Struggling to raise funds to restore his cathedral’s ancient organ, a priest from St.-Flour, a small town in the heart of France, found a creative solution. He transformed one of the bell towers into a curing laboratory where farmers could hang their hams to dry.
For nearly two years, after being blessed by a local bishop, the pork legs swayed peacefully in the dry air of the cathedral’s north tower, bringing in much-needed funds and delighting charcuterie lovers. Then an inspector from the body that supervises the French architectural heritage intervened.
After noting a grease stain on the floor of the bell tower, among other infractions, the inspector ordered the removal of the hams. They posed a fire hazard, cathedral officials said in a December 2023 report. When the cathedral refused to remove the hams, the dispute reached the country’s culture minister, Rachida Dati.
The St.-Flour ham battle has been widely derided as an example of how overzealous officials can quash innovative local initiatives. It also speaks to a larger question that aging churches across France are grappling with as they face costly repairs: Who will pay to maintain the country’s vast religious heritage?
After the French Revolution, church property was confiscated by the state, which eventually assumed responsibility for controlling most of it. But the central government and local municipalities have struggled to fund the maintenance of the country’s cathedrals and churches.
The restoration of the Notre-Dame cathedral in Paris, devastated by a devastating fire in 2019, was financed with around $900 million in donations. But religious buildings in the rest of the country have been largely abandoned to their own devices.
According to the Ministry of Culture, across France, around 15,000 out of 45,000 religious buildings are classified as historic monuments. More than 2,300 of them are in poor condition and 363 are considered endangered, the ministry said.
“The situation is alarming,” said Hadrien Lacoste, vice president of the Religious Heritage Observatory, an independent nonprofit group. “There is a decline in religious practice,” he added, “and there is a decline in demographics in rural areas.”
Despite declining church attendance, towns like St.-Flour, which has a population of around 6,400, see their cathedrals and churches as defining elements of their identity and feel a strong need to maintain them.
“We realized that each of our churches is a little Notre-Dame, that the village without the church is like Paris without Notre-Dame,” said Mathieu Lours, a French historian who specializes in religious architecture.
In France – as in the rest of Europe – decadent churches are often transformed into gyms, restaurants, hotels or homes.
In St.-Flour, a Renaissance church adjacent to the cathedral was deconsecrated and is now a market and cultural venue.
Maintaining the cathedral itself was seen as an essential, if expensive, endeavor for the city. St.-Flour is located in the heart of Cantal, an area of France known for its green hilly landscapes and its local cheese. From afar, the cathedral, atop a rocky outcrop, looms over the city like a fortress.
“You know the saying: all roads lead to Rome?” said Patrice Boulard, the meat producer tasked with climbing the 145 steps of the tower to suspend the hams there. “Well, here in St.-Flour, all roads lead to the cathedral.”
The idea of the seasoning workshop in the bell tower was the brainchild of Gilles Boyer, then rector of the cathedral, after the funds that were supposed to be provided by the authorities to repair the church’s 19th-century choir organ never materialized .
A food lover who once ran a restaurant in Paris, Mr Boyer had already set up beehives on an unused terrace of the cathedral to produce honey to sell. The bell tower was also an unused space. Why not use it to hang hams, a specialty of the region, he wondered?
“It all started as a joke,” he said, “but it wasn’t so stupid after all.”
Altitude, a local charcuterie cooperative made up of about 40 pig farmers, liked the idea, partly for the marketing potential, but also for what they believed was the special quality of air and conditions in the curing tower of hams.
“It creates a link between business and heritage, between a product and its terroir,” said Thierry Bousseau, the company’s communications manager.
The project was approved by both state and church authorities, and the first batch of hams went on sale in markets, churches and online in spring 2022, for about $150 each, about $50 more than an average local artisan ham. would go get. The profits, once Altitude had recouped its costs, were donated to the cathedral.
All told, about 300 hams were sold and more than $12,000 was spent to finally restore the organ, Bousseau said.
The project was called “Florus Solatium,” a tribute to the supposed founder of the city, a fifth-century saint called Florus whose relics are preserved in the cathedral. According to legend, the saint miraculously escaped the bandits by reaching the top of the cliff, where the residents welcomed him with traditional local ham. “Quid solatium!” he is said to have exclaimed. “How comforting!”
Most of the ham curing process takes place in Altitude warehouses in a nearby town. But Mr Boyer, the former rector, is convinced that it is the three months they spend attached to the wooden beams of the tower, exposed to the wind and the vibrations of the bell, that give the meat its special quality.
“Most hams are dried in places where the hygrometry is always the same, the ventilation is always the same,” said Aurélien Gransagne, the chef at Serge Vieira restaurant, a nearby Michelin-starred restaurant, referring to the humidity of the ‘air. In the bell tower, he added, “there are fluctuations, and this is what makes a product special.”
The thick, pink flesh is as good as the best Italian ham or Spanish jamón, he said. Mr. Gransagne’s restaurant offers diners rose-shaped slices of meat along with other appetizers and a bit of storytelling about where it comes from.
Given the success of the cured hams, Jean-Paul Rolland, who succeeded Boyer as rector in 2022, said he decided to put his foot down when the heritage architect declared the project unsafe.
“The building is dedicated to religious practice,” he said, “so it is not up to the administration to tell us what we can or cannot do inside.”
The grease stain likely appeared on the old parquet long before hams were raised, he said.
“It’s like the landlord telling the tenant that he’s not allowed to change the location of a painting in the living room,” Rolland added.
He made some small changes, such as placing carpets on the floor of the towers and banning visitors. But the hams will continue to be hung, he said.
In October, Culture Minister Dati announced a decision: the hams will remain provided that a “detailed study” has examined the “administrative, material and organizational conditions” for the hams to be cured safely, his office said in a ‘e-mail. This process is still ongoing.
Whatever the final decision, the hams have become something of a cause célèbre in a country that values the gastronomic offerings of small producers as much as the country’s religious heritage. St.-Flour made national news and ham sales were brisk. The Elysée Palace in Paris has a standing order of hams every three months and served slices of them at a buffet in June, Altitude says. (It’s unclear whether President Emmanuel Macron has tried any, and the Elysée did not respond to requests for comment.)
However, not everyone in St.-Flour is happy with the idea of turning the church into a sort of market.
“There were bees, now there are hams. What’s next, cheese?” asked Roger Merle, 68, a clothing store owner in town.