|
The Prime Minister drives a Volkswagen. Forget about a chauffeur—he’s too independent and in way too much of a hurry. With all of his official duties, this mustachioed giant has a killer schedule. As he slams on his brakes in front of the Abbey of Montbenoît in the Doubs department, near the Swiss border, we all stand solemnly at attention. The leader approaches, preceded by his huge shadow. “Sorry I’m late,” he apologizes, shaking hands vigorously. “I’ve been harvesting hay since dawn.” What? Such a high dignitary mows his own hay? “Why not?” retorts the farmer. “We all wear two hats here: Our chief of staff is a retired bank employee; the President’s chauffeur used to be a mechanic….” We follow the Prime Minister to the Abbey’s cloister, where the President and a handful of ministers are waiting for him.
Welcome to the République du Saugeais. This “sovereign state” came into being as the result of a joke. In 1947, the prefect of the Doubs department was having lunch at the Auberge de Montbenoît when the proprietor quipped, “Do you have a visa to enter Sauget territory?” The prefect played along, listening patiently as his host detailed the local traditions. They are so strong, explained the innkeeper, that the villagers feel as though they belong to a small republic. “But a republic needs a president,” the prefect remarked. “I hereby appoint you President of the République du Saugeais.” Thus an outlandish little state was born, measuring 50 square miles and boasting 5,000 inhabitants, 11 villages and its own national anthem.
Throughout the decades, the regime has cultivated the trappings of power: a flag, an ersatz customs service, fake banknotes and stamps issued by the post office. Amused by this little “nation,” the French authorities play along. They know perfectly well that they’ve got nothing to worry about—the République du Saugeais has its tongue implanted firmly in its cheek. “To gain independence,” confides the Prime Minister, “people always have to die. That’s the last thing we want!”
There’s only one thing in this little valley that’s not a laughing matter: les plaisirs de la table. Cheese, charcuterie, wine … all those local specialties that make Le Saugeais not just a nation but a terroir. Does gastronomic excellence encourage democracy? Perhaps; everyone knows that under totalitarian regimes, the food is always terrible.
Comté perfectly epitomizes the sense of solidarity one finds in this little republic. This pale yellow cheese is intimately connected with the region’s history. For centuries, the harshness of the climate and the lack of major roads made it essential for the valley’s farmers to help one another. Since the milk produced by cows belonging to a single family was insufficient to make a round of Comté—they weigh in at 88 pounds—the farmers created so-called fruitières to pool their resources. Located in the village centers, these cooperatives helped define the contours of a terroir that now extends to three departments: the Doubs, the Jura and the Ain. These centuries-old traditions helped Comté earn an Appellation d’Origine Contrôllée (AOC) label in 1958, the first ever awarded to a French cheese. This year, manufacturers proudly celebrate the 50th anniversary of that achievement.
This AOC comprises about 170 fruitières that adhere to stringent production standards. Only milk from Montbéliarde and Simmental cows may be used. The feeding of these bovines too is strictly regulated: They get fresh grass in the summer and naturally dried hay in the winter. In addition, the milk used by the cooperatives must come from within a range of less than 15 miles. This requirement, which favors quality over quantity, is crucial—it preserves the cheese’s artisanal character and ensures a strong connection between fruitière and terroir. “That’s why producers are so proud of their cheese: It comes from an area near them, one that they’re very familiar with,” explains Nicolas Vernerey, who has been working for six months at the fruitière in Gilley, the Saugeais’s “economic capital.” No fewer than 135 plant species have been recorded in the area where this cooperative’s dairy cows graze. They give Comté de Gilley its unique flavor—its notes of fresh hazelnut, honey and leather, along with slightly sweet taste.
While it’s a source of pride, the prestigious AOC label can make life difficult for cheesemakers. “The milk has to be processed within 24 hours,” says Vernerey. “So you have to be there every day of the week, often at dawn, because the milk is collected during the night.” Artisans have to heat and stir the milk in large copper vats, pour the contents into moulds, then carry the heavy rounds of cheese to the shelves of the cooperative. “It’s incredibly hard on the back,” says the young cheesemaker. “After so much effort, you feel like you’ve really earned the label.” After a few days of rest, the rounds are moved to an aging cellar where they remain at least four months. “In Gilley,” says the Prime Minister with a swagger, “we let the Comté age for one to two years—we like strong flavors!”
A bizarre roadblock blocks our way out of La Longeville, an agricultural town nestled alongside the meandering Doubs river. Two customs officers are standing in front of an iron structure topped with the Sauget flag. Smiling, they search our car. Afterward they recommend one of the best salted-meat producers of the region: Le Tuyé du Papy Gaby, just to the north. Typical of the Haut-Doubs, tuyés are large chimney-shaped rooms used to dry and smoke meat. Greeted by proprietor Gérard Marguet, we enter an impressive, 54-foot-high pyramid-like space. Hanging on the walls are “state treasures”: noix de jambon fumée, lard paysan, viande de boeuf séchée.... Le Tuyé du Papy Gaby is particularly reputed for its legendary Morteau sausages, whose Red Label guarantees origin and quality.
If there’s a dream destination for Morteau lovers, it’s most likely l’Auberge de la Roche, a Doubs Valley restaurant boasting a Michelin star. “With high-quality local ingredients like these, we can’t help but perform miracles,” jokes chef Philippe Feuvrier. And in fact he does work wonders with Morteau sausage: Finely sliced and heated in the oven, it crunches in the mouth like chips, releasing a subtle, smoky flavor. “When it comes to these specialties,” he points out, “we can’t disappoint our guests: The town of Morteau is famous for its sausages, so the bar is set very high. It’s like a restaurant on the coast of Brittany where it wouldn’t occur to anyone to serve frozen lobster.”
Expectations are just as high for the Comté. The cheerful, talkative young chef has a fail-proof recipe: He heats the cheese in milk, then pours it over candied fruit. It’s a culinary marvel. Comté is also traditionally enjoyed with the Jura’s famous vin jaune—another local AOC product. Made from a single grape varietal—Savignin—this wine must age for at least six years. Feuvrier himself produces a small quantity under the label Le Puit de Saint-Pierre. “I wanted to give this wine its own special character—rectilinear and mineral,” he says. “I serve it with simple dishes, because it’s already so ample; no point in complicating things!” Looking over Feuvrier’s menu, you realize that the only sad thing about the République du Saugeais is that there’s no way you’re ever going to get to sample all the culinary treasures particular to this region. But hey, no place is perfect.
|
