Topic: TN: Ooze, sex with fruit, & a rant - Provence, part 2 (images)
Author: Thor Iverson (Boston, MA)
Date: Tue Nov 20 15:28:08 2001

Apropos of nothing...

Flashback!

"But it''s hard to carry an umbrella in one hand, a map in the other, and still navigate the too-narrow sidewalks of Paris without running into something."

Flashforward!

...I wrote. After a somewhat depressing drive through the dingy suburbs of Avignon, we rounded the city walls and parked alongside the river. I consulted the street map in the Michelin red guide.

"It''s this way...maybe about ten minutes."

The problem with the maps in the red guide, of course, is that they''re incomplete. The interconnected Michelin system, in which one must cross-reference red guide, green guide, and map to get the whole picture, doesn''t work when you''re just trying to find the restaurant where you''ve reserved for dinner. And so, rather than confidently counting off blocks and turns, one has to be careful about missing streets that the red guide deems worthy of inclusion.

I didn''t have an umbrella, but I did have some lingering guilt about the long wrong-way walk in Paris. And so, I paid close attention this time. Close attention. Down rue Victor-Hugo...one block, two...left...where? Here? And so it was, my nose deeply buried in the map and my feet leaving a sidewalk that narrowed to a one-inch sliver at the end of the block (damn those popes and their city plans full of irregular trapezoids), that I fell.

It was a long fall, played out in a slow-motion that seemed to take about five minutes. I tripped, caught myself, tripped again. Shot my right foot out to stop the fall, missing the now-absent sidewalk. Fell to the left, against the wall. Stuck my left hand out, scraping it along the concrete. Tripped with the other foot. The book went careening out into the street, my left hand slipped off the wall and hit the sidewalk at the same time as my left knee, and I believe I made several scatological imprecations. Theresa turned around, wondering about the calamitous din behind her.

As it turned out, it wasn''t so bad. My knee was bruised, but fine. However, I had a shredded pustule oozing both blood and some mysterious creamy white substance on my left hand, just below the pinkie, every torn cranny stuffed with random grit and grime from the streets of Avignon.

"Do you want to go to the pharmacy," Theresa asked, concerned.

What Provence means to me: pastis and ooze

Well, a French pharmacy? They''d probably give me some sort of inch-wide suppository to fight the infection, and why add to my discomfort? Besides, I was sure soap, water, and a liberal oral application of pastis could solve the problem. We walked on, to the Place de l''Horloge, and settled into the café we deemed most likely to have a real, non-Turkish, bathroom (Le Cid, and a place we soon realized was far too hip for the likes of us).

Sitting in a beautiful café-dominated square in Avignon, oozing pus into a tight wad of Kleenex, I had time to reflect. What was it that was going on here? Why were we having such a great time? For we most assuredly were. I briefly wondered if it might be the pastis. Or perhaps it was the weather, which (since our last day in Paris) has taken a turn for the wonderful. But as we sat there, languidly watching sharply-dressed town councilmen file by on their way to post-governmental refreshment, I realized: it was us. We had changed. I was no longer running around France like it was my last visit. The Theresa of previous trips would only go from café to café if she needed to use the bathroom at each one. Credit (or blame) could fall to Provence, but we were the same way in Paris. What Provence does, though, is enable the traveler in search of nothing to find it in the most enjoyable ways.

Like sitting in a café, sipping a pastis, eyeing the vivid yellow virulence of the secretions from my wound.

Sex without figs (or orthodontists)

And with that appetizing thought, we decide to walk the long half-block to dinner. The name l''Isle Sonnante (7 r. Racine) is a source of great consternation to Theresa, who wants to know why the word is spelled "isle" rather than "ile." I have no answer, nor do I much care, being very much in the mood for some lusty yet refined one-star cuisine at bargain prices. I feel a little silly with a wad of tissues stuck to my left hand, and I do catch the hostess giving my hand a quick, worried glance. Nevertheless, we easily settle in to comfortable, homey furniture and check the place out.

