Lulu was waiting to receive us, dressed in crisp white with knotted silver-and-gold earrings and a hint of baby-blue eyeliner. She was 93 years old at the time and, although petite, commanded the room. Knowing we’d travelled from the southern hemisphere to meet her, Lulu welcomed us as if we were long, lost friends.
The moment we’d opened the car door in front of Domaine Tempier’s tasting room, we could smell the sea. We were under an hour’s drive from Marseille, on the south coast of France, where Lucie (Lulu) Tempier was born. Her wine farm, a wedding gift from her father, had played a pivotal role in restoring Bandol’s winemaking reputation and for Lulu and her husband, Lucien, inspired their life’s work.
The Mourvèdre grape had once been the pride of Provençal vines, specifically in the Bandol region where Domaine Tempier is located – before phylloxera devastated vineyards and quantity was put above quality. Lucien was determined to produce Bandol red blends, built on a foundation of Mourvèdre, that were as highly regarded as other French wines famous for their ability to age.
His first wine, in 1943, was a rosé, which is why it matters that the Bandol Tempier Rosé is 50 percent Mourvèdre, worthy of cellaring, and considered an iconic rosé in wine circles. And if Lucien is seen as a spiritual father of Bandol wine, Lulu must be recognised as a spiritual mother of intuitive, seasonally led home cooking – which is why we went to meet her.
Between raising children and vines, Lulu and Lucien were dedicated advocates of Bandol wine, through traveling and hosting. With one guest they developed an almost familial bond: US-born food writer Alice Waters, who championed the farm-to-table movement in Berkeley and beyond, and campaigned for the kitchen garden planted by Michelle Obama at the presidential home in Washington.
We were ushered into Lulu’s parlour, adjacent to her office. She apparently only retired at 75 and went on to live to 102. In that moment I couldn’t help but ask the obvious: what was the secret to her longevity? ‘I don’t drink water,’ Lulu said, eyes sparkling, ‘only wine’. To be sure of this, she added, she kept her mouth shut in the shower.
But there was clearly so much more that kept her interested and full of life’s vigour. She cooked her signature bouillabaisse over vine-cutting-fuelled fires, made time to play scrabble with her great grandchildren (at the time she had 24), went to the local market to select the produce that inspired her menus, and swam in the sea every single day.
The beach is where she met Lucien. Lulu told us how he had such blonde hair and clear blue eyes, she thought he was Swedish. Brandon recapped in high-school French: ‘So a girl meets a boy with white hair, and it leads to a vegetable garden at the White House?’ Lulu smiled. A story written in the stars.
When the clock struck noon, she informed us it was time for apéritifs and while she made preparations, I noticed the glow of a lamp to my left, illuminating messages scribbled on the shade by various wine importers: ‘Lulu and Lucien for eternity’ […] ‘Lulu I admire you’.
‘Is this how you envisioned your life?’ I asked Lulu when she returned armed with vin rosé and a pottery teacup of Niçoise olives. Lulu paused, ‘I was 18 when I married Lucien. I wasn’t thinking of the future. I was in love,’ she answered, ‘The war broke out three years later […] If you’ve been through difficult times, it is easier to feel good about what comes after.’
It was then that I realised why we were really there: to witness a life well lived. It wasn’t lost on me that in striving to create a wine that only becomes more enchanting as it ages, Lulu had found the secret to doing the same herself. (I like to think her style of cooking has something to do with it.)
As if giving me the manual, Lulu handed over the last precious copy of her book, in which the author, Richard Olney, observes: the Peyrauds are ‘dedicated to the belief that the meaning of life lies in love and friendship and these qualities are best expressed at the table.’
That night, back at our rented kitchen in the Luberon valley, we channelled Lulu. I sliced sweet, white summer onions from Coustellet farmers’ market for her pissaladière, or onion tart. Brandon simmered a head of fat, purple-streaked garlic for her aïgo boulido, a broth of garlic and bay leaves. We uncorked a bottle of Bandol rosé and laughed and talked until we were too tired to do so anymore.
I still make this soup when fresh, juicy garlic comes into season in early summer and imagine Lulu pounding plump cloves in a marble mortar to make her aïoli. Its purpose, as the introduction reads, is ‘to soothe systems worn thin from an enthusiastic celebration of the table’. But mostly I make it to remind me of Lulu, because – in cooking and in life – Lulu seemed to know what was important.
How Lulu’s cooking made us rethink flavour is coming up in next week’s story, when we return to the third part in the courgette series. To catch up on part two and one in the series, click here.