france

Romancing the truffle in Richerenches, Provence

maki — Tue, 06 Nov 2007 18:31:40 +0100

Originally published on December 9, 2006: We won't be able to go to Provence this winter because of work, but I still dream about it, and plan for the next trip hopefully in the spring. Here is an article from our trip last year, about a wonderful truffle market in northern Provence. I hope you enjoy it!

The lady vendor with the intense blue gaze and the black beret on her head looks a little like a French Resistance worker from an old movie. She gestures with her hands as she talks, occasionally taking one of her wares gently in her slender fingers. Around her a curious group of people gathers, looking and sniffing intently, asking questions. I slowly inch my way to the front and look into the bowl, then up to her face, my meager French deserting me. She smile and tells me to pick one.

I choose a modestly small one, a tad bigger than a golf ball, too shy to touch one of the big, multi-lobed ones. I take it to my nose, and inhale. I wish that at this point I had more poetic words to describe the sensation, but the only thing I can say is "Wow". That pungent aroma is so unique that it's impossible to articulate. Earthy? Slightly gamey? It's just what it is - truffle.

We are at the Marché aux Truffes in Richerenches, a tiny village tucked away in a corner of the Drôme, the north western part of Provence. For most of the year it's off the beaten track, barely visited by outsiders. But every Saturday morning from November to March, it is one of the most important destinations for lovers of that expensive and pungent tuber. It's the largest truffle market in Provence, and is said to be the largest in terms of quantity of truffles traded in Europe.

Just walking around the market it's hard to tell that it's so important at first glance. The main market is just a few tables set up along the main street in the middle of the village, and of those only a couple are actually selling truffles or truffle-related items. The rest are selling the usual market things like fresh vegetables, juices, cheese and cured meats.

We've heard though that the main drag is not where the real action takes place. Sure enough, at the end of the road is a tree-covered parking lot filled with small white vans.

The parking lot under the old plane trees, where most of the serious truffle action takes place

There are little groups of people huddled together, heads down, whispering closely. There are some men leaning into the back of a van, deep in discussion. I feel that I shouldn't be trying to photograph them up close, so I put the camera away and stroll through the parking lot, trying to look as casual as possible. I catch glimpses of small cloth and plastic bags weighted down at the bottom, of hands coming out of pockets with black clumps in them. Wads of currency are being pulled out and passed from hand to hand.

It all feels very clandestine. I'm not really sure if it is actually that, since it's not like the people are totally hiding what they are doing. It's clearly a strictly cash-only trade, in any case.

I once read somewhere that the buying and selling of truffles appeals strongly to the French character - it's expensive, rare, something delicious to eat, and not quite legal since much of it is cash-only, under the table. (There were a few policemen hovering around the main market street, but they seemed to be there for general security. There must be quite a few euros being carried around there.) I am sure that the intrigue and secrecy simply adds to the appeal of the truffle.

Some Richerenches market goers enjoying some wine..maybe they're celebrating a good day of truffle selling...

I wish that I had the guts to go up to one of the sellers and ask to see their wares, but...well I don't. Instead, I get my truffles from one of the open and above-board market street stalls. The truffle stalls are all selling the black knobbly fungi for the same price: €500 per kilo. That may seem like a staggering price, but it is somewhat cheaper than one might pay elsewhere. Since a little truffle goes a long way, it doesn't feel too outrageous. (For what it's worth, matsutake, a fungus that is highly prized in Japan, can cost 5 to 10 times that.)

Cleaning, preparing and eating the truffle

The final objective is to actually consume these black lumps of mystery and aroma, which I proceed to do as soon as we're back at our rented house. (This is why I love to stay in rented houses or apartments nowadays when I travel, as I've explained here before in my Food Lover's Guide to Provence series - I love the chance to try out freshly acquired ingredients right away!) I'd never cooked with fresh, whole truffles before this, but it is less intimidating than I'd thought. The two modest sized truffles I've purchased (legitimately) came with a small pamphlet explaining how to handle them. Following the instructions, I carefully brush off as much of the fine dirt clinging to the outsides as I can with a damp paper towel. As I rub the surface, the aroma becomes even stronger - it's almost overwhelming.

I don't have a truffle slicer, but the elegant silver ones on sale at the market look very much like a vegetable peeler or cheese slicer to me, so I tackle a truffle with a humble stainless steel peeler. This works quite well. The texture is firm, quite unlike other fungi, and rather buttery. Each slice seems to release even more aroma, which fills the kitchen, drawing in appreciative sniffers.

For my first meal, I shave one truffle lavishly over freshly cooked tagiatelle that's been tossed in a little butter and a few drops of truffle oil. It feels wildly extravagant (though if you think about it, one truffle costs less than a mediocre meal at a restaurant.) This accompanies some magret du canard for dinner. It's rare that a duck breast plays a supporting role but in this case the truffled pasta is the star, drawing oohs and aahs of appreciation as each diner puts their heads into their plates and inhales.

The next day, I make a Pommes Anna with truffle slices scattered between layers. I had something like this some years ago at the Restaurant Buerehiesel in Strasbourg, the first time I'd had a dish with serious chunks of real truffle, and have never forgotten it. This was an even bigger hit than the truffled pasta. The bland butteriness of the potato is a perfect vehicle for the truffle aroma and texture.

