We’re back in North Carolina, but my body clock is still on European time. That means I’m struggling to stay awake past 8 p.m. and usually up by 4 a.m. John doesn’t have the same problem. He’s back to his night owl habits.
Speaking of John, the last week in Europe was not so good for him. He came down with a nasty bout of food poisoning just before we left Narbonne, and it wiped him out through Barcelona and the long journey back to the States.
So we didn’t see as much of Barcelona as planned. About the only thing John felt like eating was soup, so we had more pho and ramen in Barcelona than tapas. Maybe next time.
Ramen, Barcelona-style, to soothe John’s tummy.
We mostly explored Barcelona on foot. Not far from our hotel was a park with a Miro sculpture and a large community of noisy parakeets.
The Miro, upper left, is titled, “Woman with Bird.” I don’t see it, but I was a woman surrounded by birds at the park!
Out of habit, I kept trying to speak French in Barcelona. That thing where you know you have to communicate in a language not your own, so you default to your second-best. Eventually, I remembered I needed “por favor” instead of “s’il vous plaît.”
After nearly six weeks of espresso every morning in France, Barcelona’s coffee of choice — the café con leche – was a welcome change. Many counter-service shops in the city offered a combo of café with pastry for 2 euros. What a deal!
Yes, breakfast for two, a total of 4 euros.
Now I’m back in the U.S., where a single croissant starts at $4. I had a craving for something French yesterday, so I drove 2.5 miles to La Farm Bakery for a loaf of bread and a pain au chocolat, grand total $14. I miss France!
Montpellier, where we’re residing for a month, is a lovely Mediterranean city, but it is not directly on the sea. While it’s easy enough to get to the beach by public transport, and we’ve done that, yesterday we decided to go a little farther afield and take the train to the port city of Sète.
Known as “the Venice of France” because of its network of canals, Sète is a fishing village with a tourism side hustle. The coastline is mostly rocky, so it wouldn’t be a first choice for long beach walks or swims. But if dramatic Mediterranean views and fresh seafood is what you’re after, Sète delivers.
The rocky shore of Sète.
From Montpellier, the train ride is about 18 minutes, passing through marshlands and a few vineyards. After arriving at le gare Sète, a short walk across a couple of bridges brings visitors to canal-side streets lined with restaurants offering tempting menus of the bounty of the sea.
This drawbridge pivots from side to side.
Probably the most popular option at a waterside eatery is moules frites–a big pot of steamed mussels with fries. The going rate is about 14 euros. Many restaurants also offered a “snack” of six oysters and a glass of wine for 10 euros. Ah, France.
The starter course of oysters, prawns and some sea creatures in shells.
After fortifying our bellies, we took a long walk by the shore. When I say long, my Fitbit tallied more than 12 miles for the day, although some of it was walking to and from the train station in Montpellier.
The views were breathtaking, and although the day was slightly cool and windy, the bike lanes and the pedestrian promenade were busy with people enjoying the fresh sea air and exercise, and of course, baguettes.
We felt very fortunate to be in such a lovely and peaceful place, and as we gazed east across the Mediterranean, we were well aware that on the far side of that shoreline, people are making war on each other.
Looking east and wishing all could have the peace we enjoy.
I also kept thinking of a book I read a few years ago, “The Great Sea: A Human History of the Mediterranean” by David Abulafia. He tells the story of thousands of years of people who have made their lives on these shores. I want to read it again.
Today is a bit rainy, for which I’m grateful, because I definitely need some rest.
Our wine week ended on Sunday by celebrating Leah‘s birthday with a day trip to a fabulous winery and a tour of the medieval village of Saint-Guilhem-le-Désert, which is officially one of the most beautiful villages in France. We had tried to visit it five years ago but couldn’t find a place to park. The commune of 250 residents hosts roughly 800,000 visitors a year. It makes Traverse City seem almost unvisited by comparison.
A path in Saint-Guilhem-le-Désert. Not easy to get a photo without humans!
But I shouldn’t skip too far ahead.
The last chapter in my travelogue was the visit on Wednesday to Chateau l’Engerran, and if the week had ended there, it would have been more than enough.
The best was yet to come. And I can’t even decide on the best. Was it Thursday? Was it Saturday night? All are winners here.
Thursday was the day of the hike for which I had been “training.” And first, there was wine, which was a visit to two wineries in the Pic St. Loup appellation, the most northern and eastern of the Languedoc region.
We started at Domaine de l’Hortus, and this was a winery I was eager to visit for personal reasons, the explanation of which would require a digression from my narrative so I have it on a separate page if anyone is interested.
We were greeted with the equivalent of a royal welcome at the domaine, probably because we were accompanied by the eminent wine writer, Andrew Jefford, a lovely person who gave us a master class on Languedoc wines on our bus ride to the domaine. Two of the three sons who run the winery took us on a tour of the gorgeous vineyard and modern production facility, and we were surprised and thrilled to be joined by their father, estate founder Jean Orliac, who was beyond charming and generous.
