I remember it well. In the winter of 2014, that means picking olives in the month of December and partly in Januari 2015, we brought a record olive harvest to the mill in Gordes. It all happened according to a Provençal schedule.
The opening hours of olive mills are strict, and some even require an appointment in advance. Understandable, since from early November, tons of olives are transported across southern roads. The cargo areas of white Citroëns and Renaults are filled with all sorts of plastic crates, burlap sacks, buckets, and woven baskets.
At the olive oil mill
And so it happened that I stood with my crates before the mill’s closed gate, next to a tiny, ancient gentleman. I guessed he was about 92 years old and no taller than 1.50 meters. His olive trees couldn’t be very large, I thought. His beret was perched at ten past seven. In reality, it was half past two. The sign on the wall clearly stated that olive drop-offs started at 2 p.m. Then we both noticed another sign—this one handwritten in marker. It read: Five-minute coffee break.
“Five minutes from when?” I asked the old farmer beside me, who remained standing next to his modest little basket of olives, his hands clasped behind his back. He sniffed and bared his three remaining teeth in a grin. “Sais pas, mais pas grave. Ce sont les minutes du coiffeur!” (“I don’t know, but don’t worry. It’s the barber’s minutes.” French proverb)
Taking time
He didn’t seem the least bit bothered and began pacing around in slow, shuffling steps, his gloved fingers loosely intertwined behind his back. He inhaled the mill’s rich scent, cast an appraising glance at the press, tapped a sack of olives belonging to another farmer, as if he could judge the quality by touch alone. With a satisfied murmur, he wandered on, pausing now and then to exchange a few words with a mill worker who had just arrived. He had all the time in the world.
A little later, the sliding gate finally opened, and the old man graciously gestured for me to go ahead. As I poured my olives onto the scale, he let out a deep “Hoho!” and curiously peeked into the trunk of our Jeep. We were delivering 450 kilograms!
With my voucher for 90 litres of olive oil in my pocket, I drove home, where as always I took my time over my own coffee. By then I had understood that I too was slowly beginning to reckon time the Provençal way.
So, what’s with the barber then?
His words lingered in my mind. That day, I found no Frenchman of a younger generation to explain—without that thick Provençal accent—exactly what he had meant. So I turned to Google for help. Turns out, barbers—back in the day—had a habit of always promising they’d be with you in just a minute. But their “minute” could easily stretch to fifteen or thirty!
Anyone who knows my hairdo, knows that if that ever happened to me, I’d be grinning like a farmer with a toothache.(Flemish proverb)
We don’t have a barber in the village, but I took a picture of a typical French one in Nice a couple of years ago. Look at the vintage chair!
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