Snail Farm

The snailmaster in touring mode

Frederic is a former technology worker who gave up the glorious glow of a computer screen two years ago to raise...snails in Burgundy. He is one of many young entrepreneurs in the region who are diving into the world of gastronomy with both feet, bringing the old school tastes and techniques in line with the 21st century. It is an unusual career move, but not stupid. The French gorge on the gastropods with some regularity (they eat 30 snails per person per year), but get really serious around the holidays, when seemingly every table bulges with snails and foie gras, the two specialties that seem to know no boundaries, as at home in Provence as in Perigord.The most famous snail, l'escargot de Bourgogne, belongs to the species Helix Pomatia. It is illegal in France to raise or collect this species for commercial purposes and, as a result, all the snails that are labelled "escargots de Bourgogne" are in fact harvested in Eastern Europe (Greece, Poland, Hungary) and most likely processed there before being frozen and sent for sale and consumption in France. So, Frederic, barred by law from using escargots de Bourgogne, launched L'Escargot Bourguignon, a slight turn of phrase (Burgundy snails instead of Snails of Burgundy, loosely translated) and began raising a quarter million gros gris, or big grey snails, that have a similar taste and size to the traditional Burgundy snail.

At his farm in Vernot, a miniscule village about 25 minutes north of Dijon, he conducts tours for small groups and school children. Rabbits hop around in freedom, chickens and ducks cluck and squabble, there are signs of dogs and cats...it looks and feels more like a farm than a snail farm. On a recent summer Friday afternoon, the group was seven for a tour and tasting. Frederic gives a quick overview of the history of snails in the region and then guides visitors to one of the pens in a greenhouse, a 50 square meter rectangular space enclosed by a wooden border about two feet high. 

The snail park

An electric fence runs around the top of the border, the most effective escape-prevention tactic he employs. Inside the pen are a lot of snails, almost all of which are inside their shells, riding out the heat of summer until nightfall, when they feed more regularly. There are two long columns of wooden planks leaning against a central board that runs the length of the greenhouse. The planks serve as a primary hang out space for the snails. They cling to the outside a little bit, but mostly they congregate in the shaded area on the backside of the planks, sheltered from the wind and sun. In between the rows of planks are the remnants of what was a forest of vegetation, snail food. The creatures eat clover, mustard, rapeseed, sunflower, alfalfa, and radish, as well as dried wheat, corn, and barley. To help their shells, they also get a calcium supplement.
 
Frederic explains that inside this pen are 15,000 snails. The previous evening, he had guests for dinner and, he explained, when he took them out to the pens for a quick glance, they realized what 15,000 snails looks like. Out of their shells, hungry, and moving with some determination in every direction, a real snail circus. In all, he has 250,000 snails across more than 600 square meters of pens.

He explains the vital role each animal plays in the cultivation of snails: rabbits, not heavy enough to crush the snails, eat the leftover vegetation in the pens; chickens come in after the harvest to scrape up the ground, turning over all the snail slime and feces and annihilating the insect population; there are even sheep around the outdoor pens, used to keep the grass tightly clipped and thereby give snail predators less shelter for their lecherous attempts. 

Uncle Wiggly doing his part

Despite the best protections he can conjure, he still loses more than a third of his crop every year. Sickness, of course, plays a role, though he confesses that the snail would never tell him it was sick and, if one were, he certainly wouldn't be able to tell. Despite his best efforts to tread lightly, he does step on and kill some of the poor creatures. One day he turned off the electric fence during a visit from a school group and forgot to turn it back on. When he returned in the morning, 15,000 snails had departed every which way, moving at 7 meters an hour...he spent the better part of a day chasing down as many as he could, but clearly some slipped away into the fields. When the snails climb the vegetation in important numbers, they can cause the tops of the plants to bend over the electric fence, giving the escargots not only a full belly but also new liberty. And birds, bugs, and animals love to eat them: crows, porcupines, hedgehogs, and, worst of all, wild boars who blithely penetrate the pens and find themselves in the midst of a (barely) moveable feast. The signs of a boar visit are among the most disheartening for the snail farmer; not only is the devastation serious, they are also known to be return visitors. 

An outdoor pen in sunlight shows no signs of snails

While we all had a good look around, Frederic described the cycle for the snails, from birth in captivity to growth and, eventually, harvest, all of which is done by hand. He then coaxes the snails into hibernation by placing them in refrigerated spaces, mimicking nature's winter, and there they can stay until he is ready to prepare them. Until this year, he went about an hour away to Besancon to kill, clean, and cook his snails; now, he has a laboratory on site. (When he said that the government considers live snails as a "fish" product and the cooked snail as an "agricultural" product, it was clear that the French have plenty of headaches dealing with their own government.) 

