Category Archives: Vive la France!
France and all things French
This Little Piggy Went to Market – in La Rochelle
Doing the daily shop, French-style.
These aubergines are shinier than a militia man’s boots.
The lobster tank was looking a bit empty. I suspect there’d been a rush on lobster for cooling summer seafood platters.
This little piggy went to market, to hang out next to his brothers who are now a pair of delicious dried sausages. Oink oink.
Black-legged chickens with their heads ON, but running about no more.
Counting the chèvres…
Believe it or not, these rolls are called ‘hams’ of duck breast, and are stuffed with foie gras.
A trio of tapenades and other wicked treats to nibble with one’s apéro.
Legs of ham. With hoof or without?
Mimolette cheese (in case you were wondering). ‘Extra old’ says the label. You bet.
Extra old or prehistoric?
And to finish: Charentais melons in the Charente-Maritime.
Les Fleurs du Thym restaurant, Les Sables d’Olonne
It’s hot, the heat has fried any sort of decision-making mechanism that Monsieur and I might once have possessed, and we’re hungry. The afternoon has been spent squeezed onto a beach with hundreds and thousands of French holidaymakers at Les Sables d’Olonne in the Bay of Biscay and we’d prefer not to spend the evening looking out at the scene of the crime, so we walk around to the port-side of the town, noses to the ground, sniffing out an eatery worthy of our time and money.
After much deliberation, we settle on a restaurant called Les Fleurs du Thym. It’s at once chic and modern, with a nostalgic air. We take a table, just before the throngs in the know arrive to fill the place.
‘He who eats well, sleeps well.’
I take the €26.00 menu, while Monsieur dives into the more pricey, €36.90 menu. Ouch. This had better be good. Our starters arrive. Mine is a seafood platter, with everything fresh from nearby waters. The oysters are served with a white wine vinegar and shallot dressing, which I spoon liberally across them before gulping down the still-breathing molluscs and proceeding to twiddle a little needle inside sea-snail shells to extract the slippery flesh. The langoustines are good, if messy, and the small tartine of smoked salmon tasty. Only the deep-fried calamari rings taste like something you could probably do better at home. They’re soggy, lifeless, non-descript.
I ask Monsieur about his Minestrone, which intrigued with its exotic inclusion of langoustines and foie gras.
“Taste it,” he commands, “dishwater is better.” I hope this isn’t said from experience and think he’s overreacting until a spoonful of soup slips down my throat. The liquid is embarrassingly dull, the vegetables screaming out for decent stock in which to soak. I don’t know how he manages to finish it, so bland it is – and on the more expensive menu!
We move onto our main courses, which appear swiftly. Mine is skate, delicate and soluble on the palate, with a lovely tang of buerre blanc swimming with baby capers. Roast fennel finishes the picture. On such a warm evening, this is an ideal dish – not too heavy.
Pity poor Monsieur across from me, though. He’s ordered the riz de veau. Offal of various shapes and forms hits his side of the table, most of it far from his taste. For the more expensive menu, I’m shocked: minestrone and offal are certainly cheap dishes to make, so the restaurant must be making a killing on the profit. I’ve ordered a seafood platter and delicious fish, yet my meal is a whole €10.00 cheaper. Surely, the management has mixed up the prices?
The dessert course is now under pressure to perform. My fingers cross and remain quite paralysed until a pair of beautiful sweet plates are set before us. Once more, my fortune holds and before me is a pile of goodness – a steaming Breton crêpe, crowned with a stewed whole pear, all sticky and soaking with a subtle, walnut butter sauce.
For once, my husband draws a lucky card: his thus-far frustrated palate will now be soothed by a perfect round of raspberry tart, fresh strawberries, berry-flavoured macarons, a berry-filled brandy snap basket and (wait, there’s more) a small preserving jar oozing with mint-flavoured chantilly, topped with a raspberry.
The moral of this dining story? The more expensive set menu doesn’t necessarily provide better value. Yes, we’d return to Les Fleurs du Thym, should we ever find ourselves in Les Sables d’Olonne again, but next time we’d stick to the cheaper menu. On this occasion we’d experienced that rare thing in restaurants, where paying less most definitely delivered more. Lesson learnt.
