Thumbelina's French Feast

A lot has been said about French food – especially on this blog. I’ve had a pretty extensive vocabulary of French dishes since first memorizing the lyrics to “Be Our Guest.” It’s hard to really say anything new about it. So, I thought I’d take a look at some French staples a little differently - in miniature.
It all started with this little quail egg croque-madame. We saw her in the window of a traiteur and snatched her up like a dog with a waggly tail. Croque-monsieurs have been around for at least 100 years in France (it becomes a 'madame' when you add an egg). One could call it the original of french fast food, something quick and cheap that someone can order at basically any cafe, bistro or brasserie. We heard one American tourist describe it as "either the cheesiest ham sandwich I've ever had or the meatiest grilled cheese." I'd say it's both. So, just how popular are these croques? McDonalds serves a Croque McDo.
French cheese is a cultural icon. It is the ending to every meal, even the most casual set-menu. There may be some sort of cheese spread served before a dinner, but the selection of fromage is always, always at the end. Sometimes, a grand selection is wheeled over on a cart. Sometimes, the options are passed around the dinner table on a cutting board with a cheese knife. Something that stood out to us this trip was the fact that, to all our hosts and servers, chèvre was chèvre was chèvre. No matter if it was new, aged, from here or there, it was always identified simply as “goat.” Cow and sheep cheese were referenced by "name" (place of origin - roquefort, morbier, saint-nectaire, etc).
The same is somewhat true for quiche. Whether at the boulangerie on our daily baguette run or at a fancypants gourmet shop, quiche was simply labeled “quiche” – even if there were more than one option. When miniature quiches like this are readily available, it’s difficult not to eat too many. As a whole, they were particularly delicious – airier than most and always under two euros. FYI: whether leek or cheese or vegetable, it’s a safe bet that there will be little bits of ham involved.
A croissant dipped into coffee for breakfast. A croissant bought for the walk home from the bakery, hands filled with baguettes. A croissant’s tip being gummed at by a baby in a stroller. They are everywhere. Sandwiches aren’t really served on them all that often and you don’t necessarily see someone buying a dozen of them, but they make the perfect snack. (Teenagers seem to prefer chocolate croissants). This is a miniature croissant, so you can see how large the normal ones are – and oh, so buttery.
Of course, absolutely everything is washed down with red wine. Even at road stop picnic tables, a bottle was set on the table. For the record, there definitely seems to have been a big shift to beer over the last few years. At cafes, we saw mostly beer, rosé and pastis. But when there is food involved, vin rouge still holds court amongst beverages.

Blogger's Note: I really wanted to purchase a roasted quail to include as a "miniature roast chicken" - but we only ever saw them raw. It just seems blasphemous not to include poulet roti on this list of staples (baguettes are a given). Each morning, the rotisseries are wheeled out of storefronts onto the sidewalk. By mid-day the smell of roast chicken fills the air just about everywhere. Beneath the rows of spinning birds are usually a mound of potatoes, being generously showered by dripping juice and fat.

Two Places That Feel Like Provence

Provence’s coast can feel like a long line at the post office. The prettiest interior towns can be overwhelmingly full of tour busses and gift shops. Unfortunately, the region can’t be written off. Despite all the hassle, the high prices and the swarms of tourists, Provence is as elementally beautiful and charming as any place on earth. A great way to appreciate it is in a small city, places often forgotten about in the rush towards villages and sea; two great towns are Apt, capital of the Luberon, and Aix-en-Provence, one of the most exciting cities in France.
Provence is much like the American southwest. There is an otherworldly purity of light, a dry heat, a smell of wildflowers and scrubby earth. When it rains, the ochre dust is mixed into a red clay that coats shoe soles and splatters car doors. Pinion pines are scattered everywhere, crouched low to the ground. Walking the narrow streets of Apt, passing local cafes and bars, the town feels soaked in the regional elements. At Le Fournil du Luberon, a great bakery in the center, the pine-nut cookies are reminiscent of shortbread and fragrantly nutty.

