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Friday morning. Gray skies, one packed suitcase, one duffle bag, time to leave Le Cheval Blanc and slowly head back.
The plan is to spend one more night in the valley of the Loire, but closer to Paris. Then, one last night in Paris and we head back (on Sunday) to snow-encrusted Wisconsin.
How long will you be working on your post?
Give me another minute…
Two hours later I look up with my most beguiling smile. I’m done.
In the meanwhile, Ed has gone exploring the small town of Blere, where we have settled in for the past three days. Ed, the same person who has kept France at arm’s length for a few days, has now discovered two places and he wants to share.
A chocolate shop and a motorcycle store.
The first is easy. A dozen of this, a dozen of that – purchases for people back home.
Why a motorbike shop? You have to understand Ed to know the answer to that. Suffice it to say that when we pass through parking lots in front of famous sights, my eyes wander to the architecture while his remain longingly transfixed on an R100RT model of the BMW bike wedged in some obsolete corner of the lot.
Ask the shop keeper what you need to ride a motorbike here.
Say what? Why would I want to ride a motorbike here?
How else are you going to zip between villages the summer you spend holed up in France writing your book?
Monsieur at the shop is tres charming. Keep it below 45 kph and you don’t even need a license, he beams.
There you have it. Your solution to the excessive fuel consumption and expense associates with renting cars in Europe.
And when is it that you think I am going to do this?
Knowing you, once you get going on an idea – it’s a done deal.
Maybe.
I see this, btw, ...
...around every corner
Finally, we leave. We drive toward Yvay le Marron. It's a small village, with a population of maybe 100, not to be found on any map that I have. I picked it from my “restaurants with rooms” book, randomly, with an eye toward being closer to Sancerre.
[What’s so great about Sancerre? It’s not a tourist destination. It is pretty alright, all perched on a hill top, with fields of grapes, like skirt folds, cascading down on all sides. But it’s not as if there is some great monument or sight there. So what’s the big deal?
The big deal is that if a French friend (living in Wisconsin) tells me “I have this cousin, he owns 35 hectares of vineyards and produces a lovely little Sancerre wine” you can be sure I will say “oui” to an invitation to stop by and visit him and his lovely wife, right there amidst all those Sauvignon grapes.]
on the way we come across a market. with many snails and oysters and cheeses and, well, French stuff.
fresh and honest
How long have we been driving to this Yvay place?
Close to two hours.
Where the hell is it already?
Ask a mechanic at a gas station. I cannot direct you to a place that is not on the map.
Why a gas station? You think those who are mechanically inclined know everything? I’ll ask the first person we pass.
We have these kinds of conversations often, Ed and I. Point, counterpoint. Another round. And another. Today each fizzles into nothing. We are returning home soon, No need for either of us to win rounds. These are the final hours of jostling and prancing.
Let it be known that the first person we passed had the right answer. Yvay le Marron. A village in the middle of nowhere. With three stores and a restaurant called Auberge le Cheval Blanc, with rooms for overnight guests. [Yes, I do stay in places with names that are not Le Cheval Blanc. Okay, maybe not this time, but truly, I have chosen inns with other names.]
from the outside, looking in...to le Cheval Blanc
It is late afternoon. The drizzle is constant now. Le Cheval Blanc is charming. The prospect of driving another 100 kms on winding country roads to get to Sancerre and then turn around and drive through the dark back again is less than appealing.
But we do it. Already on this day we have paused for motorcycles, chocolate shops and provincial markets.Why would I not add a winery to the list of quintessentially French things?
Off we go.
trees in misty fields
well now. what have we here. would you believe me if I told you that one of the herdsmen kissed me while I got out to take photos and that he had wine on his breath and a wide grin and everyone laughed, including Ed?
clip and burn: shaping the Sancerre sauvignon stalks all winter long
Andre Vatan -- that’s the name of the domaine. We find it, finally, caves and all. Andre’s wife greets us and spends the rest of the afternoon talking to us about their wines.
an older "cave" of the Vatan Domain
We taste last year’s Sancerre and I give Ed one of those “I’d do you this favor for you if you needed it; wont you carry six bottles for me on the plane?” glances. I know what he’s thinking: she has her suitcase, her computer, her purse, her camera, her other six-pack of Loire wines, a picture that she bought that does not roll up and a bag full of food treats for her year ahead. What the hell is she thinking? He shrugs his shoulders, nods his head in a total I don’t get her way. He has one duffle bag. That’s it. [You have to pick your traveling companions carefully. A person who travels with only one duffle bag has his virtues.]
