Month: May 2012

Seafood Feast in Sete

“Do you want to go to Sete? He says we will have the best bouillabaisse of our lives…””Done!” I shouted out immediately from the next room. Now truly, who on earth would say no to such an offer? Who would even need to think twice? Not me. I will go an-y-where for good food. 
It turned out to be the stuff of dreams. The little family run restaurant that is so off the map that even locals get lost trying to find it. A gorgeous room filled with an eclectic art collection and low lighting. No music but the sound of the gulls bobbing on the waves just beyond the front door. Yes, please.
Our ami had called ahead to reserve bouillabaisse for four people. He knows the father, who is the owner, the son is the host and the other son the chef. We met them all. They treated us very kindly. Parce que je suis gourmande or because I am piggy, I wanted to start with oysters. We were after all sitting  at 15 yards from the place where some of my very favorites come from. Our friends shot each other a glance and then looked quickly down at their menus but said nothing. The oysters! How they were divine! So creamy. I couldn’t get over it. And so perfect with the white Clairette that had a fair whiff of sea salt in its golden  bouquet. As the host/brother/son approached, hefting a silver platter, I started shaking my head in disbelief. Mais non! C’est pas possible! Mais si, it is possible. We each had our own dorade, plus enough rascasses, crevettes, encornets, rougets and some other extremely special (although alien-esque) fish that this was no mere bouillabaisse but a bouillabaisse royale. My hands trembled with excitement before…

…and were folded into a prayer of “Please, no more, I beg you” an hour later. Now kids, I can eat. I really can. I can put away enough sushi for a family of four and relish every bite. When I was invited to partake of the incredible, mind-blowing menu degustation at L’Atelier de Jean-Luc Rabanel in Arles, I was the last person partaking, even when my charming French honey was clutching the table. But here alas, I cried defeat.
Ooh la la, c’etait beaucoup. The crispy little toasts with aoïli, the saffron-perfumed gravy to dribble…all just phenomenal. A second bottle of wine washed the whole lot down and no, we did not get dessert.

Needless to say we were feeling rather…pleased with ourselves…at the end of such a meal. Certain members of the party even felt the necessity to pose “like fishhhermen!” Yep, that’s right. While we finished our desperately needed coffee the chef took our Golden Retriever, Ben, for a walk on the beach, blithely ignoring the sign stating “No Dogs Allowed.” The sun finally pushed the clouds out of the way. And our visit to Sete? Oh yes, it wasn’t half bad either…

Le Galinette
2 Place des Mouettes, 
34140 Mèze

Tel.: 04 67 51 16 77

Open only in the evenings in the summer, a good idea to reserve and folks, Google Map it!

Sunday in Sete

Now, I do love the Côte d’Azur, I do. Or I have come to love it after my dives for the rare pearls of peace and the past. They can be hard to come by. Not so on the wide-open other side of France’s Mediterranean coast. If authenticity is what you seek, Sète, a half hour south of Montpellier, is ready for her close-up. But only if you are shooting a documentary because this girl has a day job. A polar anti-thesis to Cannes, it is the second largest port on the French Mediterranean after Marseille, one instigated by Louis XIVths own Colbert. Materials of all sorts are launched across the world and the fish is as fresh as you can dream of (more of that very soon). The Grand Canal winds its way between the Bassin de Thau and the shimmering sea and yet the ambiance entirely lacks the frothy romance to deserve its nickname as “The Venice of Southern France.” Locals, of whom I was lucky enough to have one show me the ropes, call it an island but it isn’t quite one. Sète is of the in-between in several senses. Prosperous times have been followed by rough economies and then back again. And it shows. This is not a place to come looking for a dream but to wake up (hopefully not in one of the sailor’s bars) and realize that you just might love it somehow, despite or because of the rusty iron balconies, the grated plaster, the glint-eyed sea captains that will threaten a punch if you take their photo. But there are also hipster hotels, a contemporary art museum staffed by pouting young folk draped in black, a burgeoning photo festival and one of the world’s most beautiful concert venues in a Vauban fort positioned for sunset over the waves. I just want to take my hankie and polish the corners a bit. But Sète might prefer to be left just as it is, to follow the ups and downs of its own tide.

