In a previous response to an email you indicated that the woman who owns La Plume d'Oie had a "colorful reputation". We met her on a stay there and was just wondering what that reputation was? Details!

By what I know, is, she is really not French but British who assumes an exagerated accent and can be very rude to some and may not let you dine even if the place is not filled.
Other's find her bosomly attitude funny.

Madame is known for her pretentions to being French, though she comes from, I think, Shropshire, her ample size, her tirades, her tendency to turn away anyone who "looks like's off a tour bus," and her attempts at humor, which grate on some and some find hilarious.
So, what were your impressions?

La Plume d'Oie
La Roque-Gageac
Telephone: 05 53 29 57 05
Fax: 05 53 31 04 81

Reservations apparently required, although clearly not necessary. Dinner for two with wine, about $140.

It was my fortieth birthday, and we'd gone to France because, well, I refused to turn forty. I was going to turn "quarante." That sounded sophisticated. Like something you'd want to turn. Like something Audrey Hepburn would turn. (Thank goodness we didn't go to Germany where I would have turned "vierzig." That sounds like a bug. Middle-aged, I have few Kafka-induced delusions left, thank you very much.)

We were staying in a small hotel in Domme, with breath-taking views across the Dordogne, its farms and meadows lazy in the haze. At breakfast, I announced I didnêt want to eat at the hotel again. Good food, yes ? solid execution, all ways round. "Tonight," I said, "I want a something special."

I should have been more specific.

That afternoon, exploring La Roque-Gageac, a small town that clings to a rocky cirque in the Dordogneês bend, we found a small restaurant ? curtainy, countrified, and quaint. The menu announced Périgord standards: foie gras, lamb, fresh cherries. In a word, perfect.

I walked in and asked Madame for a reservation. Her French, while loud, was exacting, clipped. I instantly faltered, grammar bound up on my tongue. She smiled anyway, took the reservation ? with one difference I should have noticed. She pronounced my last name ? Scarbrough ? impeccably.

"Vers vingt heures," I said as I left. About eight oêclock. She called after me ? "Monsieur!" ? and shook her head sternly. "Vingt heures exactement," she declared. Precisely at eight.

That night, we indeed arrived promptly, but were the first. Madame had on a linen suit, slightly crumpled, its white top stretched tight. There, in gold glitter, was scrawled "Yves Saint Laurent." The black skirt was a mini only because its waist band was shoved up under her ample, fallen bosom.

Under the glare of such comme il faut, we were seated by the front windows. Ah, I thought, the river and hills beyond. Madame asked us if weêd like the "apéritif du maison." Unsure, we asked what's in it. She rattled off a list ? we only caught something about white wine, some flower something-or-other. "D'accord," we said. We were game for anything. It was my birthday, after all. Au quarante.

And the apéritif was delicious: cool and refreshing. We sipped, stared at the river ? and were brought back to our senses by pots banging in the kitchen. Madame's Monsieur was the chef. And displeased. A dish broke; loud whispers floated out of the scullery. Soon, Madame appeared again tableside, disheveled. As she started to take our order, a couple appeared at the door. She held a long finger up to us, then bore down upon them. They quietly asked for a table. She sent them off with a wave. She said she was booked solid. But we were the only ones in the dining room.

She came at us again, armed with her formidable notepad. I asked Bruce in English if he was ready. He nodded. I said to her, inadvertently in English, "We're ready." She tapped her foot impatiently. Oh, right. "Nous sommes prêt," I said. She smiled grandly, warmly. We ordered falteringly in French, leaving the wine for last. I wanted a Bordeaux, something deep and rich, a St. Estephe perhaps. She had one, a 1990, a superb bottling. With a manicured nail, she pointed to the word next to our selection. "Epuisse." Embarrassed, under Madameês incessant repetition of the word, I choked, forgot what it meant. I stammered something about my poor French, about turning "quarante." She got more impatient, dragged her well-manicured talon to a word at the bottom of the menu. Something printed in ink: "Rupture." I was even more confused. Was this a French word? Roop-chure? What did that mean?

