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)...
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...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).
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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.
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I sat down at around 10:30, thinking too Americanly that I certainly would be the last one to eat.
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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.
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I ordered oysters (again) and they were shucked at the bar.
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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.
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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-dé
jeuners), 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.
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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.
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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.
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After a nap, I headed to dinner at Le Gabriel, home of a Michelin-starred chef.. My second!
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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."
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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.
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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.
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Dessert was light anyway, so the chef was smarter than I: roasted figs and a sangria sorbet.
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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.
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After one final canele, I headed back home.