The drive back is an adventure. The drizzle is steady. The road curves and dips. We lose our way once, I forget to turn down my brights more than once. Eventually there is a sign: Yvoy le Marron 3 km. We are there.
Monsieur le chef Bruno is younger than monsieur le chef Michel of the past three nights. He is more adventurous. A risk taker. The food is creative and spirited. The butter content is down by about 85%. Not everything works perfectly. The crustacean trilogy is one third great, two thirds okay. But when it works, it sings. The fish main course is a wonder and the millefeuilles pastry dances.
fish in two sauces, risotto, tomatoes
yes, five cheeses on my plate
a napoleon, decorated
After dinner a new plan is hatched. Why leave the valley, why go back to Paris, why do any of it? Another night here and on Sunday morning we can hustle back to the airport. You can’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Le Cheval Blanc is a quiet little gem. We’ll give it another day.
The goal was to do three things on Thursday: visit a renowned chateau, drive to a Renaissance town and then finally enter the city of Tours – virtually in the back yard of where I’m staying. So close and yet so far, for I’ve yet to see this provincial center, this cathedral city with an old heart and a new zesty feel to it (so say the books).
But it was a late start. Blog posting takes a while. The decision as to where breakfast should be eaten takes even longer. Finally the big one: is Ed game enough to do these outings or should I venture forth alone? Three hours shot, just to think all this through.
It’s close to noon by the time we (yes we: Ed’s there, with the map, picking the slow winding country roads to get us to our places) set out for the Chateau Azay-le-Rideau. In truth, there are rewards to being sluggish and unmotivated. Really. The day speaks for itself.
We arrive at the Chateau and it is closed. I get one of those peers over the glasses that says – you done your homework on this one? We drove an hour to find something closed?
from the outside looking in: chateau azay-le-rideau
I look at the sign: Damn. It’s a siesta thing. Closed for a two and a half hour lunch break. Oh, the French.
Do we wait for it to reopen? No we do not. We’ve had our look. Nice. A walk along the river would be equally pleasing. The river, though French, does not take a two and a half hour lunch break (the rest of the town does. Everything but the bread store is shut tight, as if it were middle of the night, December 24th).
along the river Indre
the Indre, further from town
Here is an insert: what’s with Christmas in France anyway? Are they all ho ho ho about it? Sort of and with their own twist on familiar themes. There’s the matter of Santa. St. Nick already makes an appearance early in December here, so what sense is there in bringing in Mr. Claus at this late stage?
And why is Mr. Claus into windows here instead of chimneys? You have to think that a child or two would be frightened to have a fat old guy peering in through the window and yet they seem to love this concept of a peeping Tom in a red suit. Santas climbing the walls alongside buildings are everywhere.
outside, looking in
the pig is puzzled
Okay, back to this slow moving day. Our next stop is Chinon. We become obsessed with finding a tasty creperie for lunch (there were lots of them in town). Of course it has to be The Perfect Creperie. In the search for The Perfect Creperie, we found the perfect Renaissance town. Beautiful.
(one of) the gems of Chinon
But by the time we settled on the Chosen One, it stopped serving food for the afternoon. In fact, they all closed by 3. It was a great idea foiled by incomprehensible and obtuse opening hours that fail to take into account the needs of two tourists with a slow moving pace and cravings for the perfect crepe.
And so Chinon remains the town with memories of old streets, climbing Santas, a glass of Chinon wine at the local café and a leisurely time spent in the car (say like two hours) watching people pass by. It was almost dark before we were motivated to leave.
So finally we set out for Tours. Tours is big. Tours at rush hour is no fun. Tours looks daunting and intimidating for people who have not stepped into a crowded urban scape for several days now. At the outskirts of Tours I do a totally crazy maneuver and we retreat. To our own little inn with the chef with the sexy derriere.
For indeed, instead of expanding our palate and subjecting ourselves to another dining experience, we decide to not budge for dinner and eat, once again, the dishes lovingly prepared by monsieur le chef Michel.
I wont do the usual photo run. I’ll just put up things that puffed out at me. That’s enough. They exemplify well the state of the stomach after the meal. Oh, let me throw in the cheese platter, where once again I selected 4. Because it was our last night here. I had to!
an appetizing appetizer. inside: snails in garlic butter
she's cutting my fourth selection; yes, that's right, fourth.
crepes stuffed with Grand Marnier soufflé
and on the side, a little soufflé, because I really needed even more dessert.