A new discovery for us, Apt is small and satisfying. The succinct old town is labyrinthine and many-alley’d, with a blue collar sensibility that has been smothered in other Provençale towns. Cafes and bars are friendly, restaurants are cheap and low-key, the paint and plaster is chipped and bleached. It's an overlooked spot, perhaps too rough for the guidebooks, all the more appealing for it.
At Resto la Manade, on a small side square, the food was a hearty mix of Provence and regions further west, with touches of Basque influence. A wonderful take on Bouillabaisse, the fish stew was served familiarly in a bowl with a rouille, but each component was allowed to shine on equal terms. Instead of the often muddy heaviness of similar dishes, the dish was light and heady with saffron. The taste was reminiscent of the land – an herby, red earthiness on the edge of the sea.
Aix-en-Provence is different from forgotten Apt. There are tourists and throngs of University students, boutiques and Irish pubs, scores of restaurants and a constant, thrumming energy. Most small cities would be engulfed and left soulless by the crowds and cameras, but Aix is too vibrant for that. It's cosmopolitan and sure of itself, and remains exceptionally pretty.
The central town is reserved for pedestrians, with narrow medieval streets and creaking, ancient buildings. A town of fountains since roman times, there is splashing water everywhere and a multitude of tiny courtyards and squares. Cafe tables flood the plazas, where tourists and locals mingle to sip pastis and rose from morning until midnight.
Perhaps what has kept Aix-en-Provence so pleasant is its lack of beaches. Not far to the south, the Côte d'Azur stretches, with overdevelopment either rampant or fanatically (artificially?) kept at bay. Aix is also a large enough town that tour groups can dissipate into the crowd, and the university ensures a perennial youthfulness. Awash in color and light, filled with trees, it remains the city of Cézanne, but is less museum-like than it could be.
It's hard to argue with driving or cycling through Provence's countryside. It's inarguably beautiful. Drifting by olive groves and vineyards, a timeless quality can overtake the senses. But stopping in the wrong place can be stifling. In Roussilon, we lasted only fifteen minutes, in Cassis, we felt hemmed in by the horde. It's a sad fact that Provence is almost too beautiful - everyone wants to see it, and it can look tawdry under the onslaught. That's why its so easy to fall in love with Apt and Aix. Instead of exploited, they've either been neglected - to great effect - or thrived, and feel so perfectly Provençale.

A Country Fair

At first, we couldn't tell if it was a cattle auction or a country fair, the way the beef cows were all dolled up for the occasion. A sign on the road read "Chateau-Chervix" and we followed to see what sort of castle we'd find. The chateau stood on a hill, at the end of a long straight street lined with houses - but something more interesting was happening down on the ground floor. Cars were parked along both curbs and everywhere in between. Music played in one direction and crowd roared in another. Naturally, we squeezed into a spot and went investigating.
Chateau-Chervix is not just the name of the castle, but also the small commune at its foot. And it probably doesn't see this sort of action on any old Saturday. Today was the agriculture show, the country fair, if you will. I've never been to a country fair in America, but have read a few Garrison Keillor accounts and feel pretty confident in my conclusion that they are pretty universal. The whole town was there - probably the surrounding towns, too - to see the animals, mingle, eat and drink. Old men wore their best suspenders and young kids wore pink and brown ice cream smiles.
It was fairly sparse, but festive. Men huddled together to discuss the bovines (and, most likely, gossip about their owners). Lively debates went on under newsboy caps and straw hats. It was a very hot day, which drew some attention away from the animal stars and drove more people into the shaded areas.
I'm sure people perused the local produce and chatted up the vendors a little bit longer because of the umbrella salvation. Cantaloupes and a myriad of onions and garlic were for sale. Nearby, a woman stood behind a table with a few pieces of used, mismatched glassware, a wrapped leg of cured ham that was being raffled off and a television which was plugged in and showing a rugby match. On the tv was a sign that read "40€. Cannot take until game has ended" (in French, of course). I wonder how many wonderfully amusing signs I've missed in countries where I didn't benefit from a translation.
A few children were being lead around on ponies and a number more were kicking up dust in a dirt bike ring. This young woman led her horse around in a circle right beside a loudspeaker which played country western music. The songs were in English, but I couldn't tell you if they were American or not. The flag draped over the horse sure was. It put a smile on my (particularly patriotic this weekend) face.
Understandably, predictably (and enviably) most of the country fairers were congregated in the refreshments tent. The din was almost at a roar and the tables were strewn with emptied cups and plates. This is where things began to look particularly French. The food was sold as a three course set menu: local dried & cured meats, local beef with vegetables and goat cheese for dessert. A far cry from the sausage grills or (dare I say "french") fries usually served in these settings. Red wine was the drink of choice.
As we left, the band was arriving, hurrying toward the tent in their traditional costume. The women clomped along in wooden clogs, worn over thick woolen socks. I couldn't imagine how hot they must have been. But this is tradition at its most fun, I think.

