Traveling with Rob in La Belle France

We arrive in the floral dining room around nine, which, by French standards, is not late. The tablecloths, napkins, curtains, and tapestry are all printed with boldly colored oversized spring flowers. The small bouquets of real flowers on the tables are lost in this overpowering display. A tall, young waiter with a sad look in his dark eyes seats us at a corner table with velvety green benches. Only two other tables are occupied. One with two formally dressed middle-aged couples from Belgium, overweight and red-faced, talking loudly. On the other table are two elderly couples from Britain, sprightly, thin, and wrinkled, engaged in a more subdued conversation. With a chuckle, I wonder if they have also been offered the bridal chamber first.

Rob decides to be adventurous and orders snails for his entrée. That would be my last choice. Only under the ultimate threat of starvation would I try them. But for Rob’s sake I make a special effort to hide my feelings of disgust. I order salmon mousse. Both Rob and I are pleased by our first choices.

“Snails taste a bit like squid,” Rob informs me.

Animated by a second glass of delicious house wine, we try to select the main course. We both have developed a hearty appetite.

“Rognons de boeuf seems like a good choice to me,” I tell Rob, who is seeking my advice.

Rognons, I think, means little round pieces, and boeuf is beef. While studying the menu, I realized that my language skills are still very limited when deciphering French cuisine’s specialties. At least I know that boeuf is beef. A safe choice, I think.

We are on our third glass of wine and in animated spirits when the serious-looking young waiter quietly serves us our main course. I notice a faintly sour smell coming from my plate, and those little round pieces in the whitish sauce are not pieces of beef.

“French beef looks very different,” I say jokingly to Rob, discreetly inspecting a small round specimen on my fork.

“Mom, this is not beef; these are the kidneys you ordered,” Rob says with a disgusted look on his face.

“I hate kidneys! ” I had not seen kidneys since my early childhood when my father sometimes used to eat them.

I am immediately overcome with the same strong feelings of nausea that this dish used to provoke in me. Trying to keep control, I quickly push the plate aside. Instantly, the young waiter arrives at our table.

“Is something wrong?” he asks in perfect English, pointing to my plate.

I am perplexed. He had stood there silently waiting for our orders when I explained to Rob that ‘rognons de boeuf’ mean little round pieces of beef. I had assumed that he did not speak English. He could have helped us with our selection, but I will not blame him.

“Sorry, we made a mistake ordering this dish. We both don’t like kidneys,” I say.

The young man’s face lights up in a sympathetic smile for the first time this evening, and he answers, “I don’t like them either. I’ll take your plates back, and you can order something else,” he offers. Maybe I can convince my father not to charge you extra for these, ” he adds. But I have my doubts.  I say firmly, brushing aside 

Rob’s protests. “This is my mistake, and I’ll pay.”

“Anyway,” the young waiter briefly interrupts, “I’ll bring you another glass of wine, which is on me, and I ‘ll help you with the selection on the menu when you are ready.”

Having lost our appetite for meat this evening, we chose a local seafood dish, which turned out to be tasty. “Where did you learn English so well?” I asked the young man who seemed to like talking to us.

“In Florida,” he answers. “I was born and raised there by my Francophone parents. After their divorce two years ago, my father bought this place and moved back to France.”

“You must love it here!” I exclaim. Impressions of the beautiful countryside and castles are still vivid in my memory.

“Not at all! I hate it here!” he says emphatically, looking sad again. “I want to go back home to the States.”

We are the only guests left, lingering over a delicious dessert of creme brulé. The young man takes the opportunity to join us again. In an animated conversation, he and Rob, both natives of North America, amicably exchange their thoughts and impressions of their life in Europe. I sit back, relaxing, sipping my wine, enjoying the moment and the transient friendly relationship with this young man. Before he can say goodbye, he is abruptly called to the kitchen by his rude father. I am glad he does not take after him.

We have a wonderful sleep under those heavy, warm quilts, snugly protecting us from the frosty night. The crisp, chilly air has invaded our room. It is early morning. We have to return our little car to the dealer in Tours before lunch to catch an afternoon train to Paris for the wedding.

 Shivering in my light spring outfit, waiting for Rob to finish shaving, I can hardly wait for breakfast. The prospect of steaming hot coffee and warm croissants with melted butter is already warming me up.

“Go down and start breakfast without me. I’ll join you in a while,” Rob shouts from the washroom. He is not a big breakfast eater.

Today I have a ravenous appetite and decide to have a substantial meal. I almost fall down those famous spiral stairs in my haste to get to the dining room. Everything is quiet there. No one in sight. After my third “hello” tentatively called into different directions, the proprietor shuffles in. He is well protected against the cold by wearing warm fleece slippers and a beautifully knit heavy wool sweater, which must have cost a fortune. It looks very new. Seating myself on a small round table close to the entrance, I eagerly ask for the breakfast menu.

“Breakfast is not included!” he answers curtly, avoiding my glance.

Although a continental breakfast is almost always included in the price of an overnight stay in France, I am so starved and in need of coffee that I am ready to pay extra.

“I’ll pay,” I reply quickly.

“Oh, no!” he says with emphasis, turning to leave. “We are not serving breakfast today.”

I am shocked. “O.K.,” I plead, trying to hide my disappointment, “you can serve me at least a cup of coffee! ” “It will take a while,” he replies, reluctantly shuffling into the nearby kitchen.

