Dog Days in the Dordogne
Aug 22nd, 2005, 07:45 AM
#102
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Tuesday, August 17
Breakfast on the balcony of the Hotel de Chenes is a lovely way to begin the day.
The drive to Agen is only a bit more than a half-hour. We park the car in front of the train station, right next to the Cafe de la Gare, which PBProvence has told me has a good reputation. Then we go in search of the Europcar office, which as it turns out is right around the corner, and a Credit Commecial du Sudouest so I can order a new book of checks. We check into the 1impressive cathedral and wander the streets of Agen for a half-hour or so before going to the Europcar desk and asking where we should park the car. The lady there says there's a small lot down the street, so we retrieve the car and bring it round to the parking lot. Another woman, looking very officious with a clipboard and glasses on a chain, says she's going to inspect the car. When she comes back she announces that there's a small scrape on the right-hand door that wasn't there when we picked up the car. So, the Leggo bumper that ripped off twice, the large piece of plastic underpinning that feel down and scraped the road for a good 75 kms in the Dordogne, and the rear bumper ramming from the old geezer in Les Eyzies have gone completely unnoticed, but there's a small scrape on the door? Fine, I'm sure that special AMEX insurance I carry will cover it. We sign the papers and head to the train station for lunch.
The Cafe de la Gare is a fine old institution with plump waiters with large moustaches and red aprons. The menu is enormous, and there is a separate menu just for various cuts of beef on the grill.
I choose gambas a la mayonnaise and T chooses a salade nicoise and a side of sauteed potatoes (there are no frites, says the waiter). A large bottle of Badoit, a Schweppes, and we're set for 24 euros. The food comes quickly and is delicious. A young boy opposite us gets a plate of fries, which is a bitodd since we were told we couldn't have them, but the sauteed potatoes with garlic and herbs are delicious.
My time's up for now on the hotel computer..........
Breakfast on the balcony of the Hotel de Chenes is a lovely way to begin the day.
The drive to Agen is only a bit more than a half-hour. We park the car in front of the train station, right next to the Cafe de la Gare, which PBProvence has told me has a good reputation. Then we go in search of the Europcar office, which as it turns out is right around the corner, and a Credit Commecial du Sudouest so I can order a new book of checks. We check into the 1impressive cathedral and wander the streets of Agen for a half-hour or so before going to the Europcar desk and asking where we should park the car. The lady there says there's a small lot down the street, so we retrieve the car and bring it round to the parking lot. Another woman, looking very officious with a clipboard and glasses on a chain, says she's going to inspect the car. When she comes back she announces that there's a small scrape on the right-hand door that wasn't there when we picked up the car. So, the Leggo bumper that ripped off twice, the large piece of plastic underpinning that feel down and scraped the road for a good 75 kms in the Dordogne, and the rear bumper ramming from the old geezer in Les Eyzies have gone completely unnoticed, but there's a small scrape on the door? Fine, I'm sure that special AMEX insurance I carry will cover it. We sign the papers and head to the train station for lunch.
The Cafe de la Gare is a fine old institution with plump waiters with large moustaches and red aprons. The menu is enormous, and there is a separate menu just for various cuts of beef on the grill.
I choose gambas a la mayonnaise and T chooses a salade nicoise and a side of sauteed potatoes (there are no frites, says the waiter). A large bottle of Badoit, a Schweppes, and we're set for 24 euros. The food comes quickly and is delicious. A young boy opposite us gets a plate of fries, which is a bitodd since we were told we couldn't have them, but the sauteed potatoes with garlic and herbs are delicious.
My time's up for now on the hotel computer..........
Aug 22nd, 2005, 10:17 AM
#103
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Hi StCirq,
>A young boy opposite us gets a plate of fries, which is a bitodd since we were told we couldn't have them, but the sauteed potatoes with garlic and herbs are delicious.<
This is an example of (pick one)
A. snooty French waiters,
B. French Anti-Americanism
C. a good waiter who knew that the sauteed potatoes were better than the FF.
D. a chef who had cooked too many sauteed potatoes.
>A young boy opposite us gets a plate of fries, which is a bitodd since we were told we couldn't have them, but the sauteed potatoes with garlic and herbs are delicious.<
This is an example of (pick one)
A. snooty French waiters,
B. French Anti-Americanism
C. a good waiter who knew that the sauteed potatoes were better than the FF.
D. a chef who had cooked too many sauteed potatoes.
Aug 22nd, 2005, 11:44 AM
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Hi, ira:
I'll pick C, but I also think the man and his son who ordered and got the frites were regulars and friends with the waiter - at least that's the impression I got. Certainly the waiter wasn't snooty and there was no hint of anti-Americanism!