Castle Hunting: Legacy of the Hundred Years War

The rather sleepy regions of Limousin and the Lot are home to an astonishing number of castles and fortresses. With a greater concentration than anywhere else in Europe, it's known as "the land of 1001 chateaux," a term with only slight hyperbole. The wooded hills are this packed with fortifications for a good reason - during the heart of the middle ages, this was one of the most fought over border areas in the west. From the beginning of the 14th century into the middle of the 15th, the division between the French and English forces ran through here, somewhat following the Dordogne. This was the epicenter of the Hundred Years war.

Above, the red stone bulk of Château de Castelnau-Bretenoux, near Carennac.
The Hundred Years war is actually a term that encompasses three wars that occurred between the house of Valoise - who are most often referred to as "the French" - and the House of Plantagenets - who are usually called "the English." The national identities are something of an oversimplification, as the Plantagenets were actually French lords (originally of Normandy), who had conquered England and taken the throne. In essence, it was a civil war at its genesis, with eventual defeat causing the entrenchment of the house of Plantagenet in Britain. Still, the soldiers were generally English and French, and the perception is still that it was the British who were attempting to conquer France.
The war brought about a change in the way Medieval European warfare was waged. Permanent fortifications were suddenly much more vital than they had been before, as the use of long-range weapons grew in importance and the supremacy of heavy cavalry declined. Castelnau-Bretenoux is an excellent example of the siege-based fortress. The advent of the English longbow was significant at the beginning of the war, when the square, 13th century keep (visible at the top right) was effective because of its compactness and tactical location. As the use of gunpowder increased towards the end of the conflict, the walls were expanded and platform-type artillery towers were added at the corners, where batteries of heavier weapons could be located alongside archers.
The Chateau de Jumilhac, like many of the castles in the area, was converted almost entirely into a residence after the conflict. It is described as having "the most romantic roofs in France," which is interesting to a point. There certainly are a lot of spires and peaks - it reminds me of a thicket of conifers. The 12th century origins of the castle are mostly hidden beneath the ornate exterior, but Jumilhac retained some of its defenses long into peacetime, only being fully converted and fitted with windows recently.
The Hundred Years war actually lasted a little longer than a century, spanning from 1337 to 1453. Despite being victorious, France was left much more destitute than England, which had profited somewhat from looting and from exploitative taxation while in power. Also, casualties in France were much higher than in England, with millions of civilian deaths in addition to the military losses. The country's population was cut in half, with some regions suffering even more - Normandy, for example, had only one quarter as many people after the war as it did a century before.
Fifteen years ago, I visited Les Tours de Merle on a family trip to France. One of the first castles I'd ever seen, the wooded ruins overlooking the river Maronne made a big impression on me. Known locally as the "citadel," the towers make up a very odd configuration, being generally separate from one another, and in very close proximity. From the 12th to the 14th century seven aristocratic families all built fortifications here, side by side, like a cluster of swallow nests. The defense of the outcropping was communal, though occasional fighting occurred between residents and residencies.
The towers are mostly in ruins today, though they were able to survive until the 17th century and only became decrepit because of disuse. Located deep in the steepest and most isolated part of the region, Merle was difficult to attack and also difficult to maintain. As the local population dwindled during the renaissance, the castle began to be seen as less important and was abandoned. Notice, though, the formerly lavish appointments inside. There are a multitude of old chimneys and hearths, which are rare in such old and compact structures. It is thought that the seven families were a tad competitive in the design department, putting an emphasis on comfort over safety.
France's great size and numerous castles were eventually the undoing of the English. The shift away from cavalry meant that conflicts took much longer to be decided. Instead of quick battles between mobile forces, the fighting turned more towards protection and attrition. Because all-out attacks on the new castles were so costly, sieges and patience were necessary. But in a land as large as France, with so many defended positions, it was difficult to maintain the armies and supply chains to make this type of war feasible. Even as British lords and soldiers profited from the war, the English crown was brought to the edge of bankruptcy, and popular opinion swung eventually against the monarchs. In the end, the resources simply weren't there, and a weakened English army was pushed back by the resurgent French.

