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| Suzanne introduces me to blood sausage - boudin noir - from Christophe's butchery. |
Before I went overseas, people asked how I was going to cope in
Europe without speaking another language. I shrugged it off, convinced I’d be
able to communicate via my hands and google translate. On the most part, that
has sufficed, as long as my hands aren’t full and there’s WiFi available.
Isn’t it funny how quickly you adopt an accent? The first time I
rang Guy from Italy he laughed at the way I was talking. I was dropping out all
the little, unnecessary words, and sounding very exotic – I thought.
Italy was an easy place to start the trip. Almost everyone we met
spoke some English, and many were fluent. It hit me pretty quickly how easy it
is to get away with speaking just one language when you’re Australian. It’s embarrassing.
We met a black pig farmer, Aldo, with a great set-up near Parma: lots
of free range pigs, some cattle, and an on-farm butchery where he makes fantastic
charcuterie, including prosciutto. While we were there, one of his regulars
turned up to buy a chicken, and he happened to speak a few words of English. We walked around the farm all together, pointing,
laughing, and nodding when we thought we understood each other. I didn’t,
however, find out exactly how many pigs he had and whether he sold all of them
through the farm shop.
In Roquefort, France, we stayed with the lovely Suzanne Marques – a
widow with grandchildren spread about the country, and a house on the hillside
of the village. As soon as we arrived it was clear this was going to be a google
translate situation. We tried to connect to WiFi, but the password wouldn’t
work. Suzanne, who had her hair set beautifully by the way, picked up her
mobile and called one of the grandchildren (we’d mistaken an O for an 0). After
that, and showing Suzanne how to type on the iPad, the conversation flowed. At
breakfast the next morning, Suzanne greeted us with, ‘Good morning. How are
you?’ with a big grin on her face. We saw a book-marked French-English
dictionary on the dining table. She’d been up late.
Suzanne took us to a specialist charcuterie butchery in the hills of Viala-du-Tarn. Christophe Fabre’s family had started the business in the village,
but as it grew, they had to move to the outskirts. When I got there, they were
expanding again, and about to treble their production. Remarkably though, they
were able to sell it all within a radius of 200km – mostly at farmers’ markets.
Christophe wanted to keep it that way to avoid more stringent export
regulations.
We muddled through the conversation as Christophe remembered some
English. At least pigs have the same body parts all around the world – they
just have different names and different uses. Christophe was making air-dried
ham, various sausages – including blood sausage – and lots of cooked pates and
canned products. I could smell the cooked meat in the kitchen, and see the
machines smeared with fresh, warm fat, but I couldn’t ask what they had been
making, how long they’d cooked it for, how quickly they cooled it, what spices
they put in, how it was served.
In a few days, Marion arrived. Guy met Marion when he was working in
the Northern Territory, and she was there visiting the CSIRO studying ants. We
heard about another family charcuterie business, this one near Camarès (from
Annie, the sheep farmer). I can’t tell you the name of the family, because they
were nervous about my blogging. This came about because of a miscommunication.
We’d spent a lovely couple of hours with Mr and his son. We sat
around the kitchen table drinking coffee and munching on biscuits I’d got at
the farmers’ market. With Marion translating, I learnt how their business had
developed and diversified, and how they split their business into wholesale and
direct. We toured the factory and it was fantastic: all the rooms were
temperature controlled (to lengthen the meat’s shelf-life), there was
absolutely no wastage of the pig, and I could see their products were created
with care and love.
I really wanted to see the pigs. I hadn’t really thought much about
them to this point – I think I knew they were indoors, and that efficient
production was a priority for this business. We were given blue spacesuits and
plastic shoe covers, and walked up the drive to the sheds.
The smell was mild and the pigs and their pens were incredibly
clean. It was a big operation, and the whole area was air conditioned for the
comfort and fast growth of the pigs. The sows and their piglets were in stalls,
and Mr pointed enthusiastically for me to take a photo while the piglets were
drinking. We talked about the production system, and Mr showed me the sow cards
where the litters were recorded. While I could never be an indoors pig farmer,
I thoroughly respected the care and science they were applying to their farm.
We got talking about sow stalls, and how they were being banned in
France. Their business had got in early and moved to group housing for the sows
(unfortunately, because they acted early, they missed out on government
assistance - funny that). I started telling them about Australia and our rules.
I told them about the media coverage of farmers’ not doing the right thing, and
how extreme activists sometimes broke into piggeries to record footage.
This is when things started breaking down. I hadn’t kept things
simple, and I’d got too confident now I had a translator with me. Suddenly, I
think they thought that if I posted photos on my blog they’d be attacked. I
flushed and my heart started racing. I shook my head vigorously and tried to
explain.
Even though they said they understood, the rest of the tour was
strained. I felt sick all the way home. I didn’t sleep and I was teary the next
morning. It’s horrible being misunderstood, absolutely horrible.
I quickly made a card to post, thanking them for the visit and
emphasising how professional I thought they were. A few days later I emailed a
lovely portrait shot I took of Mr in among his hams. I hope they understand.
More photos from France on Flickr.
