I arrived at Tarascon
after a series of long train journeys across Europe. During one overnight
journey I had tried to get some sleep by lying down in the only space available,
the floor of the corridor next to the stinking lavatory. I had been trodden
on repeatedly.
At Tarascon there was
open space and a smell of sweet herbs. I hired clean sheets at the
Youth Hostel, showered, and went to sleep in a large room with whitewashed
walls. I woke up bathed in honey-white light, like a blessing.
In the hostel there
was a picture of a strange scaly beast. The receptionist told me it was
the tarask (in French, tarasque), a kind of dragon, which according
to legend terrorised this town before being tamed by Saint Martha.
Here is one version
of the legend. The tarask lived under a big rock in the river Rhône.
It breathed fire, sank ships and devoured parties of knights sent to kill
it. Martha was a young woman who had arrived in the town from the Holy
Land. She went to meet the tarask unarmed, carrying only some holy water.
She talked
with it calmly as though it were a suffering creature rather than a
ferocious monster. Eventually she walked back to the town leading the tarask,
which was now completely docile.
The standard interpretation
of dragon stories is that they represent the moral struggle within an individual.
Another interpretation of this legend is that it dramatizes the conquering
by Christians of a people following the old Gaulish religion. Philippe
Reyt’s fascinating paper Les
dragons de la crue suggests, on the other hand, that the tarask
may have been a symbol of dangerous running water prone to floods. If so,
the holy water carried by Martha might indicate the triumph of placid water
over the perilous kind.
Each year, in last
weekend of July, the citizens of Tarascon celebrate and parade an effigy
of the tarask around the town. I came across a parade-style
effigy near Tarascon Castle. It had an enormous curved body like the
hull of an upturned boat, covered with scales and with rows of defensive
spikes. Its tail was a long spike. It had the head of a lion, and the face
of a sad old man.
Many herbs grow wild
in Provence. One of the ingredients of the mixture called herbes de
Provence is tarragon. You can see it growing near Tarascon, with its
dark green pointed leaves
in the shape of a three-toed claw. Tarragon grows well in hot, rocky places,
but watered ground saps its strength.
Lexicographers think
that the word tarragon, and its French translation estragon,
may derive from the same Greek word as dragon.
The Petit Robert dictionary says that tarasque derives from
Tarascon,
but does not trace this name back any further; I wonder whether it is another
growth from the same Greek root. Mediaeval herbalists believed that the
look of a plant indicated its use, and prescribed tarragon as an antidote
for dragon bites - and by extension snakebites, which presumably were more
common. Modern herbalists do not recommend tarragon for bites, but say
it stimulates the appetite.
Tarragon leaves are
very strongly flavoured; you need to mix them with milder ingredients to
tame them. A classic way of doing this is to make your tarragon into béarnaise
sauce. The great chef Escoffier came from Provence and would have grown
up seeing wild tarragon. For his béarnaise recipe you make a reduction
of white wine and vinegar with chopped shallots, chopped tarragon and chervil
leaves, crushed peppercorns, and salt. Then, over a low heat, you whisk
in egg yolks and melted butter. Once all the butter has been incorporated
you can stop whisking, strain the sauce, add extra tarragon, adjust the
seasoning and serve.
The greatest danger
in making béarnaise sauce is that the mixture can overheat and curdle
during the whisking stage. If this happens, whisk in a little cold water.
It may save it.
Use freshly grown French
tarragon, not Russian tarragon, which is very bitter. Crush the chopped
tarragon leaves in the palm of your hand before adding them to the mixture.
This sauce is delicious with game, poached eggs, or asparagus.
On a later train journey
a passenger was shouting curses. His breath smelled of firewater. Everyone
else had crowded into the other end of the carriage. I went to speak with
him. Perhaps it was foolish of me. After a while he was quiet and meek,
and a tear was slowly running down the side of his nose. "How did you do
that?" asked another passenger, who hadn't been to Tarascon.
So the next time you
see me roaring with anger and sinking ships, don't yell back. Talk with
me calmly, firmly, and patiently. Or, make me some béarnaise sauce.
