When Alain announced that he was ‘retiring’ (having once already retired from the gendarmerie) there was consternation among the disparate and ragged band that frequented the village bar. Always an uneasy coalition of the French barflies and international expats, both groups considered their future with trepidation.

Both the French and international community tended to be split down the middle. Many indigenous inhabitants never went near Alain’s. The combination of rugby decor, constant TV and dubious hygiene arrangements attracted some and repelled others. The same equation applied to the village incomers – some would walk by on the other side of the street, others regarded Alain’s as their spiritual home from home.

Perhaps the major factor driving footfall into Alain’s was the issue of tobacco. Alain’s outrageous flaunting of the indoor smoking ban, permitted through his contacts with his ex colleagues in the gendarmerie, attracted some but left others cold. Literally cold in the winter. Either you tolerated the smokey interior or missed the bonhomie inside.

For welcoming, Alain’s bar certainly was. The consummate people person, Alain had time for everyone. Conversations were of course generally conducted in French no matter your level of comprehension, although Alain did attempt to make payment advice in English as a friendly joke. It would take a special person to replace the flawed genius that was Alain and his cafe.

The idea that he should close, therefore, brought a mixture of delight and fear amongst the village, depending where you stood on issues such as smoking, TV sport and of course decor. Would smoking be allowed in the new establishment? Where would those without expensive TV packages go to watch the Champions’ League? What could possibly replace the bright green and red paintwork?

For at least a year, rumours circulated and swirled around the leaf festooned pavements of the village. Potential patrons came and went. A team of international inhabitants even put up a proposal for a community buy out. Eventually, however, a long handover process began whereby Alain transferred his reputation and good offices to a new couple – Stéphane and Juliette.

This being France, the bureaucracy and paperwork took around six months. There were issues of finance and restrictive covenants; Alain should not inaugurate another bar within a certain radius. An unlikely outcome, at least not until Alain had regained his energy by sleeping for around 18 months, for he was observably shattered at the end of his tenure. Running a bar from eight in the morning until ten at night with only one week’s holiday a year does tend to take it out on a fella.

So, with impeccable timing as we arrived for our autumn visit, hoping to complete some essential jobs in the house, Alain’s bar shut its doors for the last time. We missed the closing party by a day. During the next two weeks we occasionally peeked a look inside at the work which was being undertaken. This was probably not a good idea. One morning we arrived to see Juliette on her knees scraping away the layers of protective grime that had accumulated behind the bar over the years. Sadly, there were probably antibiotic organisms there unknown to medical science now lost forever as the cleaning frenzy began.

The renovation period stretched from the planned two weeks to four and then six. By this time we had left the village for a while in order to satisfy our contractual employment commitments and replenish our bank account before sterling became even more of a joke currency as the UK voted once again for a europhobic government. Fleeing back to the village a month or so later, auspiciously the day after the UK drifted off somewhere into the middle of the Atlantic, we discovered the bar was now open once again. We stepped across the threshold.

Although we had been partially forewarned by Bud our German/American friend who had sent us some pictures, nothing could prepare us for the transformation. Gone the tobacco stained ceiling. Gone the green and vermillion paint job. Gone the coffee and wine stained wooden bar. Alain’s had been transformed into a hospital clinic waiting room. All was white, even the wood. There was no escaping the new decor as multiple 1000w lamps beamed down from the ceiling, illuminating the new owners’ statement of intent. We are CLEAN! they shouted out. There was certainly no denying it.

RIP the Last Greasy Spoon in the Minervois

“Désolé monsieur, nous n’avons pas de l’eau”

Not quite the auspicious greeting we had hoped for on deciding to try the new restaurant further up the valley from our own village. 

“Est aussi,  nourriture froid seulement

Not getting any better, we thought. No water or hot food. We looked around at the carefully constructed shabby environment and then back at the effortfully effortless garb of the person imparting this bad news. One of our companions began emitting, and then hastily concealing, snorts of amusement. Our first attempt at demonstrating to friends that our region was just as up there with modern city living was floundering badly.