The door is left ajar, and I can hear him putter around. Obviously, there hasn’t been any coffee brewed yet. Suddenly, I hear the shatter of glass, followed immediately by a loud expletive, “Merde.” In a flash, the patron dashes out of the kitchen door with a brown liquid dripping from the front of his precious sweater. After a few moments, he returns, heading straight back to the kitchen. This time he is wearing an apron and an old flannel shirt. I hear some more clanking noises, and eventually, he serves me, with a stony face, a cup of steaming hot, black coffee. He does not say a word, and I refrain from apologizing for his mishap. It would have been hypocritical, to say the least. To his credit, the coffee tastes wonderfully strong, and I enjoy every sip.

To his credit, the coffee tastes wonderfully strong and I enjoy every sip.

Traveling with Rob in la Belle France

Darkness is setting in, when we arrive at Brays et Mons.

Rob has no problem finding his destination. Only a few houses are built out of gray rocks, almost like fortresses. We reach a beautifully fenced-in yard. A dense profusion of blooming shrubs and budding leaf trees hides the residence from view. Rob drives slowly through the decorative iron gate onto a wide driveway leading through a small park toward a charming white building. It looks like an elegant mansion or small castle. Big windows, balconies, terraces, and airy French doors lead from all directions into the garden. In contrast to the well—kept building, the flowerbeds and lawns are overgrown with weeds and winter debris and look neglected.

“Here we are, at the Castello de Bray et Mons, ” says Rob with a big smile.

I am delighted. It has been a full day, and after a stressful start with our vehicle, I am progressively improving. And there is the prospect of a grand finale.

The patron of the estate meets us at the colorful stained-glass doors of the entrance. He is a stout, middle-aged man of medium height with unremarkable features. He greets us formally in French. Obviously, he has been expecting us, and as he indicates, a bit sooner. Grabbing our luggage, he immediately leads us up a flight of an amazing spiral staircase. It is the masterpiece of a noted French architect whose name I forget. The bedrooms are situated in a circle around the landing. The patron deposits our luggage in front of one of the doors and unlocks it with a big old—fashioned key.

“Voilà,” he says with a discreet side—glance at me.

I am riveted to the floor. After seeing the dolorous black room decorated in somber colors at Chenonceau, I thought this room was a dream in white. The enormous bed dominating the chamber is covered with starched, immaculately white linen adorned with precious lace. The wall tapestry is made of a shining white silk material. The soft white carpet is spotless. Delicate sheer curtains like bridal veils gently move in the evening breeze before the open French doors. On a lace-covered table stands a magnificent vase with white blossoming branches. White petals have fallen on a small marble statue of lovers intertwined forever in a passionate embrace. The end of the room is partitioned off by a white Dutch gate, barely hiding a huge white enameled bathtub standing on golden feet in front of a mirrored wall. Two luxurious white bathrobes are hanging over a bench. The room radiates such untouched beauty that I envision a delicate princess, like Snow White, lying on that immaculate bed, forever waiting for her prince.

Rob and I are standing spellbound at the entrance. I don’t know for how long.

“Ca a vous plait?” the proprietor suddenly asks, breaking the silence.

“Enchantee,” I reply, “Mais…”  I stutter nervously, searching for appropriate words to explain that I cannot sleep with my son in this enchanting bridal chamber.

“He is my son “, I finally manage to say in French.

The patron is unperturbed.   “Your son, your lover, your friend, your husband, your uncle, your brother, whoever, I don’t care´, he answers, shrugging his shoulders to show his indifference.

“Rob,” I whisper, panic-stricken in English, “we have to get another room. This is a honeymoon suite.”

“Yes, Mom,” Rob agrees, “but it is getting late, and I don’t know if there are other hotels in this small village.” Trying to take control of this embarrassing situation, 1 asks assertively, “Une autre chambre, another room, please!”

The proprietor stares into space bored and murmurs, “C’ est dommage, but ” he continues in perfect English, “we have one more room available, which will cost you more.

“Oh, you speak English!” I exclaim, surprised. I took a deep breath and almost shouted, “In my fax, I told you I would come with my son. How can you offer us this inappropriate room and charge us more for another one!”

Provoked by his arrogance, I am not afraid to create a scene. Rob, however, immediately interrupts my attempts to fight for a fair deal, saying in a firm voice, “Mom, leave it to me; I am paying for the room.”

Grabbing our luggage, the proprietor quickly leads us to the adjacent hunter’s chamber.

“Voilà, Monsieur,” he says, completely ignoring me.

Rob, whose face had disappointment written all over moments ago, immediately lights up. This room is more to our liking. Two solid rustic beds with beautifully crafted thick quilts look very inviting. The walls are adorned with original paintings and precious tapestries depicting local wildlife and colorful hunting scenes. Fresh scented air is wafting from the garden through the big open windows. I am happy that a door in front of the bathroom allows privacy. The bathtub is spacious and comfortable and not standing on golden feet as in the white room. To my great joy, two thick, luxurious bathrobes are at our disposal, one pink and one blue. Would Peter and I have enjoyed sleeping in the white room I briefly ask myself. Yes!

Blissfully relaxing in soapy suds before changing for dinner, I call out to Rob, “This is so wonderful, Rob; I feel like a queen!”