Gypsy Kitchens: Foraging for Galettes

Creperies outnumber cafes, bistrots or brasseries in Bretagne. This is their place of origin and the galette has been a staple food for centuries, as the buckwheat from which they are made is a hearty, durable grain that can be grown in barren places. It's more popular sister, the crepe (made from wheat flour), came around a lot later. She may often be sweeter, but she's got a lot less substance. We prefer the savory variety and were in fine position to enjoy two simple, no-cook meals that felt almost elegant, wrapped in market fresh galettes.
Our campsite is next door to Abbaye de Beauport, a beautiful, half ruined/artfully preserved abbey dating back to 1202. Its front yard is filled with lambs, Shetland ponies and - most importantly - blackberry bushes. So, one morning, we went over and gathered some berries in the last bits of sherbet dawn light. A few joggers passed through and there were already footprints in the dewey grass where another forager had been. Gently thorned and thistled, we emerged from the bushes with a small, plump bounty.
Two little glass jars of thick, sheep yogurt and a drizzle of Kingdom Mountain Farm (VT) maple syrup and we were done! There have been so many mornings where we've wished we could just whip up some pancakes for breakfast, and we could if we just bit the bullet and bought some flour. (The bags are always just too big). This felt somewhat the same, involved no cooking, no cleanup that couldn't be done by fork and felt wonderfully local.
The galettes were a little less stale the day before, at lunch. We purchased six from a cart at the impressive Paimpol Tuesday market and then went about trying to figure out what exactly we were going to do with them. Our solution was to treat them like tortillas and just fill them on up until they were dense enough to hold and bite into. A "food log," some may say. Red leaf lettuce made up most of the bulk, along with Tunisian salad from a traiteur, a ripe tomato and a curry-mussel spread from a local canned fish shop.
But we couldn't walk away from the market with just that! So, of course, there was cheese. And a small leek quiche that was much lighter and airier than expected. The tunisian salad had some shredded cheese in it (along with cabbage and raisin), so there was no need to include this fromage in our galettes. We were more than happy to munch on them solo. They were mostly similar, both soft, washed rind cow cheeses, but the wedge of langres had this great layered texture that went from rind to lactic gooey goodness to an almost powdery doughiness at the center. The galettes may have staled a little overnight, but these only got better with age.
In Paimpol, galettes are almost always eaten with a pitcher of cider, sipped from these dainty little cups. Being as our galette meals were breakfast and lunch, we refrained. Though, looking back, a bottle of nonalcoholic cider may have been nice.

Prehistoric Installation Art (Maybe?)

It’s all Merlin’s fault. Well, according to local legend. No one is certain why the megaliths in Carnac, on the Morbihan coast of Brittany, exist or how they got there. But a popular theory is that they are an attacking Roman legion who Merlin (the Sorcerer, not the blogger) turned to stone – hence, their arrangement in straight lines. It’s evident, as soon as you arrive in the town, why this is such a baffling place. As soon as you spot a field full of stones, another directly follows, then another and another. You can walk for almost an hour with megaliths constantly in site. It's already curious enough that pre-Celtic people arranged enormous local rock without the use of machinery, but they did so in staggering numbers. In fact, the 3000 plus standing stones in Carnac are the largest such collection in the world.
The handling of these sites is a hot button issue for locals. There are people who think that it should be more open. There are people who think that it should be left more alone. A lot of this is a desire not to return to the extreme tampering of the past. The formations date back to 3000 – 4000 BC, so it’s understandable that they haven’t been left completely alone in their 6000 year life span.
The stone formations in Carnac were literally rearranged to allow for the construction of a road and overturned pieces were re-erected carelessly. Before that, granite was quarried out of necessity and tomb structures were re-purposed as sheep shelters. Nowadays, sheep are back on the scene as part of a current management experiment that utilizes their grazing as weed control.
Over in nearby Locmariaquer, three impressive structures within a stone’s throw (ha!) of one another have been made into a sort of open-air museum. You pay to get in and are then free to walk around. Among them is the Table de Marchauds. Its engravings are cool despite the cheesy lighting design. The large slab of stone that acts as a roof has a partial engraving of an ox. The rest of the animal can be found on two other stones, one of which is miles away. The trio, put together, would be one heck of a monolith – but I think it’s even more amazing that they reused the broken pieces. An example of man’s first attempts to recycle.The star of Locmariaquer’s show is the Grand Menhir Brise, which is the largest prehistoric monolith in the West. The granite standing stone now lies in four pieces, which some believe is a result of purposeful toppling and others think was an accident or casualty of time. In a way, its division makes it more breathtaking. Each piece seems so immovable on its own that you can’t possibly imagine it being erected as a whole, measuring over 20 meters long and weighing 220 tons. (It also makes for a better picture, I think).
My favorite part of our megalith day trip was visiting Géant de Manio. It was the tallest, standing menhir we saw (21 feet tall), hence its christening as “giant.” For the record, it was actually discovered on its side and was re-erected in 1900 – but I didn’t know that at the time. Tucked back into the woods, it didn’t seem like it was part of a master plan or grand design like the rest of the structures. It was sort of like the difference between finding a grave stone in the forest as opposed to in a cemetery. There’s almost something meditative about walking up to it and feeling your own meager strength and physical means versus its mass. Its solitude makes it even more perplexing. Why this? Why here? And how??

