Ah ! Well do I remember that time four years ago when I still had time to indulge myself in a little light translating. It was at the begining of November in 2008 when I produced this multi layered blog.

Le Croque Monsieur.

In the late fifties when I was still in single figures and short pants my sister D went off to the Cote d’Azure for a year as an au pair.
She came back full of the joys of the French climate, life style and food.
(As you can see this had a lasting effect on me and has had a fairly dramatic effect on my life choices)

One of the dishes Madame taught her to make was the French classic Croque Monsieur, this was to become a staple dish in my life and one which I often fed to my children as they were growing up.

A Croque, and there as many variations of this as there are of our staple dishes, is a cooked sandwich of ham and cheese.
(You only have to google in croque to see how many ways there of arranging these ingredients.)
The one which Madame taught D is the true one (of course) and I will give you the recipe at the end of this piece.

Last week, just before we went to France, we made a quick trip to Wexford to see the art exhibitions which are always good during the Opera Festival.
There I came across another of Putumayo‘s CDs, I had bought their French Cafe music a few years ago and this had directly led me to Sanseverino and to Brassens so I hoped that their French Playground music might lead me to a few songs I could sing to the new grand child when it arrives in January.

The CD has several great songs- mostly concerned with food-but one that had instant appeal was one by Thomas Fersen called Croque.
This is about a grave digger and his voracious appetite for food.
(You can listen to the whole song on You Tube)

Here is a verse;

Moi je mange comme quatre
Et je bois comme un trou
Puis je retourne au cimetière
Travailler d’mon mieux,
Digérer mon pot de bière
Et mon croque-monsieur.

This roughly says that, as he eats -and drinks-for four, after a hard days work in the graveyard he can’t wait to get home to his pint of beer and his Croque.

Yesterday we had a fairly tough day’s travelling back from France, and by the time we got to the end of it I felt much the same.

We left the house in Thezan at 6 am to get to Marseille for our flight at 10.
In Dublin we made a flying visit to see Sile’s folks in Tearmonfeckin and then found ourselves caught in the Halloween traffic on the M50 so didn’t get near Waterford until about 7.30 in the evening.
That was a long, and mainly unfed, 13 hours travelling.

I was playing my new CD in the car on the way down and became obsessed with the idea of having a Croque as soon as we got home.

We havn’t had one for ages, mainly I think because it is plainly very unfashionably unhealthy, but don’t let it stop you giving it a try every so often they are simple to make and delicious.

Here is the recipe for the one we enjoyed last night-about ten minutes after we got home.

Croque Monsieur.

(no amounts here, it depends on how many you want to feed and how voracious their appetite)

Brown Sliced Pan (nothing too fancy or it will fall apart)
Butter
Eggs
Good Cheddar Cheese- I used Dubliner which worked well
Slices cooked ham (smoked is best)
Olive Oil

Various mustards and chutneys to serve.

Butter the bread and make a sandwich with the ham and the sliced cheese.
Beat the eggs in a plate and lay the sandwich in this pressing down so that it absorbs the egg (you will need about two eggs for every three sandwiches)

Now heat the oil in a pan and fry the sandwiches until brown on both sides. Then lower the heat and cook until the cheese is melting.
If you have to do a lot you can brown them in a pan and then finish them together in a medium oven laid out on a baking sheet.

Serve on a plate with a knife and fork and mustard and chutney on the side.
Be warned, they are addictive!

And here are the full words of the song and my translation.

Gravedigger’s Relish
I am certainly part obsessive, as soon as I get my teeth into something I cannot rest until I have it well chewed, masticated and swallowed.

So I came across Thomas Fersen’s song Croque and just loved it.
I immediately ordered one of his CD’s from Amazon -Piece Montee des Grands Jours -mainly because it has Croque on it but also because it has on a song called Le Chat Botee which I had found on YouTube and liked.

Nothing to it then you might say except wait for the arrival of same.

Mais Non.

I immediatly set about translating his song into English-and I promise there is nothing like translating a song into rhyming schemes to get you to realise how well it has been made originally.
Thomas is, I discovered, recognised more as a poet than a singer.