Antiques in Wine Country

Now, that title got your attention didn’t it? I thought it would. And yet, I have to admit to a slight exaggeration, a bit of tricherie. Let me explain.
Yesterday found Remi and I, along with our faithful Golden, Ben, bumping over the cobble-stone streets of Saint-Paul-Trois-Châteaux… 
…when the sight a giant octopus of a Murano chandelier stopped us in our tracks. We turned to look at each other with an eye-brow raising “Are you seeing what I am seeing?” expression as we are used to seeing rusty bedpans on offer for 500€, not such exquisite creatures as this.
My internal radar started beeping. It is the one that leads me to fine eats and good bargains. I love that radar, I can tell you and it makes my heart flutter. 
As soon as we stepped in to À la Chine d’Antan, I knew that we had, as the name suggested, stepped into a store that was antiquing as it used to be. Upon spying several items that caught my interest with my first glance, I knew that it was time to put on my Poker Face. Especially when I saw the prices. I immediately started making imaginary purchases in my head. 22€ for a gold embossed Limoges porcelain perfect for a vanity table. 37€ and 28€ respectively for two very fine 18th-19th century prayer books (although one might have been in ivory, so nix that). 
38€ for a gorgeous heavy gold-tassled Art Deco mirror. You can’t even find Art Deco in the South!
Only 30€ for this miniscule brocade covered seat, not ancient but perfect for a coiffeuse. If I had absolutely any use or space for this, it would have come home with me.

This well-framed lithograph of a sneaky spy-looking fellow redhead caught my eye at 68€.
And this sweet lavender evening bag with its row of pearls for only 38€? Change that brass clasp for an upside down triangle and hello, Prada. N’est ce pas? 

By now, I knew that I had to calm down as we weren’t at all in the area to be shopping (we were there for one of Remi’s photography projects) and that I had better hurry up for the same reason. Alas, it wasn’t about me! 
The space is gorgeous–all vaulted stone–and the owner, Samuel, clearly enjoys creating his vignettes. Incense wafted gently and jazz tooted. We struck up a good conversation and would have stayed much longer if only time had permitted.
I was a bit on overload. There is so much that I didn’t even take in until I got home and saw the photos again. The perfect Napoleon III mirror and the Thonet style dressing glass, for example.
Remi and I both left with several items on our minds. I know that monsieur would have walked out with the fantastic maquette de bateau under his arm if only he could. And me? Thump thump thump (that is my ticker going again)…le lustre! Regarde…cet…lustre. Why oh, why is it that I always find exactly what I have been searching for (and many of you know how very long I have been looking for it) right when I can’t afford it? Le Sigh Douloureux.

Time to fess up. Saint-Paul-Trois-Châteaux is not exactly in wine country, per se. But at an easy as can be, under an hour drive from Chateauneuf-du-Pape (and only a half hour from Cairanne), it is as the over-used saying goes, worth the detour. Not to mention the surrounding countryside is sublime. More about that another day.
And as for the lustre? Hmm…shh…I am still dreaming so please don’t wake me! And you will notice, I did not mention the price. That, my friends, is a secret that I am keeping to myself.
À la Chine d’Antan
Rue de l’Esplan 
26130 Saint-Paul-Trois-Châteaux.
samuel.escudero@orange.fr
Unfortunately, they do not ship, internationally or within France, but I did ask…
Wishing you all a wonderful weekend full of moments that make your heart beat happily!

The sound of joy

Some days are quite simple. Others no, of course not. Life is messy, even in Provence! And certainly a mix-tape of thinking, music, memories and imagined discussions plays on a loop in my head pretty much from the moment I open my eyes to see the day to finally surrendering to les bras de Morphée. But then there are moments when something so wonderful shocks me and everything falls into place. That is why for me, the sound of joy is silence. Not the brass-band fanfare that it is often portrayed to be.

This morning, I woke with my arms above my head, hands firmly in the Namaste mudra. I wondered at the oddity but felt as tangled from my dreams. So imagine my delight when I opened up my email to find news from my Sister, Robin: she is coming to visit in the beginning of July! Any lingering spider-webs immediately vanished like sun hitting the dew. My Sister! Coming here! I shouted out to Remi and he immediately came to join me, his smile mirroring my own. 

