Garden Party

By Elisabeth Fondell

I once attended a garden party in France. The tables were set under the shade of leafy trees to combat the August heat. We were handed glasses of kir, a mix of white wine and crème de Cassis. The tablecloths were mismatched, the cutlery and dishes haphazard, and the guests chain smoked as they told stories around the table.

Antoine, our host, brought platter after platter to the table in increasing volume, accompanied by champagne. First came giant bowls of fat shrimp with tomatoes. Then out came skewers of juicy, Provencal-spiced chicken stacked four layers high. A course of frog legs followed the skewers, quintessentially French. Then Antoine emerged with a heaping platter of marinated pork, and it was at this point that I began to wonder if this parade of dishes would ever end. Perhaps we would stay here, in this garden, for all eternity.

We finished the meal with lush peaches, ripe melon quarters, baguettes, and five wheels of cheese, each made by a different guest at the party. Only in France can one attend a garden party where every guest casually brings their own handmade cheese.

I didn’t understand more than a word or two of the conversation that day, but it didn’t matter. For as long as I live, I will never forget that afternoon – the taste of the food, the clouds of smoke all around me, the lively sound of French filling the air, that platter of cheeses, and the exotic feeling of a garden party in the Entraunes valley.