Les Sables d’Olonne
Monsieur and I recently found ourselves in the searing hot Vendée region of France. On arrival it was forty degrees in the shade and the land was baking. The beach beckoned, so off we set for the coast for a swim. As it was still holiday season, we knew it would be busy, but the scene that greeted us at Les Sables d’Olonne reminded me of a real-life Ken Done painting; there was barely a square of sand free upon which to park our bottoms.
Even from a distance, the beach could be seen to crawl with hot, pink, sweaty bodies.
A short walk away was the lively little port, filled with fishing boats and gin palaces, afternoon excursion boats heading out to sea, yachts and hungry folk scratching their heads as they tried to decide which of the myriad eateries should get their business.
Here’s a romantic little boat we spied setting off for an evening sail:
Across the harbour, it would seem that the Entente Cordiale is alive and well at this frozen storage facility for the maritime co-op:
Back on our side of the water a local waits patiently for his dinner to take the bait:
Les Sables is really quite a pretty town, with an armour-clad winged victory atop its war memorial, looking suitably businesslike, yet stylish.
In spite of the armadillo-style fleece, I’m pretty sure it’s supposed to be a sheep that this wolf is ogling. Dinner time?
It was for us, and now we were the ones scratching our heads as we trotted back and forth along the port-side promenade, trying to decide where to eat.
In summary: Les Sables d’Olonne is a lovely little seaside town, but don’t go there on a hot, sunny weekend, unless sardining yourself on the sand is your idea of fun. The water isn’t particularly clear, either (read into that what you will). Food-wise, you’ll be spoilt for choice, especially on the port-side, but be warned: you’ll need to be patient to find a good deal in high season – walk around and look at ALL the menus before making your choice. If you go on a weekday, however, the fish market by the port sells all sorts of seafood, sauces and even wine, all of which would make a great addition to any picnic, and at reasonable prices.
Falling for Flammekueche at Les 3 Brasseurs
It’s official: Epicurienne has discovered a new guilty pleasure: Flammekueche. Translated from Alsatian, it means ‘flame cake’. It doesn’t arrive in a flash of fire, as its name might suggest, but is in fact cooked in a wood-fired oven. In the eating, it’s not dissimilar to pizza. In the words of Blue Peter, here’s one I ate earlier:
Monsieur and I were shopping with my belle-mère recently and, as is the norm wherever we are, we thought it would be a good idea to factor some lunch into the equation. My mother-in-law and husband knew exactly where to go: an Alsatian specialty brewery called Les Trois Brasseurs (nothing to do with lingerie… a brasseur is a brewer).
I’m a girl for whom menus often bring on a decision-making crisis, so on this occasion I was grateful that the sometimes challenging act of deciding what to imbibe was taken out of my hands. Monsieur and his mother ordered us each a tasting rack of house brews; ’tis the thing to do at Les Trois Brasseurs, apparently.
The house beers, arranged in colour order in their rack are named for their colours: white (blanche), light (blonde), amber (ambrée) and dark (brune). I started with the white and worked my way towards the dark, hopping around a bit in between. The white was yeasty, the blonde like lager, the amber was malty and the dark like Guinness with a hit of mocha. The sum total was a little over a pint, so not excessive, but certainly a novel approach to beer consumption. This is the small plates concept for beer lovers.
Beer is all well and good, but what about the food, which was our primary reason for being at the Trois Brasseurs in the first place? The menu covers a wide spectrum of traditional French dishes, not just flame cakes. There are salads, terrines, foie gras and eggs en cocotte to start. More substantial options include choucroutes, burgers, steaks and something divine called a planche Normande, or Norman platter, consisting of warm, oozy camembert, ham, steamed potatoes, green salad and toast. Even with the siren call of such fare, I confess that, for once, I didn’t spend too long perusing my options. The Norman platter would have to wait; Flammekueche was about to be crossed off my foodie bucket list.