And the tasting presentation was simply the best I’ve ever experienced, and y’all know I’ve been to a few. Monsieur Orliac presented his wines by discussing his philosophy, the estate’s history, the growing of grapes and the making of wine. We sampled all of the current offerings as they should be, served at the proper temperature, decanted when appropriate and poured by the dashing Yves Orliac. Everyone in this group of serious wine connoisseurs and professionals was overwhelmed. And that L’Ombrée? It was undoubtedly the best wine John has ever enjoyed with his spaghetti.
Andrew Jefford (l) translating for Jean Orliac’s presentation of his wines.
Our next stop was radically different in style and presentation. I’ve never visited one of those cult-favorite California wineries that operates out of a garage or warehouse, but this was perhaps a similar experience.
We drove up to a nondescript building across a parking lot from a Purina pet food factory. No vines in sight. Maybe we were at the wrong place? No, this is it, Andrew assured us. We entered a small room that was perhaps a tasting room. Bottles of wine were visible. A young man was clearing some things up and would be right with us. Meanwhile, I observed through an open side door one of the largest cats I’d ever seen making its way across the street from Purina.
Then the young man, who was our host, Guilhem Viau of Bergerie du Capucin, started pouring his wines. They were incredible. This winemaker began his career selling grapes to a local cooperative and has been bottling his wine only since 2008. He says he’s still experimenting and learning to be a better winemaker. I think he already deserves his PhD.
Lunch followed at Le Pic St. Loup restaurant in the village of Les Matelles. More delicious wine and food.
Andrew, we hang on your every word.
Most of the group took a sensible approach to the hike that followed. They skipped it, taking the bus back to Montpellier. But I had been training! And I brought my hiking boots all the way to France! So on to the mountain I went.
I was probably on the trail for about half an hour when I was confronted with an incline of what looked to me like boulders in the shape of enormous horizontal razor blades. I was to climb that? Maybe, but how would I ever get back down? I decided to turn around and wait at the bottom. Three hours later, when the five who were braver than I returned from the “two-hour hike,” the first thing I heard was, “Sharon, you made the right call.”
So, if you ever want to climb the Pic St. Loup, John tells me the views are magnificent but it is the most challenging climb he’s ever done, and we lived in the Rockies for a year.
Friday we rested.
Saturday night was the grand party at the home of Princess & Bear founders Carol and Steve. At least three winemakers were in attendance, including John from Kentucky. This American married a French woman and agreed to move to her tiny village near the Pyrénées and buy some land and make a little wine. You mean, that’s hard? One of his reds I wanted to drink all night, but that bottle emptied fast. Seriously, people, if you can get the Princess & Bear to ship to you, order some Clos du Gravillas. You can thank me by inviting me over for a drink, although I might just drain the bottle.
That’s John from Kentucky on the right, arriving with his terrific wines. Those in front from Vignoble Puy were very good also.
We also met Colin Duncan Taylor, author of two books about the region, who the very generous Carol and Steve invited just to meet the two other writers on their guest list (that would be me and John). We immediately recognized a kindred spirit in Colin, and we bought both of his books even though I spent the summer trying to purge books and said I would buy no more. I’m already reading his Menu from the Midi and I love it. Last night I was reading a chapter on the Lucques olive, which is only grown in the Languedoc and is called the green diamond. This morning, I walked over to the outdoor market right outside our apartment and purchased some. I definitely need to finish his book before I leave France to avoid frustration.
I’m almost 60 years old. I’ve been to a lot of parties in my life. I’ve never been to one as magical as the party for the Princess & Bear’s Mediterranean Club.
As for the bus ride back to Montpellier, those of you who know John (from Michigan and North Carolina), ask him about the karaoke. He’s now a legend.
On to Sunday, which was Leah’s birthday, so she joined us for our last day of wine week.
We had only one winery to visit that day, but it was sufficient. We rode through the lovely country north of Montpellier to Terre des 2 Sources, which is in the AOP of Terrasses du Larzac, a relatively new appellation established in 2014. The owners greeted us. Kirsten, a New Zealander who was a “flying winemaker,” (she traveled a lot to make wine), and husband Glen, an American viticulturalist (he tends the vines), showed us around the place, treated us to a tasting, and then served lunch. Kirsten made the lunch. She’s an overachiever, not content just to make great wine, she has to be amazing in the kitchen also.
Lunch at Terre des 2 Sources, with winemaker Kirsten talking about the wines and her neighbor’s delicious food products that went into our meal.
Kirsten’s pavlova, one of two desserts she made for us. I told ya: overachiever.
The group. Winemaker Kirsten (holding Luna, her puppy) and master grape grower Glen (brown jacket) in front of their domain.
After that, we toured Saint-Guilhem-le-Désert, which brings me back to the beginning of this post, and then we went back to Montpellier to collapse in exhaustion for the past two days.