Microscopic, with only 16 covers and a rather chaotic rear wall full of plates, silverware, stemware, various alcohols, and a 500-bottle wine fridge, this is a restaurant that immediately draws you in and relaxes you. There''s a hostess and one waiter, but that''s probably twice as many people as they actually need to run the front of this house. It sounds like the kitchen is not much more populated, with an hand occasionally thrusting a plate through the small window in the center of the rear wall. The décor comforts with soft wood and fabric taking the sharp edges off everything, and subtle use of windows and mirrors to open up what might otherwise be a closed-in space. Service, too, is deceptively casual; the usual refinements of French service are all in evidence, but somewhat hidden by an easygoing manner and fairly casual dress on the part of the waiter. We order apéritifs (Soumade 1995 Rasteau Vin Doux Natural, spicy and full of strawberry and red cherry zing, with that inescapable grenache bubble gum, thick and well-balanced) and examine the food options.

The restaurant offers only one four-course set menu, with choices for the entrée and main course, for an inexplicably inexpensive 285 FF per person. Though I would have been just as happy with no choices at all (my preferred manner of dining when the chef is up to the task), I''m excited by what''s offered. First, an incredible whole-grain baguette is placed on the table, with a sinful and salty butter and a little pot of tapenade that sings with fresh olive flavor. It takes restraint not to fill ourselves up with just this, but we manage. Theresa starts her meal with two massive slabs of seared foie gras (these would be impressively large even in Alsace) with an intriguing accompaniment of grapes and plump, sweet/sharp radishes. She notes with pleasure that these are the first radishes she has ever enjoyed. Having been unable to get those Parisian markets out of my mind, I choose a "mini-tart" that''s not so mini, but is piled high with musky, sexy cèpes, lightly roasted and served in a rich, earthy version of a beurre blanc. For a disorienting few minutes, I feel overcome with the spirit of my wife; if I could have sex with this dish, I probably would. (If I could have sex with this dish and be waited on by Laetitia Casta, all the better. But she needs to visit an orthodontist first.)

Sex with figs

My wife moves on - quelle surprise - to a perfectly-cooked and partially-deboned pigeon with roasted figs, while I am enraptured by a flawless, squared-off cut from a veal rib, brought to a wonderful crispness on the exterior, but sweetly pink and juicy on the interior. Surrounding it is a highly-reduced veal stock (flavored with more porcini) and some mixed braised vegetables. A cheese basket is next, not overwhelming us with choices but presenting a small selection of what''s ripe, seasonal, or interesting. Along with a piquant tomme and the ripest, creamiest Vacherin Mont d''Or I''ve yet had on this trip, I sample a cheese I''ve never seen before (though my wife, the cheese expert, tells me all about it), a Boulette d''Avesnes. From the extreme north of France near Calais and the Belgian border, this is a raw cow milk cheese shaped (with parsley, pepper, tarragon, and cloves mixed with the curd) into a pear-like form and dusted with paprika, after which it is periodically washed with beer. It''s "too much" for most French people, according to our waiter. But having grown up eating all sorts of horrid flavored "cheese" concoctions at a million potlucks and smorgasbords in northern Minnesota, this is like reaching foodie enlightenment at the end of long suffering. I wouldn''t want to make a steady diet of it, but it''s a very impressive cheese.

With all this wonderful food, we dither over a short selection of regional wines; the choices are excellent, but there''s a significant price gap between the affordable young bottles which make up the majority of the list, and the very few aged Châteauneufs. We decide to show restraint, and keeping the morning''s activities in mind, order what we believe to be the 1998 version of the Brusset Cairanne. Imagine our delight, then, when it turns out to be not the regular cuvée, but the ''98 version of our favorite of the three we tasted, the Brusset 1998 Côtes-du-Rhône-Villages Cairanne "Vendange Chabrille". A powerful, huge, red and spicy fruit nose announces this wine''s arrival immediately upon uncorking. The waiter smiles. The tannins are gentler than in the 2000, a light earthiness has begun to poke its head through the fruit, and it finishes full, rich, and delightfully. It''s hard to keep from sucking it all down before the cheese course, but somehow we manage.

