La Frégate – The Irish Rover

I grew up on a poultry farm. My father was a specialist breeder of Light Sussex and Brown Leghorn stock. I was raised on eggs, but I never ate chicken, at least not if I could avoid it. I clearly remember when I was small and poked my head around my mother at the kitchen sink, just as she was up to her elbow in a chicken, removing its entrails, before she burned them on the kitchen fire, always causing quite a stink; that was the first of my many vegetarian moments on the farm.

istock_000008148786_medium — A Brown Leghorn rooster (photo from internet)

I never had an omelette when I lived at home. They were not a part of my mother´s standard cuisine; she was a traditional Irish woman who deferred to the narrow culinary demands of my very traditional English father. Omelette would have been a bit too French for my father. Six years of WW2 left him with some indelible prejudices.

I had my first omelette in Paris in 1969. I was working with Singer Sewing Machines, installing a new computer system in their French head office. My good friend and Australian colleague, Geoff Rich met me for breakfast. He ordered an omelette with bread and coffee and so did I, not knowing what it was. Delicious it turned out to be. And he played ‘Lay, lady lay’ by Bob Dylan on the jukebox. The haunting lyrics and melody still recall Paris to me. To others, it may seem rather corny today, but those were magic moments for me.

Some years later, in 1978, omelettes came back into my life in Nigeria. It was on my first day of a short-term contract in Lagos. I went to the canteen, presented my plate and received what appeared to be the greater part of a goat, with a few steamed vegetables on the side. The meat was not for me and for the rest of my stay in Nigeria, I lived on beer, cashew nuts, bought by the bottle from street vendors, and omelettes in a French restaurant near to the office, or in the Ikoyi club.

When I was later based in Paris in 1998-2007, I frequented a nearby bistro, La Frégate. The Maitre d´, Patrick, would always read out the short list of specials, ending with resignation, ‘omelette au fromage o salade mixte?‘. I really liked Patrick and I miss his conversation . A very good man and an enthusiastic rugby fan. He always said that if he could not be French, he would elect to be Irish.

In recent years, I have spent a lot of time in Spain and South America. There, the traditional omelette is called tortilla francesa to distinguish it from the Spanish version, tortilla española. The latter is in a cake-form and includes potatoes, onions, garlic in the basic version and other ingredients in regional variations. It can be served hot or cold and on cocktail sticks as tapas or in slices, usually accompanied with fresh bread. With a glass of red wine, the latter usually serves as a meal for me.

375px-Tortilla_patatas — A typical *porción* or *trozo* of tortilla (photo from internet)

And here in Cape Town I have my local bistrôt, Cafe Extrablatt, that serves a generous omelette, french fries, toast and wine at any time of the day. And super-friendly staff that never fail to feel one at totally home.

It is indeed a hard life that I lead… 🙂

‘J’ai décidé d’être heureux, parce que c’est bon pour la santé’ (Voltaire)

For most of eight years, 1999-2007, I had a small mezzanine apartment in Paris at 24 Rue de Lille, one short block removed from the left bank, opposite the Louvre. It was a perfect location for me; a short walk to the metro at Rue du Bac and two minutes from the river, in the historic heart of the city. Over the years, I read many historical novels set in the area, and often I would walk the streets of the old city in the late evening, trying to envisage what it must have been like in past centuries.

I have never aspired to cook, other than to boil an egg, make a coffee, open a beer or a bottle of wine. When it comes to preparing a meal, I defer to those who are more expert than I. Over time, I ate at most of the restaurants and bistros within a ten-minute walk from my apartment, but the one that I most frequented was La Frégate, on the corner of Rue du Bac and Quai Voltaire, at the Pont Royal. There were very few weeks when I did not eat there at least once, and I soon became recognized as a local client, as distinct from one of the many tourists. But despite the earnest efforts of the maitre d’, Patrick, to introduce me to more exotic French cooking, it was rare that I deviated from my omelette au fromage or salade mixte. But Patrick and I had one passion in common – rugby, and we had many animated conversations about the prospects of the French and Irish teams, especially during the annual 6-nations competition.

Paris-La-Fregate-cafe-2 — La Frégate (photo from internet)

To walk from my apartment to La Frégate, indeed to get to the river, I almost always walked down the last block of the Rue de Beaune. And there on the corner was the house in which Voltaire died, in 1778, as recorded on a plaque on the wall.

Voltaire-last-house — Where Voltaire died (photo from internet)

Voltaire was his pen-name. In real life he was François-Marie Arouet, born in 1694. He was a profligate writer of plays, books, essays, letters; the criticism of organised religions was a frequent theme in his writing. He wrote more than 50 plays, dozens of essays on science, politics and philosophy, several books on history and more than twenty thousand letters to friends and contemporaries. And yet, he is seldom read today.

When he was younger, he became wealthy, by exploiting a flaw in the French lottery, together with a syndicate of gamblers. His resulting wealth allowed him to be independent and able to pursue his academic interests.

Voltaire was reputed to work up to eighteen hours day and often fueled his energies with more that forty cups of coffee a day. He spent part of his life in prison, at one time in the Bastille, or in exile, and lived for most of his later life in Geneva. He was also an entrepreneur, setting up a successful watch business in Switzerland.

He never married nor had children, despite many relationships. On his death bed, he is reputed to have told the priests – ‘Let me die in peace’.

bra07058 — Portrait de Voltaire (Francois Marie Arouet dit, 1694-1778) tenant l’annee litteraire. Peinture de Jacques-Augustin-Catherine Pajou (1766-1828), 18eme siecle. Paris, Comedie Francaise

There are many buildings in central Paris with plaques recording their previous inhabitants. Like that of Voltaire, there are so many fascinating histories to be discovered. At one time, I aspired to document many of the plaques and to write a short historical summary of the lives of each subject.

It is not yet too late…

Tag: La Frégate

Omelettes

Voltaire