Pommes Anna with truffles

To serve 4-6 people as a side dish, or 2 as a luxurious feast

about 8 medium-large firm boiling type potatoes (not fluffy baking potatoes; in the U.S. Yukon Golds would be perfect, in the U.K. Maris Pipers; in Europe Charlottes or Bintjes would be good. I used Charlottes.)
2 Tbs. light olive oil
2 Tbs. butter
1 Tbs. truffle oil
1 medium or 2 small truffles
crunchy sea salt and freshly ground pepper

Preheat the oven to 150°C / 300°F.

Heat the oils and butter in a small pan just until the butter is melted.

Slice the truffle thinly (but not too thinly) with a slicer or a vegetable peeler.

Peel the potatoes and put them in a bowl of water as you work. Slice the potatoes as thinly as you can. Layer the potatoes into a round casserole dish, and sprinkle each later with a little salt and pepper and a drizzle of the combined oils. Every few layers, sprinkle on some of the truffle slices. Continue until all the potatoes are used up, then drizzle on the rest of the oils. Finish up with any remaining truffle.

Bake for an hour in the oven, until a knife stuck in the middle goes through easily and the top is golden brown. Serve immediately.

If you can't get a hold of fresh truffles, try this just with some good quality truffle oil to get the aroma experience.

Some thoughts on the vegetarian experiment in Provence

maki — Mon, 02 Jul 2007 13:15:54 +0200

For the last two weeks I was in the Provence, I tried a short term experiment of cooking vegetarian dishes only. Here are some thoughts on that experiment.

As I’ve stated here before, I’m not a vegetarian though proportionately I don’t eat much meat. Therefore, I thought that the experiment should go quite easily. It was easy in some respects, due to the easy availability of an abundance of fresh produce.

However, I realized after a couple of days that I handicapped myself a bit by trying the experiment away from my usual arsenal of Asian ingredients - the only one I had was a small bottle of soy sauce. The reason for this is pretty simple: umami. In Japanese cooking in particular and Asian cooking in general, umami is often added in the form of things like miso, soy sauce, seaweed and so on. In French cooking in general, including Provençal cooking, umami is added in the form of some kind of meat, fish or cheese. A lot of vegetable dish recipes call for some chopped up lardons (sort of like bacon), or some anchois (anchovies), an animal-based stock, and so on. I did allow myself cheese, but I didn’t want to add cheese to every dish either. (We ate more cheese on its own, rather than adding it to dishes.)

There are some vegetable based ingredients with umami though: tomatoes in particular. Early tomatoes were everywhere, and I used them almost every day, cooked or raw. Most vegetables have some umami, and I used loads and loads of fresh zucchini (courgettes) and peppers. Onions, shallots and garlic are a good source of glutamates. Beans and legumes, it seems, have their own umami too. I was quite happy with the results most of the time.

I did miss the direct hit of umami that you can get from meat and fish though, and especially from my familiar collection of Japanese umami ingredients. Miso in particular would have been really good to have on hand.

Some umami links:

Umami Information Center - a very nice, well-organized site
Society For Research On Umami and Taste
Umami series on Tigers and Strawberries - some great articles here.

But was it a good idea?

A commenter said this recently:

Why should anybody going to southern France deliberatly give up on fish and meat? This is stupid. Sorry.

It’s a good point actually. When you are a food lover on vacation, you probably want to experience all aspects of local food offerings. I was cutting myself off from a portion of the offerings.

If it was my one and only opportunity to go there I probably wouldn’t have tried out the experiment. But it wasn’t. Provence is just a day’s drive away from where I live - about 6 hours total, not counting rest stops. So we go there whenever we can, time and budget allowing, without thinking about it too much. If I were going to somewhere much further away, I wouldn’t restrict myself in this way.

In addition, I don’t really think that meat per se is a huge feature of Provençal food. On the coast seafood is everywhere - and we did eat seafood at restaurants a couple of times. You will miss out on eating the dried sausages and things that you’ll see at every market, and some Provençal classics like daube (meat marinated in wine and cooked with vegetables). But overall it’s not a huge loss. Maybe my palate is not refined enough, but I don’t see the big deal with things like toureau (bull) meat from the Camargue, for instance, and frankly the fresh sausages and things we get here in Zürich are better overall - or at least, more to my taste - than the ones there. In other regions of France like Burgundy (great beef dishes) or Languedoc-Roussillon (mmm, cassoulet), you will be missing out on a bit more.

But the point is, vegetarians can have a great time food wise in Provence, without feeling left out in any way. There are so many delicious fruits and vegetables around, plus lots of interesting cheeses. I would recommend the self-catering approach to take full advantage of them. See A Food Lover’s Way Of Exploring Provence for how I go about this.

Salty bread and salty tears

maki — Sun, 24 Jun 2007 21:24:21 +0200

The sign that is no more.

As we approached the tiny hilltop village of Montsegur-sur-Lauzon in northern Provence, my mouth was already watering in anticipation of the bread at the one and only boulangerie (bakery) there. I’d been looking forward to this for months, ever since last November, when we’d made one last stopover to load up on bread to sustain us for the long drive back home and a couple of days beyond.

I’ve written about my love for this boulangerie before. The bread there was the best I’ve ever had - bursting with flavor and character. Even when the loaves turned a bit stale after a couple of days, they were still so good. I was convinced that if the baker, Monsieur Metaud, was in Paris, he’d be world famous.

