Free French Lessons by Peter Mayle

early for lunch, isn’t
it?”
    He turned an innocent face toward me. “Wine,
mon
vieux,
wine. We could slip over to Chiroubles and fill up the car with
Beaujolais. A detour, nothing more.” He thought for a moment.
“Although there is the Auberge at Fleurie if we should find ourselves
nearby at lunchtime.” He glanced at the map lying open on his lap, and
pretended to be surprised. “Which we would. What a piece of
luck.”
    “Well, perhaps we could stop on the way back. I
don’t want to miss the chickens.”
    Régis emitted a
gusty sigh (and I’d heard plenty of those before, too). “The
trouble with you English,” he said, “is your reluctance to enjoy
yourselves, your distrust of pleasure. What could be more agreeable than a
dégustation
followed by a little light lunch?” The
humming resumed.
    I ignored criticism of my fun-loving countrymen.
“Régis, you forget. I know you.”
    “So?”
    “You haven’t had ‘a little
light lunch’ in years. We’d stagger out of the restaurant at
three-thirty, looking for somewhere to lie down. This is supposed to be a
working trip. We’re here to see chickens.”
    “
Pouf,”
said Régis, and sulked in
silence all the way to Bourg.
    The greatest chicken show on earth was
taking place at the Parc des Expositions on the outskirts of Bourg. Here, in a
modern complex of enormous exhibition halls surrounded by acres of parking
space, you would normally expect to find business conventions of one sort or
another, or trade shows promoting the latest in combine-harvester technology.
It was a long way from the rolling meadows of the countryside, and it seemed an
incongruous setting for farmers and poultry.
    As we made our way to the
information office, Régis was still wearing the doleful air of a man
cheated out of his divine right to a long lunch. A brisk, helpful woman brought
us up-to-date on the details of the event. This afternoon, she told us, would
be mainly devoted to the opening formalities, with a panel discussion among
various movers and shakers from local industries. And in the evening,
bien
sûr,
there was the official dinner.
    Régis looked
sideways at me and then, in a tone of icy politeness, turned to the woman.
“And chickens, madame? When might one expect to see chickens?”
    Madame passed him a folder. “It’s all in there,” she
said. “The chickens being exhibited will be arranged in the halls between
four-thirty and seven tomorrow morning. The jury convenes at six-thirty and
will start judging at seven. Doors will be open to the public at ten. Then,
monsieur, you will see your chickens.”
    “
Ah,
bon,”
said Régis, looking at me again. “Ten
o’clock tomorrow morning before we can see any chickens.
Merci,
madame.”
    I have spent more convivial afternoons than the one
that followed. My companion was a model of reproach, fortunately mostly silent.
But he didn’t need to speak; the missed lunch—the
needlessly
missed lunch—loomed between us like an unwanted third
person. In an effort to distract Régis from thoughts of the flesh, I
took him to see a local landmark on the outskirts of town, the
sixteenth-century church at Brou, a marvel of Gothic architecture, only to find
it closed for renovation. It wasn’t until we crossed the road to look at
the menu posted outside a restaurant, the Auberge Bressane, that a very faint
hum hinted at a return to good humor. I thought it was time to make
amends.
    “I’m sorry about this morning,” I said.
“Bad planning. The least I can do is buy you dinner this
evening.”
    Régis pretended not to have heard. “I see
they recommend frogs’ legs to start with.” The hum returned, a
little louder than before. Things were looking up. “It would be
interesting to compare their taste to that of the chicken—one must have
chicken when in Bresse, don’t you think?” It seemed that all had
been forgiven.
    We spent what was left of the afternoon exploring Bourg.
I was all for buying a chicken to take