Author: Heather Robinson

Vintrépide, my new favorite restaurant in Aix-en-Provence

When I finally met Jennifer, who creates Gustia – one of the most under-read and wittiest food blogs on the web – at an expat luncheon last year it was friendship at first sight. We talked for hours until, shivering on the sidewalk in front of the now closed restaurant, we promised to meet again. But Jennifer and her “Hubby” are tireless travelers who split their time between homes in Canada and Monaco, so a year flew by before we were able to get together, on this occasion with each party meeting up roughly half-way in my beloved Aix-en-Provence.
Now, I am no fool. I let Jennifer pick the restaurant, Vintrépide. She is not a Food E – such as yours truly – but rather the real deal, having trained at Le Cordon Bleu for baking in both Ottawa and Paris, the Cordon Vert in the UK plus at the Peninsula Academy in Hong Kong – all of which she puts to good use for her charity Cakes for a Cause.  
Amazingly, Remi and I were the first to arrive (ah, yes, just a tiny tendency to be late here, tiny). We were given a cordial welcome and settled in to the sparsely decorated yet light-filled dining room. As soon as I caught a glimpse of the menu, I did a little “yesssss” happy dance. Every. Single. Dish sounded great. Now honestly, how often does that happen? And at decent prices? For such a touristy town as Aix, it sounded too good to be true.
Much hugging (ah, to be lunching with fellow North Americans!) and excited chatter ensued upon our friends arrival. Kirs were consumed and a bottle of big red was opened to air. It was nearly as an afterthought that we hurriedly placed our order so as to get back to the rapid fire conversation. 

However, the four of us were hushed silent by the arrival of our entrées, so promising were the plates. Remi and I both ordered the foie gras, served lightly sautéed with poached pears. With its silky texture and yet firm bite, we agreed that it was exceptionally good.
Jennifer and her Hubby, both long-standing vegetarians, choose the poached egg floating in a frothy mushroom emulsion and were delighted by the surprise bonus of black truffles shaved on top. Don’t you love watching the “melt moment” when a fellow diners face swoons with contentment? I do and they did.

Vintrépide is a new restaurant (barely five months old) and is just a two man operation, with a maître d’hôtel in the “front of house” along with the chef, both of whom work overtime to keep their guests in good humor. They are young and yet have plenty of Michelin-starred experience. I was impressed at how accommodating they were for our veggie-only friends, something that is not always a given in France. While Jenn and her Husband tucked into pillowy ricotta and spinach ravioli topped with baby market vegetables, Remi and I shared two different choices.

 I ordered the lotte, or monk-fish, as soon as I heard that it was wild-caught and not farm-raised (as are all of the fish that they serve, the other ingredients used at Vintrépide are locally sourced). You wouldn’t think that would be such a rarity to find this close to the Mediterranean but you would be wrong. The fish itself was positively lush, the preparation simple and yet très goûteux. 
Remi chose the cannette, or female duckling, which was accompanied by caponata-topped panisses. Again, the cooking was perfect, very juicy on the inside with just the right amount of pleasingly crackly skin. As with the foie gras, it was a nice example of sucré-salé, or salty-sweet, played with a light hand.

Because we are gourmande (to read a charming description on the difference between French ‘gourmandise’ and Anglophone ‘gluttony’ please click here), we brave ladies carried on with desserts that received a satisfied nod even from Jennifer. 
We didn’t leave until 4pm! Doesn’t that say everything? It was a Saturday, I had popped back to chat with the chef and he assured me that it was fine as he had much to prepare for the evening. So we stayed. And laughed. A lot. It was wonderful. 

We instantly felt right at home at Vintrépide. And that, along with an amazing rapport qualité-prix (price for the quality) using such uber-fresh ingredients, not to mention a varied but reasonable wine list, is why this is my new favorite restaurant in Aix. As Jennifer suggested, if they are able to keep this up, perhaps they will be garnering a Macaroon of their own in the not too distant future…
Vintrépide
48 rue du Puits Neuf
13100 Aix-en-Provence
Tél.: +33 (0)9 83 88 96 59
Reservations are suggested for Tuesday, Friday and Saturday nights.
https://www.facebook.com/vintrepide
Bon appétite! 


PS. I want to also send a very heart-felt “merci” to all of you for your comments on my previous post. They left me so moved as to be uncertain how to respond other than saying, “Thank you.”