Now the issue became which flammekueche to choose. Just as you’d find in a pizzeria, flammekueche can be made with a number of different toppings. Here, the menu provides eighteen options to confuse decision-making inept folk like me. There’s the Irish (onions, white ham, cheddar, mustard and an egg) or the Kebab (confit onions, kebab pieces, balls of minced lamb, Provençale tomatoes, salad and white sauce), a Four Seasons with the usual suspects appearing as ingredients, and Monsieur’s choice of the day: La Tex Mex, comprising onions, peppers, barbecue sauce, beef hash, chorizo, cheddar and paprika. I’m almost surprised they didn’t present him with a sombrero to wear whilst eating it.
I stuck to a simple classic – the Savoyarde, which is simply presented with onions, finely sliced potatoes, lardons and reblochon. It was the embodiment of the ’less is more’ philosophy – practically countrified in its unpretentiousness, yet absolutely delicious. I managed every last bite, relieved to find that, in spite of its size (equivalent to a 12 inch pizza) the flame cake base is very thin, making for easy consumption. It also allows for the flavours to sing without being drowned by the presence of too much dough.
We didn’t tarry as there was Very Important Shopping to attend to, but before signing off I’d like to point out the Les Trois Brasseurs has a micro-brewery in each of its locations, allowing them to brew on site whatever it is you drink. They’re also kind to vegetarians, offering via the menu to make a vege Four Seasons flammekueche. There are other vege options, too, and plenty of flame cakes could easily be made without a meaty ingredient, rendering them vege-appropriate - just ask nicely. In France, most dining establishments still seem to think that vegetarianism is a mental illness, so it’s refreshing to see a place like this setting an example for its peers.
The verdict: Definitely recommended if you find yourself in France and can see past the slightly cheesy beer-hall decor. A flammekueche costs around €10.00. You can have a decent steak with a pair of side dishes of your choice and choice of sauce for around €16.00. Desserts come in at the €5-7.oo mark. There’s a good selection of set menu options at seriously competitive prices.
Epic has found she likes flammekueche and will hopefully soon return to Les Trois Brasseurs with an empty stomach, ready to be filled with more. Perhaps she’ll even manage to squeeze in some of that Planche Normande. And another of those beer racks. Yes, Les Trois Brasseurs is going to stay on the Epic radar for the foreseeable.
Click here for Les 3 Brasseurs website. NB They’re also in Canada!
Love Locks on the Pont des Arts, Paris
**Health Warning: some parts of this post are love-struck and sentimental. Should you still decide to continue reading this, please ensure that your anti-nausea medication is to hand.
Have you heard of the Love Locks trend in Europe? It’s when you place a padlock on a bridge in the hope that your love will burn forever. Here’s what they look like on the Pont des Arts in Paris:
Most of the locks have names on them. I wonder who all these people are and where they live.
Please don’t shoot me for saying this, but I also wonder how many of these couples have now broken up and purchased new locks for new loves. I’d also like to know what happens to the keys. Do people throw them into the Seine? Or keep one each to wear close to their hearts? Or hide them in a keepsake box? Curiouser and curiouser! says Epic.
I’m tempted to take a lock with us on our next visit to Paris, although on telling Monsieur of my sentimental plan he rolled his eyes and told me that I’m hopelessly corny. Then, whilst pondering our marriage of romantic opposites I was almost run over by a Segway tour. I think Segways are pretty cool, but when you see twenty Segway riders in an orderly row, all wearing safety helmets and staring straight ahead, there’s something quite unnerving about it, like stepping into the parallel universe of Buck Rogers in the 25th Century with the Louvre in the background. Wrong. Really, quite wrong. Before returning to romantic daydreams I make the resolution never to take a Segway tour in Paris. Besides, a bit of exercise never did anyone any harm, and walkers don’t tend to mow you down on a FOOTpath, interrupting the softest of thoughts.
Parisian Eye Candy
Now that I’m an old, married woman, this is my idea of Serious Eye Candy:
A windowful of beautiful handbags that had me drooling on a recent visit to Paris. If I had a spare €3,000.00 I’d buy six. Oui, I have impeccable taste. They retail at €500 – €600 a piece. Alas, I have Champagne taste and Cava pockets.
Join me in dribbling over French leather goods here: Just Campagne.