So I’m caught up. The food and wine extravaganza is over. From now on, it will be just normal life in Montpellier. Reading, writing, flaneuring, and figuring out what it means to be “retired.” Or are we?
I once had a jigsaw puzzle depicting a picturesque French city. The puzzle showed a cafe with a menu board and sidewalk tables, a woman peddling her bicycle down a narrow cobbled street, a man walking a dog, and potted flowers hanging from the balconies. Arles made me feel as if I stepped into that scene.
Prior to our arrival, the primary thing I knew about Arles is that Van Gogh cut off his ear here. The motivation for that act must have been internal; this city could not have inspired it. Arles seems about as perfect as a place can be.
Before I get too poetic about it, I’m compelled to inject a small dose of reality into this travelogue.
La belle France has its share of ugly, just like everywhere else.
For sure, France is an exceptionally beautiful country, and the places that tourists are most likely to go can make it hard to put the camera down. But on the slow train from Marseille to Arles, we passed some areas that reminded us that France is an industrial country which comes with industrial blight.
Granted, not far past the industrial area, the scenery shifted to olive groves, farm fields and hilltop stone villages. Plus, the slow train in France is faster than what passes for high speed in the U.S. (not that I would know, since it only runs between D.C. and Boston), so I spent the ride envying the French of their transportation system regardless of what I saw out the window.
Now on to Arles.
On the banks of the Rhone River in Provence, Arles is an ancient city that was a major commercial hub during Roman times, as we learned at the Musée departemental Arles antique. Today it is popular with tourists, who come to get lost in the winding, picturesque streets while enjoying the delicious sun-kissed cuisine of Provence and walking the footsteps of Van Gogh legacy (hopefully with their ears intact).
Arles is possibly the most pedestrian-friendly city I’ve ever visited, although I may update that opinion when we return to Montpellier, which previously held the title.
We are staying in a chambre d’hote (French version of a bed and breakfast) that feels like a fairytale manor. If you ever come to Arles, I highly recommend La Vagabonde, which has a warm and welcoming hostess and is ideally situated for exploring the city.
A suite fit for Sleeping Beauty, a.k.a Leah.
The Arles vibe is so relaxed. Each narrow street seems to end in a small plaza encircled by restaurants and shops. Central tables are occupied all day and into the evening with people enjoying their coffee, lunch, aperitif, or diner, simply sitting with their friends or family as they share conversation and the pleasure of each other’s company.
Wine in the pleasant plaza near our inn.
This evening, as we enjoyed the aperitif hour (I ordered a pastis, which may be a cliché of Provence, but I had to do it), we were amused by a group of children running around the square with ice cream cones and trying to keep their dog from following two other dogs who were leaving the square. People at nearby tables were leisurely sipping their drinks. One glass of wine to be savored for an hour. We saw no one reorder or get refills. One drink is enough and takes as long as you wish it to take. No one will rush you or push you to order more.
Pastis.
Some random observations ahead.
The Roman amphitheater, or arena, is one of Arles’ top attractions, and Roman sites are thick on the ground here. Not well-preserved is the cirque, which was a chariot racing course. We saw a diorama of it in the museum and it occurred to me that humans haven’t changed that much in 2,000 years; we now just equip it with motors and call it Nascar.
Chariot racing, a.k.a. ancient Nascar.
France is a quiet country. My husband has a small hearing problem and loud noises bother him. In recent years, eating out in U.S. restaurants has become generally unpleasant for him due to the volume of music and other diners. Here in France, whether we are at a table inside or out, we can have a conversation in our soft voices. We don’t hear the conversations of nearby diners, who also speak quietly. And music, when it is present, is low enough to be barely detectable. However, motorcycles, which are among the loudest forms of transportation, are more common here, particularly in Marseille, but at least they pass quickly.
The highlight of the day was meeting up with our northern Michigan friend Madeleine, who lived in France for nearly 20 years and hosts small private tour groups in her beloved Provence. We joined her at the Arles market and had a delightful few hours browsing the stalls, sharing a delicious lunch and visiting with her ex-husband, a chef and cooking instructor. Madeleine knows a lot of people in Arles, as she lived here for 12 years. I haven’t had the pleasure of taking one of her tours yet, but another friend who enjoyed one last winter said it was the best trip of her life and an outstanding value. You can find out more at Cuisine Provencale if you’re interested.
Your future tour guide? And those olives, wow.
Another favorite moment was getting close to a large olive tree in the garden outside the ancient Arles museum. Just the smell of the olives in the market this morning (Madeleine was buying lots of them for her tour guests) made me want to toss my U.S. passport in the bin and stay in France for the rest of my days.
Can you see the olives? Unfortunately, a sign said not to pick. Of course, I know they only taste good after they’re brined.
A flat-bottomed boat raised from the bottom of the Rhone near Arles and painstakingly restored; now in the Arles antiquities museum.