It was a Sunday, and there was a small queue of people waiting for their bread in the tiny store. Neither of the two people behind the counter, a young man and a middle aged woman, were Madame or Monsieur Metaud, but that didn’t concern us - they had other people selling bread there before, especially on weekends. But as we shuffled closer to the front of the line, something seemed a bit off. The collection of exotic teas that used to line the wall shelves were gone. The pretty display of confections was quite pared down.

Still, I spotted a sign stuck into a loaf that said baguettes au vin et à larosette, and breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh great, they haven’t run out yet”, I whispered. They often ran out of this, my favorite bread out of all of their excellent selection - a gutsy, salty, twisted loaf of goodness, faintly pink and grey from red wine, with chunks of rosette, a kind of Provençal salami, in it.

We ordered a baguette traditionelle, a baguette au levain and a couple of those baguettes au vin et à la rosette, and exited the store rapidly. As usual, I tore off the end of one of the baguettes and popped it into my mouth as soon as I as outside.

I stopped and stared into the bag. As we walked back to the car, I pulled out the whole loaf - smaller, as I’d already spotted, and darker than I remembered - and broke it in half.

“Something’s wrong” I frowned. Max, who was about to turn on the ignition, stopped and looked at me. “What do you mean, something’s wrong?”

“It’s not the same bread at all”, I held out a half of the loaf. “See, the rosette isn’t in chunks, it’s shredded. And the bread itself…” I took another bite, just to make sure. “It’s just…ordinary.”

With a skeptical look Max tore off a chunk and chewed. “Hmmm…” he said. “Hmmm…” We looked at each other in dismay. Wordlessly, he took a ripped into the baguette traditionelle too, and handed me a piece. There was no doubt about it: this was not bread from the same baker.

Leaving the loaves in the car we walked back to the bakery, still stunned. Now I noticed some more things. The window display was somehow different: instead of the imaginative and feminine arrangements I’d seen before (one I remember had lavender candies arranged like a lavender field with toy bees hovering over), there was a fairly standard basket of several loaves of bread. Outside the store, instead of the faded green on white sign proclaiming PAIN GAULOIS - PATISSERIE - PAIN DE COURGE, there was a metal Artisan Boulanger sign, that you see on the fronts of many bakeries (I’m not sure but I think it’s some sort of franchise sign).

“Do you think that it’s really a different baker?” I whispered in dismay, as we peered into the store again. Now, the two people selling bread looked more like proprietors than hired help, somehow. Max scratched his head.

We decided to get another loaf, any loaf, so that we could test it some more. We got an ordinary baguette. In the car, we munched thoughtfully, looked at the crust, examined the crumb.

Don’t get me wrong - it was a perfectly acceptable baguette. But it was not special anymore. The crumb was too even, lacking the interesting, gutsy holes. The crust, crusty yes, but not sharp and crackling and full of vigor. Occasionally Monsieur Metaud’s baguettes were a bit on the too-salty side, which made them even more interesting in a way, but I felt that this new baguette was almost too bland.

That day we drove away, rather stunned. Later on, we decided that questions needed to be asked. Maybe the baker just had an off day. We hoped, really hoped, that was the case.

But somehow I already sensed it wasn’t so.

A few days later we drove back to the village, and went to the boucherie (butcher shop) on the other side of the village square - we felt rather awkward about trying to talk to the new people behind the counter in the boulangerie. There, we learned that Monsieur Metaud had indeed sold the boulangerie. He was living in a nearby town, but no longer baking. That magical bread that I had spent months dreaming about was no more.

I can’t deny that for a few minutes, I did feel some tears welling up. Crying over bread, or any kind of food that is no longer available, may seem silly to a lot of people. It seems a bit silly to me even. Still, there is a corner of my heart where I mourn those foods that I can no longer have, including that wonderful bread. The terrific hamburger that I used to have at a coffee shop that went out of business a decade ago. My first cassoulet, at a tiny restaurant in Toulouse that I can’t remember the location of. The bright blue ice lollies I loved when I was seven. The turtle soup I had, at age eight, at a long gone country house restaurant in England. The delicate cuttlefish sushi with sea salt and yuzu prepared by an itamae-san who passed away. My grandmother’s pickles. And lots, lots more.

I may try to recreate some of those breads, especially the baguettes au vin et à la rosette, for myself. And there are other, terrific bakers out there of course - and we already discovered a couple, once we were left without the magic of M. Metaud’s bread (I’ll write about these shortly). But it isn’t, and never will be, the same. It’s never the same.

This is why great food is such an elusive art form, that we can only experience in the now. We can listen to music that has been recorded, watch a great movie over and over again, or gaze at a wonderful painting. That astonishingly delicious mouthful can never be experienced like that again - and once the creator stops making it, it’s gone forever. So when we are lucky enough to encounter great food, we need to savor it for all its worth, to imprint it as much as possible on our taste buds and in our memories.

This is one of the reasons why I write about food, to keep a record of those precious, fleeting moments of pleasure.

Encore Provence

maki — Tue, 27 Mar 2007 16:04:26 +0200

Speaking of travel…we’ve paid in our house-rental deposits now, so once again we are going to be spending the better part of a month of our summer in Provence. We’ve been there at least once a year for the last few years, and no matter where else we go I just have to go there or I don’t feel my year has been complete. Last year we even went twice, for a total of six weeks. (Thank goodness for broadband or our clients would just fire our asses. :) ) I’m not sure we can manage that again this year but at least I will have my Provence fix.