“High Altitude Hipsters”, he sniggered. “What do you expect?”

As has been noted elsewhere in this blog, eating out in our region is often characterised by traditional village cafes, in our village for example, offering a robust mix of tobacco infused basic home cooking and cheap cold red wine. By far the best value eating is to be found in village cafes, local auberges and restaurants. But ONLY at lunchtime. Given the need to fill those empty hours between the morning work period and its afternoon aftermath – under most circumstances a good two hours break – the French worker piles into the nearest local eatery, expecting to be fed a full three course meal including bread, wine and coffee for around €12-€15 a head.

How restaurants do this is nothing short of a miracle. In most establishments these ‘menu du jour’ are not of the sausage and chips variety found in the UK. They represent proper French cooking with cheffy salads beautifully presented, expertly constructed sauces, and simple but delicious puddings. The wine rarely tastes like vinegar and the coffee is usually that bitterly barista-like flavour so beloved by the French.

Part of the secret lies in good, from-scratch cooking, but probably more importantly this is due to the restricted menu. Often there is only a choice of one or two items per course. Most restaurant reviewers naturally regard this as a sure sign of a good restaurant, a chef that knows what s/he is doing. Either way, you will be constantly amazed at what is on offer. However, woe betide you if you fetch up at the same restaurant in the evening, where as if by magic the same dishes then appear on the a la carte menu. If you choose them you will pay double for the pleasure of ordering them compared to the midday meal.

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On this occasion we had eschewed the usual set menu midday approach and had instead made our way to and had opened the hidden door to a restaurant we had seen advertised locally. The mountain village in question had lost its existing restaurant some years previously and we wanted to see how the new guys were getting on. First impressions were favourable. Modern metal braces holding up a small hanger shaped, glass-surrounded eating area, running alongside a bar listing interesting and funkily named local red wines. Although too cold for this time of year, the outside garden looked interestingly stocked with herbs and edible vegetables, covered by a large taughtened parachute. The same purposely understated mix of wooden floors and tables, set off by old but definitely not twee decorations. Hipster heaven.

The Aude and Ariège regions of France have always attracted those looking for an alternative life, particularly in the mountains. Both regions have a history of depopulation and have over the years welcomed outsiders, less concerned about their habits and beliefs, more interested in their spending power and contributions to the local economy. Each new wave of settlers reflects their genesis. As we walked into this new restaurant it became immediately apparent. They were modern examples of this trend. Hipsters. In the mountains. Miles from anywhere. Not just hipsters but high altitude hipsters.

My male friend and I looked at each other. Both of us bearded and clothed in jeans and check shirts clearly looked the part. Equally, we both share a penchant for artisan produce, especially craft beer. This was our kind of place. We quickly forgave them their deficits. After all, their problems had arisen because of the once in 20 year floods that had struck the region just a week previously. Several months rain had fallen in as many hours, devastating lower laying communities and causing boiling torrents of water  to forge new pathways down the sinewy mountain valleys, taking the local water treatment plant with them. 

We enjoyed our cold meal very much. The quinoa was lovely, the pomegranate seeds delightful. The local(ish) IPA was full of hoppy goodness and the chestnut pure made a fine addition to the hand knitted yoghurt. Our check shirts and beards blended in well with the aged wood and faux artisan nick nacks. The smooth jazz and alternative indie music tracks were the perfect companion to the slightly unreal environment, stuck as it was in the middle of an old monastic garden in a medieval alley at the heart of an ancient mountain hamlet. There wasn’t a non-hirsute male face in the place. Traditional French cooking in a traditional French restaurant at a traditional French price it was not. But it was delicious, relaxed and a breath of the new/old in a resolutely traditional area. We loved it and we go back often.

We never did find out why the food was cold though.