I’ll leave you now with a few more photos of the beautiful city of Arles.
We’re changing things up a bit. Maybe it’s because restrictions are being lifted and some people — those who don’t own old houses in need of expensive repairs — are now able to book their own flights to France and my frustration at still not being able to go makes writing about pretend travel too unbearable.
So this is what I’m going to do. For regions of France that I have not personally visited, I’ll share my research and curation skills to provide what I think are the most interesting resources about the place.
And I will continue to make food because that is what I do.
Corsica, pointing at northern Italy. By Greece_in_its_region.svg: TUBSderivative work
Corsica, or Corse as the French call it, is a large, distinctively-shaped island in the Mediterranean closer to Italy than to France, but it has been part of France since 1768. The following year, Napolean Bonaparte was born there, and the rest, as they say, is history.
The rest, for me, is the promised resources for learning more about L’île de beauté.
You can rarely go wrong by starting with The New York Times. This 2016 travel piece is a semi-insider’s introduction to Corsica’s history, culture, food, and scenic attractions.
One reason I’m scaling back my travel coverage here is because it seems pointless when I can just refer you all to the excellent episodes of Échappées belles. This French travel show has been to Corsica at least three times: an overview, a focus on Haut-Corse, and a gourmand special. Even if you can’t understand French, you’ll enjoy the scenery.
So after reading that, I googled for some herby Corsican recipes and decided on the simplest: a mint omelette. I can’t get the Corsican cheese, of course, so I opted for fresh goat cheese as a substitute and plucked the mint from my garden. That and 3 eggs gave me all the ingredients I needed:
ingredients
If you’ve never made an omelette, it’s easy. Crack the eggs into a dish, then beat them until well-blended. Heat an omelette pan or skillet (preferably non-stick) and add a little oil or butter if you’d like. Pour the egg mixture in the pan and cook over medium-low heat. You can stir the eggs gently with a fork to help it along, and once the bottom starts to set, if you don’t want your omelette very runny, left the edges up slightly and tilt the pan so the uncooked eggs move to the edges. When the omelette is done almost to your liking, add the filling. In this case, it was chopped milk and crumbled cheese. Then fold it in half and serve. Salt and pepper and any other seasonings can be added to the interior before you fold or sprinkled on the finished omelette.
A mint omelette, served with bacon.
I also made a Corsican soup recipe from Let’s Eat France, but I forgot to photograph. It was delicious! Basically a vegetable soup with red beans and lots of herbs, including more mint, and I finished it with a leftover mint sauce to bring out the herbaceous flavors. There are lots of variations of this soup recipe on the internet, and maybe it would be fun to try them all, or just riff on one with what you have on hand.
Coming next: Provence, with my own travel stories and photos
When I conceived the idea for a virtual tour de France, the Languedoc-Roussillon area was the halfway point but also my ultimate destination. All the roads in my mind lead to it. Our last visit to France was our first to this region, and it captured my heart. My goal is that in retirement, the Languedoc will be our home base for travel and other adventures.
Languedoc-Roussillon
This region, along with the Midi-Pyrénées, is now called Occitanie in the current administrative divisions of France. Culturally and historically, it was part of the region of Occitania that included most of southern France, parts of Spain and some of northern Italy. Occitan was its dominant language and still has some native speakers. For centuries, the hexagon we now call France was largely divided by language: the langue d’oïl of the north and the langue d’oc of the south. It is beyond my expertise to attempt a blog-concise summary of this relationship and history, but for those who enjoy historical fiction, some of Kate Mosse’s novels will get you acquainted.
For our visit in May of 2018, we drove from Carcassonne to La Tour la Pagèze, a winery that includes B&B guest accommodations. We found it through the Gites de France booking service, which we also used for our winery stay in Gascony. Five of five stars for both!
I can’t attribute any single experience for my continuing love affair with the Languedoc, but I can decisively say it started with Claudine, who owns La Tour la Pagèze with her family. Claudine welcomed us as if we were dear, long-missed friends. Her warmth and hospitality now define the south of France for me. We arrived weary after a week of traveling and a drive from the Atlantic to the Mediterranean, and Claudine’s remedy for that was a complementary bottle of chilled chardonnay on her balcony overlooking the vineyards. All of this, a large private room with a balcony, and an outstanding breakfast the next morning, for about 40 euros.
Claudine’s story is as beautiful as her hospitality. (I learned this in Franglish, so hopefully I understood correctly.) Her grandparents migrated from the Catalan region of Spain as laborers in the vineyards of the Languedoc, and her parents also worked in the vineyards. It was their family dream to one day have their own. About 20 years ago, Claudine, her husband Miguel, and her brother Jean-Marie, saved enough to make that dream come true and purchased the Domaine la Tour la Pagèze. My understanding is that the parents have passed, but the winery honors their memory with its Cuvée Joseph, one of the few bottles I packed in my luggage to enjoy at home.