At any rate, after lunch we had time to stand in line to retrieve our tickets, ordered on line, and composte them in the new and wonderful composteur machines that are all over France now - ones that don't make you try fifteen times to stick your ticket in, turn it around, turn it over, and try again. No, you stick the ticket in practically any old way and it imprints something on it, and you're done.
The train arrives promptly at 1:19, the slow train from Bordeaux to Marseilles. We have a 4.5-hour trip ahead of us. It stops in Toulouse, Carcassonne, Narbonne, Beziers, Sete, Nimes, and Arles before ending in Marseilles. I read Murder in the Dordogne from start to finish during the ride - a strange and rather pointless little mystery that is really only interesting for some laughs about stereotypical British expats in the Dordogne. I knew who the murderer was from about page 12.
Rather amazing that the train tracks go through the marshy lands around Sete and Arles. It would seem as though the land is too soft to support tracks. There are spots where there are rice paddies on both sides of the tracks, and others where the train goes right along the beach, on the sand. The scenery is lovely and varied, but it's hard to imagine that the tracks don't sink from time to time, or get flooded.
PB picks us up at the Arles station and we're off to Maussane. We stop at Pizza Brun to order two pizzas for pickup later in the evening, then home to get settled at the moulin. The dogs are all over us the minute we get out of the car. T and I get organized in our respective rooms, play with the dogs, catch up on gossip with PB, and at 8 pm go back into town to retrieve the pizzas. It's a standing joke that Pizza Brun makes pizzas that are too big to fit into the pizza boxes, so you end up with a round pizza that's been forced into a square box and that turns out square and overflowing the box. They are delicious nonetheless.
T takes a swim with bats swooping overhead above the pool and an almost-full moon rising over les Alpilles. We watch silly tv and sink into bed at midnight, ready for market tomorrow in Maussane.
I'll pick C, but I also think the man and his son who ordered and got the frites were regulars and friends with the waiter - at least that's the impression I got. Certainly the waiter wasn't snooty and there was no hint of anti-Americanism!
At any rate, after lunch we had time to stand in line to retrieve our tickets, ordered on line, and composte them in the new and wonderful composteur machines that are all over France now - ones that don't make you try fifteen times to stick your ticket in, turn it around, turn it over, and try again. No, you stick the ticket in practically any old way and it imprints something on it, and you're done.
The train arrives promptly at 1:19, the slow train from Bordeaux to Marseilles. We have a 4.5-hour trip ahead of us. It stops in Toulouse, Carcassonne, Narbonne, Beziers, Sete, Nimes, and Arles before ending in Marseilles. I read Murder in the Dordogne from start to finish during the ride - a strange and rather pointless little mystery that is really only interesting for some laughs about stereotypical British expats in the Dordogne. I knew who the murderer was from about page 12.
Rather amazing that the train tracks go through the marshy lands around Sete and Arles. It would seem as though the land is too soft to support tracks. There are spots where there are rice paddies on both sides of the tracks, and others where the train goes right along the beach, on the sand. The scenery is lovely and varied, but it's hard to imagine that the tracks don't sink from time to time, or get flooded.
PB picks us up at the Arles station and we're off to Maussane. We stop at Pizza Brun to order two pizzas for pickup later in the evening, then home to get settled at the moulin. The dogs are all over us the minute we get out of the car. T and I get organized in our respective rooms, play with the dogs, catch up on gossip with PB, and at 8 pm go back into town to retrieve the pizzas. It's a standing joke that Pizza Brun makes pizzas that are too big to fit into the pizza boxes, so you end up with a round pizza that's been forced into a square box and that turns out square and overflowing the box. They are delicious nonetheless.
T takes a swim with bats swooping overhead above the pool and an almost-full moon rising over les Alpilles. We watch silly tv and sink into bed at midnight, ready for market tomorrow in Maussane.