He took us into his "showroom," where he offered white wine to accompany snails three ways: one in a buttery spread that he put on toast and fired under the broiler; one cake, dense and sticky like a carrot cake, that had a little sweet-and-salty thing going on; and then snails dressed in their traditional robe of butter, parsley, and garlic. Instead of serving them in their shells, however, he placed them in edible shells, which resembled cake cones from the ice cream parlor. These last were sensational, the crunch of the shell marrying the buttery flavors of the tender snail. 

Of course, this is France. He had only the spread for sale that day, as he was out of everything else until at least six weeks from now. And if you want something for Christmas, plan ahead: last winter, in just his second year, his clients, 1/3 of whom come from within 10km of his house, another third from Greater Dijon, and the last third (ahem) tourists passing through, had purchased all his stock by December 15. 

But they're there, snail partying, on the shady side of the planks

Frederic, who works alone, does no advertising, is new to the field, and yet has tapped into France's insatiable appetite for quality, local food, grown, cared for, and prepared by someone known. It is a wonderful relationship to witness and share.

Supermarket Wine Fair

The front page of the local paper was shimmering with excitement. It was time for the annual Foires Aux Vins, or Wine Fairs, that happen each fall at supermarket chains in the region.

Someone ate the "E"

Naturally, I asked one of my local food and wine experts (qualifications: French passport, tongue, larynx) for guidance. He told me to ask for an invitation to the opening night event from ATAC, the local supermarket of preference in our family.

I did, and lo! Miracle of miracles! I made the invite list. At 7:30, as the store closed to "normal" shoppers, we elite (qualifications: heartbeat, wallet) were welcomed inside the store.

Saucisson, bread, cornichons, pate, brassiere, panties

Wine, wine everywhere and not a drop to dri...well, actually, plenty to drink as the emcee directed us towards rows of glasses filled with white Macon. Guests browsed the hundreds of wines while they sipped, searching for good values among the offerings. 

As background, the stores seek out smaller producers (those who don't supply the stores year-round) and help the latter move stock out of their cellars as they begin the harvest, which, of course, requires room to be freed up at their facilities. While most of the wines for sale in Burgundy supermarkets come from, well, Burgundy, for this ten-day period, all of France (and even a smidgen of Spain, Australia and -- gasp!-- California) is on display. Loire Valley, southwest France, Alsace, Bordeaux, Provence, Champagne, Corsica...all the regions are represented (even if the biggest names in those regions are not.) The prices are tres interessants, and some wines sell out in the first day or two, never to be seen in the metropolis of the Arnay-le-Duc ATAC again.

Local for the locals

Following the lead of others, I filled my shopping cart with goods from around the country, occasionally checking in with one of my local aficionados (qualifications: standing up at ATAC, respiration) for confirmation or repudiation of my choices. ("My wife and I don't like that Poulsard. Oh, a bottle of Gewurztraminer. That is very sweet.") Throughout, there were little bites being passed -- remember, this is a grocery store -- including head cheese, cheese, and cheese puffs called gougeres. It was all tasty and fun, especially when we got to a 2009 Monthelie, which got many of the men in the crowd nodding enthusiastically, as if, finally, their taste buds had been awakened, and the outing worthwhile.

A last bit of small talk while people waited in line to pay (most good Burgundians had bought mostly Burgundy), and then it was just the sound of bottles rattling in shopping carts as the elite made their way across the parking lot to their cars, headed home with dozens of liters of liquid fortification.

The final haul

Moving

We just moved for the third time in 60 days. Three houses in 60 days, worse than college. The boys go with the flow throughout, though the oldest has found that being in bed with his parents eases any discomfort he may be having with his new surroundings. 

This third place, in the tiny village of Vianges, is an old clergy house next to the church. The owners use it as a vacation house and have generously loaned it to us for the month of September before we return to our original house in October, where we will stay until at least the end of June 2015. Needless to say, we are looking forward to unpacking for real again once we are there, but for now we are taking advantage of our new surroundings. The best part of the Vianges house is that the TGV train track is only a kilometer away. Though I am not sure I would want to live so close on a permanent basis, it is the best gift the boys have ever received. We walk for a few minutes and stand on a bridge under which trains going north of 220km/h pass, making our feet shake. Archie waves like crazy, Luke says, "WHOA!" every time, and, if we get a honk from the conductor, general euphoria results. 

