FOR THE LOVE OF SNAILS!
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Imagine this if you will. You are a 52 year
old Frenchman. Happily married and miserably mortgaged to the hilt like the
rest of us, you have two kids and are distinctly middle class. Whilst you have
seen the economic recession take its toll in your area you have somehow managed
to survive the onslaught. Heading up the legal department of an established
insurance company, if you not meeting clients and casting your eagle eye over
those claims which look more than a little iffy, then you are probably sitting
comfortably in your office marveling at the wonders of the latest computer
technology which on occasions seems to be doing a disproportionate amount of
your paperwork for you. All in all, not a bad life, n’est ce pas? For
you, the imaginary Frenchman, maybe, but certainly not good enough for one
Jean-Jacques Proust (no relation to the French novelist Marcel) - who happened
to find himself in precisely this situation just three years ago. Why on earth
would he wish to dispose of such a settled existence? Well it is the earth,
perhaps, which provides the answer.
"I had always had a passion for
snails", Jean-Jacques relates, although it started off as more of a hobby
really. "I had had enough of being cooped up in an office all day long - I
always wanted to work outdoors. So I decided to have a go at breeding snails,
and to see if I couldn’t make a living at what I really enjoyed doing most of
all. Snails are fascinating creatures, you know."
And what did Madame Proust have to say when
Monsieur dropped le bombshell? "Well, she wasn’t too pleased about
my throwing in the towel at work. In fact no one believed in my project to
begin with. They all thought that I had gone out of my mind or something, a
slightly eccentric mid-life crisis. But now that things look as if they are
might work out they are beginning to come round."
Not that its been all plain sailing for
Jean-Jacques. Far from it. Arranging for the greater part of the financing from
his own resources, he nonetheless persuaded the regional council to put up 20%
towards his initial costs. Aware that he would have to allow for a couple of
years to pass before being able to draw even half of his previous wage, he
launched himself into his chosen field (which also happened to be in his back
garden) constructing glass-houses (plastic-sheeted houses would be more
accurate) with the help of a local maçon, in addition to completing all
of the wiring, plumbing and brickwork on his own.
Based in the heart of the Bourgogne region of
France - famed for its snails - Jean-Jacques then found himself confronted with
a most uncomfortable reality. Of course you could justifiably accuse him of
lack of market research - but Proust prefers to give a hearty Gallic shrug of
the shoulders and put it all down to experience. Because the truth of the
matter, he soon discovered, is that only some 5% of Bourgogne snails actually
come from the Bourgogne. "Its the same as when you buy an Alsatian
dog", Proust reflects philosophically, "you can buy one in Thailand -
or anywhere else for that matter." So where do 99% of Bourgogne snails
come from, you might well ask? Why, from Eastern Europe, of course. Where
labour is cheap, where unemployment is high - and which means that tasty though
Monsieur Proust’s snails be, they are at least three times the price of their
East European cousins. That was lesson no. 1. Lesson number 2 came in the form
of the elements - and came regularly at that.
"I have about 100,000 snails in my parc",
Jean Jacques reveals with understandable pride. The problem is that when the
frost comes in you have to count on at least 70% loss of your entire stock. But
I am one of only half a dozen or so producers in France producing snails in
100% absolutely natural conditions. Mine aren’t factory farmed, you know, no
heated glass houses here."
Which presumably means that if you can put
Monsieur Proust’s financial woes to one side, his snails must be far more tasty
that their Russian or Polish counterparts?
"Mais, bien sûr", Proust
affirms. "I love to eat snails. Including my own snails. Its the only way
to tell if you are producing quality stock. I like to feed mine on courgettes.
Nothing industrial or artificial. But I will also add a mixture of cabbage and
spinach. If you give the snail only cabbage, it will taste of cabbage. You have
to get the balance just right. Nor must the garlic and parsley shut out the
natural taste of the snail. Its a very fine balance to achieve."
Yuk! That’s what many-an-Anglo-Saxon will retort
come the suggestion of eating snails - a response which doesn’t phase Monsieur
Proust in the slightest. "Its all a matter of what you are used to",
he explains, "although I do find it difficult to understand why the
English have this allergic reaction to the merest mention of eating snails.
That said, I do have English clients, so I guess not all of the population is
missing out. Mind you, if you ask me to eat eggs and bacon in the morning I
would come up with the French equivalent of Yuk - Beurk! Not for me,
thank you very much."
His heart might be in snails. But his
training is firmly rooted in the world of insurance. Might it not have been
possible, therefore, to insure against such massive losses according to the
vagaries of the weather. "Its just not feasible to do this", he
retorts, "too expensive. You just have to work right through the night to
avoid the frosts. I am often up in the early hours working away in the dark and
cold."
Things might be getting better for Mr.
Proust. But that hardly means that the money has been rolling in. In fact his
finances have been so tight, of late, that he cannot even afford to take on a
youngster on the state-subsidized youth training scheme. Which means that the
insurance officer turned snail breeder is indeed worried about the future.
"The truth is", he confides,
"that I can’t afford to feed the family via income generated from my
snails alone. And my wife has been obliged to return to work to help make ends
meet. Nor can I compete against the cheaper stock coming from Eastern Europe.
Fortunately there are signs of people being prepared to pay that bit extra for
quality."
Which surely means that Proust has more than
the odd moment hankering after the good old days of his carpeted office at the
legal department of his erstwhile employers.
"Absolutely not", he retorts, as
you realize that you might not have asked the most tactful of questions.
"No way. I love it out here. I don’t miss the office, the computer -
anything. Out here, it might be cold, but you can at least breathe.
No one believed in my project to begin with.
But now there are signs that I am going to make it after all. I have an iron
will to succeed. I know I am stubborn. I know what I want. And what I want to
do is to continue working with snails. Because that is my passion in life - its
as simple as that."
The main Web site of freelance writer Jeremy
Josephs is at www.jeremyjosephs.com Please check there if you might be interested in
engaging him as a writer.
Many of his articles are available online.
Please check the sitemap
for a complete list.