The fine art of embarrassment
Today, dressing up, dressing down, being embarrassed and a recipe for a chard and cheese tart.
Every market day, I see on the terrace of our local café a group of women of a certain age, in their sixties, possibly older, it’s hard to tell. I’ve written about them before. I am slightly fascinated by them. They’re proof that a good haircut, some decent sunglasses and a smudge of lipstick will take you a long way. They are pulled together, smart but not flashy: a scarf tied just so, a well-cut shirt, linen trousers, good fabrics, soft, expensive shoes. They talk and laugh. Every Tuesday, I get the impression that this is just a continuation of a conversation they’ve been having for years, since they were young women. They are confident. They appear to suffer none of the feelings of invisibility some older women complain about back in England. They take up their space.
As British women, we often have a sense of closet cringe when it comes to French women and style. Oh, they just throw on some jeans, a T-shirt, a sweater and somehow they look great, not at all as I would look - inevitably - in the same clothes, which is as if I’d just stepped out to scrub the step. (I remember in my first job in magazines, a ferocious grande dame of an editor stepped into the lift one morning and said, to no one in particular but clearly to everyone assembled for the too-slow ride to the twenty-seventh floor, ‘Why does everyone in this company look as though they just came in from washing the car?’ (To be fair, I’d applied my lipstick on the bus and I could see the coffee cup I’d pinched from Bar Italia at approximately 3am that morning poking out of my handbag. But I digress.)
Perhaps we British comfort ourselves that we’re much more edgy, more innovative in what we wear, as we sponge a dribble of latte off our vintage cardies, any moth holes proudly embellished with colourful, creative darning.
As I walked towards my dog pals, the voice of my first boss would often ring in my ears: ‘I see someone needs a comb for Christmas!’.
But this is the country. It’s not Paris. On the whole, women aren’t so much chic as neat, and I am here to tell you that French women most certainly do get fat. Thank goodness. Just a bit. I’m struck each morning as I walk my dogs along the harbour how well turned out most of the women are. Brushed. Polished. It’s no catwalk, but no one’s frightening the horses or indeed, the dogs either. During my early-morning walks in our park in London, it was just a marvellous surprise to see everyone upright, even if they were bemoaning the excesses of the night before. There, as I walked towards my dog pals, the voice of my first boss would often ring in my ears: ‘I see someone needs a comb for Christmas!’
Here, even in this relaxed little corner of France, turning yourself out well is seen as being respectful to others. When my English friend Lizzie was in the middle of renovating her house, she ran into the local shop to pick up some groceries and, very politely, was made aware that appearing in public in paint-spattered clothes was just not on. Absolutely not. A certain souci de soi, taking care of yourself, isn’t just seen as polite, but as a sign that you have your life under control, it instils trust and confidence. Messy shirt, messy mind.
There is not one look. Sometimes, the clothes I see around me look fussy to my eyes, too many embellishments, too many fringes, too much appliqué and embroidery, and - yes – slogans in English, often misspelled or nonsensical. It’s like a jumble sale in a Per Una factory.
When we first moved here, we had a cleaning lady Marie, 70, who arrived each week in her neat little track suit, her hair carefully styled. She did it herself, a sort of number two cut at the back, and a swooping fringe. Sometimes the back was dyed red, the fringe peroxide. There is often a confidence about these women of all ages, a way of carrying themselves, which is unmistakable and about more than just clothes.
A lot of it is about grooming. In our village of 8,000 or so people, there are more than half a dozen hairdressers, and almost the same number of beauty salons. When we first moved here, I picked a salon by the highly selective method of turning up at the one closest to my front door. I’m a pretty unfussy person, not one for much unnecessary carryings on. I can’t even bear the customary head massage you get at the hairdressers. Let’s all move along.
The salon is all white, taupe and driftwood, but the welcome is very Dolly Parton’s salon in the film, Steel Magnolias. Everyone says good morning, good afternoon, to everyone else. Smiles. Nods. Can I make you a cup of coffee? Yes please. There is talk of children and grandchildren, gardening, decorating, new owners for old restaurants. Everyone asks about our renovation.
This is how, an hour or so into my first colour and cut, as my hairdresser fired up his blow dryer, it dawned on me that he hadn’t cut my hair. Had he? Had I missed it? There were trimmings on the floor from where he’d cut my fringe, but hardly enough hair to stuff a mouse’s pillow. Then I remembered a vigorous tugging as he rinsed my hair over the sink – perhaps he’d trimmed the ends then? Perhaps that’s how they cut straight hair here? At that second, a gust of wind carried one of the chairs just outside the entrance to the salon off onto a boat moored directly opposite and Our Hero the Hairdresser took off to retrieve it from the deck. The moment was gone. I was too embarrassed to enquire if he’d actually cut my hair.
At this rate, it’ll take me until I am about 85 to build up the courage for a bikini wax. I just don’t know if I have the energy for it, or the vocabulary.
Chard and cheese tart
I love chard. It’s so perky, sitting there in the greengrocer or on a market stall, like a big green flag of health. The stems are thick and fleshy, the leaves softer and spinach-y, and they require different cooking times. This means often recipes use one or the other. Instructions to reserve the stems or leaves for future use sometimes mean they get forgotten and are left to languish in the salad drawer. I use the stems and the leaves in this recipe, to rule out unfortunate languishing. Also, chard is often enormous and takes up too much space in the fridge not to use it immediately. In the interests of no waste, I use the water I blanch the chard in as stock for vegetable soup.
I used a young Cantal cheese for the tart because that is what I had. When young, it’s mild and buttery and it develops more bite as it gets older, just like the rest of us. You could also use Comté, Emmental, Gruyère and Cheddar if you wanted.
Serves 4-6 as part of a lunch
For the pastry
250g plain flour, plus a little more for rolling out
½ tsp fine salt
125g unsalted butter, chilled and cut into cubes
50g Cantal cheese, grated, or any of the alternatives mentioned in the recipe introduction
1 tsp fresh thyme leaves
1 egg, lightly beaten – save a little to brush the base of the tart
3-4 tbsp iced water, depending on the size of the egg
A little olive oil or softened butter for greasing the tart tin
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