Claudine’s generosity was not an aberration for the region. For dinner, we drove to the nearby town of Fleury d’Aude and wandered into a small café. The sign at D’ici et d’ailleurs referenced an intriguing globally-inspired tapas menu. The owner welcomed us, and our bad French gave us away as tourists, so where from? he inquired. Nous venons aux Etats-Unis. He was ecstatic: we were only the second Americans to dine in his restaurant! He explained that his menu was influenced by his wife, who hailed from Madagascar, and he kept bringing us delicious tidbits he wanted us to try. My only regret is that I was too busy chowing down to snap photos.
After a restful night’s sleep and a sunrise over the distant sea from our balcony, we ate our fill of Claudine’s generous breakfast of breads, cheeses, yogurt, fruit, and an egg or two. Worried that we might get hungry again (how could that be possible!), she packed us off with a loaf of cake for our day trip to Narbonne. “You must go to Les Halles!” she insisted. More food!
I have been obsessed with Narbonne ever since. A small city not previously on my radar, Narbonne basically ticks every box for me. A river, or rather a canal, runs through the heart of the city, connecting to the Mediterranean and the Canal du Midi. The central zone is pedestrian-friendly, with a plethora of restaurants and services. Its mild Mediterranean climate, wine-growing environs, and easy access to other destinations via the high-speed rail station could make it an ideal retirement base.
The city is steeped in history, serving as a provincial capital for the Romans. In the pedestrian center by the canal, a remnant of the Roman road reminds passers-by of this history.
Unfortunately, while visiting the magnificent year-round indoor food market, Les Halles, I was too overwhelmed to bother with my camera. The cheeses, the spices, the olives, the fruits, the fish! To think that could be my grocery every morning if I lived in Narbonne… ah.
I insist it was Les Halles that won me over to Narbonne, but my husband credits the gentleman at lunch. Although we weren’t in the slightest bit hungry, everything in Narbonne closes between 12 à 14 heures (noon to 2 p.m.) for the midday meal, so we joined in. We chose a canal-side restaurant, and while I do not remember what we ate, I remember what we drank, courtesy of a fellow diner. The couple at the next table heard us speaking English and ventured to inquire as to our origins. In a mix of Franglish, we understood them to have a son who lived in Chicago (as did we!), or perhaps he had just visited there. Anyways, the proud papa was a huge fan of Chicago as well as having great civic pride in his native city. He wanted us to try the local wine and gifted us with the remainder of his bottle. (I do love a country where people routinely order a bottle of wine for lunch).
Back to Claudine’s for the evening with our stash of bread, cheese, olives and fruit from Les Halles, and another complementary bottle from the winery, this time the excellent rosé.
John, on the balcony of La Tour la Pagèze
Leaving the next morning was the saddest departure of our trip, and we vowed to return, a promise we still intend to keep as soon as we can cross the Atlantic again. (I know, France has reopened to visitors, but unfortunately we own an old house that will be zapping our travel funds with repairs this year.)
We drove from Fleury to Uzès, a delightful town technically in Occitanie but on the border with Provence, so I’ll include it with that chapter in our tour. We returned to the Languedoc after Uzès for a few days in Montpellier, a city that may give Narbonne a competition for our future home base.
The best thing about Montpellier for me is its approach to transportation. The city center is a car-free zone except for a few permitted delivery vehicles, whose access is controlled by retractable barriers in the pavement. A system of colorful trams circles the perimeter of the district to provide access to points beyond.
Montpellier is a lively university city surrounded by beaches, vineyards and landscapes of outstanding beauty. It also has a TGV station where a high-speed train can put you in Paris in about 3 hours.
To remember our time in the Languedoc, I prepared a Bourride à la Sètoise, a fish stew from the fishing village of Sète near Montpellier, as well as a Crema Catalan in honor of Claudine’s heritage.
Both dishes tasted better than my photos would indicate (I must get better at food photography!), and I hacked them from a compilation of recipes. Here’s a starting point for the crema catalan, and for the bourride.
As for wine, the Languedoc has much to offer. In recent decades, artisan makers have been working hard to overcome the region’s reputation for mass-produced table wine. Some very interesting and delicious wines are now made in Languedoc-Roussillon, and because they can’t command the prices of more famous regions, such as Bordeaux and Burgundy, exceptional values can be found. (See Jancis Robinson’s summary here and here for more info).
My go-to wine for the past year has been Michel Chapoutier’s Bila-Haut from the Cotes du Roussillon Villages appellation. It is $13.99 at my neighborhood wine shop and seems to pair well with every food.
A Seattle wine shop (whose owners have a home in the Languedoc) imports wines from some of the best small producers there. I’m looking forward to my first shipment from The Princess and the Bear and will try to update this blog with a review.
Back on our virtual Tour de France (the only way most U.S. citizens can currently visit), we will make a brief stop in the south-central region formerly known as the Midi-Pyrénées.
