Although the sun had dropped behind the 13th century farmhouses of Claviers, a hint of golden sunlight sent its last radiant shafts onto the village square and across the tiny sidewalk café where we sat. The buildings around us held tight to the heat of this June day and St. Sylvestre’s church tower at the end of the square shimmered in the remaining glow. The town square, which was not a square at all, but a tiny triangle, was quiet. The only sounds we heard were from an occasional dry rattle of leaves on the plane trees along the street, a bark or two from a couple of passing but socialable dogs, people conversing quietly at a nearby table, and some accordion music which floated down to us from a tinny radio in an open window. On occasion, a muted cheer or groan also wafted blithely past us from the nightly boules game just around the corner.

Earlier that day, my husband and I had wandered from one village to another driving along the Côte d’Azur—from Antibes to Juan-les-Pins, from Cannes to St. Maxime and on to St. Tropez. We had only a few days remaining of our two-week stay in Provençe and we wanted to squeeze every ounce of cultural essence into the time we had left. And, it was just an hour before, we had left the cacophony and heat behind us as we wove our way up the thirteen hairpin turns along the D55 to the tiny hillside village of Claviers. We had enjoyed the quiet beauty of the hills which seemed even more vivid, drenched in the rich hues of yellow broom and the blue-grey fields of lavender, but my husband and I were hot, thirsty and a tad bit hungry.

So when the sun dropped behind the buildings we, too, dropped into our seats at the café where we could relax and sip a cool glass of pastis. The burly, but cheerful owner of the bar informed us in French, and a bit of broken English, that he and his wife were new to this bistrôt. They had just opened that very week. Food was not available—no, not quite yet—but, the pastis and olives were in great supply.

As we sat back with our drinks, the sunlight suddenly illuminated the faces near us. Patrons quickly shifted sunglasses onto their noses as their heads bobbed to adjust to the flash of light. They, then, settled back to the business at hand. We drowsily dropped our heads toward our glasses as the intoxicatingly, thick smell of licorice drifting into our noses. What the sun had warmed, the pastis cooled.

“Tchin-tchin” we heard, as the murmurings of a toast floated by from a nearby table. We, too, raised our glasses in response. It was Friday night, after all. Voices were raised as others were welcomed into the Square. Metal chairs were scraped across the ancient stones as people made room at the tables. Men embraced men and kissed women; women kissed men and other women, as they sat down to enjoy a communal drink together.

Across the Square, only a few feet away, the last customers from the only grocery store in town came out with their purchases. Once again, the chairs were scraped across the stone floor, as people leaped from their seats. Cheek connected to cheek, and those with heavily-laden hands leaned forward as elbow touched elbow. Young hands reached out to beckon old ones and eyes sparkled as each stopped to exchange pleasantries. Even teen-age boys swaggered through the streets and greeted every one in sight. They placed bisous, or kisses on matronly aunts and jostled younger boys before rounding the corner, off on their own adventures. And once again, a cheer or a groan could be heard from the out-of-sight boules aficionados.

As my husband and I continued sitting in a semi-lethargic stupor, the chimes of St. Sylvestre struck 8 o’clock. I looked up from my drink just as a heavy door slammed shut across the Square. My attention swiveled in that direction as the sharp rasp of a lock sliding into place ricocheted off the nearby buildings. An elderly woman, the owner of the grocery, had just locked and bolted her store for the evening. She turned, cast a wave across the Square, adjusted the knot on her scarf, then trudged toward home.

We stared numbly after the old woman, then back into our glasses. A small bowl of olives slid back and forth between us as we slowly mulled over the French that the bar owner had uttered earlier. “My wife and I have just opened our bistro this very week. No, I’m sorry. There is no food available. No, not quite yet.”

I suddenly sat up in my chair shaking myself awake. Our only hope for food or sustenance had just locked her doors and headed for home. I knew there was no food in the farmhouse we were renting and there were no restaurants open nearby. “We are doomed,” I groaned to my husband. “We will surely starve to death before morning,” I whined.

Suddenly we heard a low rumbling sound—a gnashing of gears—a grinding of metal against metal—a mighty roar of an engine—then around the corner, past the church and into the square lurched a large white van. Pulling up near where we sat, a young man leaped from the driver’s side of the truck, quickly raced around to the opposite door and opened it for a young woman, his wife. As she stepped out of the truck, he reached behind her and lifted out a golden-haired, tousled-headed child and hoisted her high into the air. The year-old baby giggled and the crowd in the Square turned their attention to that joyous sound.

As a door in the back of the truck was opened, the wife with the baby disappeared inside. The young man deftly flung up a panel window, rolled down a canopy sunscreen, hoisted up a counter to the window, and, voila, the Pizza Wagon was open for business.

“Hooray,” I said to my husband. “My whining has been answered.”

But even before the aroma of garlic-infused tomato sauces, simmering local sausages and caramelized-onions could permeate the air around us, the townspeople began to flow out of their homes and down the streets. It was as if the Pied Piper had arrived in town. A line formed near the van as each person in turn leaned forward and up to the counter—some on tiptoes, some on a small step—all to place his or her order. As the young wife bent down to take their pizza requests, she would chat, then stop, and reach for the baby. She carefully lifted her up, and then extended her down over the counter. Nose met tiny nose—old cheek touched new—as each person in line kissed and caressed the child. Time seemed to stop. Nothing at that moment held precedence over the gentle acknowledgement of this cherub.

