Language lessons

This week, the challenge of learning French, a beautiful salad of persimmons, halloumi and walnuts, plus what to do with a tiny truffle.

…Like lots of pretty ports the world over, people drift here and end up staying….

When we moved here in September 2021, my greatest fear wasn’t wrestling this long-abandoned house back to life without racing through our cash reserves like a down-on-their luck chancer in Vegas, or getting used to village life after thirty years in London, or learning to choose between three hundred types of cheese.

My greatest fear was making myself understood. I like a chat. My London days were punctuated with talk, from incidental conversations with the greengrocer and butcher, to my various book groups - the literary one that emerged from my dog walking friends, when we decided that all of the book talk we had walking round Clissold Park in the cold might be better indoors and with wine, to my friend Thane Prince’s cookbook club at the Draper’s Arms in Islington, where we cooked from a different book each month and then talked until closing time about Claudia Roden, Elizabeth David, Marcella Hazan and other culinary heroes. My favourite sound in the world was the loud music of conversation around my dining table over a ten-hour lunch.

Would my new world be comparatively quiet, functional, punctuated with meat-and-potatoes conversations, often literally about meat and potatoes, as I did my daily shopping? The perfunctory café interactions required to order dinner? I have loved France all my life and often fantasised about living here, but my fantasy came to a grinding halt when it came to language. How would I manage? We visited a couple of times a year and I negotiated shopping and ordering meals easily, but it’s hard to penetrate deeper than that while on holiday, to make proper friends, to have real conversations.

But then we jumped. It was real. I studied French from eight years old through to my first year at university, but that was thirty years ago and my grammar and vocabulary was un peu rouillé, a little rusty.

There’s a lively, welcoming foreign community here, British people, but also Americans, Canadians, New Zealanders, Australians, and the Scandinavians and Dutch, who often speak excellent English, too. Like lots of pretty ports the world over, people drift here and end up staying. Many of them speak good French. Some, when you ask them, say “I get by”, which can mean anything from “I function very well in my second language”, to “I can buy a round of drinks”. In truth, it would be possible to have a cheerful, sociable life here with little French, particularly if you’re retired and are simply seeking a beautiful backdrop for the next chapter of your life.

Then there are those British people who declare they only mix with the French, who are the ones you often see wandering about on their own. One day, soon after we arrived, I was wrestling two dogs and a full shopping basket through our heavy metal gates when an English man I vaguely recognised from around, stopped to say, “Maintenant, nous ne parlerons qu'en français”, (“Now, we will only speak French”) which was a little odd, as I wasn’t aware I’d booked a lesson. I was puzzled. His wife apologised, which even in that moment felt like something she often did. Then I remembered I’d written a newspaper article in which I’d said I was trying to immerse myself in French as much as possible, by watching the news, reading the paper, having French radio on while I pottered about. Every day, it seems, is a schooled day.

One of the first things we did was hire a French teacher, the excellent Diane, who twice a week arrived to put us through our paces, often with a little cake or some biscuits in her bag, along with the dry-as-sand grammar books. Like all good teachers, she motivates us by focusing on things she knows already interest us. My lessons focused on grammar – I am one of those people who can’t bear to make mistakes – and food. For one lesson, we went to the Thursday market in nearby Agde and she introduced me to her favourite producers.

My husband has less French than me but more courage. His desire to communicate is strong and he doesn’t care if he makes mistakes. He uses the DeepL translation app to plan what he needs to say before any practical conversation, and also generally strolls about the place jumping into conversations, making friends. These often happen when he's walking our dogs along the port – dog walkers the world over chat to one other.

One of Séan’s dog walking pals is a tall, burly man, as genial as his Golden Retriever. We bumped into him one evening and Séan introduced me to his new friend. We had a brief conversation, weather, dogs, our new roof, did we have central heating yet? And then he said: "Mais je ne savais pas que votre femme était française ?" (“But I didn’t realise your wife was French?”). You see, I am one of those lucky/unlucky people with a good ear so can put in a decent effort until the vocabulary runs out. It often means I get embroiled in conversations which are far beyond my capabilities, and that’s often when I’m grateful for lovely, language-enhancing rosé.

