French kissing with the French

Every year Vernon celebrates the gathering in and pressing of his olive harvest by inviting friends to a ceremony at his house. This year there were seven of us. He poured about a third of a pint of the freshly pressed, very green oil on to a central white china plate. We each took a small piece of toast, rubbed it with a garlic clove and soaked it in the oil. Then we removed it from the oil and rubbed it against the pulp of a quartered tomato. Apparently it’s a Provençal peasant tradition. The new green oil catches the back of the throat and isn’t everybody’s cup of tea. But it’s a vivid taste of nature.

There was no shortage of wines opened and unopened on the table and we drank deeply as we rubbed and dipped and dabbed, and those who smoked smoked, and we soon forgot any ceremonial obligation to solemnity.

The proportion of French to English native speakers was four to three and conversation switched inconsequentially between the two. ‘Ah that smell of garlic reminds me of my first kiss,’ said Serge, in English.

He agreed to her proposal to meet under a fig tree after supper when she would show him what a kiss felt like

Raised in Cannes, Serge taught French to Somerset schoolchildren for 40 years and he is articulate in either language. He tells a good story does Serge, but hides his light under a bushel. On the rare occasions when he takes the stage, his theme is most often his lifelong appreciation and enjoyment of women, which seems to have been aided and abetted by a tremendous and unfailing sex drive. His frankness about sex makes English listeners goggle and wonder is it because he is French. He is a big, kindly man notable for heavy rings and bangles, embroidered cowboy shirts and sometimes a poncho.