The next best thing is Therese. She is the mother of the proprietress (and the mother in law of the proprietor) of our house. Therese has the house across the street where she comes for the weekend. So far, in the 10 days we have been in Vinages, she has: given us three enormous zucchinnis; twice delivered cherry tomatoes; picked and delivered raspberries; cut fresh flowers for us; offered instructions on how to start the lawn mower; helped to fill the gas tank on same; babysat for the boys during the day for an hour; babysat for the boys for the evening while we went out for an anniversary dinner; called her sister to ask if she could babysit for us on a Monday night while we went out in Arnay-le-Duc; plucked carrots, turnips, black radishes, and leeks out of her garden for us; and generally endeared herself to Luke to the point that, when he is "indisposed" and hears her in the hallway, he calls out, "Mamie Therese! Je fais caca!" He just wants to make sure she knows what he is up to. 

She is living proof that not every French person is cold and reserved, words that the French use to describe themselves with great regularity (in addition to chauvinistic [in the patriotic sense of the word], grouchy, ungovernable, and gastronomic). We have been bowled over by her generosity and her eagerness to help and assist us. 

And now, despite all the hassles of moving, we have roots and connections in three different communities all within 30 minutes of each other, relationships and experiences we will build and lean on in the months to come.

The Butcher Shop

I entered the butcher shop in Saulieu and saw a man ordering what looked like a leg of lamb. The butcher was alone, a young man maybe 22 with a crew cut with a little wave sprouting up towards the sky on his forehead. A woman and two other men were in line, making me 5th in the queue. 10 minutes, thought I, 12 max. 

He boned the leg of lamb, tied it, sawed through the bones for the man, and bagged it all up. The man ordered a few more items. It had been a good 7-8 minutes. Three customers still to go. Worse yet, the woman had a long list in her hand. I sighed as the first man walked out, but was immediately pleased to see the butcher reach into the fridge behind him and take out six or seven packages that the woman had apparently ordered the night before. I saw some tied roasts, some ground beef, some small salads. This was going to be quick.

France laughed in my face as the woman began -- mind you, after calling ahead of time and placing an order of nearly 100 dollars worth of meat -- asking for slices of ham, a little tomato/sausage stuffing, perhaps just a little container of the cabbage salad. Abruptly, she sat down on the bench in the rear of the store, her packages neatly assembled next to the cash register. Apparently, Madame had forgotten her credit card.

The butcher moved on to the next client, a big man in his late sixties in Levi jeans and a checked button down shirt. Like the other clients, he seemed to know the young butcher, and they bantered back and forth with ease. The customer was clearly an eater, someone who was ready to get down to the business of ordering and buying some serious meat products. Our friend the butcher went into the back and brought back a piece of beef he called "le talon," which, literally, means the heel, but that couldn't be right. The customer inquired...what is that? He explained that it was a tender piece of meat, usually about 6-10kg, and everyone would love it for his Saturday meal. In the meantime, he had, with a surgeon's accuracy, lifted out the nerves in the piece of beef, pronouncing it ready for cooking. The customer asked for a farm chicken, but not the ones in the window; they were too big. To the back room! When the butcher returned with the bird, he asked if the client wanted him to "gut it."

An affirmative reply led to a two or three minute display of butchering skill as he hacked off the bird's black feet, decapitated it, delicately lifted all the viscera out, and wrapped it up, ready for roasting. His eyes, surprisingly, wandered with some regularity away from the sharp blade and gazed out the window. One particularly long glance made me turn as well, and I saw two beautiful women walking away. I liked this butcher.

In the middle of this chicken evisceration, Madame's husband arrived with her card, so she could pay and leave, stopping all other progress, of course. It had been 25 minutes so far for two and a half clients. There were now three people in line behind me, all of whom were silent throughout the wait. No chitchat, no opinions shared between customers, just quiet waiting.

Eventually, Levi’s wrapped up and the next client seemed to be more of a single guy than a "I am buying for ten" type, so his sausages, paté, some steak, turkey, and ham was pretty efficient. While I waited, I noticed that the butcher had been using the same two knives for the entire time I was in the store. With the large one, he had cut big pieces of red meat and sliced turkey escalopes. With the smaller, he had boned several different animals, cut patés and terrines of every origin, scored the fat on a beef steak, cut butcher's string, and separated the guts from the inside of a chicken. He never once rinsed or wiped either blade. He was not wearing gloves and he neither rinsed nor washed his hands. The same cutting surface was employed for every operation, whether it be poultry or beef. The cutting board was neither changed, rinsed, nor washed. His store had been open for several hours, and I doubt he had taken a break to do cleaning. Hard to imagine in your local Whole Foods.