Le Grain de Sel, Saint-Remy-de-Provence
Last April, Monsieur and I visited Rome and were completely robbed at one establishment where the €20.00 menu served the sort of lifeless food that I wouldn’t give to my dead grandmother. A man, claiming to be a patron of the restaurant, then started harassing me online, stating that I was mistaken about said establishment and should retract the review. I ignored him. Later, the same man, now purporting to be the restaurant owner, threatened me with legal action if I didn’t remove the blog post concerned. He kindly pointed out that I shouldn’t expect much for €20.00 a head (without drinks) anywhere in Europe. I beg to differ.
Living in London means that I’m well-accustomed to the price of everything, especially as my salary has been frozen for what seems like forever, whilst prices in England’s capital continue to rise. Anyone who knows me knows that I was born with The Thrifty Gene, meaning that I seek out a bargain wherever I can and that approach to life extends to food and all manner of things culinary.
Certainly, for birthdays and anniversaries and holidays and the like Monsieur and I like to spend a bit more than usual. However, we also watch both sides of every coin, as a rule, allowing us to afford those treats; the fact that they don’t fall on every single day of the calendar year means that we only appreciate them more. The rest of the time, we remain careful about how much we spend and where, and most of the time we have great success at getting the most out of a €20.00 per head meal. Brunching last summer in Saint-Rémy-de-Provence, we did incredibly well out of an €18.00 set menu, which then set us up for the entire day. Bargain. Check out what was included:
- 1 hot drink – either tea or coffee or hot chocolate
- 1 fresh fruit juice – orange or grapefruit
- Fresh pastries – a selection
- Bread, butter and jams
- Pancakes with maple syrup
- Muesli, fromage blanc and fruit
So far, so good, right? Right.
But wait, Mesdames et Messieurs, there’s more.
Then you could order an egg – either boiled, fried, fried with bac0n, scrambled or scrambled with bacon.
And we’re not finished yet. Lastly, you could add your choice from the ‘French Touch’ menu, listing items that would cost you €6 to €8.00 if you ordered à la carte. Here’s the selection:
Plate of cooked meats OR foie gras terrine OR beef carpaccio OR chipolatas and what they call ‘sits frizzles’ (whatever that is) OR tart of the day OR plate of cheese OR smoked salmon.
Trust me, Saint-Rémy isn’t cheap but this brunch menu, available at weekends year-round and every day during July and August, provided excellent value. Who says you can’t eat well for €20.00 a head in Europe? Here are some photos of what we had:
Here we have the muesli with fromage blanc, topped with fresh fruit salad, a smart little tray of nutella, maple syrup and a honey (for the pancakes), a delicious mixed-fruit smoothie that magically appeared in addition to our hot drinks and juices, smoked salmon tartare topped with a delicious but superfluous mint chantilly and the classic boiled egg with soldiers.
Spot the difference? On this occasion, Monsieur chose the fried egg with bacon.
There was a generous basket of soft, warm pastries to share, with wonderful bread and breadsticks.
The coffee came in generous boules, the grapefruit juice tasted freshly-squeezed, and in case Nutella, syrup and honey didn’t provide enough choice with which to slather your morning pancakes and tartines, also provided were two jams and a marmalade in a trio of glass verrines.
Besides the excellent food that Monsieur and I had the pleasure to enjoy at le Grain de Sel, the staff were warm, the location central and the presentation of everything showed the seriousness with which food was treated by all who worked here. We returned three mornings in a row and highly recommend it to anyone having the fortune to visit Saint-Rémy-de-Provence.
FYI – I just checked the prices on the Grain de Sel website and they haven’t risen a sou since last July. Bonus! See for yourself here - Le Grain de Sel.
Hotel Pullman, Marseille Palm Beach
Marseille: an ancient city renowned for many things, among which number its huge commercial port, a small crime problem, the legendary Château d’If and fine bouillabaisse. The city lent its name to the French national anthem, la Marseillaise, pastis was born here and Marcel Pagnol took childhood walks in the lush Parc Borély. I suggest that we add to this hall of fame the Hotel Pullman Marseille Palm Beach, where Monsieur and I splurged for a night of luxury during our South of France ‘vacances’ last year.
