Adventures and Culinary Pleasures How I Fell in Love with Provence
Carole Bumpus began exploring Provence in 1997 when she and her husband Winston visited the region for the first time with two other couples. Their stay in a remote village in the Var provides a flavour of Provencal life away from the crowds and enough of a taste of the glitz and glamour of the French Riviera. That trip was enough inspiration for two more trips to the region.
The Pizza Wagon Family
Claviers a Village in the Var
About the Author
Adventures and Culinary Pleasures in Provence
The first was a culinary adventure with her sister Melody, and the final trip, in 2006, was a maritime voyage with “Captain” Winston and some friends. ADVENTURES ON LAND AND SEA: Searching for Culinary Pleasures in Provence and the Cote d’Azur is a delightful memoir that anyone who has visited or hopes to see the region will enjoy. For those who enjoy cooking, the book contains a few Provencal recipes.
Below, Carole shares an excerpt from that book, including a chapter called “The Pizza Wagon Family.” This chapter “expresses how I fell in love with Provence. It was through the people and in the simplest of ways! But always with a mix of food and wine.”
The Pizza Wagon Family
Although the sun had dropped behind the 13th-century hamlet of Claviers, a hint of golden sunlight sent a radiant shaft onto the Provençal village square and across the tiny sidewalk bistro where my husband and I sat. The buildings around us held tight to the heat of the June day and St. Sylvestre’s church tower at the end of the square shimmered in the remaining glow. The town square, not a square at all, but a minuscule triangle, was quiet. The only sounds were the dry rattle of leaves on the plane trees; an occasional bark from a passing but sociable dog; people conversing quietly at nearby tables, and accordion music that floated down from a tinny radio from an upper-story window. On occasion, a muted cheer or groan drifted up from the local afternoon boules players from just around the corner.
“Tchin-tchin.” The murmurings of a toast floated past us. We raised our glasses in automatic response. It was Friday night after all. Suddenly, voices were raised as more people were welcomed into the tiny square. The sound of metal chairs scraping across ancient stones grew louder as patrons pushed back to make room at their ever-expanding tables. The camaraderie was immediate as both men and women embraced and kissed before they sat down to enjoy a communal drink. Even though we had witnessed this customary physical touch here in Provençe, we, like sly voyeurs, could only silently observe.
As my husband and I, now in a semi-lethargic stupor from the heat of the day and the pastis before us, continued our observations as the chimes of St. Sylvestre struck 8 o’clock. Just then a heavy door slammed shut across the square, and my attention swiveled in that direction. The sharp rasp of a lock sliding into place ricocheted off the nearby buildings as an elderly woman, the owner of the grocery, locked and bolted her store for the evening. She turned, cast a wave across the square, adjusted her scarf, and trudged off down the street.
We stared numbly after the old woman, then back into our glasses. A small bowl of olives slid back and forth between us. I slowly mulled over the French phrases the bar owner had uttered earlier. “My wife and I have just opened our bistro this very week. No, I’m sorry. We have no food available. Not quite yet.”
Suddenly, I sat up straight and shook myself awake. I realized our remaining hope for sustenance had just locked her doors and headed home. Yes, this was the first night my husband and I would be alone in the house since all our houseguests had gone home. And as I recalled, we had no food left in those cupboards and the only thing on my kitchen counter was my lowly shopping list. Oh, gawd!
Just then we heard a low rumbling sound—a gnashing of gears—a grinding of metal—a mighty roar of an engine—then around the corner, past the church, almost into the square and onto our laps lurched a large white van. Pulling up near our table, a young man leaped from the driver’s side of the truck. He quickly raced around to the opposite door and opened it for a young woman, his wife we surmised, and as she stepped out of the truck, he reached behind her and lifted out a golden-haired child and hoisted her high. The year-old giggled and the crowd in the square swiveled their attention toward the joyous sound.
Once the door in the back of the truck was opened, the wife disappeared inside with the baby. The young man deftly flung up a panel window, rolled down a canopy, hoisted a counter to the window, added a step and, voila, Le Wagon de Pizza was open for business.
“Hooray,” I said to my husband. “We’ve been saved!”
“Indeed, my love,” my husband said, “it’s a miracle!”
Even before the aroma of garlic-infused tomato sauces, simmering local sausages, and caramelized onions could permeate the air, townspeople began to flow out of their homes and down the streets. It was as if the Pied Piper had come to town. Immediately, a line formed near the van as each person in turn leaned up to the counter—some on tiptoes, some on the small step—all to place his or her order. As the young wife bent down to take their requests, she would chat, then stop, and reach for the baby. She carefully lifted the child up and extended her over the counter. Big nose met tiny nose—old cheek touched new—as each person in line kissed and caressed the infant. Time seemed to stop. Nothing at that moment took precedence over the gentle acknowledgment of this cherub, the Pizza Wagon baby.
I slowly looked around. “Have we slipped into one of Marcel Pagnol’s books—or his movies?” I asked. “Have we become part of one of his scenes?” Just the day before, I had been busy reading his books when all I needed to do to understand the people of Provençe was to spend more time in this little town. Claviers.
My husband blinked, as if to refocus. “You’re right, my dear,” he murmured. “It does feel like Pagnol, but, perhaps, the pastis has gotten the better of us. Maybe you should order a pizza and save us from starvation.” He paused, then smiled. “In the meantime, I’ll order a bottle of wine.” His smile was kind; perhaps, lopsided, but I knew he was not eager to negotiate a food line if it meant stringing French words together to accomplish the task.