Spirit lighting up the sky

In 1994, I landed my first professional acting job. I was able to join Equity, the union for theatre actors and was thrilled beyond belief. I was set to play the role of Isabelle Dyson in Athol Fugard’s complex and moving drama “My Children! My Africa!” at the South Jersey Regional Theatre. When I arrived, I  was introduced to my fellow actors – Maduka Steady, who is from Sierra Leone and Seth Sibanda, who is from South Africa, where the play is set. It sounds odd to say it now but at that young age, despite being surrounded by African-Americans in New York City, I had never actually met anyone from Africa before.
We attacked the rehearsal process with vigor. The days were long but incredibly rewarding. It was Maduka’s first stage production as well (although he had previously appeared in the film “Lorenzo’s Oil”) and we both had much to prove. A friendly sparring arose, which was perfect as it was also the basis of the friendship that develops between our characters, both 18 year-olds – Isabelle, who is from a wealthy white family and Thami, an honors student from “the location,” a black township. Each is struggling to find their place within the rule of apartheid and are further linked by the guidance of Thami’s professor, Mr. M. Mr. M has pushed Thami hard and has the highest of hopes for the change that he can bring. He is a harbinger. The three hour play unfolds with the crackle of electricity in the air and that same tension was most certainly present in 1994.
As is common in many small American regional theaters, the actors were put up together in a house. I was given the main bedroom, being the only woman in the production, while Maduka and Seth shared a room upstairs. In the evenings, we would eat together and share stories. I would often try to continue speaking in Isabelle’s accent in order to master the difficult timber. Each time that I did, I would eventually stop and ask Seth how I was doing. His response was usually the same: “Very good for a  South African that was raised in Ireland and spent a considerable amount of time in Japan.” We laughed so hard.
One morning when the show was already up and running, I was awoken by the sound of the television in the living room. Seth and Maduka were watching in silence. I tried to understand what I was seeing on the screen. Finally, Seth spoke, “He has won.” It was official, Nelson Mandela and his African National Congress had won the elections. Apartheid would end. I remember watching Seth stand there, a gentle man but strong as a mountain. We didn’t shout with joy or dance in celebration, there was too much history behind this moment. 
Of course, it was with great pride that we finished the run of the play, including performing as a benefit for Amnesty International. One evening after the curtain had fallen, I was about to head back to the house, tired after an especially bracing show. The stage manager called out to me, “Heather, there is someone waiting for you out front.” I walked towards the young woman standing by the foot of the stage with trepidation. “Hello?” She turned to me and I could see that her eyes were shiny with emotion. “Um…hi…um…this might sound odd but…I just wanted to tell you something…that your performance…in this play…well, it changed my life…the way I have thought about things. I wanted to thank you for that.” It was very brave of her to say and I thanked her in return. That comment – along with the exceptional experience of having participated in such an important play at such an important time – ended up changing me forever as well.
This morning, December 6th 2013, I pulled down my old script of “My Children! My Africa!” from a spot high on the top shelf of the bookcase. I had learned of Nelson Mandela’s passing the night before. I was thinking to Isabelle’s soliloquy that closes the play:
“…You gave me a little lecture once about wasted lives…how much of it you’d seen, how much you hated it, how much you didn’t want it to happen to Thami and me. I sort of understood what you meant at the time. Now, I most certainly do. Your death has seen to that.
My promise to you is that I am going to try as hard as I can, in every way that I can, to see that it doesn’t happen to me. I am going to try my best to make my life useful in the way yours was. I want you to be proud of me. After all, I am one of your children you know. You did welcome me to your family. The future is still ours, Mr. M.”

Nelson Mandela made the world his family and made it a better place for us all.
Thank you, Mr. Mandela for proving the power of Hope.
May your spirit continue to shine bright in the sky.

Snow on the lavender fields – a Christmas cocktail in Provence

It is so quiet in La Buissonade that all I hear is my breath flowing in and out. We are at our cottage rental in the Luberon and Remi has taken the dogs to go mushroom-hunting. I am doing yoga on the floor of the bedroom next to the heater – salutations to the sun despite the steady drizzle of rain falling on the other side of the plate glass door in front of me. Swan-dive forward, lift my heart, back into a high lunge, hover in plank and lower to the floor. When I peel up into cobra I am stunned to see the rain has morphed into a loose wet snow that gathers force as I continue. When I finish, my seated meditation is simply watching the flakes fall fast and furious. 
In the late afternoon, we pile into the Range Rover to go “see the snow” for on the upper hills it has stuck, stubborn. There is nothing to say as the car rolls along through villages illuminated by puffing smoke chimneys and not a soul to be seen. Nor as we pass the great oaks, the truffle trees sleeping. When we stop, it is for a reason. The moon has risen.

We know how special it is to see this icy dust on the lavender fields…

…the flowers warmed from yesterday clutch the snow like diamonds, jewels to the heart.
We stomp our feet and clap our hands to stay warm. Puffs of breath, that same in and out, escape like smoke through our grins. But it is beautiful. Finally, the bitter cold forces us to head back to the cottage but that moon is burned in my mind.

The following morning I awake with an idea for a cocktail. Now, not that I have the habit of imbibing with breakfast – ok, only in New Orleans – but I have had a theme hovering in my head, knowing that in the beginning of December, I would need to create one for the holidays for the By Invitation Only Series. Nothing could be more inspiring than the snow on the lavender fields under that bone hollow moon.