To see my way of experiencing Provence, start with A Food Lover’s Way of Exploring Provence. This year I plan to do a bit more around the coastal area to the east of Marseilles - I fell in love with the small resort town of Cassis in November, and want to see it in its summer glory. Otherwise it’s going to be markets, vineyards, and as many visits as we can squeeze in to my favorite bakery in the world. Ah, heaven.

Are you making your summer travel plans already? Where are you going? Do you let your tastebuds and stomach guide where you go as much as I do?

A further education in truffles

maki — Mon, 18 Dec 2006 23:53:04 +0100

A few days after visiting the truffle market in Richerenches, we were staying in the medieval town of Uzès in the Gard. While the Gard is technically part of the Languedoc region, it feels very much like Provence.

On one corner of the ancient arcaded Place aux Herbes in the center of town is a small, jewel-like store dedicated to regional delicacies in general, and the truffle in particular. There we got a further education in the black truffle.

The store itself is a bit overwhelming. Row upon row of truffle-related products line the shelves: truffle oils; truffles preserved in jars; risotto mixes with truffles; cured ham that had been soaked in truffle juice; vacuum packet filet mignon scented with white Italian Alba truffles. And holding a place of honor on the back counter is a footed glass jar, filled with truffles.

We waited our turn patiently as Monsieur Balmain, the proprietor, held forth on the finer points of truffles with a prior customer. The gentleman in question, elegantly dressed in black from head to toe, purchased a truffle about the size of a tennis ball. It cost around €250 (about US $325).

When our turn came, Monseiur Balmain started off by taking the cover off the glass jar and inviting us to sniff. The smell was so overwhelming we almost fell over backwards. It was much more intense than the ones at Richerenches which were out in the open air. The truffles were uniformly larger, more swollen. They seemed to seethe with a mysterious energy in the dimly lit store.

In rapid-fire French (which I got maybe half of) Monseiur Balmain gave us a quick education on how to spot a good truffle. He took one of the precious truffles, and sliced off a tiny sliver. Look at the cut surface, he urged us. Notice how it's almost all dark, with barely a trace of white. He then took a smaller truffle from a plastic container, wrapped in a paper towel, and sliced a sliver off of that too. The slice was noticeably different - it was marbled with fine pale lines. This, he said, is a Chinese truffle. It has little scent, and is spongy. He demostrated the sponginess by pressing on the side of the small truffle, then handed it to me. I pressed - it was indeed a bit soft. And now press this he said, handing me the bigger, blacker truffle. It was much firmer. He told us, If you are offered a truffle in a parking lot, be sure to have a small slice cut off like so so you can see. We nodded meekly, our eyes glued to the black lumps of fungus more expensive than gold.

Now came the time to decide - buy a truffle, or not? There really was no question...we couldn't leave without one. We selected one about the size of a newborn baby's fist, and handed it carefully to Monsieur Balmain, who put it on the electronic scale. We held our breath as the price was figured out. Fortunately it was under the amount of cash we had (though about twice the price of the small truffle we had bought in Richerenches. That one was just a bit more marbled than the all-black truffle, with a few white streaks.)

The Uzès truffle is now resting, as per Monsieur Balmains instructions, in a jar in our refrigerator, wrapped in a paper towel, waiting for its star turn.

Maison de la Truffe
27 place aux Herbes
30700 Uzès
Tel. 04 66 63 83 45 Open year round (Note: the main market day in Uzès is Saturday, and it's a treat)

Is it possible to have bad food in France? Of course it is.

maki — Tue, 12 Dec 2006 01:00:47 +0100

I think I'm guilty of waxing too lyrical about the food in France sometimes, and I'm certainly not alone in that. If you believe some people (many of whom have a vested interest in upholding the myth) you may think that French people eat delicious, fresh, well-prepared gourmet food and heavenly pastries all the time. That's just not true, of course. I'm just back from a two week stay in Provence, and while most of the food was wonderful as usual, there were some definite low lights.

The thing is, France suffers from the same afflictions as any modern nation - people are too busy, they are in a hurry, there's no time. Most of the people taking their leisurely time at the weekday morning markets are elderly. If you go to the hypermarché in the afternoon, there are many younger people, working people, doing the toss-it-in-the-shopping-cart-it's-edible routine that all of us do. There are tons of packaged, canned, frozen, etc. items for sale - and they must sell otherwise those hypermarchés wouldn't be successful. Much of the bad food in modern society is a result of people not having enough time to shop for, and prepare, and most importantly eat food slowly enough to actually taste it. When you are too preoccupied with other matters, or other matters take up too much of your energy, then food simply becomes something to fill that empty space in your belly or to keep up your energy.

There are fast food restaurants everywhere in France - as well as McDonalds and KFC and the like there are also the French chains like Quick and Flunch. And then there are the roadside diners. Granted, roadside diners anywhere generally have a tough time maintaining quality, but still - I encountered one of the worst looking so-called meals I've ever seen at an Autogrill (a roadside restaurant chain) near Lyons on the long drive back home. It was called a Steak Haché - which translated to 'minced steak' - a.k.a. a hamburger.

I know I know, what was I doing ordering a hamburger? What can I say, I wanted something warm, not yet another cold sandwich. Besides, several other people were eating it and it looked okay from afar. But this is what it looked like up close:

The fries smelled as if they had been fried in old oil. The hamburger had a curious rubbery, resistant feel on the surface. When cut open, the insides were....raw, as in bright red raw. At this point I somehow lost my appetite.