I am often asked “Does your family come to visit often?” and I always respond “When they can.” Airplane fares are only increasing and as both my Mom and Sister work full-time, they have tight schedules to wrestle with. So when either of them mention the possibility of a visit I hold my breath internally and try not to show too much outward excitement. Until the ticket is bought. As it was today!
As Robin has her own business (she has her own branch of the wonderful Music Together and is a brilliant teacher), we have always had an especially difficult challenge of finding the right time for her to visit. And so…she has never met Ben. Oh my, can you imagine? He loves the beautiful ladies (my Sister is a looker) and I know that he is going to be her shadow while she is here, pulling out all of his most suave moves to win her over utterly. I cannot wait to for them to meet.

And if that weren’t an exciting enough prospect for my Sister, Robin has only been in Provence at Christmas time. Those of you that have been with me for a while know that those Mistral winds rip and roar all winter long. We have shivered together while I tried to show her some glimpse of the beauty that I know. How I hope to take my Sister for a picnic in an olive grove in the Alpilles and walk with her among the lavender fields. All I know is that I will spoil her rotten. And Chef Remi will too. It’s his speciality.

For those of you that have never lived abroad, it is worth considering what it means to be so far from the rest of your family, something that I have written about often. Leaving your home country is like throwing a net out to sea–and you are the net! Fortunately, I have a wonderful partner in Remi. But he knows as well as I that I will revel in “Sister Time.” July, come quickly please!

Ah, speaking of joy, I would also like to extend my deepest, most heart-felt “Hooray!” to our dear, dear friends Sonny and Michael, who have just remarried. Sonny is a beaming 75 year old bride and as gorgeous as her name would suggest. Michael, ever the suave gentleman, must have been one dignified groom. If only we could have been there to sabrage the champagne. But our friends are forever close in our hearts. Many thanks to you both for showing us that the long path of life is winding but that is nothing to be afraid of.

Let Love Rule…

On a warm September evening…

I will tell you a little story. Some of you may know it already but I find that the best stories bear repeating often. Especially if you have a muddle of a memory like I do, it keeps them alive and in a row, like counting beads on a rosary or a mala. 

Sometimes good does indeed come from bad, light follows the dark. So it was that we discovered Arles. Remi, my incredible professional photographer companion and I had made the long grumbly drive down from Paris, where we had been living together in very cramped quarters for two years. We didn’t dream of the South like others did, didn’t fantasize about Provence or the Luberon. No. We headed to Perpignan for Visa Pour L’Image, widely heralded as the world’s most important photojournalism festival. But somehow the sadness of the photographs that we saw overwhelmed us that year, the peacock strutting of competing photographers clashed as utterly inappropriate. So we left. Before the final ceremony, before the last pop of a champagne cork. 
We drove towards the Camargue with the windows of our old Saab rolled down. Waves of hot wind slapped our cheeks, flamingos flapped off into the distance and white horses stomped through a bleached out landscape like galloping ghosts. It cleared our minds. “Why don’t we stop in Arles?” Remi suggested, breaking a silence that seemed heavier than air. All I knew of Arles was Van Gogh. But that is enough, isn’t it? “All right.” 
The doors opened for us. Literally. We found a charming room available at the Hotel de L’Amphitheatre, one that we could afford, on a busy Saturday night, the first of September. Already as we ran our hands over the cool, cream stone walls and gazed out at the whistling leaves of the platane trees dotting the tiny square below, something was stirring. We got our first glimpse of the Roman Arena as we stepped out into the late afternoon. We let ourselves get swept up in the crowds rolling down the hillside towards the remaining exhibitions of the Rencontres d’Arles, another photography festival and yet a world away. A warm, golden light wrapped around us as did the notes from a jazz quartet that had set up camp on the cobbled street. Inside an abandoned church, we looked at the work of Harry Gruyaert’s “Rivages”. We turned ourselves towards beauty and that stirring surged up into tears. We knew. This was where we were ready to be.
It took us over two years to make the move. At the time, we were travelling nearly non-stop as a photographer/journalist team for different magazines in the French press. But it was worth the wait. In 2005, we packed up a truck, arriving in the dark at 1am with a Mistral wind roaring off the Rhone River to welcome us. Eventually, we welcomed an incredible Golden Retriever, Ben, into our family of two. I am as charmed by those old stones, by that light that is like a friend (albeit a moody one) as I was on the first day. And although I don’t know if I will be here forever as Remi and I are nomads in our hearts, for now I am happy to be Lost in Arles.
I want to thank the lovely Vicki Archer at the exceptional blog French Essence for having mentioned me, this blog and Arles today. I thought it only polite to introduce myself with a little curtsy to those of you that might be visiting for the first time. Bonjour et bienvenue! 