The Forgotten Coast

Brittany's northern coast is a beautiful, salty stretch of land. This is far from the sand and glamor of the Côte d'Azur and the Aquitaine coast, and has none of the tourist and war hubs of Normandy or the dramatic cliffs of Picardy. Even the southern coast of Brittany is better traveled, with Morbihan's broad beaches and milder weather. But there is a lot here, in what is called "La Côte d'Emeraude" (the "Emerald Coast"). One senses that it is a forgotten region, with things to discover and unspoiled, quiet stretches that are both lonely and lovely.
The tourism that is here mostly spills westward along the eastern stretch of land. Visitors to Mont Saint-Michel and the Normandy hordes make small inroads and daytrips along the shore, most making it no further than St. Malo, the medieval walled city on the bay. Cancale, where we stopped for oysters, is busy, and some of the beaches along that way are sandy enough for lounging, but the crowds thin as the land grows rougher.
By Paimpol, about halfway out Brittany's spit of land, trawlers and fishing vessels outnumber pleasurecraft, and the waterfront cafes are full of crewmen. The land might seem meager, but the waters are rich with life, and small boats are able to turn a profit in the surrounding coves and further out in the English channel. More than half of France's domestic fishing haul is caught by boats based in Brittany. Three quarters of the domestic mussels are also sourced from here, and 100,000 tons of seaweed is harvested annually. Pretty harbor towns are tucked into coves, where men still sing sea shanties in the evenings and wear galoshes and slickers.
Brittany is a Celtic land, with it's own dialect - Breton, or Brehoneg in Gaelic. While only about three percent of the population is still fluent in the tongue, the local accent is heavily influenced and the culture is decidedly different than the rest of France. Bagpipes play on the radio, beer and cider are more popular than wine, the widespread catholicism has more Welsh and Irish traditions than French. The people have warily embraced France, but there's a long history of persecution against the Bretons, and a strong sense of independence.
Still, some of the things that are most stereotypically French have their roots in this stretch of coast. Galettes and crêpes were created here, and the black and white striped shirts (and wide straw hats) of lore had their origins with the "Onion Johnnies" that travelled from Roscoff to Great Britain in the 19th and early 20th centuries. Onion farmers from the coastal region used to travel by ferry to England's coast, where they would sell their harvest on their bicycles, dressed in the distinctive clothing of the region.
The small, slate-roofed town of Paimpol, where we have been staying, was once an important cod fishing center, with scores of boats and an economy dominated by the catch. For hundreds of years, and as late as the 19th century, crews left from here in search of "la morue", spending stretches of six to eight months on the sea. During the latter part of Paimpol's history with cod, the boats spent most of their time off the coast of Iceland, where the fish bred and spawned. A fascinating museum in the town details the life of the seamen and features a great collection of model ships and nautical paraphernalia.It's strange to see people sitting on the pebbly sand in sweaters and long pants, their hair whipped by a cool wind. A cold coast conjures up involuntary thoughts of sun and warmth, but none of the heat-innebriated, uninhibited surrender of a July weekend. A kind of mournful quietness comes over every seaside town in September. It's accentuated what we've felt here, that we have come to the end of both France's land and its frenetic season. Our campsite has been growing emptier every day, the seaside walkway feels more deserted. A period of cool weather and rain has swept in off the straight, and the smell of autumn mixes with the rotting kelp and salt air.