Aug 22nd, 2005, 11:46 AM
#106
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Well, if you wanted to pick b) you would have to know if the person who received fries was French or not. We are not told either what time they sat down to lunch. If late, perhaps they were out of fries.
Thanks for posting; enjoying it so much. Can't believe the rental car gal didn't notice the bumper!
Thanks for posting; enjoying it so much. Can't believe the rental car gal didn't notice the bumper!
Aug 22nd, 2005, 03:39 PM
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Re the fries, my answer is E (NONE OF THE ABOVE).
Maybe they had JUST run out of potatoes that they'd cut a certain way for making fries, and there were no potatoes left, and the other table placed the last possible order of fried potatoes.
Or, maybe because they were friends of the employees, they could just come in an order things not on the menu. About 30 years ago I used to have a drawing teacher who lived in Carnegie Hall. He was in his mid-70s, eccentric, and had limited tastes in food--great artist, terrible eater. He ate fried eggs with greasy meats for breakfast, pastrami sandwiches for lunch, and all his suppers out in the same restaurant where the kind waiters and owners doted on him and called him "maestro." It was an Italian restaurant a few blocks away from Carnegie Hall, where he always ordered a steak and I think either baked potato or French fries--things that may not even have been on the menu, but the restaurant staff gave him whatever made him happy. So maybe this this father and son came in every day and their friends made them anything they wanted.
Maybe they had JUST run out of potatoes that they'd cut a certain way for making fries, and there were no potatoes left, and the other table placed the last possible order of fried potatoes.
Or, maybe because they were friends of the employees, they could just come in an order things not on the menu. About 30 years ago I used to have a drawing teacher who lived in Carnegie Hall. He was in his mid-70s, eccentric, and had limited tastes in food--great artist, terrible eater. He ate fried eggs with greasy meats for breakfast, pastrami sandwiches for lunch, and all his suppers out in the same restaurant where the kind waiters and owners doted on him and called him "maestro." It was an Italian restaurant a few blocks away from Carnegie Hall, where he always ordered a steak and I think either baked potato or French fries--things that may not even have been on the menu, but the restaurant staff gave him whatever made him happy. So maybe this this father and son came in every day and their friends made them anything they wanted.
Aug 24th, 2005, 06:06 PM
#108
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Thank you so very much for this mental vacation!
Just returned from a quick business trip to your neck of the (US) woods, and was amazed that the weather was uncharacteristically tolerable around DC. It is definitely August, though - the only month when it is possible to zip along 66 at 6:30 PM!
Just returned from a quick business trip to your neck of the (US) woods, and was amazed that the weather was uncharacteristically tolerable around DC. It is definitely August, though - the only month when it is possible to zip along 66 at 6:30 PM!
Aug 24th, 2005, 09:30 PM
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Whenever I read these "trip reports"/journals, I think that a lovely book is waiting (perhaps when you retire and live in the Dordogne permanently?) and we will be able to curl up in our own special spots and read about St Cirq and its quirky inhabitants and the American family that lives there~
I am so enjoying this, thank you.
I am so enjoying this, thank you.
Aug 25th, 2005, 05:57 AM
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Thursday, August 18
At home in the USA, I'm a sleeper. Given the opportunity, which I rarely am unfortunately, I'll stay in bed until 9 or 10 am. In France I can hardly wait for morning to break. So at just a bit before 7 am I'm gazing out the window of my bedroom at PB's lovely olive mill in Maussane, watching a vermillion globe throw shards out over a pale blue sky. The olive tree in the center of the courtyard is shimmering silver in the breeze - not quite a mistral, but a definite, humming breeze - and all the luminous colors of Provence are concentrated in the view from this window. The white stone against the russet tiles of the roofs, the deep green of the cedars in the distance, lavender stalks wagging against the pale gravel driveway, bursts of ruby geraniums and roses, and shutters bedecked in teal. I am always struck by how varied the landscapes of France are, as though a different group of artists had set up camp throughout the country with different pots of paint and plants and textiles and stones and fashioned a hundred different schools of artistry. The Dordogne might as well be another country from what I am looking at right now.