Dreaming of a where and a when

One of my favorite aspects of travelling is imaging myself living an entirely different life in my new found environment. And I like to dream big. It doesn’t cost anything does it? Just a dash of wistfulness perhaps. So be it…

The click of my satin court shoes echoes on the parquet running the length of the chateau. Back and forth I pace, pouting over a disagreement with my portrait painter. How many times must I tell him that I will…not…wear…purple!? I grab my cream silk morning coat and storm out into the labyrinth of boxwoods. He can wait.
From the cool shelter of my Renaissance cave, I turn the pages of an original Rimbaud manuscript that has been brought to me from Ethiopia in a gilded box, pronouncing each poem out loud in a rhythm that descends with the cascading waterfall. Gradually lulled, I curl up on the fur-lined blankets that cover the uneven dirt floor.
I fling open the shutters of my maison du village to twitter along with the birds outside my window and giggle at the burbling brook that spills over from last nights rain. “Bonjour, Madame Robinson! J’ai un colis pour vous!” shouts out the postman. When I open the beribboned box that he places in my hands with a short bow, I am overwhelmed by the perfume of three dozen roses sent all the way from Paris. I burst into song as I turn to close the door, like a joyous Edith Piaf.

My Sister is getting married today. We have opened up the chapel to air and brought the largest table out into the garden. Thirty bottles have been lined up for lunch. In the kitchen I check on les quiches and les gougères, I pour broth over les rotîs, I smooth out the purée. I have already lined platters with asperges, others with les huîtres, a long board groans with les fromages. Next to me, Amandine tries to roll out the dough for her famous millefeuilles while swatting away the minou, who leaves paw prints in the flour. We can hear the first car down the road as the family begins to arrive.

Or maybe I am content just in this little cabanon, working hard to bring the vines back to life, to shore up the beams under the roof, to splatter a fresh coat of lime-wash on its pebbly walls. I listen to the windmill crank, bringing up water from deep inside the earth and know that I have all that I need.

Hoping that you all let yourself dream a bit over the next few days, no matter where you are. Thank you so very much for all of your kind responses to my previous post and for your music as well…

Bon weekend! 

Disappearing act?

Just a wee hello out into the void or perhaps not so. My blog friend Jeanne of I dream of put the fear into me that I had, indeed dropped off the Blogger Dashboard. Off the dashboard and into the fire? I certainly hope not. But while I realize that this may be a sort of “what is the sound of one hand clapping?” kind of proposition, would anyone that does see this mind letting me know if I am indeed “still here”?  I actually thought of calling this post something of the sort but was all too aware that I would be called out for going “deep” yet again. Sigh. My friends. I have had so much goodness coming from you all of late. And for those of you that have asked for larger photos, well, as you can see, it is possible, although they won’t stay at this XL size any more than the gorgeous pivoines could stay with us forever. If only.

And as it is a mega rarity that I put out such a random post, I will take advantage by wondering what music are you listening to right now? I would love to know!

Thanks for being here…

*Update: You are all so amazing! Thank you for the reassurance. Must have just been a coincidence of a drop in visits and Jeanne’s question. But I need to go missing more often. Especially if it is an excuse to hear what you are all listening to–I love how the choices fit so perfectly each persons personality. Brilllliant! *