And so here it is, the Lavender Ice. 

It is so simple as to barely merit the title of cocktail. To prepare your glass, line the rim with honey then coat it by turning it upside down in a plate sprinkled with powdered sugar. There is your snow. Then prepare your liquid with 3/4 cold vodka to 1/4 lavender syrup (if you have trouble finding some, it could be easily made with simple syrup and lavender flowers heated, strained then cooled). I prefer my martinis stirred not shaken – sorry Mr. Bond – but do as you please. A stalk to lavender flower is the perfect garnish.
The result is simply wonderful if I do say so myself. The lavender gives a fairly smoky finish so as to balance the sweetness of the honey, making it appropriate for both men and women, plus it is festive without being gimmicky, there are no bells and whistles here. None are needed.
For we all know that the finest moments of the Holiday Season are just that, moments. Of love, of giving, of being together with an open heart. I have already had a great gift in those few truly happy moments with Remi at our own little party of two. So perhaps I am good for Christmas this year… 
…but tell me, what are you doing for New Year’s Eve? 
To join what I imagine will be a truly festive party this month at By Invitation Only, please visit Splenderosa by clicking here.

Balloon

My heart has swelled like a balloon with humbleness. That may sound like an oxymoron but it is how I feel. For I wish to extend my sincere thanks for all of the extremely kind compliments, encouragements and support both in recent emails as well as in comments here. There is still a tiny bit of room left on the table for talk of gratitude, isn’t there? I appreciate it more than you know. 
I have said it many times before but it is not a straight line to walk in this expat life. It zigs, it zags, it disappears entirely out from under your tapping feet from time to time. Good then to have others, even in the shadows, hovering with a piece of chalk in hand to sketch a few possible forthcoming steps. One, two, cha-cha-cha.
I thought that this article by Pamela Druckerman in the New York Times did a fine job of capturing the con-man charming conflict that can rise up within even the most well-intentioned of folks living over-seas and while it is written specifically from “an American abroad at Thanksgiving” point of view, I have a notion that it might apply to all of we “lost and found” types. You can find it by clicking here. 
I was also quite moved today while listening to the exceptional Krista Tippett’s On Being podcast. This particular interview is with Eve Ensler, a playwright and social activist who is most widely known for “The Vagina Monologues,” a piece that has helped bring awareness about violence to women and girls globally. However, the subject of this podcast is “A second wind in life: Eve Ensler on inhabiting the body after cancer” and it is just as ground-breaking in its perspective towards what is also considered a taboo topic in many societies. For anyone struggling with cancer (or their friends and family members), I cannot recommend it highly enough. But they touch on other ideas that make it worth a listen for the rest of us, such as how our past experiences can take up residence in our body and a gorgeous section on the Nature of Love. You can find the podcast by clicking here.

Which brings me back to where I started. For love is all around, n’est ce pas? In all sorts of different forms and sizes so much that we can miss the forest for the trees because we are too busy searching for  a Redwood. 

“I believe in you.” It is as simple as that and one of my favorite sentiments. I’ll try to remember, then let that balloon go and watch it rise and rise…

Beep-beep.

Have a lovely weekend.

Skipping towards Christmas in the snow

I know that many of you are in the midst of preparing for Thanksgiving in the States right now but this morning I awoke with an entirely different holiday in mind. 

When I opened the shutters, I cried out with a childlike delight “It’s snowing!”–one that for me is whisperingly linked with the spirit of Christmas.
Yes, a surprise gift had been left overnight on my doorstep. So, I bundled up in my finest, leashed up the puppers and headed out to explore.
It is the first time that I have walked Kipling in the snow and I was curious to see what his reaction would be.
He loved every minute of it, eating the snow and daring Ben to rounds of mad zoomies that I couldn’t photograph as I was gripping his leash with both hands!

But there was also stillness curled up within the movement.
I would look up to find Ben quietly watching the flakes fall. As intelligent as he is (and he truly is), he never knows what to make of snow.
Nor do I really. I never take it for granted in Provence…

…its comings and goings…

…the ephemeral draped over the historical so casually…

…like time’s open palm, hesitating before pushing open the front door…
…of what feels like Home.

And since I am not with my extended family for tomorrow’s feast, I will be grateful for my own little one.
Because every day is worth that. Everyday has exceptional in it.

So, for those of you to whom it applies, please try not to worry about the turkey any more than necessary nor the fanciness of this years particular blend of cranberry sauce. It isn’t really what matters. Just enjoy the act of giving thanks. And for the rest of us, well, why not too? Simply for breathing in and out or the quiet thought that while we may be far from certain ones, we most certainly are not alone. 
Put that thought under your tree and skip towards Christmas with me…

And oh! I just realized that today is the beginning of Hanukkah so my very Best all who are celebrating that as well. My goodness, it is Holiday Central here at Lost in Arles, isn’t it? Well, we are a festive bunch.


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