and cheese. Boundless cherries in springtime account for the cool casks of kirsch which are aging in Savoy cellars.
But the greatest epicurean asset of Savoy is its fresh-water fish. Those crystal lakes yield piscatorial treasures unknown in other parts of France. The most unforgettable is the omble chevalier, admittedly a strange name for a fish. It is a close cousin to the trout, but more subtle and delicate. Briefly, it is the best darn fish that we've ever tasted, voilà tout! From lac Léman alone comes another rarity, a salmonpink fellow called a féra. If you ever go to Evian and fail to order this fish, you're no gourmet! The rivers and rapids of Savoy yield fine trout. The lake trout, of course, are bigger, sometimes even immense. They have been taken forty inches long and weighing thirty-three pounds. The lake trout's flesh is pink or white depending upon his chosen diet—shellfish or minnows. The lotte, whose large, oily liver is cherished more than he is, the multicolored perch, and the greedy pike are all candidates for the lucky Savoyard's table.
Sure-footed cattle roam at will in the fertile Alpine slopes and, as a reward for such freedom, produce prodigious quantities of milk. The best of them yield three tons in an eight-month period, according to sober statistics. Country life is devoted, above all else, to converting this lactic bounty into cheese. Most of it is the conventional Swiss type, but Savoy is also noted for its Roblochon, a fascinating cheese in the manner of a Fort du Salut. Your Alpine farmer is a vigorous fellow who mows his fields, watches his cattle, and then digs in for the winter, bringing his animals with him. His house requires a broad and sturdy roof, with a wide, protecting overhang. It has to he strong, for these villages are prey to formidable snows in winter. One of them, near Argentières, has a seasonal fall of twenty-eight feet. Family and beast live in the same large room during the long winter months, and you would be surprised how well it solves the heating problem, though a bit aromatically.
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