She grew more impatient, we faltered more surely, she finally drew herself up to great heights ? and it was at this moment that the dumpy British matron emerged from behind that faux French façade. "Oy've been tryin' to tell you, weêre all out," she bellowed, if not in the Queen's English, then in a Shropshire variant thereof. "Oy've sold the last bot'l."

No wonder she pronounced "Scarbrough" so accurately. And no wonder she was so exacting. No one can do French pretension like the British. No one.

"Did you like that apéritif?" she asked. "You didnêt know what was in it, did you? I knew you didn't. When I told you, I could tell you had no idea. Thereês no point pretending."

Really? Even pretending to be French?

She brought back the Saint Emillion weêd selected. When she opened it, the corked popped a bit and some wine splashed out. Was it corked? She assured us we neednêt taste it?she already had. (How?) With a flourish, she decanted the bottle.

Other patrons now stood at the door. These were mysteriously seated. She caught our quizzical glance, made a beeline back to us. "I guess you noticed that lot earlier. They were trying to get a table without a reservation. I run a proper establishment, and they looked as if they were off a tour bus." She shuddered. "I will not seat people without a reservation. And if they donêt know that, I am here to teach them."

Her tirade was interrupted by more banging in the kitchen. Madame hesitated, then went off to her fate. Above the kitchen door was a band of lighted numbers, used to signal the staff when orders were ready. They flashed and rang madly ? although Madame was the only staff in the joint. This continued all night. "7." "12." "2." It was a code, perhaps. But certainly uncrackable.

Chef's temperamental nature aside, dinner was good, competent. Nothing special, but perfect for a country restaurant in a small village along the Dordogne. Bruceês rosy rack of lamb had been expertly carved off the bone, tiny medallions of meat lying in a thyme-scented jus. Unfortunately, my succulent veal filet sat rather lumpishly in an undistinguished cream sauce. But the marinated salmon appetizer had been bright, vinegary, and subtle, served with tarragon-studded potato crisps.

For most of dinner, when Madame wasnêt answering those coded, incessant numbers, she stalked around the dining room with a bread basket shaped like a goose lying on its back. When she pressed the bill, it quacked Jingle Bells. She got a certain glee out of torturing the small dogs the French inevitably bring into the dining room. Much yapping followed each foray. Madame laughed heartily, then offered bread to the diners from the basket.

Sometime during the meal, a man across the room asked if the castle at Beynac (about half a mile away) was illuminated at night. Madame became testy again. "I have no idea," she said in French, her British accent now apparent. "I havenêt been outside this restaurant in twenty years."

Although we were done with our main courses and had already ordered dessert at the start of the meal (at Madameês insistence), it didnêt arrive for over an hour. No real tragedy, for the night was beautiful, the wine lush. I had ordered an apricot tart. She claimed it had to be baked fresh, although it was stone cold when it arrived at the table. Bruce had ordered the apple napoleon: slices of crisp, dried apples, interlayered with a mint-apple sorbet. His was completely melted. Still and all, the apple slices were delightful. He asked her how her husband got them so crisp. "Thereês a new system," she proclaimed in English, glancing sidewise around the room. "The pilly-pat."

"The silpat?" Bruce asked.

She was taken aback. "How do you know about it?"

He said something about writing cookbooks.

She drew herself up. "So you wander around, stealing people's recipes?"

"No," he said. "We create our own."

She smirked. "How clever." Then she dashed off to the kitchen in response to more bells and whistles.

So in the spirit of wandering around and stealing other peopleês recipes, herewith is Madame's apéritif du maison. Let's call it:

The Quacking Goose

3 ounces cold Chablis, Chardonnay, or a dry white wine
1 ounce cold Elderflower Cordial (an infusion available in many gourmet markets)
Splash of Shwepp's Bitter Lemon
Mix together in a wine glass. Serve immediately.






























La Plume d'Oie
La Roque-Gageac
Telephone: 05 53 29 57 05
Fax: 05 53 31 04 81

Reservations apparently required, although clearly not necessary. Dinner for two with wine, about $140.