There are misunderstandings, some more embarrassing than others. A couple of weeks ago, I was shopping when Séan texted me to say our cleaning lady, Marie, had arrived and she’d told him her dog had died. Marie has a golden heart, adores all animals, and loves her ancient Jack Russell beyond measure. When I got back to the house, I was all over her with sympathy and condolences. I even made the terrible faux pas of giving her a hug. Which was when I learned her dog hadn't died at all, but was just a little sick. I was only glad that once again having missed the lunchtime closing hour, I hadn’t been able to pick up a bunch of flowers for her, as I had intended.

We continue to make mistakes, more or less at the same rate as we make friends. I am sure we’ll make mistakes forever. But we have the great advantage, in our blundering about in a country not our own, that we live in a village where people are patient and kind, not in Paris or another big city where life is more rushed and less forgiving. I get frustrated at my lack of progress. Then I have a conversation without having to look anything up first, and without availing myself of the tongue-loosening assistance of rosé, and I allow myself to be optimistic. It’s going to be all right.

Persimmon, halloumi and walnut salad

In the winter, beautiful persimmons (kaki) start appearing in the market alongside pomegranates and nuts. I eat them either just ripe in a salad like this one or I leave them to go very soft and almost jelly-like then halve them and eat them straight out of the skin with a spoon.

I love the colours of this salad and its combination of sharp, salty and sweet. It’s easy enough to make all the time, but pretty enough to bring to a festive table. If you have them, you can also add figs as well as or instead of the pomegranate seeds.

Serves 2 as a main course salad, 4 as a starter

For the vinaigrette
1 tbsp sherry vinegar or cider vinegar
1 tsp very finely chopped shallot
A few very fine gratings of zest from a clementine or an orange – I pass my Microplane grater over it only once or twice, over the bowl I’m making the dressing in so I don’t lose any of the beautiful oils, being careful not to pare off any of the bitter white zest
¼ tsp runny honey
Pinch of chilli flakes
2 tbsp walnut oil, or olive oil

For the salad
2 persimmons, about 170g each, just beginning to ripen
A couple of handfuls of mâche (lamb’s lettuce) watercress, about 80g
100g pomegranate seeds
40g walnuts or almonds, toasted* and roughly broken up with your hands
1/2 tsp olive oil
1 pack of halloumi, about 225g
Flaky sea salt

Tip: *I toast the nuts in my air fryer, 5 minutes at 190C, or in the oven if I already have it on for something else – you just need them to be fragrant and a little darker than when they went in. Put a timer on if you’re using the oven. You think you’ll remember but it is very easy to forget, until the kitchen is filled with the acrid smell of burnt nuts. Not festive. Cool them before you toss them in the salad.

1. Put the shallot in a small bowl with the vinegar, zest, honey, chilli flakes and a pinch of salt and leave to sit for 10 minutes while the shallot softens and infuses the vinegar with its flavour.

2. First prepare the persimmons. There’s no need to peel them. Simply cut out the stem and the white core then cut the slices into wedges. I aim for about 8 per fruit, depending on the size of the fruit.

3. In a large salad bowl, combine the mâché or watercress with the pomegranate seeds, walnuts and sliced persimmons.

4. Cut the halloumi lengthways into approximately 1.5cm slices. Warm a little olive oil in a small frying pan over a medium-high heat. Fry the halloumi until just golden, about 1 ½ minutes per side.

5. Dress the salad with the vinaigrette and arrange some on each plate. Roughly tear or chop the fried halloumi into pieces and place over the salad. Serve immediately.

Market haul - 3rd December 2024

This week’s market haul comprises: persimmons, apples, endive, clementines, a slab of Cantal, a wedge of tomme de Pyrénnées , a boule of pain au levain, sliced, red onions, pears, coriander, 13 eggs, as is traditional, sweet potato, cucumber, red peppers, red cabbage, some vanilla pods, pork chops, cèpe sausages, ham, a little truffle.

What to do with a tiny truffle

Of course, almost immediately I get it home I’m going to grate or shave it over a plate of scrambled eggs or pasta. If I don’t use all of it, I eke out its flavour by putting a small piece into a sealed container with some eggs in their shells or some arborio rice. Within a day or two they will have a strong aroma of truffles. I also grate it and beat it into some good butter, to melt over just-cooked steak. The butter freezes very well if you don’t want to use it straight away.