The principal city of the counts and of the region is Toulouse, the fourth largest city in France and a hub for tech, culture, medicine and education. One of my regrets from our last trip is that we bypassed the pink city on our drive from the Atlantic to the Mediterranean. No vacation is ever long enough to do everything one might want. A stopover in Toulouse would have necessitated removing another destination, and Toulouse was among many possibilities that did not make the cut. Since adding #toulouse to my Instagram feed, I’m sure not to bypass it again.
Technically, our only stop in the Midi-Pyrénées two years ago was a short walk-around the center of Condom. We refrained from snapping selfies with the town sign, and we didn’t linger as it was a drizzly day and we were eager to get to the sunshine of the Mediterranean. Our only photos of Condom are the cathedral exterior and mail delivery via bike.
Although not technically in the Midi-Pyrénées, the medieval walled city of Carcassonne seems to me most aligned with this region. Its claim to fame is its role as a Cathar center, and its rulers generally allied with the counts of Toulouse. The well-preserved castle and fortifications are one of France’s top tourist attractions and definitely worth a stopover. We had a great view of and access to the city from our AirBnB. While some of it is a bit kitschy, overall a visit to the cité is almost a magical time-travel adventure.
Views of Carcassonne.
Now for the food. The most iconic dish of the region is the cassoulet, a hearty slow-baked casserole of beans and meat. Toulouse and Carcassonne are both famous for it, and of course we ordered it for dinner in Carcassonne.
When the time came for me to try it at home, I had difficulties. I followed, to the best of my ability, Paula Wolfert’s recipe for Cassoulet de Toulouse. The most essential ingredient — the large, white Tarbais beans — are one of those protected French agricultural products that normally you would need to import at great expense, but checking that box on my cassoulet ingredients list was surprisingly easy. I hesitate to tell you people about this source, because wait times for shipments have already stretched to weeks this year, with many products being sold out, but I’m good to my readers and my friends. The amazing heirloom bean purveyor, Rancho Gordo, grows the bean in California from French seed stock as “cassoulet bean.”
Getting all the meat ingredients during a pandemic proved too much for my patience. I gave up on the plethora of pork products and settled for a pork shoulder and some bacon. I wanted to be lazy and purchase duck legs confit, but I couldn’t find that and made my own with the sous-vide as recommended by Paula Wolfert. I also failed to procure the toulouse sausages which made me furious at myself because I have a deli right in my neighborhood (Raduno) that makes these rare beauties, but I remembered I hadn’t picked them up about 30 minutes after Raduno had closed for two days and the beans were already cooking, so I couldn’t delay. And finally, I burned some of the beans on the bottom. I’ll need to try this again. I can’t even add my photo because it was so ugly. Well, here’s the duck legs:
I’ll leave you with a book recommendation. Historical fiction and fantasy fans may enjoy Kate Mosse’s Languedoc trilogy set in and around Carcassonne. I’ve only read the first one, but it helped me imagine what life was like in the medieval cité and I was grateful I had read it before visiting.
Also, I discovered there’s a strategy board game called Carcassonne. Comment below if you’ve played it and can recommend.
Next: the Languedoc with sunshine, the sea, and wine wine wine.
It’s been two years since we were last in France, and future travel is uncertain with Americans currently being banned in Europe and most of the world, so our pretend tour de France is back on!
When we last “visited” France, we were in the historic and magnificent region of Aquitaine, now called Nouvelle-Aquitaine, in the southwest. Because this region is so large and diverse, we divided our tour into three parts: Bordeaux and the Dordogne, Gascony, and the Basque country. The latter is all that remains for our tour of Aquitaine.
Many of us are feeling isolated in these days of social distancing. The Basque know something about that, although not because of viruses. The Basque language is an isolate, meaning it has no known relationship with any other language. Perhaps that is one reason some Basque people have sought independence from both Spain and France.
The bulk of the Basque region lies within the border of Spain. The French part is in the southwestern corner of the country, along the Atlantic coast and the Pyrenees.
A good base for exploring the Pays basque français is the lovely small city of Bayonne. It’s easily accessible by the high-speed TGV train from Paris, and le gare, like most train stations in Europe, is centrally located for accommodations, restaurants and touring Bayonne and its surrounds.
We stayed in an AirBnB in the old town and enjoyed two and a half days of walking the cobblestoned streets, taking in the sights, sounds and tastes of the historic city. We did not visit the famous nearby resort of Biarritz, mostly because the weather was cool and rainy, not tempting us to the beach. Also, Bayonne had enough attractions to keep us occupied.
A view of the old town from one of Bayonne’s many bridges.
We were delighted to learn that Bayonne considers itself the capital of chocolate in France. The Spanish brought cacao back from their pillages in the Americas, but they initially kept it to themselves. Jewish refugees fleeing from the Spanish inquisition in the 17th century made chocolate in Bayonne, and soon their Basque neighbors took up the craft and excluded their teachers from practicing it.
