06/10/2003. Dr. Death and the Giant Lobster

My companion Denis is a wonderful, intelligent, and gentle man--a gentleman in the true sense of the word. When we went to Lower Normandy this past Sunday, he drove the entire way. Among many wonderful and interesting experiences on this action-packed day trip, we stopped in the beautiful coastal village of Barfleur, not far from the city of Cherbourg.

We ate a lunch of platters of fruits de mer, that uniquely French specialty which consists of a giant platter of cold whole crab, langoustines (delicate shrimp-like creatures), bigorneaux (giant snails), shrimp, oysters, and clams, served with bread, butter, mayonnaise, and mignonette sauce. Having washed it down with a bottle of hard cider, we proceeded to walk down the quay.

I spotted what looked like lobster traps stacked among the fishing gear on the wharf. Now, lobster is something I've hardly ever eaten since coming to France. Never an inexpensive item, live lobster (fished usually of the coast of Brittany) is astronomically expensive in Paris, ringing in at 80 to 120 euros per kilo (2.2 pounds).

When we ducked into the local poissonerie (fish monger) and saw gorgeous live lobsters sitting on the ice at 20 euros per kilo, you can imagine my excitement. The owner held one after another up for my inspection. All of them--having just been fished the night before--waved their claws menacingly and vigorously. One in particular was absolutely enormous. We decided on him. He weighed in at about 5 pounds--the largest liveliest lobster I'd ever seen for a trifling 50 euros.

The beast was folded against his will into a wooden crate, surrounded with fresh seaweed and icepacks, and entrusted to my embrace. I settled this cargo carefully on the floor of the back seat of the car, cautioning Denis that we would have to leave the windows cracked open so the car wouldn't overheat during the afternoon.

With our gastronomic treasure safely stowed, we set out to find a local potter that Denis had read about--someone who produced traditional objects according to ancient methods. Of course, this is just the sort of artisan we're always tracking down in the never-ending search for interesting things to offer for sale on this web site.

Looking for the potter's lair, we trolled the car slowly down the street running parallel to the main drag, which takes off just before the church. It is really the only other street in this small village. As soon as we turned into it, I told Denis to stop. "Look at the ornament on that roof! Isn't it wonderful?" It was a ceramic dove, glazed green and modeled in a wonderfully naive style. The dove perched atop a sort of ornate yet homey parapet at the end of the roof apex.

A block further down, we came upon an extraordinarily beautiful ceramic street plaque. With an elegant fish arching over a sort of death's head, it commemorated the life and death of a member of the French resistance during World War II. It was at once both personal, touching, and elegant.




Then, still continuing at a snail's pace down this irresistable street, lined with cozy stone houses replete with inviting lace-curtained windows, I noticed one window in particular. Framed by the lace curtains, and hazily visible behind the glass, was a collection of beautiful antique stoneware jars--just the sort of thing Denis and I collect.



In spite of these tantalizing clues to a master potter's existence, it took another turn down the same street before we noticed an ever-so-discreet sign indicating the potter's atelier. By now almost breathless with excitement, we followed the sign's beckoning arrow, which led us right behind the house with the stoneware in the windows, to an old-fashioned atelier or workshop.



I stopped dead in my tracks when I saw the ceramic objects arranged in the gravel in front of the deserted atelier. There were the roof ornaments--the very dove!--that I'd admired, which I immediately saw as fantastic garden decorations. And swimming amiably among their ceramic kin were two grand green fishes, which I immediately lusted after to place in our new perennial border. In addition, there were wonderful garden pots, special ornamental tiles to protect the vertex of a roof, and an incredible house plaque with a gardener digging in the soil above the family name written in Art Deco-style script below. One glance and I was in an acquisitive frenzy. I had found the mother lode of French garden ornaments!



Still no one around. We peeked into the deserted workshop, which glowed with the bright afternoon light. Just then the potter himself came striding toward us, boots crunching on the gravel path.

Patrick Lefebvre has brought back to life the tradition of the epis de faîtage, the ceramic ornaments I'd noticed on the roofs of the traditional homes of Barfleur. Local to the Cotentin region of Lower Normandie, this tradition is an extenuation of the ancient practice of house-framers there, who would plant a bouquet of wheat and flowers on the vertex of the roof after it was completed. Often taking the shape of a dove, which perches on the roof to ensure happiness and prosperity to all who live below, the epis de faîtage is one of a myriad of France's fiercely local traditions. Although the dove is a favorite, sometimes the epis is in the form of a rooster, the proud symbol of France, or of a fish, symbol of the livelihood of this coastal region. The only living potter to perpetuate this tradition, M Lefebvre often creates new designs, but always in keeping with the spirit of tradition. His ceramics--even the ornamental tiles for the apices of roofs--are works of art in traditional colors of rich umber, ochre yellow, and soft marine green and blue.