Cannes and the Ile Saint-Honorat

Sometimes I get the jitters. I see something so beautiful that tzzt, tzzt my brain freezes up and does not compute. Who gets nervous in the face of extreme beauty? Well, sometimes, I do.
Yesterday I experienced one of those moments but for now, I will have to keep it under wraps and protect my memories with the austerity of the body guard above on the Baie de Cannes. 
Oui, Cannes! And although the opening ceremony of the 65th Festival de Cannes will take place this evening (and yes, Francois Hollande was also sworn in as the French President today! Woopwoop!), our visit in April was a world away from glitter gowns on the red carpet. Time to replace the swank of the silent screen with an entirely different power play.
Remi, Ben and I watched the rooftop of the Carlton sink as our ferry pulled out to sea. After 20 minutes of a gentle rise and fall, we had arrived at the Ile Saint-Honorat, a shaded drop of rocks some 1000 meters from the Croisette. So close and yet so far…
There has been a monastery on the island for sixteen centuries. Yes, centuries. In roughly 410 AD, Saint Honoratus came to live as a hermit on the uninhabited island known as Lerina. By 427, monks from across Roman Provence had followed him to found a thriving monastery.
Many trials followed. Despite its eventual fortification, the monks were exposed to numerous attacks by the Saracens, young monks were captured and sold to Spain, the property was pillaged by pirates. And yet they persisted until the French Revolution, when only four remained. The island was privatized and sold. A certain Mademoiselle de Sainval, then a famous actress, turned the chapels into her receiving rooms.

But in 1859, the monastery was bought by the Bishop of Fréjus. Ten years later, Cistercian monks from the Abbaye de Sénanque took up residence, a tradition which has remained until this day. There are 30 monks currently living on the island, which is, rather amazingly in my mind, open to visitors such as ourselves that are looking for a respite, our numbers restricted only by the capacity of the ten ferries that run the course from the mainland each day.

Peace seems to fall from the trees and whisper on the waves. A bit too perfect, it is hard to take in.
Just beyond the neighboring Ile Saint-Marguerite the Alps puncture the sky with their chalky white peaks. Is it mirage? How can the snow and sea be so close?

Words fail me, my eye starts to falter. My camera could not capture the truth of a blue beyond believing no matter how much I wished it to.
Better then to admit defeat and go to lunch, n’est-ce pas?  

Yes, there is one restaurant on the island, La Tonnelle, and it is good. My only advice would be to immediately reserve for lunch upon stepping off the ferry and go early enough to be assured of ordering the menu at 25€ for two courses or be prepared to pay the piper of La Carte. After taking a sip of an  excellent, slighty salty white wine (made by the monks) that I had ordered while waiting for our table Remi turned and said, “You did see that the wine is 9€ the glass?” I nearly did a spit take. Next time, we will bring a picnic.

 
Clouds lowered as we finished our repas and yet the island was all the more appealing for it. 
The many shades and textures of the shoreline popped into relief.

I fingered scrubby brushes of palm while nervously watching Remi caper on the rocks. That man will do whatever it takes to get his shot. No jitters for the professional. Ever. 
As we headed back to the dock, I saw a switch of feathers rustling in an olive grove. A wise pheasant who had chosen his home well. Somehow his presence wasn’t the least bit surprising, only reassuring.

What a dramatic shift as we stepped back upon the shores of Cannes. The silence that reigns on the Ile Saint-Honorat swiftly imploded.
But it is a joyous Super Bass of beachiness that radiates all along the Cote d’Azur, especially early in the season when everyone still believes their luck is too good to be true…
…that they may find just the right wave…
…to surf on a surge of a beauty–the simple kind–all the way home.

I love everything, three

I love Aix-en-Provence. Those of you that have been with me for a while have already read about my rapturous, snap-happy moments here as well as here. It is just. So. Elegant.
And as some of us were in the doldrums, some a bit out of sorts and another over-worked we decided to take a trip to down our anti-stress med of choice: beauty.

 
Because there is really nothing like a whop of biddy-bump (the above two photos were my view during lunch on the left and right respectively) to turn that frown…
…upside down, my friends.
However, it was hooot. As in 32°C or nearly 90°F! Holy Cannoli, not even my perspiringly chilled glass of rosé could put out that fire. And with Ben along (who was offered water everywhere–Vive la France!), we knew that it would be a shorter stroll than usual.

We did stumble upon the Maison d’Emmaus, the local branch of the amazing Emmaus Organization. For those of you that have not heard of it, think Salvation Army with a more active role in changing the circumstances surrounding the lives of the needy. Always good to give to a worthy cause yes?