So what point am I making here? Well...I guess it's that 1. you can get a bad meal anywhere, even in France. 2. not all French people are gourmets and 3. I will never order a steak hache at an Autogrill again. I think I'll stick to soda and Pringles. Oh yes, they sell Pringles in France.

(Incidentally, a few days before the Autogrill episode, we somehow missed lunchtime and ended up at another chain restaurant around 3 in the afternoon. Let's say it wasn't the most inspiring place in terms of cleanliness or general atmosphere. Yet, someone at a nearby table at a cafe was tucking into a steak tartare, complete with raw egg, with gusto. Maybe I'm too nervous about raw chopped meat. Or, maybe not. I'd rather not find out through trial and error. )

If you'd rather savor some of the best food from France, be sure to check out the Just Hungry Menu For Hope Food Hamper and donate!

L'Esperance, Saint-Pere-sous-Vezelay, France

maki — Mon, 24 Jul 2006 11:18:32 +0200

(Note: the correct accented title should be L'Espérance, Saint-Père-sous-Vézelay, France, but this makes the entry disappear from search results so it has the incorrect un-accented version.) It's been more than a month since I was at L'Espérance, a renowned three-star Michelin hotel-restaurant at the foot of the picture perfect medieval hill town of Vézelay in the Yonne region of Bourgogne (Burgundy). Since then I've enjoyed a number of other fine restaurants in France and New York, and written about them here.

Yet, I have been procrastinating for weeks over my write up of L'Espérance. It was a very confusing experience that has been very hard to digest intellectually. It was not a meal to invoke uncomplicated pleasure. I don't think this has anything to do with the fact that it is a starred restaurant either, because I've enjoyed other starred places without experiencing this feeling that I didn't quite get it.

A little bit of background: Marc Meneau, the chef of L'Espérance, was a hot young star of French cuisine in the 1970s. He is probably in his 60s now; we saw him because he was sitting with a group of people in the lounge area when we arrived, and he also came to talk to us at our table later on. One indication that he is started his career in the 1970s is the Andy Warhol portrait of him that hangs on one wall. That doesn't mean in any way that the L'Espérance offerings are outdated though. I did find it interesting to see that there were some books being sold in the obligatory boutique co-authored by the chef dedicated to medieval and monastery cuisine. (Regrettably I didn't buy any because the meal itself totally wiped out our budget!)

The dining room, which is in a conservatory overlooking a garden, is beautiful. The service is rather formal but impeccable. The table settings and decor are gorgeous, even the carpet. Just look at that carpet. (See, this is the advantage of blogger restaurant reviews - you get photos of restaurant carpets.)

We decided to go all out and have their tasting menu. The food, the food..it had the highest of highs, and a couple of clunkers. The highs were so high they were transcendent experiences. The lowest low was almost inedible. I suppose that the easiest thing for me to do is to just show the photos of each course and describe them. (Keep in mind the menu changes seasonally.)

The meal commenced in the lounge area next to the dining room, where the amuse-bouches were served with aperitifs. First there was thin strip of raw tuna, seasoned with coarse salt and pepper, and a thin disk of ham or something on the end, which I obviously barely remember now. The tuna was meltingly delcious; there was a trifle too much pepper, if I were nitpicking.

The second amuse-bouche was a vegetable fritter arrangement. This was one a bit disappointing; flavor-wise it was like a fairly run of the mill tempura, and the Jetson-esque arrangement reminded me of a stack of fried onion rings I'd once had at Quark's, the Star Trek DS9-themed restaurant at the Las Vegas Hilton.

After a while we were ushered to the main dining area, which is like a conservatory overlooking the beautiful garden. A family of ducks waddling around there was our entertainment. The first course was poached langoustines in a consommé, with a spoonful of cream and caviar floated on top. The dish was assembled by the waiter in front of us; first the plate with the langoustines, then a spoonful of the soup, then the cream. This assembly-at-table continued for the rest of the meal. This is sort of standard procedure nowadays in certain 'top' restaurants, but I am not too fond of it, because having people fiddle with the food in front of me makes me a bit nervous.

It was very nice, if a trifle bland. I could barely taste the caviar in the cloud of cream. The langustines were sort of just sitting there. Yet the soup was delicate and delicious.

Incidentally, one thing I liked was that there was a dish of real local salted butter on the table. Burgundy is about butter, not trendy olive oil. The bread was terrific, but then it's pretty much impossible not to get great bread in a topnotch restaurant in France.

Next up there was sea urchin served two ways; baked with a creamy sort of sauce in the shell, and cold in an aspic.

The warm version in the shell was gorgeous. The cold one in aspic was way too salty - almost inedibly so, and I usually love salty foods. We should have said something about it but I think we were a bit too awed, or shy, or something.

The next course was the first really high note; seared rare fois gras in a pool of sweet creamed corn, with a drizzle of reduced vinegars (4 kinds mixed together). The drizzling was done by the waiter with a paper tube. The slight sourness of the fois gras and the vinegar with the creamy sweetness of the corn was just sublime. I had to restrain myself from licking the plate.

Next was perhaps the highlight of the whole meal for me; an egg dish called oeuf de Poule à la 'Florentine', Coulis de Truffe. The white was spread over the whole plate, on which a strip of sautéed spinach was placed. The yolk was cooked very thin, then rolled up and placed on top of the spinach. The finishing touch was a thin line of truffle purée. This was perhaps the most amazing egg dish I have ever had in my life.