It was my fortieth birthday, and we'd gone to France because, well, I refused to turn forty. I was going to turn "quarante." That sounded sophisticated. Like something you'd want to turn. Like something Audrey Hepburn would turn. (Thank goodness we didn't go to Germany where I would have turned "vierzig." That sounds like a bug. Middle-aged, I have few Kafka-induced delusions left, thank you very much.)

We were staying in a small hotel in Domme, with breath-taking views across the Dordogne, its farms and meadows lazy in the haze. At breakfast, I announced I didnêt want to eat at the hotel again. Good food, yes ? solid execution, all ways round. "Tonight," I said, "I want a something special."

I should have been more specific.

That afternoon, exploring La Roque-Gageac, a small town that clings to a rocky cirque in the Dordogneês bend, we found a small restaurant ? curtainy, countrified, and quaint. The menu announced Périgord standards: foie gras, lamb, fresh cherries. In a word, perfect.

I walked in and asked Madame for a reservation. Her French, while loud, was exacting, clipped. I instantly faltered, grammar bound up on my tongue. She smiled anyway, took the reservation ? with one difference I should have noticed. She pronounced my last name ? Scarbrough ? impeccably.

"Vers vingt heures," I said as I left. About eight oêclock. She called after me ? "Monsieur!" ? and shook her head sternly. "Vingt heures exactement," she declared. Precisely at eight.

That night, we indeed arrived promptly, but were the first. Madame had on a linen suit, slightly crumpled, its white top stretched tight. There, in gold glitter, was scrawled "Yves Saint Laurent." The black skirt was a mini only because its waist band was shoved up under her ample, fallen bosom.

Under the glare of such comme il faut, we were seated by the front windows. Ah, I thought, the river and hills beyond. Madame asked us if weêd like the "apéritif du maison." Unsure, we asked what's in it. She rattled off a list ? we only caught something about white wine, some flower something-or-other. "D'accord," we said. We were game for anything. It was my birthday, after all. Au quarante.

And the apéritif was delicious: cool and refreshing. We sipped, stared at the river ? and were brought back to our senses by pots banging in the kitchen. Madame's Monsieur was the chef. And displeased. A dish broke; loud whispers floated out of the scullery. Soon, Madame appeared again tableside, disheveled. As she started to take our order, a couple appeared at the door. She held a long finger up to us, then bore down upon them. They quietly asked for a table. She sent them off with a wave. She said she was booked solid. But we were the only ones in the dining room.

She came at us again, armed with her formidable notepad. I asked Bruce in English if he was ready. He nodded. I said to her, inadvertently in English, "We're ready." She tapped her foot impatiently. Oh, right. "Nous sommes prêt," I said. She smiled grandly, warmly. We ordered falteringly in French, leaving the wine for last. I wanted a Bordeaux, something deep and rich, a St. Estephe perhaps. She had one, a 1990, a superb bottling. With a manicured nail, she pointed to the word next to our selection. "Epuisse." Embarrassed, under Madameês incessant repetition of the word, I choked, forgot what it meant. I stammered something about my poor French, about turning "quarante." She got more impatient, dragged her well-manicured talon to a word at the bottom of the menu. Something printed in ink: "Rupture." I was even more confused. Was this a French word? Roop-chure? What did that mean?

She grew more impatient, we faltered more surely, she finally drew herself up to great heights ? and it was at this moment that the dumpy British matron emerged from behind that faux French façade. "Oy've been tryin' to tell you, weêre all out," she bellowed, if not in the Queen's English, then in a Shropshire variant thereof. "Oy've sold the last bot'l."

No wonder she pronounced "Scarbrough" so accurately. And no wonder she was so exacting. No one can do French pretension like the British. No one.

"Did you like that apéritif?" she asked. "You didnêt know what was in it, did you? I knew you didn't. When I told you, I could tell you had no idea. Thereês no point pretending."

Really? Even pretending to be French?

