To those who do not know her well, France is Paris—Notre Dame and the Champs Elysées and the bookstalls along the Seine, the Madeleine and the Louvre and the Place Pigalle.
But France to her intimates is more than that. Much more. Those who love France know that her heart beats not only in the big cities, but also in the tiniest villages and in the smallest cafés, chez le marchand de tabac, and in the market places. Yes, France comes to life especially in the market places with their neat, symmetrical piles of vegetables, greens and fruits, for she is basically an agricultural land with a bountiful soil. A newly arrived visitor to a small French town would find it rustic, quaint and unsophisticated, but he would find no lack of sophistication in the cuisine. Where ever you go in France, you discover a subtlety and perfect finesse in the regional specialtiés and the vins du pays.
Moulins is a typical small town. Becomingly aged by time, and gently treated by nature, it is the kind of village that gives a visitor the feel of France. Moulins is wonderful in May, but it will not look to you as it did to me at the turn of the century when I first went there as an apprentice chef. Wars leave their scars, and, in addition, in the new ways of a modern world some of the charm of the old is inevitably lost.
Moulins is set in a verdant countryside dotted with beautiful old châteaux and peaceful farms. In the town proper, stately mansions that used to be the homes of the local aristocracy border quiet streets lined with well-trimmed trees. Sonic of these mansions face each other across shaded courts like the Cours Anatole France which you can see from the entrance to the Grand Hôtel de Paris. The town has a pleasant climate, neither too cold in winter nor too hot in summer. Winding its way through the local country, the Allier River provides summer fishing and boating. In the fall there is good hunting. No wonder the beau monde of Paris likes to maintain châteaux at Moulins and eventually to settle in this retreat when it tires of the push and crush of the city.
The rue de l'Evêché is in the business section of the town, near the Hôtel de Ville. Walk along this street of the diocese and you will arrive at the Maison Calondre, where I trained as a chef. Only recently I visited it again to find, as I had expected, that it had changed considerably within the past fifty years, Now it is a fine pastry shop. Then it was that and more. It was, en effet, the foremost catering establishment of the vicinity. As I remember it in 1898, it boasted mirrored walls outlined in shiny metal, probably nickel. Glass-enclosed marble counters displayed orderly rows of exquisite pastries; there must have been dozens of different varieties. Chairs of intricately patterned ironwork surrounded the marble-topped tables. In the center of the shop, a round, tiered stand held bottles of sherry, port, Madeira and various liqueurs. These were served with tiny pastries to the ladies who came to the shop to plan their party menus and to place their orders. The daughters of prominent local families would come too, when they had completed their études at the local lycée. They attracted the officiers and the sousofficiers from the Dixième Régiment de Chasseurs à Cheval, many of them titled young men, who came ostensibly for a bite or two of pastry and a glass of wine, hut actually for the mild flirtations and covert glances—and dinner invitations which might be forthcoming. It was all very gay, very friendly, and, as the French say, intime. When Madame Calondre, who took charge of the shop, spoke with many of the customers, she used to tutoyer them—using the familiar tu instead of vous — because she had known them since they were children. Such a circumstance would be rare, indeed, in a city the size of Paris.
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