Gypsy Kitchens: Moules à la Bretonne

We cook mussels a lot because they are so simple, cheap and delicious. There may not be another dish that is this easy and feels as luxurious. On the northern coast of Brittany - Breton in Gallic, Bretagne in French - camping near the chilly, autumnal Atlantic, it finally seemed like the right time to do a Gypsy Kitchens post about this standby. We dressed them up a little, giving this version a regional twist and a more substantial broth (heartier, one might say, to get us through a cool night in the tent). Here, then, is our cider and white-bean recipe for mussels, what we are calling "Moules à la Bretonne."
Of course, Mussels don't require a recipe at all. Often, there is nothing worth doing to them except adding a little wine and garlic, steaming and serving. The idea, here, was to focus on the broth. This region, along with Normandy, is famous for its apples and ciders, and it seemed appropriate to use a local tipple in place of the typical white wine or vermouth. It should be noted that this is a hard cider, and a dry one at that. One could use a sweet, fresh cider, but it might be a little overwhelming. To make everything even more fun, we chopped up some ginger to accompany the shallot and garlic in the base.
Using a good dose of olive oil or butter, soften a finely-chopped shallot or yellow onion (or two shallots, or even a few leeks) in a pot that's large enough for all of the shells. Cook the well-minced ginger with the onion - use as much as seems right to you, anywhere from a tablespoon to several - and notice one of the best smells in cooking as the two roots mingle and become aromatic. Add the garlic when the onions are just on the verge of browning, cook a few seconds more, then add the white beans. Because we're on a campsite, the beans came from a can. Warm up the beans, then add the mussels, some cider and cover the pot.
Backing up a moment here, it might be worth mentioning that picking through your shellfish beforehand is always a good idea. Discard any badly broken mussels and any that are wide open. If the shell is open a little, and stays closed when you squeeze it, it's likely fine. Also, pull out any bits of detritus stuck in the cracks, and - if you can bare one more step - give the guys a good rinse in cold water before cooking. We probably don't have to tell anyone not to eat any mussels that haven't opened when they're cooked, or any that smell foul. One more note - there is a lot of salt in most shellfish, so adding more is never necessary, no matter how much you want to.
Cook the mussels for about twelve minutes, keeping the pot covered the entire time. If the shells haven't opened after twelve minutes, cook them for another three or four minutes. Then - and this sounds silly, but it's true - you're done. Just put the mussels in bowls, ladle some of the broth over the top and eat.
The broth was actually even better than we'd hoped. As the breeze got cooler and more blustery, we huddled at the picnic table, eating bowl after bowl. The local mussels were delicious and tender. The slight sweetness of the cider counteracted the brine in the broth to perfection, and the beans gave the juice a nice focal point.

A funny thing about mussels - they always fill you up more than expected. After finishing the dishes (there weren't many to do), we got into the tent feeling stuffed. Listening to the sea and the wind outside we talked about how satisfyingly maritime the evening had been.

Here's the recipe, as laughably easy as it is...

Moules à la Bretonne

Ingredients:

3 to 4 pounds mussels, cleaned well and bought fresh

1 can white beans, rinsed

2 shallots, minced

3 tablespoons ginger, finely minced

2 cloves garlic, smashed and minced

2 to 3 cups dry, alcoholic cider

Olive oil or butter

The Process:

- Clean and rinse the mussels, discarding any broken or wide open specimens.

- In a pot that is at least 1 and 1/3 the size of all the mussels (to account for the shells opening and expanding, which they will), lightly saute the shallots and ginger until the shallots have softened, but not browned.

- Add the garlic and cook for a few moments. Pour in the beans and cook until warmed through, about two minutes.

- Add the mussels and the cider and cover tightly. Turn the heat up to medium high, lowering if the pot begins to boil over.

- Cook 12 minutes, or until most of the shells have opened. Remove from the heat and serve as immediately as possible.