Our love-hate relationship with France started out on the wrong end of the scale. Maybe it was the bad weather blowing in off the Channel. Maybe it was the 8 euros we were charged for the first 100 kilometers or so of highway travel. Or maybe it was just a too-long day on the road that ended up with stopping at an over-priced hotel because Al couldn't drive another kilometer more. What could have been the final blow was discovering that the price of a beer or an espresso had doubled when we crossed the border. Al threatened to turn back south in the morning.
Things began to look up when we found a small cafe which served a heaping bowl of steamed mussels bread, frites and a beer for 8.90 euros each.
We had made this sidetrip to Arcachon, on the coast west of Bordeaux, after reading a travel article in the New York Times which raved about the fresh local oysters. In the morning we learned that the oysters were 'interdit', forbidden to eat because of toxins. Oh well, things looked better after a good night's sleep and a fresh French pastry for breakfast. Fortified, we struck inland and rediscovered the lovely France that we remembered.
Our next adventure was lunch. The sign on the expressway promised food but the small, semi-deserted village offered two options. One had several large trucks parked alongside so we selected the other, an unpromising doorway that opened into a surprisingly large dining room. The proprietor wished us Bonjour as he hurried by with arms full of plates. We seated ourselves at the first open table set for two. No menu. What did we want for our second course? He recited the list slowly and we both leaped at the salade au geziers, as did most of the other diner, I noticed later. We were given soup bowls and a soup tureen with a ladle to serve ourselves while we waited for the salade. Also a basket of bread and a bottle of wine, no label, no cork. The salad was a meal-sized affair with mixed greens, onions, tomatoes and an amazing amount of geziers, or duck gizzards. Before you turn up your nost at this repast, understand that the French have a way of slicing a duck gizzard into thin pieces and quickly sauteeing the slices to produce tender, tasty morsels that even Al, a confirmed giblet-disdainer, loves as much as I do. Our host dropped by to ask if we would like a little pate with our salad, then returned with a small plate laden with three large slabs of pate compagne, coarse-grained, redolent of wine, bearing the same relationship to meatloaf as Ava Gardner does to Phyllis Diller. Having watched the adjoining table, I had become aware that we were a long way from finished. For our next course, we enjoyed rare bifstec with frites; The cook apparently decided our servings were not large enough because she sent out another plate with more meat. Then she suggested a cheese course, which I reluctantly refused but the gateau basque that she offered for dessert was too good to pass up. She amusingly obliged when she understood that we wanted one piece of cake to split. The price of all this? 22 euros total for two, including coffee. France is a beautiful country in many ways.
Note: On the hate side of the equation, the French keyboard is diabolically similar to but different from the one on which I am a touch typist. Please bear with me on the typos.
Things began to look up when we found a small cafe which served a heaping bowl of steamed mussels bread, frites and a beer for 8.90 euros each.
We had made this sidetrip to Arcachon, on the coast west of Bordeaux, after reading a travel article in the New York Times which raved about the fresh local oysters. In the morning we learned that the oysters were 'interdit', forbidden to eat because of toxins. Oh well, things looked better after a good night's sleep and a fresh French pastry for breakfast. Fortified, we struck inland and rediscovered the lovely France that we remembered.
Our next adventure was lunch. The sign on the expressway promised food but the small, semi-deserted village offered two options. One had several large trucks parked alongside so we selected the other, an unpromising doorway that opened into a surprisingly large dining room. The proprietor wished us Bonjour as he hurried by with arms full of plates. We seated ourselves at the first open table set for two. No menu. What did we want for our second course? He recited the list slowly and we both leaped at the salade au geziers, as did most of the other diner, I noticed later. We were given soup bowls and a soup tureen with a ladle to serve ourselves while we waited for the salade. Also a basket of bread and a bottle of wine, no label, no cork. The salad was a meal-sized affair with mixed greens, onions, tomatoes and an amazing amount of geziers, or duck gizzards. Before you turn up your nost at this repast, understand that the French have a way of slicing a duck gizzard into thin pieces and quickly sauteeing the slices to produce tender, tasty morsels that even Al, a confirmed giblet-disdainer, loves as much as I do. Our host dropped by to ask if we would like a little pate with our salad, then returned with a small plate laden with three large slabs of pate compagne, coarse-grained, redolent of wine, bearing the same relationship to meatloaf as Ava Gardner does to Phyllis Diller. Having watched the adjoining table, I had become aware that we were a long way from finished. For our next course, we enjoyed rare bifstec with frites; The cook apparently decided our servings were not large enough because she sent out another plate with more meat. Then she suggested a cheese course, which I reluctantly refused but the gateau basque that she offered for dessert was too good to pass up. She amusingly obliged when she understood that we wanted one piece of cake to split. The price of all this? 22 euros total for two, including coffee. France is a beautiful country in many ways.
Note: On the hate side of the equation, the French keyboard is diabolically similar to but different from the one on which I am a touch typist. Please bear with me on the typos.
posted by Al and Linda @ 6:06 AM
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