When my turn came, it was small potatoes: a couple of chicken legs, some turkey escalopes, and some paté en croute. I took less than two minutes, firmly on the faster side of average. Which, I guess, shows how far I still have to go.

Beef Dinner

The main attraction

Food brotherhoods are ubiquitous in France. People join clubs to celebrate veal head, sardines, giant strawberry tarts, onions, mustard, and hundreds of other culinary delicacies. The invitation to the annual dinner hosted by the Brotherhood of Charolais Beef in Burgundy, France said: “Exactitude being the symbol of politeness of all gastronomes, we are counting on your presence at 8:00pm sharp.” This dinner featured the local beef, a race of docile, white cows that are tender and delicious. I signed up to go with some of my new friends from the area.

Upon arriving at 7:45, people made their way to their assigned tables and promptly sat down. No mingling. I surveyed the 150 or so guests and it didn’t take long for my first realization of the evening. At 39, I was the youngest person there by at least ten years, probably more like 20.

Around 8:30, the different brotherhoods that had come for the event paraded into the room, dressed in velvet gowns, custom-made maroon suits, and hats galore: some with feathers, some looking quite papal. They gathered near and on the stage and the induction ceremony began. Eight people were newly made part of the Charolais Brotherhood and each had to solemnly swear to uphold the tradition and honor of this beef after taking a bite and swigging some wine.

Parading

Some of the new inductees

The second realization of the night hit me around 9:30pm, when the inductions were wrapping up. In front of me on the table were three wine glasses and a water glass. All were empty. I had three forks, four knives, and one spoon, but no food anywhere in sight. If you invited 150 guests to dinner at 8:00pm in the U.S. and didn't serve them any food, alcohol or water for an hour and a half, well, the guests would riot, pure and simple.

Thirsty yet?

Eventually, however, an aperitif appeared, a bit of peach liqueur mixed with a local fortified called Ratafia and topped with “four fingers of crémant,” the local sparkling wine. Soon, we were feasting on a gelée of beef tail and cheek followed by a terrine of lobster, salmon, and perch. The wine expert at the table pronounced the white from Mâcon “short,” as in, it had no staying power. His disappointment was palpable.

His comments solidified my view that it is always fun to eat with French people because they always have an opinion. Food is not merely sustenance here, but a source of endless conversation and, more often than not, criticism. The sea bass poached in fortified wine on top of a bed of stewed leeks with a “hint of garlic” led to several comments that I would still be able to kiss my wife that evening, the garlic was so faint. The pinot noir that the menu counseled for the course received oceans of derision from Maurice, leading him to say, “While I am not here to criticize, I am here to tell the truth. And that wine is not good.” Nonetheless, general laughter accompanied each course, and spirits were high.

One of my tablemates commented that perhaps a little music would be welcome and, on cue, two gentlemen in their 60s took the stage to crank out some tunes on a rattly acoustic guitar and an electronic keyboard/drum machine combo. People danced immediately to YMCA, Bee-Bop-a-Loo-La, The Twist, and other American and French classics. Dancing is one of the few reasons allowable in the French politesse book to get up from the table.

Oh, it's a scene man

The other acceptable reason to get up is to smoke, and it was here that I had my third realization of the evening. The town dentist smokes. His wife smokes. At the table of 12, fully half smoked. It shouldn’t surprise anymore, but it is hard not to laugh when the doctor’s wife lights up.

At last, we arrived at the main attraction, a filet of Charolais, seared rare, accompanied by a parsley shallot butter, “melting potatoes,” and a tangle of watercress (no dressing!) Now that we had passed to a 2009 Beaune premier cru red wine, Maurice commented, as he wiped the inside of his butter dish with bread, polishing off easily four tablespoons of butter, “up until now, we have been standing on one leg. Now, finally we have both feet back on the ground.”

As the wait staff began to clear, people continued dancing. A newly inducted woman with a tight hairdo galloped over from the dance floor to shoo away the waitress attempting to remove her plate and began to hungrily devour her last bites of Charolais while standing up. Pas très français, but very funny.

A cheese plate of different local specimens followed, including a gooey Époisses, a hard sheep’s cheese, and a Brillat-Savarin. A dessert of an advertised trio of vacherins (salted caramel ice cream, mango sorbet) concluded the evening’s gustatory pleasures (even though the salad had no dressing, the “aromatic” cheeses in fact had little smell, and the trio of ice creams was, in fact, a duo.) As the clock struck 2:30am, coffee arrived, after which we were on our way home.