Here is his Croque and there follows my translation which I have called Gravedigger’s Relish.

(If you feel like singing along YouTube have him singing the song here)

Croque

Quand je rentre à la maison,elle me dit souvent
Que j’ai une tête d’enterrement et elle a raison,
Je travaille au cimetière,c’est incontestable,
Je laisse ma tête au vestiaire et je me mets à table.
Faut pas se laisser abattre,j’ai une faim de loup,
Moi je mange comme quatre et je bois comme un trou
Puis je retourne au cimetière travailler d’mon mieux,
Digérer mon pot de bière et mon croque-monsieur.

Pendant l’oraison du prêtre j’ai un petit creux,
Moi je pense à ma côtelette, à mon pot-au-feu.
Aux premières couronnes de fleurs j’ai déjà la dent,
C’est mon estomac qui pleure à chaque enterrement.

Comme un côté du cimetière est inhabité,
J’ai planté des pommes de terre dans l’intimité.
Et dans ma jaquette noire,entre deux services,
Je donne un coup d’arrosoir et je cours à l’office.
Je gratte, je bine et je bêche,quelle heureuse surprise
Quand je trouve un ver pour la pêche,je range ma prise
Dans une boîte en fer blanc le temps est superbe,
Voilà un coin épatant pour déjeuner sur l’herbe.

À présent qu’a sonné l’heure l’heure du goupillon,
Je pense à mes pommes vapeur, à mon court-bouillon
Et quand tombent les premières gouttes sur mon haut-de-forme,
C’est mon ventre qui glougloute,mon ventre qui grogne.

Parfois je croque un oignon,parfois une gousse d’ail,
Parfois même un champignon est une victuaille,
Il faut faire avec,ce n’est pas copieux
Car ces oraisons du prêtre on en voit pas la queue.
Le vent chasse les nuages,c’est providentiel,
Un grand disque de fromage tourne dans le ciel,
La faim me monte à la tête, j’avale mon chapeau,
Un bouton de ma jaquette et un pauvre mulot.

Je n’me sens pas dans mon assiette, je vais rendre l’âme,
Quand je pense à mes paupiettes, à mon croque-madame.
Ça fait trop longtemps qu’ça dure,je m’allonge un peu
Sur le tapis de verdure et je ferme les yeux.

Gravedigger’s Relish

Oh when I come home she often says to me
That I’m like an old tombstone and she’s right you see
For I work among the graves this is fact not fable
But I leave it all behind when I sit down at table
And that keeps my spirits high I’m a hungry horse
And I feel that I might die if I missed just one course
Then I go back to my dead,and I can do my best
To digest my Croque Monsieur and lay them down to rest

While the priest drones on
My thoughts turn to stew
And I dream about rognons
And my Pot au Feu
By the time the wreaths appear
I’m with hunger racked
And my stomach cries for beer
As in the earth they’re packed

By the graveyard wall, no-one’s buried yet
So I’ve planted down potatoes and a few courgette
And in my mourning coat between each dispatch
I spray down a little water on my vegetable patch.
As I scrape and weed sometimes to my surprise
I find a little maggot which the fishies prize
These I put into a box just to keep them fresh
For the fishes couldn’t care that they have fed on flesh

And when the old Curé
Gets the sprinkler out
I will be thinking of the way
To cook my speckled Trout
And when the holy drops
Rain down on my hair
You will hear my tummy growling
Like a grizzly bear.

Sometimes I chomp down hard on an onion green
Or some garlic flavoured lard or on a wild French bean
For I must stand my ground if it takes all day
For the priest to finish up so I can get away
Then the wind comes up blows the clouds apart
And the sun comes shining through just like an Onion Tart.
Then the hunger mounts right up to my throat
And I start to eat the buttons of my Mourning Coat

Then the hunger starts to swell
It bursts through the dam
And its pangs I cannot quell
Without a Croque Madame
But its all gone on too long
And I feel like hell
So I close my eyes and listen
For the funeral bell