It took a while to calm down after the egg dish. The next course was grilled langoustines, served with petit pois with tiny bits of bacon in a beautiful buttery froth. The most interesting part of this course though was the little bowl of white vegetable mousse. It was like the essence of vegetable flavor, captured in a fluffy cloud.

After that came the meat course. The roasted pigeon on a bed of sweet vegetables (leek was the dominant flavor) and jus was very nice, but the star here was again the accompaniment: a small dish of raw oysters in a purée of sorrel. That sour-salty combination was absolutely unreal, especially in conjunction with the sweet and meaty pigeon.

This was followed by a single, glazed carrot, stuffed with other vegetables, flavored with cumin. It was sweet and spicy and delicious, though not mind-blowing like the previous two courses.

Finally we reached the last act of the show. The cheeses were brought out; I had a tiny slice of the aged Comte. By this time it was four hours since we'd first arrived at the restaurant, and I was not only stuffed but getting very sleepy. But we weren't going to get off that lightly. Out came the desserts; first, a large, gilded footed dish of nougat and handmade bonbons. Then, our table was covered with an array of sweets so beautiful that it looked like something out of a fantasy for fairies. I wrote about the plate of berries earlier. Besides the berries, there were soft meringues, and a dish with small containers of nuts, dried fruit and melon balls.

But I barely touched the berries or the meringues, because all of my attention was captured by the star dessert, something called Fraises Gariguette 'Marie-Antoinette - Sofia Coppola'. In bald terms, it would be called a sorbet I guess...

I don't know how to describe this thing except that it was sour, sweet, frothy, fruity, flowery, and ethereally delicious.

The coda to the meal was the plate of petit-fours. There was nothing petit about them though; those were full sized tarts and cakes. The dark, dense chocolate tarts were decorated with silver leaf. Amazingly I was able to eat one of the tarts and a little cake too.

Then finally, five hours after we had first entered the restaurant, we staggered out in a daze.

Most restaurants are easy to understand, even if they have high reputations. I have been to other three-star Michelins which are much less complicated. I am not sure if I love L'Espérance. It challenged my senses, astonished me and also disappointed me a little. The Dining Partner and I have been discussing it on and off ever since that afternoon.

Would I recommend it? Only if you are serious about food and love a challenge. Check around online for reviews of this place; it's definitely not for everyone. Would I go there again myself? Of course.

L'Espérance à Vézelay
Marc Meneau, Chef
St. Père-sous-Vézelay, France
Web site

Footnote: Since the Dining Partner was driving, and I don't like to drink more than other people I'm eating with, we just had two glasses each of the house wines, a white and red - an excellent deal since they own their own vineyards.

Technorati Tags: burgundy, france, michelin, vezelay, bourgogne, restaurant

L'Oustau de Baumaniere, a fine Provence restaurant (Provence Part 6)

maki — Tue, 27 Jun 2006 20:21:49 +0200

I'm ending my series on food-centric travel in Provence with a visit to L'Oustau de Baumanière, arguably the finest restaurant in the region. For me, this restaurant sums up the best points of Provençal cuisine as interpreted at a high level, and shows how it can achieve its greatest heights.

L'Oustau de Baumanière is located at the foot of Les Baux, a dramatic medieval town that is built on a craggy hilltop. It's a hotel-restaurant with about 20 rooms. The Baumanière restaurant is given 2 stars in the Michelin Red Guide. It's pretty well known, and the chef, Jean-André Charial, has tutored many other chefs and written several books. The same owners also operate the one-star Le Cabro d'Or, which is about a kilometer away from the town

Four years ago, I spent an idyllic and very indulgent week staying at the Baumanière with my family, and eating there at least once a day, sometimes twice. I don't think I can do that again any time soon. This year though we were on a much tighter budget. We decided to have just one splurge meal in Provence, and there was no question where it would be.

On fine days - and most days in summer are sunny and warm here - lunch is served on a beautiful, tree-shaded terrace with a view of the craggy hills above, and flowers all around.

From my previous visit I knew that the Baumanière excelled in vegetable preparations, so I was very excited to see that they had an all-vegetable menu called Legumes de Printemps cuisines de different manieres et quelques huiles d'olive AOC de la Vallée des Baux, which is listed on the menu page. I guess that we were still within the spring season in mid-June, and we had more or less what is listed there. The waiter explained to us that it was a degustation of spring vegetables prepared in various ways, and that each course used a different kind of AOC (Appellation d’origine contrôlée) olive oil. Plus, there were the desserts which we should request in advance, with delectable names like Désir and Sensation.

The best way to describe this meal is to just show you, so here are some photos. The whole meal was an education in what can be done by delicately cooking the freshest, tender vegetables of the season.

A purée of fava beans. This was probably my favorite dish of them all... ...more maybe it was this one. Stuffed zucchini blossoms, garnished with crispy fried zucchini blossoms....

...or this one! Freshly made pasta infused with truffle-scented olive oil, scattered with chopped truffles, and served with more tender vegetables.

A granite made of Muscat de Beaumes de Venise (a sweet dessert wine), with melon and melon sorbet. Not in the picture is a scoop of vanilla ice cream. Incidentally, one of their weaknesses when I was there before was the desserts, but this time they were perfect.

There are more photos on my flickr page. If you don't want to go for the vegetarian option, their signature Gigot d'agneau en croûte (baby leg of lamb wrapped in a pastry crust) is to die for, as is anything they do with duck.