Eventually, chocolate-making expanded throughout France, Europe and the world. Bayonne may not be home to the most famous chocolatiers in France, but a visit to the old city is a sweet ritual beloved by many in the southwest. We enjoyed a cup of the famous hot chocolate at Cazenave, on the Rue Port Neuf, in the company of a mother and daughter from Pau; la mère told us she had made a yearly pilgrimage to the small chocolate café with her parents and was continuing the tradition with her daughter.
My daughter perhaps starting a tradition of a chocolat chaud at Cazenave. It was served with toast.A chocolate artisan on the Rue Port Neuf, Bayonne’s famous chocolate street.
One can’t live on chocolate alone, although Bayonne might tempt you to try. Fortunately, the city can satisfy savory meal demands equally well. Ham, or jambon, is a Basque country staple, and visitors to Bayonne will find it as ubiquitous on menus as is duck in other parts of the southwest. Bayonne even has a museum of ham.
Typical charcuterie board served at a Bayonne wine bar.
Bayonne is about an hour by bus or car from San Sebastian, which claims to have a higher concentration of Michelin stars than any city in the world. Alas, we didn’t cross the border to Spain, but that means we’ll need to return and have a more extensive tour of Basque country.
Meanwhile, we’re reliving our Basque experience with a couple of iconic dishes. Chicken with tomatoes and peppers is, aside from thinly-sliced jambon, among the most popular menu items in Basque country. Many recipes exist for this dish. I chose one from French chef Daniel Boulud, mostly because I just finished reading Bill Buford’s delightful memoir of his cooking life in Lyon, Dirt, and Boulud was frequently mentioned.
Basque chicken
I served this over slices of French sesame peasant bread from our excellent local bakery, Common Good. But I also had a hankering for Sarlat potatoes, which are not Basque but from the neighboring Dordogne region. I shared the recipe in the Bordeaux segment. It’s currently my favorite way to cook potatoes.
Sarlat potatoes
Finally, I spent most of the day working on a Gateau Basque. Many, many recipes exist for this delicious pastry cake. I used Paula Wolfert’s from her Cooking of Southwest France (sadly, out of print), and it’s definitely more involved than most recipes available online. It required early-in-the-day preparation of three components: Basque Aromatics made from steeping lemon peel in Armagnac and other liquids, pastry cream, and dough. The cream and dough were flavored with the aromatic liqueur and chilled for a few hours. Then I rolled out the dough into two rounds, spreading the cream between the layers and baking it for about 45 minutes. It was lovely and delicious!
Gateau basque. Basque chicken and potatoes Sarlat.
Our time in Bayonne and Pays Basque was much too short, but we’ll be back!
Leaving Bayonne via the drawbridge across the moat outside the city walls.
A book I read and re-read every time I need a little inspiration to get myself properly aligned with the universe is French Women Don’t Get Fat by Mireille Guiliano. Thinking of it as a diet-advice book misses its usefulness as an exercise in practical philosophy. The book is really about breaking free of the “diet” trap and embracing the pleasure of a proper meal, accompanied with a glass of wine or champagne.
Guiliano is a French woman who has lived most of her adult life in the United States. Before writing the book, she was president and CEO of Cliquot, Inc., the U.S. branch of the renowned champagne house. In New York, she writes, “my business requires me to eat in restaurants about three hundred times a year.” She is well-positioned to contrast the French way of eating with the American one.
While Guiliano obviously endorses French dietary practices, she doesn’t chastise Americans for succumbing to snack foods and oversized portions. She’s been there, done that, and she recovered with the help of some sensible French advisors, notably a family physician she calls “Dr. Miracle.”
Guiliano is not a nutritionist and she doesn’t pretend to present a medically-endorsed health plan. Most of the book is about how to eat, how to savor food and find pleasure in mealtime, with modest portions. She emphasizes quality, which makes excessive quantity superfluous.
Aside from a few recipes , the only content that resembles a “plan” in the usual pattern of the diet book genre is a recommendation for a phase Guiliano calls “recasting.” That process begins with three weeks of journaling and then a weekend mini-fast, eating only boiled leeks and their cooking liquid. In this, my fourth reading of the book, I’m trying the “Magical Leek Soup” kick start for the first time. After a severe winter that derailed some of my good French practices, I need an extra boost. So this is what I’ve been eating all day, and continuing through tomorrow.
There is indeed something magical about it, and it goes to the heart of the French food philosophy. At breakfast, the boiled leek was decidedly inferior to my usual toast and egg. At midday, it was a remedy for hunger. But at dinner, every bite was delicious as my palate had attuned to the pure taste of a simple vegetable simply cooked.
Still, I’ll be happy to enjoy a more substantial dinner tomorrow, and a glass or two of wine this weekend.