As if awakening from a dream, I slowly began to look around me. “It feels as if we’ve slipped into the pages of a Marcel Pagnol’s novel,” I whispered. My husband slid upright in his chair, blinked his eyes and looked about him. “You’re right. I fear the pastis, my dear, has gotten the best of us. Maybe you should order some pizza—and I’ll handle the ordering of wine?” His smile was kind, and I knew he was not one to jump easily into a food line. Instead, he signaled the bar owner’s wife to order a bottle of red wine and I stood to steady myself, before gathering my snippets of broken “restaurant French.” As I headed over to join the queue at the Pizza Wagon, I spotted the bar owner’s wife sprint out of the back door of the bar, down the street, and into a house below.

What on earth has my husband ordered? I wondered to myself. He speaks even less French than I do. I stood quietly in line feeling much like an interloper, as the villagers carried on great animated conversations around me. They did acknowledge me. They smiled and nodded their heads. In fact, we exchanged ‘bon soirs’ but I suppose I was grateful that we didn’t strike up a conversation, as I would have been reduced to awkward hand gestures and the shrugging of shoulders. We all knew I was an outsider.

As I stood on tiptoe to place my order, I, too, marveled at the beautiful child of the Pizza Wagon family. She sat precariously on the counter like a tiny princess, while her harried parents whirled about the small mobile kitchen. They pounded out the dough, spun it into the air, and adeptly slid it onto waiting pans while she giggled with glee. Local olive oils, cheeses, sausages, and olives were then sprinkled and layered onto the crust then thrust quickly into the oven.

While awaiting our order, I stood back in line and caught, out of the corner of my eye, the bar owner’s wife trudging back up the steep hill with several bottles of wine tucked under her arms. I hoped they weren’t all for us, but then again, my thirst was returning. She disappeared from view as she scurried into the back of the bistrôt. I continued my vigil. I stood there thinking about her. She was pleasantly plump and wore a dark mini-skirt, one which hiked up about mid-thigh with dark lace hose and stacked heels. Her black sweater, which clung to every ripple on her upper-torso continued down over her waist to join her skirt. But now that I had a moment to think about it, it wasn’t those things that captured my interest. It was the grace and confidence that she carried herself. She exuded beauty. I admired that about her and wished for that singular air of confidence in myself. Someday.

After a bit more time—maybe five or ten minutes of standing on one foot and then another—the local villagers gathered up their boxes of pizza, bid each other ‘adieu’ and returned up the streets again and into their homes. I, too, walked back to our table with the heat of the pizza burning my fingers, and the savory aroma propelling me forward. Beside our table, the bar owner’s wife hovered over my husband as she poured the recently-retrieved wine. He was nodding his head vigorously indicating the good quality of wine she had served. Head nodding was the language he knew best. She turned toward me and smiled sweetly as I approached. I was once again grateful for the language we shared—the smile.

I slipped into my seat, as she poured my glass of wine and then quickly disappeared into the bar. I opened the box, expecting to find a Niçoise-style pizza, but instead found a delicate, thin-crusted pizza, browned to perfection with hot melted cheese pooled magnificently into small crevices where mushrooms and sausages were not. The sauce was flavorful with a light touch of fresh tomatoes, herbs and a subtle touch of olive oil enhanced with piment oiseau—hot red peppers. And peeking out from under the cheese was a layer of jambon or thin ham slices, all of which I didn’t remember ordering. Ah, c’est la vie.

We ate ravenously and swilled down the wine like it was water. And after not too long, we realized we should have ordered more pizza. Perhaps, one or two more. But by the time we realized our mistake, the Pizza Wagon had folded up and ground its way out of the square and on to the next town.

“I guess we’ll have to come back next friday night, my love,” I slurred. My husband smiled, we finished our wine and called it good.

The Pissaladière – One Niçoise Favorite

Pizza Dough:
1 1/3 cups of lukewarm water
1 ½ teaspoons of active dry yeast
1 teaspoon of sugar
Mix together, check for yeast activity then add:
2 tablespoons of extra-virgin olive oil
1 teaspoons of sea salt (fine)
2-3 cups of all-purpose unbleached flour
Knead for ten minutes, and then let rest for one hour covered with a towel.

Topping:
3-4 onions sliced in very thin rounds
1-2 fresh tomatoes sliced in thin rounds
3 garlic cloves, minced finely
10 anchovies in salt, rinsed in water and sliced thin
6 tablespoons of good olive oil
6-10 Niçoise olives or Kalamata olives

In a frying pan, pour in 3 tablespoons of olive oil and sauté onions until golden brown. Put aside. In second frying pan, add last 3 tablespoons of olive oil and simmer the anchovies until they melt into a paste. Add garlic and simmer for less than a minute. Remove from stove.
Preheat oven to 450 degrees F. Roll out dough and place on a pizza pan. Spread the anchovy and garlic paste evenly over the dough. Layer the onions, tomatoes and olives over all. Bake for 15 minutes until crust is browned. Slice and serve with a nice Provençal rosé.