In praise of the Tabac

In a small village in rural northern France it is raining heavy, hot summer rain. The Tour de France comes through this tiny village of 4,500 residents today, probably the highlight of it’s social calendar for the entire year. The firefighters are out, ladders aloft, water pearling from the well buffed engine. Homemade signs offering encouragement for the riders grace the roadside railings and a general throng of villagers hangs around. Tucked into garage entrances and overhangs by their front doors, they shelter from the sudden downpour.

On the corner of the main drag through the village is a Tabac. A solid brick and grey render building with the iconic red sign hanging proudly from the side. A hub for the whole village, it is more than just a place to buy a pack of cigarettes and a lottery ticket. It’s a community hub that you can buy bus tickets, pay parking fines, place a bet on the horses, buy a paper, and myriad other small things. Most importantly, it has a bar.

Inside, and out of the rain, the bar is a no-nonsense affair with a spluttering espresso machine at one end of the counter and three taps for ‘pression’. The omnipresent French/Belgian border classic Jupiler is there, along with Leffe Blonde and ‘Beer of the Month’ which, this month is Hoegaarden. Drip-drying, ushered to a seat with the name of the bar smartly laser cut onto the otherwise utilitarian chrome frame and burgundy vinyl cushion. Two small glasses of pale beer and a bowl of salted peanuts are placed on frilly paper doilies. It’s 11am.

The aesthetic is part bar, part 80’s youth club. The floor is grey tiles, the walls painted in the same grey. Two TVs show the race coverage on opposite walls and the ever present table football table - ‘babyfoot’ lurks round a corner, kids rattling the balls and illegally spinning the handles. The fug of cigarette smoke - this part of France clearly hasn’t got the memo about indoor smoking, damp jackets and people crammed in to a tiny space builds till the race is a mere kilometre away.

The bar empties as people dash outside to watch. Two minutes later, the team cars zoom past, a minute after that the TV cars and motorbikes. Riders and photographers wrapped up in full body waterproofs trying to avoid getting their gear damp. A minute later the riders come past.

Touching distance, the sound of their freewheels buzzing like a plague of locusts descending on town. A blur of logos, colours and flashes of reflection from rainglasses and a whoosh of displaced air, they’re gone. That’s it for the year. It’s 11:30am. Only, that’s probably not the end of it. The race is on for another four hours yet and the bar is filling back up. There’s a sign for a community barbecue in the square that evening and knowing French villages, people won’t be tucked up in bed by 9:30pm.

Sadly there’s a ferry to catch and it’s time to go, but this won’t be the last Tabac visited. They’ll always be a reliable if sometimes brusque source of a coffee or beer when needed. There’s nothing quite like it in British drinking or community culture and it’s all the worse for it.