The markets, on the other hand, are relatively homogenized these days. You can buy provencal fabrics in Alsace and foie gras from the Périgord in Lille and poulet de Bresse in Biarritz. Still, here at the Thursday market in Maussane, there are provençal accents everywhere - savon de Marseille, calissons, bottles of pale rosé, herbes de Provence, dried bunches of lavender, and dozens of offerings from the cult of the olive: green, fruity oils, olive bread, chocolate-coated almond "olives," olive soaps, and olives themselves, green, brown, black, plump, shriveled, stuffed with anchovies, stuffed with herbs, brined, steeped in citrus........olives in every incarnation imaginable.
We buy some perche du Nil (yes, it supposedly does come from the Nile), some red cocos, a poulet rôti, huge bright red sweet peppers, some tomatoes warm from the vine, two dozen tourtons, some with spinach, some with potato, some with apple, a wedge of Brie, and white fragrant peaches. Then to the café for coffee under the plane trees, and a stop at the boulangerie for a baguette.
to be continued...
At home in the USA, I'm a sleeper. Given the opportunity, which I rarely am unfortunately, I'll stay in bed until 9 or 10 am. In France I can hardly wait for morning to break. So at just a bit before 7 am I'm gazing out the window of my bedroom at PB's lovely olive mill in Maussane, watching a vermillion globe throw shards out over a pale blue sky. The olive tree in the center of the courtyard is shimmering silver in the breeze - not quite a mistral, but a definite, humming breeze - and all the luminous colors of Provence are concentrated in the view from this window. The white stone against the russet tiles of the roofs, the deep green of the cedars in the distance, lavender stalks wagging against the pale gravel driveway, bursts of ruby geraniums and roses, and shutters bedecked in teal. I am always struck by how varied the landscapes of France are, as though a different group of artists had set up camp throughout the country with different pots of paint and plants and textiles and stones and fashioned a hundred different schools of artistry. The Dordogne might as well be another country from what I am looking at right now.
The markets, on the other hand, are relatively homogenized these days. You can buy provencal fabrics in Alsace and foie gras from the Périgord in Lille and poulet de Bresse in Biarritz. Still, here at the Thursday market in Maussane, there are provençal accents everywhere - savon de Marseille, calissons, bottles of pale rosé, herbes de Provence, dried bunches of lavender, and dozens of offerings from the cult of the olive: green, fruity oils, olive bread, chocolate-coated almond "olives," olive soaps, and olives themselves, green, brown, black, plump, shriveled, stuffed with anchovies, stuffed with herbs, brined, steeped in citrus........olives in every incarnation imaginable.
We buy some perche du Nil (yes, it supposedly does come from the Nile), some red cocos, a poulet rôti, huge bright red sweet peppers, some tomatoes warm from the vine, two dozen tourtons, some with spinach, some with potato, some with apple, a wedge of Brie, and white fragrant peaches. Then to the café for coffee under the plane trees, and a stop at the boulangerie for a baguette.
to be continued...
Aug 25th, 2005, 10:00 AM
#114
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I forgot to mention that the latest innovation at the market in Maussane is a van that opens up into a hair cuttery. That's right, you can stop at the market now, step into the van, and get a shampoo and cut! Ze French, zey are sooo clever!
Back home we warm up the tourtons and some slices of leftover Pizza Brun, which we complement with some fresh radishes and grape tomatoes doused with olive oil, followed by a selection of cheeses. Simple, fresh, delicious!
Later we drive over to Les Baux, but the entire hillside is covered with cars and people. There's not a parking space in sight, and the traffic and crowds are too daunting, so we continue over the hill to the lovely lookout spot near the caves to take some photos. The siren of a fire truck blares out, and across in back of the citadel ruins we can see black smoke pouring into the air. As we drive back down the hill, it's apparent that the smoke is coming from Maussane! In town there's a small traffic jam, and a half-dozen fire trucks. Edging around the back side of town, we come across a street blocked by firetrucks. The back yard of a large house on the main street is engulfed in flames - some sort of shed, and a caravan, are on fire. The pompiers are spraying the area with huge hoses, causing plumes of black, fetid smoke to rise up all around the east end of the village. All the villagers are gathered in clumps safely removed from the fire area, pointing and gossiping - this is quite an event!
Later we drive up the lane to the Mas des Barres. I must have my yearly supply of the world's finest olive oil! Jean-Baptiste is there himself today, along with a gaggle of eager customers. His médaille d'or for the Best Olive Oil in the World is proudly displayed on the counter, along with a newspaper article with a photo of him beaming amid cans of his oil.
