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When we were in Menton 25 years ago we watched the men (and it was always just men that we saw) play boules. Our favourite chef, Ninetto, was a demon player. If he wasn't at the restaurant (Café de la Gare) then he was playing boules. And a fine player he was, at least to our inexperienced and biased eyes.
When we came back to Canada, we bought a set of boules in their wooden box: eight extremely heavy steel balls, about the size of a softball. A little wooden cochonet, which sets the marker for each game. And a measuring cord to settle contentious near-misses.
The game is a bit like curling or lawn bowling, the goal being to roll or throw your ball as close to the cochonet as possible.
Much as we love the game (and this is the ONLY game involving a sphere that I have ever enjoyed playing—mostly because no one ever throws the ball expecting me to catch it)—much as we love it, we play it only once a year, because it takes at least four people to play. Our four have expanded to six now: three couples of long acquaintance—36 years, in fact.
After much checking of calendars we find a date that will accommodate the six of us. One couple generously plays perennial host. Originally we played the game in their long, skinny back yard, but when they re-landscaped the back they took out our makeshift boules pitch, at the far end of which was a sweet little apple tree whose low branches sometimes got whacked with a lofted boule. So now, after a lovely lunch and a couple bottles of rose, we hike over from Sorauren to the south end of High Park and search for an appropriate pitch. REAL boules players have permanent pitches, smooth gravel with no lumps and bumps that deflect the balls from what would certainly otherwise have been perfect throws. But we make do with the lumps and bumps because they excuse our amateur shots: about one in seven is a good one—the others being the boules equivalent of gutter balls.
We play boys against the girls, rather inappropriate language for team members ranging in age from 65 to 80. Nonetheless, it's boys against girls. Generally the boys take two out of three games, and that was the case last year. But the girls gave them a hard time in the second game, at one point leading 7-0 (the winning team is the first to reach 13).
So picture these six old folk full of bonhomie and good food and, yes, a bit of wine. The twenty-minute walk to High Park has worn us down a bit, and the eight boules in their box are really heavy. It's a nice September day but the direct sun is still very hot. We find a relatively smooth and shady spot and throw the cochonet. Since we play only once a year, we have to review the rules. And even after the review some of the finer points remain obscure to some of us.
But we take our turns through the balls. DinoVino WineScribe insists on lobbing his ball (a perfectly legitimate thing to do), while the rest of us prefer to roll the balls toward the cochonet, which is barely visible in the grass. (We have mounted a small Canadian flag on a ballpoint pen and we stick the pen in the ground to mark the location of the otherwise invisible cochonet. Next year we'll be using a knitting needle, which is better designed for sticking into compacted soil.)
We delight in each other's successes. "Good shot!" "Oh wow! You're in!" "We'll never match that one!" There's a lot of walking in boules: throw the cochonet. Walk to it to insert the ballpoint pen or knitting needle, then walk back to the imaginary line. Take turns throwing the balls in the prescribed order. Walk to the center to check on which team is closer (this determines which team throws the next ball). Once all the balls have been sent toward the center, everyone walks to the cochonet to count and score. This is my favourite part of the game: the six-person amble to the center to peer at all the balls—and occasionally to measure. From the end of one set of throws to the end of the next we all forget the score. Does that make it 7-3? No, last time it was 6-3 and this is your point so it's 6-4—or no, you got two points so its 6-5. Yay! We're gaining.
As usual the boys take both sets. And after the game DinoVino and I walk the full length of High Park up to Bloor and home—it takes longer you would think: those boules are heavy and the sun is still hot.
Every year we promise to meet more frequently because it's so much fun. But you wouldn't believe what crowded schedules we elders have, so boules day remains an annual event.
Food blog: http://fastandfearlesscooking.blogspot.ca
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