If you want to see the details of just one chateau, I’m all for pointing you to Chenonceau. Inside and out, it’s absolutely stellar. Not to worry, Ocean does not like detail, especially of sights seen and unseen. So none will be provided.
But my traveling companion, Ed, and I drove there with gusto and zip. You could say that it was a chirpy moment.
chenonceau over the river cher
with a black swan, portending of things to come
Our next stop was to be at a local winter market, but now things proved more complicated. We were told it would be an afternoon market. It had taken place that morning. The only greens we saw were those being swept from the streets – traces of what once was and is no more.
And there was the matter of the castle (in this town of no market). How much would you spend to go inside the ramparts of a medieval castle? You should not make this decision at the top of the castle hill. You should make it prior to the climb. Turns out cheapness prevailed. And so we hiked down, me at a sprint to keep warm, Ed at a hobble to protect his ankle. Apparently cobbled streets hurt.
Then came the food debate. Ed wanted bread. It had been four hours since he had his fix of baguette. We pause at a café. No breads there. But am I the type to say non to a wonderful peach and chocolate concoction, wrapped in a flakey pastry, along with chantilly cream, along with a steaming cup of milky coffee? No. I eat and drink. Ed sits and twiddles his thumbs. Monsieur from the café is agitated. One eats and drinks, the other does not, how could that be?
a cake of peaches and chocolate
We return to the inn. Ed nurses his ankle, his silent lust for French bread and, as he readily admits – a sensory overload from all that is around him.
The passion according to Olivier
My senses, however, are still up and craving for more and so I set out to do one of my favorites: visit a regional wine maker and chat about the fate of this year’s crop. I am in awe of these people who work so hard and take chances and if the weather turns on them or a new bug appears, they lose their fortune and start all over, or commit suicide.
Madame at the inn calls madame of the Domaine of Olivier Deletang. Over the river and through the woods and past one village and another and I should be there.
I get lost three times. I pass villages, rivers, forests, vineyards. The roads are narrow, the explanations are in rapid-fire French, my maps – forget it; since when do maps show actual roads?
I arrive hours later. Dusk is setting in, the dog is barking, smoke rises above the field where a sole man is clipping the vines and burning the trimmings.
a winter rose at the edge of a row, distant smoke
chenin blanc grapes
How do I describe the extraordinary privilege of getting close to someone’s passion?
Inside, madame sets out 9 bottles. It’s always the same routine. She opens the lightest, youngest wine first, pours some, gives it to me and talks about its flavors, its composition, its strengths and weaknesses before moving on to the next uncorking. By the time she opens the full bodied Montlouis “Chateau Boulay,” I am ready for it. The wine explodes in my mouth; I’m dazzled, ready to dance with joy, laughing, crying, kissing, all of it (at least I feel that this would not be inappropriate). It is that good.
My purchases are minimal. I buy six bottles – a combination of light and profound – all that will fit into one carrying case. And I know I will never drink the finest of the fine. They have a shelf life of some thirty years at least, but this is not why I put them aside after these visits. I have never been able to find the right moment to open treasures acquired directly from the hands that have made them. When the right moment comes, I will be drunk with all that I have saved for it.
to take home
As I get ready to leave, I ask about the next generation. The vineyards have been passed down now since her husband’s great-grandfather began growing grapes here.
I have three daughters, she tells me (at least, this is my belief as she speaks no English). The oldest is in England, the middle hates wine and the youngest prefers the reds of Burgundy. I have hopes that the oldest will return soon.
Oh, daughters!
A return to Michel’s domain
The chef at the inn calls me over so that I can see what is on his TV screen. A French version of the food channel. It’s an American chef, he says with excitement. You remember his name? How can I confess that even us foodie types do not have the names of the culinary allstars firmly implanted in our brains?
Charlie Trotter? – I offer, knowing fully well that this guy is not our man Charlie. I’ve never eaten at Trotter’s but I’ve met him on his return visits to Madison. At least I don’t come across as a culinary moron.
I decide to stay at the inn for dinner. It’s too late to go searching for restaurants in the city (some thirty kilometers away). And I like chef Michel’s attitude. Ed says I like the looks of chef Michel’s little derriere, but he’s wrong. It’s the attitude and the food that keep me here.