The smoke rose up from Cécile’s ‘hidden’ cigarette, curling towards the ceiling of the bar, adding a further coat of yellow covering to the years of tobacco infused paint. Despite more than ten years of public prohibition, Cécile and her partner, Alain waged a campaign to preserve the old ways. Or maybe they were just addicted and there were things to do. After all, if they had to go outside to smoke they’d never actually get any bar keeping done.

‘Chez Alain’, their village bar, provided a reminder of how things used to be. Go there during the short but cold Minervois winter and as well as arriving to a very warm welcome you will be assured of leaving with a throaty phlegmy cough. Need to clear your chest? Alain’s is the best medicine.

Although the Minervois is still dotted with a decreasing number of village cafés, Alain’s is probably the last to provide this level of customer service. Despite a rebellious, even seditious tradition, most of the bars have succumbed to the rule of law. Smoking outside on the pavement is still de rigour of course. However, inside fuming is generally off the behavioural repertoire.

Nonetheless, there is more to Alain’s bar than a smoky interior. Alain designed his village watering hole to be a sport’s bar. Alain himself is heavily involved in the local village rugby club and his TV shows all manner of sports games, rugby in preference but plenty of football when international and European club championships are underway. The local, mainly male, clientele prop up the bar on these occasions, shouting Gallic encouragement as their favoured players succeed or fail at their chosen sport. In the winter, the tougher of the village population of younger women gather to smoke their ways through packets of cheap cigarettes whilst the occasional worker pops in for an early morning Ricard, that quintessential French aniseed infused spirit. It would be a bit of a stretch to describe Alain’s Bar as family orientated. No yummy mummies here.

In Alain’s mind, the perfect environment in which to watch the big game is to be bathed in a riotous colour scheme of bright green and vermillion. If the game proves to be tedious, in Alain’s Bar you actually can watch the paint peel without fear of boredom.

Sadly, the paint is indeed peeling at a remarkable rate. Alain came to bar keeping rather late in life after – so doubtful and unconfirmed rumours go – a career in the police force. How else to explain, other than through prior law enforcement connections, the survival of Alain’s now unique establishment? On one memorable occasion, a representative of the local Gendarmerie popped in. The assembled multitude hastily stubbed their cigarettes out and looked apprehensively at Alain, fearful that he was about to be reprimanded for his flagrant flaunting of the law. With classic French insouciance, the Gendarme leaned against the wall, took out a packet of Gauloise cigarettes and calmly lit one up. The clientele breathed, and coughed, again.

But time, and Alain, are getting on a bit. He and Cécile are trying to sell the place. If they succeed it is unlikely their carefully constructed piece of living history will survive as is. All over the Minervois the lure of the €8 plât du jour and €12 menu du jour is proving less attractive to locals and tourists alike than the more pricey and – let’s face it – more upmarket French restaurants and auberges. Village cafés are either closing, reducing their opening hours or being turned into fancy restaurants. With their closure comes a diminishing of village life, hearts being ripped out of communities, the foci of local gossip disappearing.

But for now Alain and Cécile survive and it was to Alain’s bar that we navigated. The hasty conversation with Jeannette had hatched a plan for her to leave our keys behind Alain’s bar. As we wandered down the village street Alain spied us coming and greeted as long lost friends, suspecting rightly that his income was about to see a boost. For we love Alain’s bar. We love the cock-a-snoopery, the industrial fizzy beer, the cold red wine and the never changing menu. We love the early morning coffees, the breakfasts we buy from the local boulangerie and eat at his tables, and the nights watching Champions League football. We love how Alain will search through his endless television channels for particular football matches we are interested in seeing on his huge TV. If we could save his business singlehandedly we most certainly would.

Right now, however, we were after another prize. Alain fished in a drawer, shifted aside a messy bundle of receipts and other bar keeping paraphernalia, reached to the rear and came up with a white paper envelope with ‘Dave and Anne’ written on it. Even the misspelling of Ann’s name could not dampen her enthusiasm. For there, in Alain’s hands, was our prize. The keys to the house. Les Clés de la Maison