What I love about the Baumanière is that, while it's very expensive - as any Michelin two- or three-star or above restaurant is, unfortunately - and while the setting is perfect all around, it's very relaxed. The service is attentive yet unobstrusive. If you want that full on, luxurious restaurant experience in Provence, in a gorgeous location, you can't do much better than l'Oustau de Baumanière.

L'Oustau de Baumanière, Les-Baux-de-Provence. The menus are here.

This is the last of my Provence summer food travel series. I hope you enjoyed it! One last thought: I really wanted to convey how easy and not too expensive it can be for a serious food lover to travel in France, or in Europe in general. You don't have to blow your budget on expensive restaurants, or just settle for fast food level food. You can eat what people who live in the area eat, with the occasional splurge, and have a really great time. For what it's worth, our Baumanière meal cost more than the food for the rest of our vacation!

Technorati Tags: baumaniere, france, michelin, restaurants, travel

Provence, Part 5: A Heavenly Boulangerie

maki — Mon, 26 Jun 2006 22:33:20 +0200

Baguette au vin et rosette from the village bakery in Montsegur-sur-Lauzon

I have a confession: I planned my vacation around a bakery.

Last year, when we stayed in an old house in the village of Grillon, Madame the owner of the house left us a welcome letter with several helpful notes. It listed local market dates, where the nearest supermarkets were, recommended restaurants, sites to visit. At the bottom of the list was one line: Boulangerie: Montsegur.

We looked at the Michelin map we brought with us. It took the 4 of us 10 minutes until we located Montsegur, which was actually called Montsegur-sur-Lauzon: a tiny spot on the map about 15 minutes away from Grillon.

Drive 15 minutes to go to a bakery? Even our group, dedicated food lovers all, thought this was a bit too much. Besides, the bakery in Grillon produced delicious bread, as most French bakeries do.

The more we tried Madame's other recommendations though, which were all spot on, the more we were intrigued by that boulangerie. So on the very last day, as a detour from driving back home, we decided to investigate this place: the tiny bakery in Montsegur-sur-Lauzon, a hilltop village that only gets a one-paragraph mention in the Michelin Green Guide for Provence.

That's where I encountered the best baguette I've ever tasted in my life. It was chewy yet soft with plenty of body in the crumb, just a bit salty, and a bare hint of sourness. It had character. It was so delicious that we ate it up in the car, ignoring the cheese and ham we'd bought to eat with it.

Since then I've been dreaming about those baguettes, and wondering about the array of other breads in that tiny bakery. When we were deciding where to stay this year, there was one important requirement: that it be within reasonable driving distance of Montsegur.

The place we found to live in for 2 weeks was a 20 minute drive one way to Montsegur. We went there every other day during our stay. And now that I'm back home, I'm dreaming about their bread again. Mind you, we can get very good bread here in Switzerland. But there is something about the bread baked in Montsegur that is extra special.

The young and enthusiastic boulanger/owner of the Montsegur bakery, Jean-Pierre Metaud.

This year, the one bread we couldn't get enough of was the baguette au vin et rosette; a crusty, twisty baguette with chunks of a dried sausage called rosette and red wine in it. Yes, a bread with red wine in the dough. We could actually taste the wine, very subtly, in the springy crumb of the bread intermingled with the saltiness of the rosette. It was so delicious and filling, half of one was enough for lunch. We called it the integrated sandwich and had it for lunch every other day, with just water or wine (depending who was driving) to accompany it, and fresh fruit or tomatoes to follow.

Every other bread we tried was terrific too: the baguette au levain or sourdough bagutte; the raisin bread, the muesli bread. One morning, the one who was given the task of driving there to fetch the bread was lucky enough to get there just as the freshly baked croissants came out of the oven. They were so crispy and flaky light that he had to eat them standing up on the street, before they disintegrated and flew away. Afterwards he regaled the disgruntled party waiting at the house, who vowed never to sleep in late again if it meant the chance of freshly baked croissants.

The bakery also has homemade nougat that is light, fluffy and melts in your mouth. I don't like nougat as a rule, but theirs is irresistable. Others assure me that their house made calissons (candys made of ground almonds, melon in syrup and honey) are great too, but I can't get to like calissons. The store is so small that there's often a line out the door. The shelves are decorated with great style, and are filled with a variety of teas, adorable confectionery, and pastries.

It may sound like food obsession gone too far to plan one's vacation around a small village bakery. But once you've tasted the bread, you'll understand why. Since I've come home, I've been thinking why that bread was so good. I've had bread from famed bakeries in New York, Paris, Rome, Strasbourg, Florence; but somehow none of them captivated me as much as this tiny little village bakery did. I think it's because the bread is made in small quantities, with passion, for a loyal group of regular customers who come back again and again. Or maybe it was the sunshine and the air that made it taste so good. Either way, I'm still dreaming about that bread and plotting my return.

Once you've found Montsegur-sur-Lauzon, there's no way to miss the bakery. It's right on the main square, overlooking the church.

[Update, Jun 24 2007] Unfortunately, M. Metaud sold the bakery in early 2007. I write about finding this sad fact out here. Unless something changes, unfortunately the current Montsegur boulangerie is not special enough to plan a trip around...

Some other stores I liked

I'm not sure if these show up in any guide books, but I can recommend them all highly.