Even for we two inveterate travellers, it had been a long day. We’d driven up from the Camargues, lunched at a sleepy Martigues and screeched into the last boat trip of the day around the calanques near the pretty port of Cassis. The driving in the vicinity of such a natural wonder is reputed to be fraught with tempers frayed by battles fought over parking spaces; sadly, we’d found it to be exactly so, yet somehow managed to escape without a single dent in our fender. Leaving the beauty behind as we entered the messy sprawl of the outskirts of Marseille, we were intent on a night of calm and relaxation. Fortunately, once we found the Pullman Hotel, calm and relaxation is exactly what we enjoyed.
I say ‘once we found’ because the Pullman is James Bond-esque in the way that it hides behind a curve in the Corniche, sinking its storeys below the coastal thoroughfare so that it’s barely visible from the road. We, as many others must have done before us, drove straight on past the entrance before recognising our mistake and navigating a U turn – no mean feat in the early evening rush of traffic – to return to our abode for the night.
A porter swiftly separated luggage from vehicle as a valet disappeared with the car down a ramp into what could have been Hades for all we knew – via the entrance to what we deduced must be the subterranean car park - very 007 once again. Inside, a vast lobby was populated by three or four staff and one of those life-size sculptures of a cow wearing far splashier colours than might be expected in your average milking shed. Elsewhere, the furniture was über chic in the fashion of a deconstructed Mondrian (read: hard-cornered squares and rectangles in primary colours) but quite uncomfortable looking – the subliminal message being that this was not a place to get cosy, although the view across the bay was spectacular and it would be quite possible to spend a couple of hours sitting here watching ships and yachts navigating the busy bay.
Fortunately, our room had its own, private view out to sea, and a balcony from which to enjoy it at our leisure. It was a hot evening, hazy and vaguely rose-tinted. We watched stand-up paddlers taking advantage of the calm waters.
Looking to our right the Corniche snaked against the coast, a gigantic propeller blade rising in dark silhouette against the sunset; this was the 1971 oeuvre of Marseille’s sculptor son, César, honouring the repatriation of people from North Africa to France.
To wash off the day’s accumulation of salt and sweat, we took a dip in the Pullman’s pool, which looked like this:
It was big enough to accommodate pre-dinner swimmers of all ages, from pre-schooler to retiree, and the water was just the right type of cool.
Later, as Monsieur and I basked in the last of the day’s sun, we flicked through guides in an attempt to decide how and where to dine. In the end, room service won. We would sup in our bathrobes, with the unsurpassable vista visible from our balcony, gathering strength for the serious task of exploring Marseille the next day.
The doorbell rang and our evening meal arrived. Seconds later, Monsieur settled down with comfort food: a burger and plump, golden fries with a verrine of coleslaw in a nod to the possibility of fresh produce, even if it hadn’t been ordered in quantity tonight.
I stuck to lighter fare. The smoked salmon was delicious, served with mini-blinis, a dollop of taramasalata and another of soft, herbed cheese. The salad leaves were unusually unblemished, natural, sans vinaigrette.
Then I allowed myself a small plate of cheese.
A glass of crisp, chilled white wine completed the experience.
And so, when last in Marseille, Monsieur and I unabashedly enjoyed our room service supper in our own time, watching all manner of seafaring vessel criss-crossing the bay as the sun sank in the west. It was the epitome of a holiday dining experience: good, simple food, great view, the privacy of our own room and no glad rags required. Not to mention the double bill of Engrenages (Spiral) on TV. A perfect evening, indeed.
Planes, trains and hot air balloons! A carousel in Provins.
Last year, on a visit to the medieval village of Provins I was delighted by this beautiful little carousel:
Sadly, no one was riding the horses or jumping into the hot air balloon basket. The music wasn’t playing and the carousel guardian slouched in his seat, puffing cigarette smoke into the hot afternoon air.
The submarine was straight out of 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea and the hot air balloon reminded me of Around the World in Eighty Days. Perhaps the carousel was designed in homage to the great Jules Verne?
I have a soft spot for hot air balloons because Monsieur took me on a balloon trip the morning after he popped the question… But he wasn’t too thrilled when I suggested hopping into this one, especially as it wasn’t going anywhere, not even around in circles.