Sex with apples

Dessert is presented as an assortment for the table, and we''re soon faced with a number of options. Two sharp sorbets (cassis and strawberry), a citrusy, spicy savarin with Grand Marinier sauce, a very nice chocolate tart, and then...and then...a dessert that renders me nearly speechless. It''s a simple tarte tatin, with regional apples (though the hostess insists that it''s not the apples, but the preparation, that makes the dish). These are perfectly caramelized into the most decadent, buttery tart I have ever experienced. Ever. Rich spiced apple "syrup" coats every buttery bite, with the gentle yield and give of the apples contrasting with the thickness as they release their acid; all is in flawless harmony and balance. This is a dessert for the ages.

Coffee is good, though unremarkable after the apple orgasm I''ve just devoured. But this wonderful meal deserves something else, and so I ask for the excellent little list of pre- and post-prandial sips. A La Nerthe Châteauneuf-du-Pâpe Fine catches my eye, and rounds off the evening with a delicate touch. Smelling very strongly of white Châteauneuf, and elegantly sliding into ripe, sweet apple notes, pear, and peach before it softly disappears, this is just what I wanted.

L''Isle Sonnante is the slightly upscale version of the perfect neighborhood restaurant everyone passionate about great cooking wants. Chef-driven, designed to showcase whatever he''s found the freshest and most inspiring that day, served with technique that flatters (rather than transforms) the ingredients in a comfortable atmosphere. It has the one Michelin star, and it should never aspire for any more; the formality would ruin this wonderful space. For me, it is by far one of the best meals of a trip filled with great meals, and I wonder if I could ever come back to Avignon without dining here.

Can''t get there from here

Carefully navigating our way back to the car (I manage to avoid further incidents, though I am still oozing and the bone underneath the sore is throbbing painfully despite my best attempts to get it drunk), we head back to the hotel. Along the way, of course, we revisit the joy of the procession of "Route Barrée" signs, like some strange sort of Burma-Shave ad for the French highway bureaucracy.

"Is this the right way?" Theresa wonders, concerned.

"As long as you keep seeing signs that say ''you can''t go this way,'' you''re on the right road," I respond, confidently.

France. It takes a liberal application of alcohol to understand it. But it''s worth it. In both senses.

"V" for "viticulture"

"Of course I did this for you, dear

Tomorrow is yesterday

To our shock and horror, we''re up early, refreshed and ready for another day of gastronomic indulgence. Once again, planes roar overhead; this time, though, something else is going on. Yesterday was apparently a rehearsal for an air show that must have taken place somewhere in the vicinity of Orange; close formations lead to incredible rolls and spirals and starbursts, with the jets painting the sky with the French national colors in their smoke trails. There''s a trefoil, then a heart with an arrow. It''s a majestic site.

Amid the din, however, there is some anxiety with our hosts. We had mentioned yesterday morning, before leaving for Gigondas, that we''d enjoy a tour of the winemaking facilities at our hotel. The desk clerk said that she''d talk to Mr. Haeni and try to arrange something for "late afternoon tomorrow, maybe the next day." We agreed. But this morning, Mrs. Haeni was much exercised about us "missing our appointment yesterday."

"But we didn''t have an appointment. You were going to try to set one up for today, or the next day," Theresa responded. At which point a mild disagreement ensued, the kind that one has so often in France when a French person has been clearly shown to be in the wrong but refuses to admit it, and the kind that one fears most of all in the south. "How could we have known we had an appointment the same day if no one told us? And your desk clerk clearly said ''tomorrow, maybe the next day,'' not ''today''." The logic, inescapable though it was, didn''t calm the dispute. But eventually, with earnestness and many expressions of enthusiasm for the domain''s wines, a compromise was finally reached; something would be set up for the next day, if possible, and a note would be left in our room.