She brought back the Saint Emillion weêd selected. When she opened it, the corked popped a bit and some wine splashed out. Was it corked? She assured us we neednêt taste it?she already had. (How?) With a flourish, she decanted the bottle.

Other patrons now stood at the door. These were mysteriously seated. She caught our quizzical glance, made a beeline back to us. "I guess you noticed that lot earlier. They were trying to get a table without a reservation. I run a proper establishment, and they looked as if they were off a tour bus." She shuddered. "I will not seat people without a reservation. And if they donêt know that, I am here to teach them."

Her tirade was interrupted by more banging in the kitchen. Madame hesitated, then went off to her fate. Above the kitchen door was a band of lighted numbers, used to signal the staff when orders were ready. They flashed and rang madly ? although Madame was the only staff in the joint. This continued all night. "7." "12." "2." It was a code, perhaps. But certainly uncrackable.

Chef's temperamental nature aside, dinner was good, competent. Nothing special, but perfect for a country restaurant in a small village along the Dordogne. Bruceês rosy rack of lamb had been expertly carved off the bone, tiny medallions of meat lying in a thyme-scented jus. Unfortunately, my succulent veal filet sat rather lumpishly in an undistinguished cream sauce. But the marinated salmon appetizer had been bright, vinegary, and subtle, served with tarragon-studded potato crisps.

For most of dinner, when Madame wasnêt answering those coded, incessant numbers, she stalked around the dining room with a bread basket shaped like a goose lying on its back. When she pressed the bill, it quacked Jingle Bells. She got a certain glee out of torturing the small dogs the French inevitably bring into the dining room. Much yapping followed each foray. Madame laughed heartily, then offered bread to the diners from the basket.

Sometime during the meal, a man across the room asked if the castle at Beynac (about half a mile away) was illuminated at night. Madame became testy again. "I have no idea," she said in French, her British accent now apparent. "I havenêt been outside this restaurant in twenty years."

Although we were done with our main courses and had already ordered dessert at the start of the meal (at Madameês insistence), it didnêt arrive for over an hour. No real tragedy, for the night was beautiful, the wine lush. I had ordered an apricot tart. She claimed it had to be baked fresh, although it was stone cold when it arrived at the table. Bruce had ordered the apple napoleon: slices of crisp, dried apples, interlayered with a mint-apple sorbet. His was completely melted. Still and all, the apple slices were delightful. He asked her how her husband got them so crisp. "Thereês a new system," she proclaimed in English, glancing sidewise around the room. "The pilly-pat."

"The silpat?" Bruce asked.

She was taken aback. "How do you know about it?"

He said something about writing cookbooks.

She drew herself up. "So you wander around, stealing people's recipes?"

"No," he said. "We create our own."

She smirked. "How clever." Then she dashed off to the kitchen in response to more bells and whistles.

So in the spirit of wandering around and stealing other peopleês recipes, herewith is Madame's apéritif du maison. Let's call it:

The Quacking Goose

3 ounces cold Chablis, Chardonnay, or a dry white wine
1 ounce cold Elderflower Cordial (an infusion available in many gourmet markets)
Splash of Shwepp's Bitter Lemon
Mix together in a wine glass. Serve immediately.

This is not my report, someone else's who thought it was hilarious.

Now THAT was a truly great read...thanks

Thanks cigalechanta! I could see this in my mind's eye and it was so amusing.

What a stitch! Glad the person had fun in the doing, but for $140, we'll probably pass--loved hearing about it though.

OK, that was HILARIOUS! Our experience with Heddy, the Madame, who claimed to be Dutch and not British, was not nearly so bad, and we actually thought her quirkiness was sort of funny. She reminded my wife and I of a character out of an Austin Powers movie.

By the way, I had the same apple dessert and thought it was delicious.

All that matters, is, that you had a great time!

Well, I don't know if that story preceded her reputation or vice versa, but the one time I was there, quite a few years ago, I certainly found her "colorful," though not rude. And I didn't pay anything NEAR $140. It was more like $70 for two, with wine. Maybe Madame now charges for her humor.