Reminiscent of the equinoctial tide, the procession was named La Vague’ (The Wave).
“Sunday is party day,” another devotee recounted enthusiastically. A parade through the village then a party, with hats sporting ribbons, a feather or whatever else won the vote. Then a morning mass and the alcohol starts a steady flow with an aperitif at the town hall.
The ‘conscript’ – any 20-year-old man, now, for France no longer practices involuntary recruitment, and his family, then troop off for a gastronomic lunch that defies all conservative boundaries of the midday meal.
Mr. Elf hat told me about his last class party in our village: “The entree was mousse de foie gras en brioche (goose liver in a pastry case) and crayfish. Oh, and of course, white wine - Monbazillac. You know? Très syrupy. ”
Then the mighty appetites attacked the plat de résistance - canard aux cèpes, perfectly accompanied by a smoky Bordeaux. Cheese varieties ranging from pungent, almost liquid St. Marcellin to crumbly goat’s Crottin de Chavignol, just to finish off the wine.
Twenty-year-olds danced on tables, brandishing bottles as microphones, 70-year-olds nodded off with contented sighs and small children dashed about, intoxicated on atmosphere.
For those sober or awake enough to remain on the battlefield, steaming coffee was served while the champagne cooled for the Bal des Conscrits, ball held by some villages around 11pm Sunday evening to counterattack the banality of Monday. Finally, as daybreak hesitated between night and dawn, the weary soldiers tottered off home.
These festivities no longer mark the final celebration before departing for the uncertainty of war, yet the bonds of brotherhood are reinforced annually, uniting classes that, for a brief moment, know no racial, class or social boundaries.
A need to fulfil a citizen’s primary obligation that has ceased to exist, or just a good excuse for French gastronomy?
Who knows, but as the stranger with the funny hat thanked me for the coffee and conversation. I wished him a grand celebration and he departed, pocketing my Euros in exchange for two brioches.