Isn’t this little plane absolutely wonderful? I can imagine the children of Provins fighting over who gets to ‘fly’ it.
Named ‘Le Petit Prince’ it reminded me of Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, a great aviator in his own time until his plane went missing with him in it. He’s someone I’d like to have met.
Now for the odd one out (no, not the horses): a fire engine? Really? What does that have to do with intrepid exploring? If you can work out why it’s there, please do let me know.
L’Hostellerie aux Vieux Remparts
Last summer, Monsieur and I enjoyed a lovely weekend with my Belle-Mère. Somewhat of a culture vulture, she took us to visit a medieval village called Provins. We parked up, bought our entry tickets for the village (yes, unless you lived there, you had to pay to visit) and hopped on one of those funny little white tourist trains which took us on the scenic route around the remparts, through a gate and into the village itself.
Somehow we managed to miss all the decent performances that are staged about the village in summertime, but we did enjoy a lazy exploratory walk about the place, working up our appetite and working off calories pre-consumption. If you’ve read Epicurienne before then you’ll be familiar with how food-obsessed I am, not to mention my husband and extended family, so it shouldn’t surprise you to hear that the highlight of our afternoon in Provins was most definitely lunch.
After humming and hahing about crêpes versus set menus in the various establishments around Provins’ main square, we settled on L’Hostellerie aux Vieux Remparts, one of the more established-looking options, with a lovely enclosed terrace where we could dine in pleasant shade – the sun was high and scalding hot that day, so the respite was welcome.
We immediately set about ordering a good Petit Chablis and plenty of water. Playing tourist is thirsty work. With our drinks arrived a little amuse bouche of bread sticks (don’t be fooled – they look pretty but are total tooth-crackers), dried sausage and prosciutto. Bread rolls of different types were offered, but none of us managed to finish one. Too tough. Perhaps Monsieur le Boulanger had absconded to la plage for le weekend?
Monsieur and I decided to follow the set menu, which gave two options for each of three courses. Belle-Mère ordered à la carte.
From hereon in, and notwithstanding the bread issue, the food was superb. Our starters of quality smoked salmon, served in generous folds atop a selection of crunchy leaves and par-cooked vegetables, were excellent. A deft drizzle of balsamic completed the plate.
As a main course I chose the pan-fried gilthead sea bream (somehow it just seems so wordy in English. Let’s do it the French way and call it ‘daurade’) which was light and succulent, served on a bed of pak choi (which the people of Provins call ‘Shanghai cabbage’) with a lovely warm tomato salsa spooned across the top. This was a healthy, delicious lunch so far. I also appreciated the way flowers garnished each of our mains – so pretty and perfectly appropriate as we were sitting in a terrace garden. Someone in the Vieux Remparts kitchen certainly believes in the importance of presentation and the detail was not lost on me.
Monsieur thoroughly enjoyed his roast pork loin served with a confit of capsicum and a perfect round of gratinated potatoes. I wanted to pinch some of those beautiful-looking French spuds but Monsieur wouldn’t hear of it. Sometimes sharing is just out of the question.
My mother-in-law had taken her main course from the main menu – sea bass on a bed of smashed greens, with a concasse of tomato and citrus sauce.
We finished up by ordering the chocolate ‘moelleux’ (a small, soft ‘melt-in-mouth’ cake) with coffee ice cream. The squirt of something wasabi-like on the side was (we think) a sort of pistachio paste – really very good and quite dangerously more-ish.
A quick coffee and we were on our way – well, almost. First we had to wait for the bill. When it didn’t appear after three requests, we went inside to pay at the till. So, in summary, at the Hostellerie des Vieux Remparts in Provins I’d give them dix points for setting, neuf points for the food, but nul points for the bread and only quatre points for the inconsistent service. Still, bread and service aside, if you’re not in a rush this is a fabulous place to dine on a fine day (get there early and head for the terrace).
Highly recommended.
| 3 Rue Couverte 77160 Provins, France 01 64 08 94 00http://www.auxvieuxremparts.com/uk/index.php |