I order a three-liter can to be shipped home. If I use it relatively sparingly, it will last until my next trip back here. I'm tempted to load up on soaps and bath oils and cheese packed in oil and shampoos and preserves, but in fact I have accumulated quite a collection of these over several years and really don't need any more. The oil, though, I must have!
Back home, T shells the red cocos and PB sautées some shallots and garlic and puts them in a pot with the beans and chicken stock to simmer slowly on the stove for a couple of hours. We pick some sage from the garden, chop it up, and add that to the pot as well. T and I play boules while the beans simmer, then he swims and I read and take a couple of totally unwanted calls from the office.
When the perch fillets are cleaned, cut, and dried, PB puts them in a skillet with some butter and gently cooks them on both sides. A butter, lemon, and caper sauce cooks up quickly, and soon we're enjoying our perche du Nil and flavorful cocos with slices of olive bread and butter.
After dinner we drive into St-Rémy for dessert. The place is absolutely jam-packed, every café and restaurant brimming over with customers, every parking spot taken, the sidewalks thronging with passersby. At the glacier I order a cone with one scoop of carapino - vanilla ice cream with pine nuts and caramel - what a heavenly combination, and not too sweet! We sit on the church steps and watch the crowd ebb and flow and listen to the tinkling of silverware from a dozen cafés and the buzz of hundreds of conversations. There's a carousel in the square full of children giggling and hooting, bicyclists are zig-zagging through the streets, and vespas whine around corners. It's a lively, joyful night in St-Rémy. Before we leave I pop into the Hotel Ville Verte to see first-hand where I have recently sent some clients of mine at PB's suggestion. It's right on the main square of St-Rémy, but discreetly tucked away behind trellises bursting with vines. Looks like a lovely, artsy, quirky place, witha lobby tastefully decorated in classic oriental rugs and antiques, but punctuated with an enormous cylindrical fishtank and mannequins dressed in glittery boustiers.
Silly British television shows complete the day, my favorite being one called something like "No Turning Back" or "No Going Home," about people who go and buy real estate in other countries without really having a clue and who encounter all sorts of unexpected problems and setbacks. And then there is the French version of Supernanny, which I mentioned already, with the French nanny being absolutely OC about food and eating habits. And then we all get mesmerized by the movie "Kiss the Girls" and stay up way too late.
To bed under a Van Gogh sky. Tomorrow we have nothing much to do except indulge ourselves to the hilt at La Chassagnette.
Back home we warm up the tourtons and some slices of leftover Pizza Brun, which we complement with some fresh radishes and grape tomatoes doused with olive oil, followed by a selection of cheeses. Simple, fresh, delicious!
Later we drive over to Les Baux, but the entire hillside is covered with cars and people. There's not a parking space in sight, and the traffic and crowds are too daunting, so we continue over the hill to the lovely lookout spot near the caves to take some photos. The siren of a fire truck blares out, and across in back of the citadel ruins we can see black smoke pouring into the air. As we drive back down the hill, it's apparent that the smoke is coming from Maussane! In town there's a small traffic jam, and a half-dozen fire trucks. Edging around the back side of town, we come across a street blocked by firetrucks. The back yard of a large house on the main street is engulfed in flames - some sort of shed, and a caravan, are on fire. The pompiers are spraying the area with huge hoses, causing plumes of black, fetid smoke to rise up all around the east end of the village. All the villagers are gathered in clumps safely removed from the fire area, pointing and gossiping - this is quite an event!
Later we drive up the lane to the Mas des Barres. I must have my yearly supply of the world's finest olive oil! Jean-Baptiste is there himself today, along with a gaggle of eager customers. His médaille d'or for the Best Olive Oil in the World is proudly displayed on the counter, along with a newspaper article with a photo of him beaming amid cans of his oil.
I order a three-liter can to be shipped home. If I use it relatively sparingly, it will last until my next trip back here. I'm tempted to load up on soaps and bath oils and cheese packed in oil and shampoos and preserves, but in fact I have accumulated quite a collection of these over several years and really don't need any more. The oil, though, I must have!
Back home, T shells the red cocos and PB sautées some shallots and garlic and puts them in a pot with the beans and chicken stock to simmer slowly on the stove for a couple of hours. We pick some sage from the garden, chop it up, and add that to the pot as well. T and I play boules while the beans simmer, then he swims and I read and take a couple of totally unwanted calls from the office.