My head hit the pillow at 4:12. My kids woke up at 6:30.

It was worth it.

Yes, We Have No Bread

As summer winds down, it's the beginning of a difficult two week stretch. While many people are trying to squeeze out the final joys before school starts on September 2, we are staying local in Burgundy. It seems, however, that we will be largely without quality bread. A few days ago, I was buying our daily loaf from preferred bakery number 1. Taped on the glass door was a sign saying the bakery would be closed for two weeks for annual vacation starting August 25. These people work hard, rising before the sun to make baguettes that go for around a dollar a piece. They deserve some time off. I would just go to preferred bakery number 2.

No bread

Alas! When I stopped in over the weekend, they too had a sign: closed for annual vacation starting August 25! I chatted with the owner, snapping a picture of the sign and explaining that, as an American, this is highly unusual. U.S. small business people usually hire a small team of people, enough to ensure that the store stays open year-round. Here, hiring is so expensive that many boutiques, bakeries, garages, and other small businesses are one or two person operations. When vacation time comes, the business just closes down. 

Really, no bread

Recently, a Frenchman asked me what differences I noticed the most between France and home. (David Sedaris answered this question at a reading in Boston by saying, "Boy, you really have television everywhere here." By contrast, I am yet to find a café or restaurant in rural France with a TV.) I explained that in the U.S., as long as there is the hope of a customer with money in his pocket, stores and businesses are generally open. In small towns and big cities, it is a safe bet that a store is open at least six days a week from 10-6, if not longer. If you need batteries or baking soda, toilet paper or tile cleaner, you can generally find it at a 24 hour convenience store within a fifteen minute drive of your home. 

Don't let your car break down for these two weeks.

Here, by contrast, it is better to expect something to be closed instead of open. Everything is closed Sunday and most things are shuttered Monday as well. Nothing opens before 10. Between noon and 2:30 every day, rural France is closed for lunch. After 7:00pm, if you need a cup of milk, some dish soap, or kitty litter, you are out of luck. Life is closed until the following morning, provided that morning is not Sunday, Monday, summer, the holidays, a Catholic holy day, or a full moon.

Want a good library book? Not in August. Closed.

The bank closed the day after a national holiday so the employees could have an extra long weekend. The local garage turned the lights off for two weeks. On Monday afternoons in the summer, be advised that the post office will not be open. A jewelery store in Beaune was closed until mid-October "for health reasons." The mechanic from whom I bought a used car has been on "congé" every time I email him a question about the car. The artisan jam store on the main place in Arnay-le-Duc is only open on Saturdays, sitting dark six days a week. If you need to talk to your insurance agent, don't attempt it Monday afternoon. They're closed. Don't lose your credit card at lunch! The bank is only open for walk-in traffic in the mornings; in the afternoon, you have to have an appointment.

Closed. Period.

These closures and vacations are engrained in French life, in French law, and in the French spirit. Yet, every French person seems to agree that it is absurd that businesses in downtown Dijon and Beaune, the largest commercial centers in the area, are closed from 12-2, when all the workers have time to shop. The tension between tradition and modernity is real, and the country is clearly struggling with its old habits and the pressures of a new, global economy. While they figure it out, I think I'll have a long lunch.

Les mûres derrière le mur sont mûres!

Mûre is blackberry. Mur is wall. Mûre is ripe. Confusing? Yes. But, in this case, delicious. Late summer in Côte d'Or is the time to pick and eat a ton of blackberries. They are EVERYWHERE. Ubiquitous. Omnipresent. Pervasive. And best of all? They are FREE. 

Some for today, some for tomorrow

Just walk down any road where there are Charolais cattle (read: every road) and you will find blackberries in the hedges that the French farmers use instead of fences. I learned from one of my friends here that any land that is not marked "privé" is land you can go on. His only cautions were: 1. If you open a cattle gate, close it. 2. If you see a bull with balls hanging down between his legs, avoid that field. And 3. Try to avoid mothers with their calves, as they can get testy. So you don't really even need a road, and since the farmers here roate the cows frequently, it is easy to find a spot with an open gate (no bulls!) to go check out for you haul. 

Charolais cattle in front of a hedge

We went up the road half a mile to a dead-end dirt path to let the boys run wild while we picked. There are definitely a lot of prickers and some plants that sting if you touch them, but the payoff is worth it. Blackberries on cereal, on French toast (which these people, of course, only eat for dessert), in yogurt, in pies, as a snack, and, when you have little ones, as a bribe to try -- for God's sake just to TRY -- the carrot soup.

Best part about blackberry picking

Hedges