by Keith Talent
We left Sète and I was in far better form, appetite back and ready to roll. Thus began the day devoted to the Roman ruins of the south, first to Van Gogh’s stomping grounds of Arles to see the Colosseum, then back tracking to Nimes to see it’s Colosseum (memo to fellow travellers, there’s never a need to see two colosseums in one day. Arched pile of rocks, arched pile of rocks. Got it). Then onwards to Avignon with a quick detour to see the Pont du Gard aquaduct. We found a great little hotel on the courtyard of the Chateau Neuf du Pape, literally new House of the Pope, from a time when the papacy was housed in southern France instead than Rome. Asked the girl at the desk where to go for dinner. She made a couple recommendations, the first choice being closed for some unexplained reason that night, but if appearances were indicative, it would have been excellent (hyper modern design meets classic Provencale cooking). Damn. Went to her second choice, the excellent La Fourchette, a quirky yet elegant joint with the owner’s small dog roaming the bar, and superb food coming from the kitchen. My entree was the standout dish, an excellent plate of grilled calf’s liver in a raisin sauce with a lentil pancake served separately. My wife’s dessert of meringue studded with pralines and bissected with a layer of ephemerally light vanilla ice cream sweetened just-past-savoury egg custard. It was a triumph of restraint.
Up the next day and into the stuff of Peter Mayle books: the Luberon.
Yes, if you’ve detected that we move quickly, you’d be right. We can achieve most three day itineraries in this way. We don’t rush so much as just keep moving, resting periodically for restorative cafes or glasses of wine in the afternoon. Hit all the main towns, the frighteningly vertigo-inducing Gordes, the dull Bonnieux and the home of the Marquis De Sade, Lacoste, where we drove up to his supposed abandoned castle only to find it had been recently purchased by Pierre Cardin.
We didn’t let that dissuade us from having a walkabout, and nor did the local teens feel compelled to not use it as a scooter rally point. We felt we were in good company.
It was getting late in the day…time to look for a hotel. The Luberon held no appeal, it’s of like a supermodel, pretty but kinda dull (or so I suspect – my supermodel interactions are limited the the theatre of the mind). We decided to head out towards the wine towns of the southern Rhone – maybe make it halfway before finding a spot.
We drove through some of the most dismal industrial towns imaginable. No point in stopping, no reason to waste a night. Accosted by the town drunk, a rather large old lady in the supposed heart of the illegal truffle trade of Monteaux, we decided to press on in a rain storm. Made it over the mountains to the gorgeous little town of Vaison-la-Romain. Found a B&B in a castle in, and yeah…it would do. Asked the innkeep for dinner suggestions, he told us to check out a new spot just outside the castle walls called Bisto du’O, or Bistro Doh! as I referred to it in my best Homer Simpson voice. But sometimes jokes just don’t cross cultural boundaries. He thought I was mental.
What a find.
Started with an appetizer-sized amuse of smoked fish served on a cracker on top of a gel. Hmmm, interesting. First bite is delicious, second it becomes cloying and heavy and completely overbearing. What the hell is this? Ask the waiter. It’s a gelatinized mussel nectar cream. Note to chefs, do not gelatinize mussel nectar. I read something in a London paper over the weekend, that said chefs under a certain age should be prohibited by law from dining at The Fat Duck, as they come away with inspirations they do not possess the skills to execute. Seemed to sum this situation perfectly.
Next was a clean soup of roasted fennel with a scallop carpacchio toast on the side.
Very good. For my main I chose salmon two ways. The first was the best burger I’d ever eaten, studded with emerald like vinegary cornichons on a soft-as-a-kitten brioche bun. Second was a grilled de-boned steak, tartar sauce on the side (why am I eating seafood an hours drive inland? And why is it so much better than the fish we ate on the coast?).
Cheese and desert followed. Two people, four courses, two aperitifs to start then a nice bottle of wine: 78 Euros, including tax and tip. And people don’t believe me when I say France is cheap. That’s a hundred and twenty bucks by my calculations, and a third off the most miserly Vancouver equivalent I can think of. Vive La France!
Get up the next morning, scramble over some old rocks formerly arranged in the shape of a castle wall, and then off to the vineyards.