Typical French punctuality

Me, I stood outside and watched the planes. It was safer that way. Though not for the first time, I regretted that my French was not up to the task of non-culinary and non-viticultural arguments; it was Theresa that had the argument with the hotel proprietor in Saumur who insisted that we had received no fax even though we could see it sitting on the fax machine behind him. It was her who had to endure the unforgivably obnoxious rudeness of one of the Drouhin cellarmasters, who had made himself unavailable for a phone call saying that the vagaries of French traffic were going to make us late, but available for a good ten minutes of unnecessary abuse and trauma at Theresa''s expense. And now she had to deal with this. What I bring to our relationship in patience and calmness in the face of great irritation, she sometimes has to employ on my behalf in France. It''s one of the many reasons I love her. Even if I was standing outside watching planes make pretty shapes.

1860 olive press

Why not take olive me?

The drive from Séguret to Nyons, to judge by the propaganda pretty much the olive capital of the known universe, is stunning. Rocky hillsides and chasms - not deep, but dramatic - are covered with vivid green trees and vines of every hue. Then the olive groves start intermingling with the vines. Soon, the countryside is a riot of agriculture, but still defined by chaotic slopes and rock formations, with the foothills of the Alps rising majestically in the distance. It''s another beautiful day. A warm day.

We''re here to visit the olive museum and taste some olive oil. The museum itself is an oddity; a ratty little one-room building stuffed to the gills with...well, olive stuff...designed to be toured sequentially but obviously redesigned by Picasso and Escher after a long night''s binge. Still, the processes are well-described once you can find the descriptions, though there seems to be an unjustified enthusiasm for olive oil soap as a product co-equal to olive oil in worldwide importance. We have a nice time for a very small entrance fee, but I admit I was looking for something more. Across the street is the boutique for the local cooperative, where we pick up a large number of what will be our Christmas gifts. Wine, soap, confiture, honey, olive snacks, vacuum-packed olives...and, of course, the oil. The large tasting bar offers more wine than oil, though we do get to taste the difference between the organic and non-organic oils (we prefer the organic). We walk out with a large basket of various local products, and a free bottle of wine given to us by the enthusiastic clerk.

The vineyards of Saint-Maurice

From there, we search the streets of Nyons for an open boucherie. It''s not easy, even well before noon, but we eventually find a small cul-de-sac of stores, where Theresa can pick up some tomatoes and I can get my usual slab of terrine (this time, an olive terrine and a multi-layer Bressande pâté served up by a friendly butcher who, hearing me say something to Theresa in English, tells us that the restaurateur across the street has cooked in New York).

The serpent in the garden

We drive a few kilometers west, and find a splendid picnic spot next to the factory-sized Saint-Maurice wine cooperative (open, though largely unattended except for a procession of sleek tanker trucks; whether they''re there to fill the trucks or themselves with wine, I don''t know), and uncork our gift bottle, a l''Union des Producteurs du Nyonsais 2000 Vin de Pays des Côteaux des Baronnier. Plummy, blackberry fruit with a little earth, a little tannin, and a little simple pleasure. This wine doesn''t say much, but it doesn''t need to. It''s the kind of good, honest $3 wine that can be found all over France. And with the enjoyable picnic food, it''s a friendly if unassuming match. So of course, in the midst of all this relaxing pleasure, I start to feel a rant coming on. I open my notebook and start scribbling. Why do wines like this, at these prices, seem to be the near-exclusive domain of the European countryside?

Scribbling furiously, mid-rant

Why is it so impossible for something like this to be made in the United States? Why do we instead have these horrid industrial wine-like confections that bottom-feed like genetically-engineered purple tofurkeys when we could have such simple, honest expressions of grape and sun for the same price? Why do we accept the crap that the industrial wineries force-feed us?

Clearly, I need to relax. I need to calm down. I need to find some sort of spiritual center lest I lose sight of what a wonderful time I''m having in France. How appropriate, then, that we are on our way to an appointment at Domaine Viret. A winery with obelisks and pyramids in his vineyards. A winery that practices feng shui. A winery that is designed around "concentric energy circles" and astrology. A winery that is not just biodynamic, but cosmocultural.

I can feel my chakras stabilizing already.