Joanna Biggar's Blog

Arriving in Provence in mid-October for a long stay, my fantasies reasonably included witnessing, if not participating in, some classy vendages, perhaps a barefoot crush or two—why not?–and tastings on sun-filled terraces in the family chateaux of superb domains. Of course, I would meet and befriend the winemakers whose lineages, like those of their vines, went back centuries. After all, this is what some of my friends had done; this is what I read about.

There was just one teeny problem with my vision. As I worked my way south across France, I noticed a small tickle in my throat and mentioned this to my friend, a pharmacist, in Brittany. As quick as you could say “Bonne Santé,” I found myself in a pharmacy (the first of many; there seems to be one every fifty yards) where I had a serious conversation with a serious young pharmacy assistant. 

Since it was only a light affliction, I wouldn’t want to burden my body with unnecessary medicines, would I? Certainly not. Cram myself with possibly harmful chemicals? Mon Dieu, non. I’d certainly, therefore, want to follow the natural, homeopathic course, wouldn’t I? But yes, I wouldn’t consider any other.

And within minutes, I had in hand the first in what would become an impressive collection of French “médicaments.” As I recall, there were small, white, tasteless tablets for cough, and the first of many salt-water themed nose sprays as an accompaniment. But as I whizzed across the countryside in a fast train, spurts of sea spray began to blur with strands of wheat. I couldn’t honestly say what the overall “goût de terrain’ was, but I do know that by the time I arrived in Aix, my cough was thriving. I, however, was doing considerably worse.

Thoughts of mingling with winemakers vanished. Within two days, I had my first visit to the office of Dr. Martel. My condition had progressed to dry cough with slight rasp. A new round of medications was required for this. A new syrup, whose delicate color, like that of all the others I would come to know, was kept secret within brown glass. But what legs! What delicate hints of crushed hay and burnt sunflower seed, laced with licorice. It was a delight, I assure you, but got left behind as my condition moved onto a new phase.

I was now barking like a dog, and after more consultations with doctors, pharmacists, lab techs and people who only wear white coats, it was decided that I now had a “toux grasse,” roughly translated as a fat cough, and thus required a whole new arsenal. This meant new sprays, new instructions on breathing steam, a short course of antibiotics, and of course a new “sirop.” The Fat Cough Syrup had the same thick, slow, golden drip on the glass and the tongue that the others had, but what dashing notes of seaweed underscored by a “soupçon” of fricassed grapefruit pulp, what a surprise finish–that lingering after tone of virgin motor oil. I’m sure it had a fine nose, too, but by that time I didn’t, so could hardly say.

Each round of treatment, of course, was accompanied by different cough drops. And nights, when instead of sleeping (well, I couldn’t really) I began to have hazy dreams of perfect pairings.

The light lemony butter lozenges for the “dry but scratchy” phase syrup; the herbal ones smelling like wild French thyme definitely going with the homeopathic mix; and perhaps ripe sour cherries would be a perfect balance for “fat cough,” unless lavender honey would match better.

But mostly I was just hallucinating. I had by now made several more visits to people in white coats—all of them attentive, helpful, efficient and kind—but without noticeably better results. I had also moved onto a kind of breathing machine, filled with chemicals that at this point I welcomed. All I seemed to have achieved, though, was to leave behind the barking dog to resemble some other kind of rough beast. A leading rhinoceros in Eugène Ionesco’s play of the same name came to mind.   

It seemed my visions of vineyards with names like Cassis, Bandol and Gigondas had permanently given way to other names—Rhinathiol, Hélicidine, Bronchokod–all now stored in the bathroom cupboard that had become my cave. Another visit to Dr. Martel’s office and a chat with a young doctor there had produced another round of questions and examinations, now quite familiar: breath in, breath out, cough for me, stick out your tongue, and the usual clucking sounds when she peered down my throat. She then produced a new batch of prescriptions–and pronounced the magic words: “one that will help you sleep.”

I might be forgiven for being skeptical, especially when I examined that puny, non-descript half bottle that didn’t even have a colorful descriptor, like Fat Cough, on the label. It was only the next morning, however, that I woke with a peculiar sensation. I Had Slept Through the Night. I wasn’t hacking. The dark hours had turned to light, and I had turned the corner.

There, dwarfed by the other exotic bottles, which had proved to be only so many variations of “vin ordinaire,” I had found my own “grand cru” of cough syrups. Move over Châteauneuf-du-Pâpe; I only have eyes (ears, nose and throat) for Toplexil.