Snail Trail in Bertric Buree

This article was posted by Sam Vincent in The Australian on November 24, 2007. Sam and Adam stayed with us for a couple of nights after we met them at the Snail Festival in April 07. Both were in France teaching English at French schools in Brittany. Sam (left) is from Australia and Adam (right) is English.
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I once knew a man who reared snails in his garden, feeding them on thyme and parsley in the belief it would enhance their flavour. On special occasions he would prise them from their shelter (an old bathtub), take them to the kitchen and plop them into a pot of boiling water, where they would cook like dumplings.

Gastropod heaven: More than 80,000 little suckers are consumed during the feast
While such behaviour raised a few eyebrows in suburban Canberra, it is perfectly acceptable in this man's homeland, the epicentre of escargot, southwest France.

The undisputed capital of gastropod gastronomy is the village of Bertric Buree, a hamlet of red roofs and dozing dogs about 80km east of Bordeaux. Here, once a year in early May, a gigantic feast of snails takes place, with a whopping 80,000 of the little suckers -- known locally as cagouilles -- consumed over a lunch and dinner that slithers well into the wee hours.

Arriving in Bertric the night before, I immediately notice the place has an appetite for the garden pests. Weathervanes, shop signs and rooftop sculptures are all in the shape of snails, each one defiantly waving its feelers towards the sky, unaware of the fate to be met by their brethren tomorrow. A quick glance in the villagers' gardens turns up more evidence: not a snail in sight.

By 11am the next day the village's narrow streets are packed with Peugeots, Renaults and the occasional 2CV. Inside the community hall, tables have been immaculately set and are quickly being reserved by the ravenous locals, a distinctly mature crowd of portly farmers and their weathered wives, the latter resplendent in floral dresses and jewellery worn especially for the occasion. I wander into the kitchen looking for the organiser.

Gaby Renard is jovial and shaped like an upturned pear. He grabs my hand with a farmer's grip and chuckles when he learns I've come from Paris just to eat snails.

"It's our thing, if you like." His French rings with the sounds of the south, each vowel twanging like an untuned guitar. "Over the course of the day, over one tonne of snails will be eaten, can you believe that?"

I certainly can when he yanks my arm and takes me to the main kitchen, a tin shed where local chefs are busy preparing the banquet. Men and women sweat profusely as they stir great vats filled with the tiny beasts, sizzling violently in a sea of red wine, parsley, garlic and sausage meat.

For the past two years, Renard has been head of the event's organising committee, a dedicated band of locals who spend three days cleaning, preparing and cooking the molluscs for about 1200 foodies who attend every year. No one knows how long it's been going, but legend has it the event is a homage to the village ancestors who were forced to eat snails during a famine in the 19th century, a far cry from today's gourmet affair, which is famous throughout the Dordogne.

I've read somewhere the recipe is a local secret, and when I mention this, Renard's face perks up, the tips of his moustache twitching. "Very good, young man. In fact, you could say it's a specialty a la bertricoise," he proclaims.

Renard isn't prepared to elaborate, so I pry deeper into the kitchen. Towards the back of the shed a giant of a man is sweeping snail juice off the concrete floor, beside three loaded baskets. Another man jabs me in the ribs, pointing to a giant with an Asterix moustache, black apron and matching beret. "Lui, c'est un vrai Gaulois." (He's a true Gaulois.)

I chat with the Gaulois, joking that I'm a spy, as the secret recipe is put into practice. He roars with laughter when I tell him the common snail is considered a pest in Australia and that the idea of its consumption elicits moans of disgust. "Well then, you'll have to decide for yourself."

Back in the hall, it's time for the banquet. I slot in between a South African tourist and a local farmer whose prominent cheek veins match his enthusiasm for cognac. Entree is a beef soup thickened with semolina, before a Perigourdine salad of smoked duck, bacon, greens and cherry tomatoes.

When it's time for the main course, a hush descends on my table. A steaming pot of snails is plonked in front of me, emitting a heavy odour of garlic that tickles my nostrils. I am armed with a toothpick to prise the suckers from their homes, at times seemingly against their stubborn will. The taste? The herbs and sausage meat dominate the flavour, but a subtle touch of calamari pervades my mouth as I chew heartily. The only problem comes in the form of the occasional cracked shell, making for a crunchy mouthful, to the mirth of my rosy neighbour, now licking clean his shells with great relish.

Weighed down by 30 snails, I make my way to the bar. On my way out I see Asterix, his broom exchanged for a pile of plates as he assumes table-waiting duties.

"Well?" he demands. "Tres bon," I reply, patting my stomach and giving two thumbs up. In truth I am struggling, a rookie snail-eater feeling the effects of his first outing. It's been great fun, but I think I've eaten enough snails for one lifetime. I trudge out of the door at the proverbial pace of a certain mollusc.

Checklist The nearest train station to Bertric Buree is Perigueux which, along with nearby Riberac, offers accommodation. The next snail festival is on 5 May 2007.

www.dordogne-perigord-tourisme.fr/
www.bertric-buree.mairie.com/