So I was all too willing to fork over some truly small change for a new/old linen pillowcase, a bronze silk shirt and a lady-like Lancaster handbag. Time to take a short ride on the karma train! 

But my wandering eye had obliterated my companion’s patience (why is that?) and so the rest of our visit would have been a jog if it wasn’t just too warm for that. Have you ever seen those poor tourists that are literally taking pictures while walking? That was me today.

 But one element that I really felt strongly, despite the nearly manic race back to the air-conditioned vehicle, was the electric energy of the café culture, something I had noticed before but was especially zapped by it today. The people watching was divine and the eaves-dropping delightful…The sweet push of youth finding their way during just another gorgeous day in Aix.

The title of this post, while a link to the others, is misleading. While I do love everything in Aix, there is really only one thing that I need to write today:
I love you, Mom!
I know how lucky I am to have such a beautiful, funny, intelligent, giving and all-around incredible person for a Mom. I hope that I tell her enough on other days beyond her celebration tomorrow.
I wish that I was there with you.
And as if this post wasn’t already hopelessly too long (Editing, Heather, editing!) I have a ps. or two. First off, the zucchini blossoms were just too fantastic not to share. My honey stuffed them with a shrimp, crab, bready-eggy mix and lightly fried them. Madness on a plate. Either that or I was delirious from eating them.
And secondly, look at this painting that I found while searching for information on Boulouris! Do you believe that it is the ocean pavilion of Pax, My Dream House on the Cote d’Azur? I do!
Have a wonderful Sunday everyone!

Edible

Isn’t that the oddest word? Edible? Yet, unlike its French counterpart mangeable it does sound like the act of gobbling. And what is going on with the Gallic translation of “yummy” into “miammy” or worse “miam miam”? I take my eats seriously, no need for childlike lingo here.

Especially in the spring when the market takes on Cradle of Mankind proportions. Or at least that is how I felt yesterday when the maliciously grumpy herb guy (truly he intimidates me so much that I often can’t get up the nerve to speak to him) suddenly decided…to like me. I decided to brave his steely glare as he finally had zucchini blossoms after a month longer wait than usual due to the lack of rains. Can you imagine my shock when instead of charging 12 for 2,50€–clearly a bargain–he threw in everything that he had left with a flick of the wrist, mumbling something about “being special to the ladies”? I was dumbfounded but credit the strength of my perfume with this miraculous behavioural transformation and won’t hold my breath for it to happen again.

Flowers you can eat! Easily amused, I giggled over the concept and placed the fragile packet on top of my other purchases, the Queens of the panier. I found it indescribably reassuring that the stems were still caked with dirt from his garden and the interiors dotted with the remains of morning dew. Stray petals clung equally tenaciously inside the basket of ruby red strawberries.

Speaking of those edible jewels, after fingering the remaining money in my pocket, I returned to buy yet another pot of strawberry jam from Tata Yette. This year, I am storing up after a woe-fully mismanaged previous year–it can’t be underestimated how quickly the jam will disappear and the sadness that will produce when it does. Madame Yette is a big woman with an equally round smile and does not take it for granted that I have shunned the other, more professional artisans for her home-made confections. They have the power to heal, I tell you. Remi was cured of a life-long aversion to the fruit after just one spoonful. Woe betide me if I dare set foot at my Mom’s doorstep without an offering of Tata’s abricot jam at the ready–but that is another story…better to breathe in the scent of the thyme citronée and relax. 

We certainly deserve to. Over the past week tensions have risen and fallen with the fact and aftermath of the elections–something that admittedly I face with a twinge of regret. For when the times get tough, the French get cooking. Or at least my particular Frenchman does. The more harrowing the scenario, the greater his need pour s’exprimer. Lucky me as I indulged in two of my favorite dishes in recent memory: a porc roti that had, amongst myriad other spices, the smack of cinnamon on its crackly skin and individual coquelets baked in mustard that somehow seemed much more than Dijon. 
It was almost, almost enough to ask me for the return of Martine Le Pen (or as I call her in my more snarky moments Martine Le Pew) but not quite. And I tell you, I was just one glass of wine short of declaring that both meals were “miam miam”.