Grillade

EDIT: I have been asked to inform you by Alex (also known as the guy in the picture below) to inform you that Bastille Day is a misnomer. The actual fête nationale in France is called Fête de la Féderation, or Federation Day. Bastille Day was judged as being too bloody a day to remember. Federation Day is a lot prettier. Please inform your friends. Thank you.

Yesterday was Bastille Day (EDIT: Federation Day) here in France, and so the night before (or the veille), we all went to the barbecue (grillade) in the center of the town of Paziols. The usually abandoned space near the pétanque courts was transformed, with the help of long folding tables and strings of twinkle lights, into a beautiful space for a fête.

First, there was the food, which is what you are all here for, I suppose.

There was an apératif of the local muscat (we’re right near Rivesaltes, famous for its sweet white wine.) There was red and white table wine served, without ceremony, in picnic-style pitchers. There were meters of white baguette.

There was an entrée of melon and jambon cru (prosciutto), served with even more muscat poured into the vacant space in the melon for the adults amongst us.

There were pork chops and mustard.

There were also sausages, wedges of Camembert, ice cream and peaches, and though I grabbed a peach at some point during the night, by the time the sausages had come out, we had other things on our minds.

There was dancing.

And more dancing.

And more dancing.