“Bon!” I said standing unsteadily. I giggled and gathered up my own meager snippets of broken French and joined the queue. After a few minutes of scanning the menu for items I might recognize, I glanced over at my husband who was also perusing a menu—a wine menu—with the striking bar owner’s wife standing patiently by his side. Within moments, I saw her sprint out the back door of the bistro, down the street, and into a house below. What on earth did he say to the woman? Or better yet, what did my husband order? He speaks even less French than I do!
As I calmed down, I became aware of the animated banter going on around me. Yes, the locals did acknowledge me; they smiled and nodded their heads. In fact, a few “bonsoirs” were exchanged, but as much as I would have loved to converse, I knew I would have been reduced to awkward hand gestures, head bobbing, or the inevitable shrug. We all knew I was an outsider. All villagers knew when outsiders arrived— and when they left. I remained silent but smiled boldly. As I finally stepped up to place my order, I, too, marveled at the beautiful child of the Pizza Wagon.
As a stranger, I hesitated to reach out to the baby, but instead blurted out, “Très jolie!” Not certain if that meant jolly or pretty, I figured I may have covered my bases. I had no clue. Just then, a beatific smile graced the tiny, upturned face as she sat precariously on the counter like a petite princess. In the meantime, her harried parents whirled about their small mobile kitchen. They pounded out the dough, spun it into the air, and adroitly slid it onto waiting pans while the child giggled with glee. Local olive oils, cheeses, sausages, and olives were sprinkled and layered onto the crust, then thrust into the oven.
After selecting a pizza, I stepped back from the line only to see the bar owner’s wife trudge back up the hill. Several bottles of wine were now tucked under her arms. I hoped they were not all for us, but then again, my thirst was returning. She disappeared into the bistro while I, swooning with savory aromas wafting about me, continued my vigil. Shuffling from one foot to the other, I resumed my post as voyeur. Not once, not twice, but repeatedly I watched as people physically reached out to one another: the soft touch, the quick kiss, the gentle embrace. Hailing from a culture that keeps clear personal distances, I rarely saw such overt intimacies. But to witness a gentleness of spirit within an entire village?
Once again, my mind raced back to the books of Marcel Pagnol. Before, I had assumed his delightful characters were fictitious, but could they have sprouted from his own reality? He was born and raised not terribly far from Claviers. Suddenly, I felt the presence of his amicable nature around me. I swayed. I had no words, French or otherwise, to describe the sweetness I felt in that moment.
After a few more minutes of standing on one foot and then the other, waiting, waiting, the villagers finally gathered up their boxes of pizza, bid each other adieu and returned to their homes. I, too, picked up our pizza and moved quickly to the table, as the heat was burning my fingers through the white cardboard box. Hovering over my husband, the bar owner’s wife was serenely pouring a bottle of recently retrieved wine. My husband sampled it, beamed up at her and nodded his head vigorously because head nodding is the French dialect he knows best. She turned toward me, smiled graciously, and filled a wine glass for me. A desire to speak with her rose in my throat. I wanted her to sit down and talk for a while. I was feeling intoxicated, but it was no longer the influence of the pastis. I realized I was high on this little village of Claviers.
Sadly, I knew we didn’t share the same language, so I settled for the language we knew best—a smile. I slipped back into my seat, opened the box, and found a medium-sized, delicate, thin-crusted pizza. It was browned to perfection with hot melted cheese pooling magnificently into small crevices. The sauce was flavorful with a light touch of fresh tomatoes, herbs, a subtle splash of olive oil and enhanced with piment oiseau—hot red peppers. And there peeking out from under the cheese was a layer of jambon, thin slices of salty ham, all of which I didn’t remember ordering for our pizza. Ah, c’est la vie. C’est delicieuse!
We ate ravenously and swilled down the wine like it was water. Shortly, we realized we should have ordered more pizza. Perhaps, one or two more. It had been smaller than our appetites! But, by the time we came to our senses, the Pizza Wagon had folded up and was grinding its way out of the square. We finished our wine and reluctantly left, calling our little repast magnifique.
Claviers a Village in the Var
Located in the Var’s countryside, only a 45-minute drive from Saint Raphaël on the Mediterranean, Claviers is a tiny village. The passage of time has allowed Claviers to retain its authentic charm. The stone facades of village homes edge the line of small streets that are barely large enough for a scooter to pass by.
CLAVIERS4113d © Var Tourisme / Olivier Simon
Like many villages in the region, this hilltop town has a history of human settlement dating from the Neolithic (Iron Age). The earliest recorded record dates from 1026, mentioning a feudal castrum and its lord, Isnard de Claviers, who gave his domain to the provosts of Fréjus. Over the centuries, Claviers experienced growth, destruction and rebuilding. Today, the town’s narrow streets evoke a picture of life in a fortified hamlet.
Must-See:
- 11th-century Chapel of St-Sylvestre – It is now an exhibition space.
- 13th-century parish church
- The 1899 communal washhouse (lavoir)
Below is a promotional video from Var Tourisme that provides a flavour for this town.
About the Author
Carole Bumpus, a seasoned writer focused on food and travel, began her journey after discovering the fascinating stories of women and war in France. Her historical novel, A Cup of Redemption, and the companion cookbook, Recipes for Redemption, testify to her expertise. The Savoring the Olde Ways Series: Searching for Family and Traditions at the French Table Books One & Two and A September to Remember: Searching for Culinary Pleasures at the Italian Table further showcases her diverse interests. Her latest book, ADVENTURES ON LAND AND SEA: Searching for Culinary Pleasures in Provence and the Cote d’Azur, was published in November 2024. She is a member of the National Women’s Book Association, National Association of Memoir Writers, and The California Writers Club, through which she was honoured with the Ina Coolbrith Award for years of service to the entire 2,200-member organization. She lives in the San Francisco Bay Area.
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