I wont go through the details of the meal. I’ll bypass the introductory chef’s surprises, the pear sorbet, the final plate of cookies. But here, take a look at the wonderful grilled oysters and the tenderloin with an assortment of wild mushrooms. And if you’re still not enthralled, move down to the cheeses. Rap my piggy knuckles, I had four pieces this time. She insisted! And because I am a supreme oinker, I asked for the plate of assorted desserts. Yes, all seven of them, topped with the signature dome of sugar threads. And don’t think I’m not excited about breakfast, a mere hour away, because I am already mulling over the possibilities.
grilled oysters with tomato, braised belgian endive, in a cream sauce
tenderloin with wild mushrooms and a potato cake
4 cheeses 2 wines
7 desserts 3 sauces covered by 1 dome, for one person
Yesterday exhausted me. By morning I was still digesting the day's events and gastronomic highpoints.
But it was time to move on. The day, Tuesday, had to begin properly with a café creme and croissant. After that, it was a mad dash for the taxi, booked to take us to the station, where we were to pick up the little mini-auto.
We are off – heading for the Loire valley, chateau country – an apt destination for people who are not especially into the magnificent opulence of the chateaux.
[I drive, Ed navigates. Soon, Ed tosses the map aside as I refuse to listen to any of his instructions. Just because you navigated a boat from Maine to Cuba does not mean you know beans about French roads! It is proving to be that kind of a driving partnership. A hundred kilometers out of Paris I think of the days ahead and reconsider. Ed picks up the map and we forge ahead.]
I roll out of the car when we reached Chambord, the granddaddy of them all, the place that is so elaborate that it kind of makes you splutter. In December, this most popular tourist destination is completely empty. I do not have to wait a second to take photos with nary a soul ruining a pristine people-less composition.
The sky is so blue, so blue that it clears my senses and prepares me for the next pleasure. We head toward Amboise, home to another chateau. But that isn’t the purpose of the late afternoon stop over. This is:
Note several things. To the Q of would madame like chantilly cream on the tarte tatin or our home made vanilla ice cream? – I answer: both.
My travel companion sighs and loses himself in a book, blocking further witness to my food follies.
When were you last in France?
Oh, when I was maybe twelve…
Did you find it fascinating?
I pretty much avoided engagement. I kept my nose in a book the whole trip.
And this has changed now?
Meanwhile, my grin widens and my cheeks puff out. .
At dusk, we drive along the Loire, pausing now and again to watch birds dip their feet in the winter water.
It is evening. We arrive at a country inn with the ubiquitous name of Le Cheval Blanc. I have this very special French book that lists the country’s restaurant inns. They have very cheap, basic rooms appended to small eating establishments. These are not Michelin starred places by a long shot. But the chefs aspire to put them on the culinary map. They work their tails off to maybe someday make it in this crazy world of kitchen perfectionism.
Ed tells me: I cannot eat anymore tonight. The lunch of cheese and bread and tarte and chocolat chaud is still with me.
I glare at him and slam an imaginary door between us. I reassure madame at the inn that at least one will be downstairs for dinner.
The other one knows not to mess with me over food. We both make an appearance that evening.
In the meantime, we have a computer crisis. The chef-owner had written me back in the States that he thinks he has WiFi and that it may extend into other spaces of the inn. We have yet to detect any WiFi anywhere in this tiny town of not too many. My back up plan, dial-up, is also not working. It is dinner time. You, who feel the French are heartless and mercilessly wrapped in their world, I have said this before and I will say it again: I have come across the most caring, generous men and women here, on this side of the ocean, in this country of frites librés.
Monsieur le chef abandons his kitchen duties to putz and toy with my computer issue. Even Ed is transfixed by this. In the end, monsieur le chef takes us to his backrooms where la famille (granddaughters) is watching le telé. In the tiny office where he puts in orders for fresh langoustines and fraises de bois, he pushes aside his papers and allows us to set up shop with our machines.
Just let me know when you want to use my office. It is yours for the duration of your stay, he tells me.
At dinner, I reach a level of hero-worship heretofore unknown to any living soul. For this man of generous heart also has talent. Oh such talent! A quick run through the meal before I collapse. My dreams are already of the next day’s sights and pleasures. There are so many, so many to pick from. And they’ll begin at the table. Of course. It has to be so.
To amuse the palate, monsieur le chef proposes: broiled moules, baked chevre, hot tomato cappuccino, broccoli flan
My langoustines are the most tender I have ever had. Swimming here in a beurre blanc sauce, with slivers of veggies in a vinaigrette
Lobster, grilled with gruyere cheese, in a creamy crustacean sauce
Assorted cheeses to choose from: two. okay three, just for balance.
To clean out that palate: exotic fruit sorbet with rum
Custard with fraises de bois in a fraises coulis, dramatically domes by caramelized strands of sugar
Wake up, open the window, look outside onto the courtyard…
…and head down for breakfast.
