Bordeaux

As I have complained about before, my computer broke and I have been too lazy to write about food while in Paris. Instead, I have opted to eat it. A lot of it. And take lots of pictures. But I am entering into am period of extensive travel: maybe six, at least five, different cities in a month. The French, as I explained to my friend Christine, are extremely fond of their regional cuisines or specialites regionaux. And I need to try them. And I am fond of telling my friends that. So, Christine, in her wisdom, suggested I write about it.

I will cheat a little and throw in one brief lesson from Normandie, the region where she and I and one million Japanese tourists, including one famous Japanese actor, went this weekend. Specifically, we went to Mont Saint Michel, a 1300-year old abbey. Norman specialties include seafood, particularly huitres (oysters)...

...and also apple liquors, including cider and Calvados, an apple brandy. Anyway, the French place high priority on what's fresh but also what's local and have a real pride in what is particular to a region. Like my fish at a local restaurant called La Tour Brette in Pontorson in Normandy (served with choucroute, or sauerkraut, which is local to Alsace, which is far but still counts as a region, just not theirs).

So for the weekend, I went to Bordeaux, where I studied abroad in 2004 and which was my first trip abroad. The trip started off great: while seated, I continued to cough like I had TB, sat across from a questionably lesbian/deaf pair whose rabbit (who was accidentally dropped while in his cage) started relieving himself mid-ride (thankfully I didn't smell it when I covered my mouth with my scarf). I learned that trick when the guy with the two-foot long rat tail and anarchy sign tattooed on his skull walked by.

Things got better though. I began the regional culinary exploration at a brasserie, Le Noailles. It's the type of place I love: older ladies with (deliberately) two-toned hair, old couples, young families, and a very dignified "winter garden" jutting out onto the sidewalk.

I sat down at around 10:30, thinking too Americanly that I certainly would be the last one to eat.

Au contraire. I got fabulous olives with preserved lemons; yes, non sequitur but olives on a table means to me that they want me there, 10:30 or so.

I ordered oysters (again) and they were shucked at the bar.

I had a glass of white wine (two maybe?.. I had to drink in the culture) and then coquilles Saint-Jacques avec cepes. I didn't know what that entailed but that's what my waiter suggested. I like making split-second uninformed restaurant decisions. Makes things more fun.


I got dessert: mousse au chocolat. I am slowly making my way through French classics. It was simple and delicious. I had a little chat about delicate (ok, not strong) digestifs because I was really on vacation and figured I should booze it up. So I got Jet 27, the most French sorority-girl drink if ever there was one. Neon green and mint. And regional (departement trente, he told me).


The next day after a disappointing hotel breakfast (Best Western should stick to biscuits and gravy and not French petits-déjeuners), I wandered over to the tourist office and indulged in another coup-de-coeur: taking an open-top tour in a hot yellow bus. I saw bridges and beautiful old buildings I had never seen. And then I proceeded to wander, beaucoup.

My homemade postcard...

I ended up finally at the Cassoulette Cafe, where the food was good, but the service atrocious. There was one lazy manager, one ever-breaking cook, two (and only two) waitresses, one with "je suis en stage" on her lapel, the other with "je suis en formation," which should have meant "I am in training," but must instead probably meant to suggest "I am being paid for walking around with a panicked look on my face, while insisting on doing nothing to ameliorate the situation." Anyway, left to right, un oeuf cocotte, a salmon mousse salad, a salad with Indian-spiced chicken, then a tartiflette and moules catalanes.

Then I kept wandering, soaking in the sunshine, visiting the remnants of the St Michel flea market, window shopping at boots, getting a canele, and wearing my feet out over Bordeaux's cobbled stoned streets.
Canelés themselves are a regional speciality: vanilla custard poured into a beautiful copper moulds and then baked, creating a beautiful carmelization. I order mine croustillant (crunchy). Beautiful.

After a nap, I headed to dinner at Le Gabriel, home of a Michelin-starred chef.. My second!

Le Gabriel is situated in the central building of La Bourse, with a level each dedicated to the bar, the bistrot, and the restaurant gastronomique. I joined families and lovers in the bistrot, while I proceeded to write postcards while working my way through a demi bouteille du vin. From 2004, the year when I studied in Bordeaux, awww. And I started off with a Ricard, because I love being asked if I want an aperitif and saying, "oui, un Ricard."

I ordered the menu and started with an entree, a chevre crumble with tomato and mozzarella. The French love crumbles, a regional speciality from America.

For dinner I had a piece de boeuf, a very perfunctory French plate, with potatoes and a delightful sauce. Whatever it was, it certainly tasted especially delicious with Bordeaux, one of the sips of the three glasses of wine I had. I didn't eat it all because I wanted to "garder use place pour le dessert" and the waitress was visibly concerned before I explained why I hadn't cleaned my plate.
Dessert was light anyway, so the chef was smarter than I: roasted figs and a sangria sorbet.

Afterwards, grabbing a beer at one of the Irish pubs I frequented seemed a good idea. There, I met a German computer programmer (he was cute, it's ok), to whom I recited everything I knew in German and who taught me about German compound words, including MittwochsuachmiHaggverguuguugskranzchen (our language lesson largely took place on the back of a coaster and he wrote that one down). We went to a Spanish bar and drank mojitos and danced to bad French pop and U2 and I have him my map so he could find his way back to his hotel. Auf weidersein!

Sunday meant another bad hotel breakfast, a quick trip to the farmer's market, and lots more wandering. After getting quite mouille (one of my new favorites) from the rain, I collapsed in a chair at the restaurant of The Regent, the hotel I couldn't afford to stay in, and got thon tartare.

After one final canele, I headed back home.