When the perch fillets are cleaned, cut, and dried, PB puts them in a skillet with some butter and gently cooks them on both sides. A butter, lemon, and caper sauce cooks up quickly, and soon we're enjoying our perche du Nil and flavorful cocos with slices of olive bread and butter.
After dinner we drive into St-Rémy for dessert. The place is absolutely jam-packed, every café and restaurant brimming over with customers, every parking spot taken, the sidewalks thronging with passersby. At the glacier I order a cone with one scoop of carapino - vanilla ice cream with pine nuts and caramel - what a heavenly combination, and not too sweet! We sit on the church steps and watch the crowd ebb and flow and listen to the tinkling of silverware from a dozen cafés and the buzz of hundreds of conversations. There's a carousel in the square full of children giggling and hooting, bicyclists are zig-zagging through the streets, and vespas whine around corners. It's a lively, joyful night in St-Rémy. Before we leave I pop into the Hotel Ville Verte to see first-hand where I have recently sent some clients of mine at PB's suggestion. It's right on the main square of St-Rémy, but discreetly tucked away behind trellises bursting with vines. Looks like a lovely, artsy, quirky place, witha lobby tastefully decorated in classic oriental rugs and antiques, but punctuated with an enormous cylindrical fishtank and mannequins dressed in glittery boustiers.
Silly British television shows complete the day, my favorite being one called something like "No Turning Back" or "No Going Home," about people who go and buy real estate in other countries without really having a clue and who encounter all sorts of unexpected problems and setbacks. And then there is the French version of Supernanny, which I mentioned already, with the French nanny being absolutely OC about food and eating habits. And then we all get mesmerized by the movie "Kiss the Girls" and stay up way too late.
To bed under a Van Gogh sky. Tomorrow we have nothing much to do except indulge ourselves to the hilt at La Chassagnette.
Aug 25th, 2005, 10:24 AM
#115
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StCirq, I have so enjoyed your trip report! You have me enthralled! I found this post (some how I managed to miss it until today!) and had to read it, as I was just reading an article in my National Geographic Traveler last night on "the perfect French villages" and it mentiones St. Cirq, if I'm not mistaken. Anyways, between that story and your trip report I am seriously rethinking our Croatia trip for next year for one in the Dordogne region instead! We are taking our first trip to France (Paris) this November and I'm so excited. I have been wanting to go to Provence for awhile now, but I never really thought about other locations in France. I'll have to do some research and figure out what to do.
Thanks again...your trip sounds magical!
Tracy
Thanks again...your trip sounds magical!
Tracy
Aug 25th, 2005, 11:11 AM
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Hi, Tracy:
I very much doubt the National Geographic article was referring to "my" St-Cirq, as it isn't really even a village, just a hamlet with no commerce at all. In fact, I hope National Geographic doesn't discover "my" St-Cirq! The article was probably referring to St-Cirq-Lapopie. At any rate, I'm glad you're enjoying the report and thinking of exploring new parts of France. I'm quite sure you wouldn't be disapointed in the Dordogne (just don't go in August!).
I very much doubt the National Geographic article was referring to "my" St-Cirq, as it isn't really even a village, just a hamlet with no commerce at all. In fact, I hope National Geographic doesn't discover "my" St-Cirq! The article was probably referring to St-Cirq-Lapopie. At any rate, I'm glad you're enjoying the report and thinking of exploring new parts of France. I'm quite sure you wouldn't be disapointed in the Dordogne (just don't go in August!).
Aug 25th, 2005, 11:27 AM
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I found StCirq's wonderful writing an hour ago and just finished scrolling through all of her wonderful descriptions of life in the Dordogne. She is a truly talented writer and has bestowed upon us all a gift more rewarding than most because she's shared herself and this wonderful place with all of us. Thank you so very much.
Aug 25th, 2005, 12:03 PM
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StCirq, your probably right. I wish I had the magazine with me here at work, but its at home. I thought I remembered seeing StCirq something or another and it immediately reminded me of you because, honestly, before last night and then today when I read your report I had no idea what your screen name meant!
I will take a look at it tonight and see what it says.
Thanks!
Tracy
I will take a look at it tonight and see what it says.
Thanks!
Tracy