Les Grignandises, Grignan. A tiny jewel-like confectionery store in the small town of Grignan, with rather pricey but delicious traditional Provençal candies, cookies, preserves, and more.
Tissus Gregoire, 309 avenue du 19 Mars 1962, St. Saturnin-les-Avignon. This big fabric store in a nondescript suburb of Avignon is like heaven for fabric collectors. Great selection and prices on things that are much more expensive elsewhere like Provençal prints, toile de jouy, etc.
The main Souleiado store in Tarascon. Actually, the store itself is not hugely better than the other Souleiado stores around the region (it is a bit bigger), but this store is worth a detour because it's right next door the the Souleiado museum, which is a real treat for any fan of folk art, Provençal prints, and crafts.
Michel, 59 Cours Mirabeau, Aix-en-Provence. A big stationery and art supply store where I spent about 2 hours browsing...you could have left me there all day, really. (I am almost as nuts about art and stationery supplies as I am about food.)
Moulin Jean-Marie Cornille, Rue Charloun-Rieu, Maussane-les-Alpilles near Les Baux. (Warning: audio that you can't turn off when you load their web site.) I found this place in The Provence Cookbook by Patricia Wells. They make cold-pressed olive oil, basically in 2 grades, from various olives from the Vallée des Baux. Delicious if somewhat pricey. (If you can't make it here or are really pressed for time, they offer mailorder within Europe and in the U.S. too. For something slightly less pricey, I would recommend the cold-pressed olive oil from Nyons that you can even get at the local supermarkets! It has a very mild yet fruity flavor.)

Technorati Tags: bread, croissant, france, montsegur-sur-lauzon, provence, travel

Provence, Part 4: The Farmer's Market at Velleron

maki — Sat, 24 Jun 2006 22:59:01 +0200

In my previous post in this series, I described my favorite regular Provence markets. I've saved the best for last however: the extraordinary Marché Agricole (farmer's market) at Velleron.

On our last evening in Provence, we debated whether to end with a farewell dinner at a nearby restaurant that served great traditional Provençal cuisine, or to go to the Velleron market. Velleron won, hands down.

Velleron is a small town somewhere in between Ilse-sur-la-Sorgue and Carpentras. Every evening from 6pm to 7pm during the summer except for Sundays and public holidays, and three times a week during the winter, an empty lot right off the exit on the main route between those two bigger towns is taken over by a troupe of small white vans. They're driven in by local farmers who bring in whatever they have fresh and ripe to sell that day.

The vans are lined up in two rows, their backs facing the central aisle. The doors open up and the stalls are set up. Some are proper stalls with awnings; some are simple foldup tables. The stalls range from fairly large ones selling a variety of produce, to ones selling just one or items. There are stalls with a sea of strawberries; an old farmer selling just a few cartons of haricot verts (slim green beans) and a couple of bags of walnuts; the garlic man who sells beautiful braids of garlic in 5 varieties. Most of the produce is labeled "Classe II", but they are fresh, ripe and amazingly cheap.

The local people know this well. That last evening, which was a Friday, we got there at 5:30, hoping to secure a nearby parking space. We were able to do that luckily, but there was already a horde of people waiting at the gate, baskets or shopping bags in hand. The bread stand right outside the gate to the market area proper was doing a booming business.

At 6 sharp, the gates finally opened and the people rushed in, elbows out, nostrils flared, shopping bags at the ready.

Since we'd been there before, we were already planning to get at least a couple of kilo of fèves (broad beans or fava beans) from the stand immediately to the right of the main entrance, which sold them for an unbelievable €1 per kilo. (That's about 60 cents per pound.) About fifty people seemed to have the same idea, and made a beeline for that stand. I watched amazed as the six stall sellers, ranging from grandpa to the grandson in his low teens, frantically handed out bags of produce and took money from outstretched hands. They sold out of their supply of beans, melons, and courgettes (zucchini) within about 10 minutes, with only a couple of kilos of new potatoes left. (We did manage to secure our share of the fava beans though!)

The ravaged market stall 10 minutes after opening.

The other stands managed to last a bit longer. The vendors were calling out what they had to offer, and handing out samples of their wares: juicy slivers of peaches, ruby-red strawberries, the sweetest cherries.

A few tourists like us wandered down the middle of the aisle with a dazed expression, cameras in perpetual motion, trying to capture the colors of the jewel-like fruits, the bunches of fresh lettuce arranged like bouquets with huge blossoms, the delicate greens of the beans and melons and zucchini. We couldn't capture the aromas or the buzzing atmosphere, or the sheer commitment to fresh, ripe produce that is taken for granted by both seller and buyer. This, I think, is the foundation of Provençal cuisine, what makes it so fresh and good.

Since we were driving home the next day, we pulled ourselves together to buy what we wanted to bring back. We bought 5 kilos of apricots, a couple of bags of both yellow and white peaches, those precious fava beans, a bunch of pink-hued garlic, a carton of small, thin-walled green peppers, a dozen zucchini flowers, two huge Russe heirloom tomatoes, and two bags of cherries. The total cost was less than €20. There are many buyers who cart off crates of beans and several large baskets of strawberries. My guess is that they are restaurant owners.

At 7, the show was already over. The white vans started to pack up, and the customers drifted away to the parking lots. We took a few last, lingering shots of the market and went back to our car, determined to go back as soon as possible.

Note: Although there are a few stalls selling products like jams, honey, wine, oil and cheese, most of the stalls here sell fresh produce. Even if you can't carry the produce home though, Velleron is well worth a visit for any food lover. It's less busy on week days by the way, but most fun on Fridays and Saturdays.

Technorati Tags: france, markets, provence, travel, vegetables, velleron