Americans have long entertained a mythology regarding the French and their dietary habits: our Gallic friends enjoy robust health and svelte figures, despite their addiction to cheese and cigarettes.
I was watching 60 Minutes that night in 1991 when Morley Safer shared what may have been the most welcome news ever in the history of health reporting. His iconic report called “The French Paradox” credited red wine as the French secret weapon in keeping heart disease at bay while feasting on foie gras and butter. Oui! Sign me up, said 99% of viewers. Maybe even vegans were intrigued.
Some context for those too young to remember the culture in which this report landed. America’s obesity epidemic was in its infancy (11.1% of adults in 1990 compared to 30.6% in 2017), and dietary fat was public enemy number one. Dr. Dean Ornish‘s prescription for reversing heart disease cast as arch-villain the saturated fat from animal products; his book was a best-seller. Americans were being nagged to ditch the bacon and eggs in favor of rice cakes and oatmeal. Fat-free manufactured “foods” such as Snackwells were entering the market.
So here came the French and their food-loving ways, with copious amounts of red wine washing it all down. Maybe that steak was no longer off limits if it came with a bottle of cabernet sauvignon.
Wine from Corbières
As the old adage goes, if something seems too good to be true, it probably is. While wine sales surged in the wake of such positive press, so did American waistlines. Was it possible that a glass or two of red wine could not counteract the effects of camping in front of the T.V. every night with a bag of Doritos and Cheez Whiz? Color me shocked.
Unfortunately, follow-up stories detailing the entirety of the French way of eating did not attract as much notice. As it turns out, French and American dietary patterns differ in other ways that may be more significant. I’ve read about these differences, mostly in the best-selling French Women Don’t Get Fat advice book by the delightful champagne goddess Mireille Guiliano. (Stay tuned for more on the book, next post). And a year ago, I had the opportunity to see for myself.
Last May, I took my second trip to France. My first journey was in 1987 when I was young and concerned with nothing beyond adventure and romance. This time, I was worried my middle-aged flab would earn me jeers from the trim and fashionable French. But if the French were disdainful of my plump figure, they concealed their scorn well; every person we encountered treated us with generosity and warmth, even in Paris.
I was ever so observant to the French manners with food. I saw first-hand some of the practices I had read about, and when I returned home, I put as many into action as possible. This resulted in a 20-lb. weight loss in six months and improvement in all key health markers at my annual physical.
So what are those French ways I observed? Check out this slideshow I made for you!
French people don’t eat between meals, and meal times are strict compared to the U.S. In the south of France, we learned quickly that we needed to get lunch at noon, or soon after. Most restaurants stopped serving at 2 p.m. and didn’t reopen for dinner until 7 p.m. Drinks could be enjoyed at bistros in the late afternoon, but typically without food.
The French sit down to eat and drink, and they take their time. Want a coffee? Find a table, place your order with the waiter, and enjoy that tiny little cup for an hour if you’d like. But under no circumstances do you get it “to go.” Never did we see a French person walking with a beverage or an ice cream cone.
The French socialize while eating. They talk to each other – or at least their dog – instead of texting or watching television.
Portions are smaller than in the U.S. The servings are enough, not too much.
The French don’t make large grocery runs. Admittedly, we didn’t pass a Costco. But at the markets we visited, we saw people purchasing only what they could carry home in one bag, or often, a small pull-trolley. And in the grocery markets, shopping carts also tend to be petite.
Farmers’ markets abound. Larger cities have daily markets; smaller villages have market days. Produce, artisan cheeses, fresh-baked breads and quality proteins are readily accessible. By French law, a standard baguette can cost no more than one euro. That explains why one is sticking out of nearly every shopping bag in France!
The French walk it off. This is a function of design. European cities were built for people, not cars. It’s much easier to exercise when physical movement is necessary to accomplish daily chores.
Some of the French practices may seem daunting, even impossible to follow here. None of our businesses close for two hours at midday so employees can enjoy a leisurely meal. Food and drink “to go” is so central to our culture that cup-holders are standard equipment for cars. Work and social expectations have us checking our phones even when we do manage to dine with friends. Restaurants respond to customer demand for value with supersized portions. Most people live too far from a grocery to walk, and with long work hours and commute times, “stocking up” once a week seems the only viable option. And despite the popularity of farmers’ markets, many people (ironically, sometimes in rural areas) don’t have access to one.
But most of us can find one good practice to try. In my community, at least 150 people are committing to walk 100 miles this month in solidarity with our favorite butcher, who has started walking his way back from health problems. Norte, a local bike advocacy group that organizes all things awesome, has partnered with the equally awesome Mark to commandeer a support group around a fun, healthy activity. So, if you’re in the area, and even if you’re not (non-locals are welcome), lace up those sneakers. And if you want to celebrate the end comme les francais with a steak and a glass of wine, well, I think you’ll know where to get it.
Tomorrow: Do French women really not get fat? Let’s talk about it!