Monday. It’s gray outside. The temp hovers near freezing, just a touch above, but it feels colder. I take the RER to the university. Of course, I get it wrong. I am plenty early, but I manage to pace and wait for my hosts at the wrong platform. The cold is wrapping itself around my new French tights. Soon it will pierce their thin close-fitting shield. After that it’s a short trip to the bone.
Okay, I am saved total embarrassment. The dots connect, I move to the right spot, we meet up. Madame professeur is totally charming. She would make me feel welcome if I showed up in sneakers and a cowboy hat. Even though she herself is dressed ten times more splendidly than I am. And I am in my best teaching duds.
We meet en masse, the whole lot of them – professors, administration, you name it, they are there. It’s all good. I don’t discuss business on Ocean, but believe me, it’s way better than good.
But it gets even more wonderful. There’s our working lunch, for instance. I follow them to the local brasserie. It’s packed. Students, faculty, smokers, nonsmokers – oh, I want to take a photo! But I am on business, Ocean and business do not like to mix much.
I proceed to order what they order: a salad, poached salmon in an herb sauce, apple tart tatin with chantilly cream, white wine. Ooops! Le grand faux pas! I order my espresso with dessert. Wrong! It is an after the meal thing. I don’t think I ever knew that.
The talk wanders to private lives. Women are so skilled at this. By the time we’re done with the (two hour) meal, they know and I know all that could possibly change the course of human history. At least our own human history.
Another set of meetings. More progress. We have ourselves the skeletal form of a deal. The professors here have done their work. This will be a joy to run.
I take the train back to the hotel and change clothing for dinner. I had taken a minute (or two) to stop and shop. At least that which will visible above the table will be presentable.
from Paris: comparative analysis, part 2
Walking briskly to the dinner, don’t want to be late. Oh… wait! I see fruit pates in a store window. I may get hungry later. Enter pastry store. Buy 4, okay 6, okay 8 pates. I take note of pastries. I take photo. I have great lust for these guys, I do.
on my way to the Lutetia
passing a square with empty tables; too cold to sit out tonight
Arrive at restaurant. Uff! It is big time special, over at the nicest hotel on the left bank. I know it well, I’ve used the bathrooms here before.
I am early. The waiter asks if I would you like an aperitif while I wait. Okay, it will loosen me up. I amuse myself by taking photos in mirrors and sipping an aperitif Lutetia: champagne with spiked cherries and cassis.
hi, me!
One by one, my deal makers arrive. They note my aperitif and order the same. We are all spitting cherry pits together. This is going well.
We order the identical main course because everyone at the table except me knows that we are in prime Coquille St Jacque season.
over a bed of leeks in spices
The conversation is mostly in French. I tell them I understood 90% of it. I exaggerate. It's closer to maybe 70%. And I keep missing the crucial line. Like, when they were talking about adopting a Chinese girl, I did not get who was doing the adopting: the whole lot of them? The maid? Some movie star?
But I did understand our talk of forthcoming vacations. Here's what I got. And this is honestly presented. Ocean tells it like it is:
Typical American law profs (TALP) – how do they spend their Christmas/New Year’s break?
- grading exams, keeping up with holiday demands and/or hating the holidays
Typical French law profs (TFLP) – how do they spend their Christmas/New Year’s break?
- hanging out with local friends and favorite family members in the Basque region, eating tons of good food and occasionally saying something profound, like isn't this great wine?
TALP during the break between semesters:
- huh? What break is that?
TFLP during the break between semesters:
- three professors, three answers:
o skiing in the Alps
o skiing in the Alps
o skiing in the Alps
TALP during spring/Easter break:
- it’s so short! Who can do anything! Maybe clean the house?
TFLP during spring/Easter break:
- time to open up the country home for friends and family. So come visit, we eat well! You are so on, pal!
TALP during big summer vacation:
- mow lawn. Oh, come on, we just took all that time off on New Year’s! Okay, maybe a day at Devil’s Lake is in order. You got problems with that?
TFLP during big summer vacation, two answers from two professors (I missed the third, I swear she said Guadeloupe, but I could be wrong):
- spend two months at favorite Michelin two star inn at the Perigord and one month hanging out in Sicily
- spend three months at Loire valley summer house.
I am walking back to the hotel, less briskly. I am thinking – I have people in the city of Paris that I would visit now. Strange. Paris, up until today, has always been just my own, left to memories that I created for it. It’s different now. Connecting with people changes things.