After much discussion, we made our purchases and headed to the town of Vauville, home to the world's largest collection of tools and an incredible botanic garden of exotic plants. But that's a story for "Visitez les jardins français". I promise to write it soon.

Now, back to the lobster! By the time we had gotten done visiting the above, talking with the owner of the 10,000 tools, driving up the beautiful coast from Vauville to Cherbourg, and continuing home to our Normandie house, it was after midnight. We still hadn't eaten, and we had a giant lobster in danger of dying on us if we didn't do him in soon for gastronomic higher good.

We were dead tired. Stumbling blearily into the house, I immediately filled our largest pot with water, added a handful of sea salt, some red and black pepper, and half a lemon. I turned the flame on high and collapsed in a chair. I told Denis I expected him to perform the manly task of plunging the lobster in his deadly bath. I was simply too scared of the thing and feeling a bit sorry for it too.

"The only problem is, that pot is not big enough for that giant lobster," I told Denis. "And it's the biggest one we have." I opened the beast's crate and lifted one of its legs. It flopped lifelessly back down. "Looks like he's dead, at least," I intoned. I wasn't worried about his being edible. The fish monger had told me that we could eat him with gusto tonight, even if he died on the way. Truthfully, I was sort of relieved that I wouldn't have to witness the boiling-alive ritual.

Denis grabbed the lobster behind the claws and hoisted him triumphantly out of the crate. "Dead, you say?" he declaimed. Indeed, the beast was now waving his claws as threateningly as he could, using them as clubs rather than pinchers, as they were each held closed with three heavy duty rubber bands. He waved his legs like a horrible giant centipede. I took a healthy jump backward.

Denis held him up to the pot, trying to imagine how the monster could be made to fit. "Ask him to kindly fold his arms before he goes to his death," I suggested helpfully from the sidelines. "I'm going to have to remove his pinchers before he goes in," Denis decided.

"NOT before he's dead! Plunge him in head first to kill him; then, take off his claws," I responded, not wanting to be a party to lobster vivisection. As if he had heard me, the lobster scrabbled suddenly in his crate. I cowered.

Denis returned his victim to the crate, and we sat down to wait for the water to boil. It seemed to take forever, and we were dizzy with fatigue. At long last, steam started rolling out from under the lid. Denis grasped his victim and plunged the top half of his body--all that would fit--into the pot. I was trying not to look. Several long seconds passed. Denis, still holding the lobster's rear body, pronounced triumphantly, "Ca y est! Il est mort."

That's it! He's dead. In my state of extreme fatigue, it took at least two seconds for me to realize what a hilarious statement this was, coming from a doctor. I collapsed in laughter. That's it--he's DEAD?!" I gasped. "What kind of thing is that for a doctor to say?" I approached the murder scene from behind to witness a horrible sight. As if defying his executioner's proclamation, the rear part of the lobster's body in Denis' hand suddenly gave a last rhythmic pulsing, as if--well, I have to say it--as if he were making lobster love for the last time. It was at once sad and macabre.

Hiding my eyes in horror, I retreated to my chair while Denis did the posthumous surgery required in order to cram his victim under the boiling water. Mission accomplished, he plopped the lid on the pot. And that is how I saw my normally gentle Denis transformed into a midnight alter-ego--a sort of macabre doctor whose declaration of the success of the operation was ça y est! Il est mort!

It was morbidly funny. I sat on Denis' lap and nuzzled against his neck with sleepiness, teasing him about his brutal alter-identity. "Did you know lobster meat is supposed to be an aphrodisiac?" I asked. "What time was it anyway when you put the lid on?" The lobster was to cook for a full 20 minutes after the water returned to a boil.

Twenty minutes to wait, exhausted in the wee hours of the morning, for an aphrodisiac dinner of mythic proportions. Just the thought seemed to do the trick. distracting the cooks with decidedly nonculinary inclinations. Twenty minutes was just long enough, it turned out, to use the kitchen for something other than cooking, with exactly 2 minutes to spare. Now hungrier than ever, I poured the boiling brine off the beast while Denis prepared our biggest platter. We sat down happily to an unforgettable dinner for two.

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