Free French Lessons by Peter Mayle Page A

back with me, but Régis advised
waiting until the next day, when, as we’d been told, there would be no
shortage of prime fowl to choose from.
    So we went shopping for
postcards instead, finding that Bourg-en-Bresse takes its role as chicken
capital of the world very seriously. Almost everywhere the tourist sets foot
nowadays, from Miami to Monte Carlo, the postcard of choice seems to be a
panoramic view of six perfectly formed, perfectly bronzed buttocks belonging to
three young ladies clad in G-strings and wishing we were there. I suppose it
makes a change from more traditional scenery, but it does little to convey the
true spirit of a place (with the possible exception of Miami). In Bourg,
however, there is no doubt what the visitor is expected to send home: a poultry
card. The favorite is a graphic illustration of three fine and brightly colored
birds—one blue, one white, one red—with a prominent reminder that
Bresse chickens are the recipients of an AOC, or
appellation
d’origine contrôlée,
a distinction that not even those
three well-rounded young ladies could claim.
    The honor was officially
confirmed in 1957, nearly four hundred years after an entry in the archives of
Bresse noted that the local chicken enjoyed a
“belle
notoriété.”
This has developed over the centuries into
a
renommée mondiale,
or worldwide reputation, and it is a
reputation that is jealously protected.
    Qualifications are extremely
strict. First of all, every chicken worthy of its
appellation
must
possess a patriotic external appearance, in colors that happen to repeat the
tricolor of the French flag:
    • Blue feet. But not any old blue;
the feet must have the pale gleam of blue steel. And around the left ankle,
there must be an aluminum ring marked with the name and address of the farmer
responsible for raising that particular chicken.
• Entirely white
plumage, with no hint of the common chicken’s dowdy brown
tinge.
• A bright red crest. In the case of the cockerel, the
indentations on the crest must be sufficiently well developed to achieve that
desirable look of jagged virility.
    In addition to the
blue-white-and-red ensemble, every bird must possess a fine skin, delicate bone
structure, and, in the official phrase, unctuous flesh. (I am sure that Bresse
is teeming with men who specialize in judging unctuous flesh.) There are even
rules about minimum weight: 1.5 kilos (3.3 pounds) for the standard chicken,
2.1 kilos (4.6 pounds) for the
poularde,
or more matronly chicken, and
3.8 kilos (8.4 pounds) for the capon.
    These statistics and many others
were in the folder that we had picked up at the exhibition hall, and which we
were going through over a drink before dinner. I could tell that the
information was having an uplifting effect on my friend’s disposition.
“You see?” Régis kept on saying as he discovered more and
more evidence that his beloved France led the world in chicken
de
luxe.
“The care, the attention to detail, the refinement. Is there
anything like this in Britain? In America?” He didn’t give me a
chance to answer. “Of course not.”
    I can imagine that many
people might find Régis and his relentless chauvinism a little hard to
take, but I like his enthusiasm, biased though it is. I’ve never met
anyone else who combines passion and knowledge—not to mention shameless
greed—when it comes to the correct degree of rot in a cheese or the ideal
temperature at which to serve tripe. At the same time, his dismissal of what he
considers to be inferior food and cooking (that is, almost everything not
French) is inventive and often very funny, even if it is highly prejudiced. To
hear him denouncing the cheeseburger, or the English way with brussels sprouts,
is to hear a talented gastronomic assassin in full cry. I’ve often
thought he would make a wonderfully savage restaurant critic. That night,
however, criticism was far from his mind. His mood had improved to such an
extent after two glasses of