A golden wine triangle - The best Red, White and Rosé in the Southern Rhone

map from www.vins-rhone.com

When I first visited Provence, I had no idea the Rhone appelation stretched down so far south. I had assumed that the Cotes de Provence region would hold my midday quaffers at local restaurants and I would be subject to miles upon miles of flabby whites and lolly-water rosés at the local Leclerc. To my glee, however, upon study of the map, I found some little towns and regions named similarly to words I recalled reading off bottles of spicy youthful reds in my own spicy youth while working at a forward-thinking Australian bottleshop of the 1990s (most Australians back then shunned any vin un-Antipodean). Gigondas, Vaqueras, Ventoux and the big daddy, Chateauneuf du Pape.

Southern Rhone encompases quite a large area starting just south of Montelimar, and stretching over parts of Gard and through the Costieres de Nimes, across the Luberon, and almost down to Aix en Provence. While the northern Rhone wines, particularly appelations like Condrieu, Hermitage and Cote Rȏtie are synonymous with high quality, unaffordable and unapproachable-until-aged wines, the Southern Rhone has been known to produce approachable and berry-fueled reds, and voluptuous and fragrant whites that find their way into 4 euro carafes in tables with brown paper tablecloths, and 6 euro bottles at the local hypermarket. There are many great ones, and just as much mediocrity, but there are three subregions that I find always herald good taste - Chateauneuf du Pape, Lirac and Tavel.

The three regions can be visited in a day by car if you're a master on the spittoon - or a week on a wonky bike, stopping at tiny campgrounds and auberges along the undulations. They rest on either side of Le Rhone just north of Avignon, a South-westerly diagonal line that works its way first through some very fine reds, then some incredibly flavoursome white, and finishing with some palate cleansing and serious dry rosé . I know, it sounds like I'm sending you in the wrong order, but after years of wine tasting in massive quantity, I can assure you, don't leave the big reds till last - your teeth will buckle under the pressure, and all you will taste are the phenols.

Chateauneuf du Pape is the most famous of my top three. The wines made are over 90% red, and rosé production is not permitted by appelation control. The land is gently hilly, and heavily stoned. So prolific are these large creamy-red stones in fact, that you may be inclined to think they have been brought in by the vintners - but it is in fact natural. They have the perfect trait of holding the heat of the hot summer rhone sun, then retaining it through the night, protecting the ripening grapes from cold and frost, all the way through until the Autumn harvest. It's one of the warmest areas in France, but cooled by a dry wind that barrels through the valley like an army, giving the reds that lovely hot/cool climate tendency to be both rich and fruit-driven whilst retaining acid, and only very rarely showing baked fruit characters.

Chateauneuf reds are primarily Grenache, with added Syrah (Aussies call this Shiraz), Mouvedre (Malbec) and Cincault as common additives to achieve balance. They range from spicy and raspberry-laden through chocolate and coffee, and towards blackberry and tar depending on the vintage, the winemaking and the blend. Our visit with the lovely and helpful Caroline Clapier at Chateau La Nerthe showed us all three styles in three vintages - 2008, 2009 and 2006 respectively. The whites were equally impressive, and must never be overlooked when visiting the region. They are both fiercely aromatic and medium bodied - a pleasure to get away from the thinness that usually accompanies fragrance. They are usually a blend of Grenache Blanc, Clairette, Roussanne and Bourbelanc - each has its part to play - the Grenache blanc the soft base, Clairette similar - neutral, and when picked early can deliver welcome acid and lively lemon flavours. Bourbelanc, the late-ripener can pick up extra fragrance and spice and provide a strong backbone. Roussanne, holds the most individual character, and provides the aromatics that I love so much.

Expect to pay anything from about 20 Euros upwards for a decent example of white and 25 for red at cellar door. You will get something fairly knee-wobbling at around 50 to 60 euros. In addition to the spectacular Chateau la Nerthe, with its baby roman arch and fairytale grove of Plane trees, visit Clos St Jean for a touch of finesse, Cave du Verger in town, for its cool cave and collection of many wines from the region, Domaine de Pegau for its history and organic approach.

Next, we move to Lirac. The geography is fairly similar to Chateauneuf du Pape, if slightly flatter, and lower down. The reds and the whites are both excellent, and ready to drink fairly quickly after release. Better still, it's rare that you'll pay over 14 euros for a bottle. It's a small area and wineries are more difficult to find. But don't be put off - it's the kind of place you're likely to stumble upon one of the Rhone's best kept secrets, drink up some apricot-hinted Lirac gold, some rosé that tastes like roses, and then, when you want to go back for more, you find that you can no longer find it. Anywhere.

I like to call the Lirac white 'poor man's Condrieu' - it's usually a similar blend to the Chateauneuf whites, but often with added Viognier, giving it that furry richness that only that grape variety can posess. The reds are warm and soft, less complex than their neighbour's gutsy ones, but possibly more drinkable. Again, the grape varieties are similar, but with less oak and higher yields, a little gentler. Not perfect, but still more than worthwhile.

Lirac is one of the best bets on a Provincial winelist. They are inexpensive (never pay more than about 40 euros per bottle - they are usually about 20-25), crowd pleasing, and sometimes spectacular - the whites in particular. Many of the wineries in neighbouring regions will also have Liracs avaialble for tasting, so look out for them in Chateauneuf and Tavel. Within the region, seek out the stunning Chateau de Clary, and the tiny Tour des Chenes.
Almost overlapping Lirac, you will find Tavel. As you traverse its gently swaying plains, you will continue to see signe "Roi des rosés, Rosé des rois" - the king of rosé and the rosé of kings, and it is. It is the only appelation in France to produce only rosés, but never fear if you don't like the colour pink - most of the vignerons also have land elsewhere, and the degustation will also usually involve at least Lirac and Cotes du Rhone wines.

The rosés from Tavel are usually deeper in colour than other rosés of France, and also completely different in taste and texture. The flavours are more complex than either Loire or Provence rosés, ranging from raspberry and pomegranite through to almonds, minerals and spice. They are also much drier, and braced with steely acidity that gives the term "lolly-water" a little rock around, whilst not entirely pushing it off its pedestal. Tavel winemakers will tell you that it's also possible to age the wine for up to ten years. This, I'm not prepared to test - I adore it when it's glowing like redcurrant jelly and jumping out of the glass with vivacity.

The king of the kings, so to speak is Mordoree, which can be found in the centre of the township. They aslo make a sterling Lirac rouge. Look for Aqueria, just out of town on the Route Roquemaure - and ensure that you also buy some of their Lirac blanc. Then go to Montezargues, where you can also get an eyeful of ancient architecture and a little olive oil.

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All the above recommendations are linked. Many cellar doors are open every day in summer (with the obligatory closing over lunch), and can be spontaneously visited. It is worthwhile visiting the office de tourism in each town, as they can provide you with a map of wineries, otherwise just look out for signposts - the bigger labels are usually indicated. You will often find co-operatives in town also, where many labels can be tried in one sitting.

Please use the spittoon, even if you are not driving. This leaves you able to have a glass of wine with your meal when all the wineries are closed, and also ensures that you don't appear a drunken lout. There is quite a lot of wine to be tasted - and you will usually get poured 30ml per wine - that's a whole glass of wine at each cellar door if there are 5 on tasting. Trust me, a little dribble down the chin is nothing compared to wobbling into a wine rack and causing a meltdown.

Caramel and Chestnut pie

Still in France, and finding it hard to stay gluten and dairy free. But the way I figure it, it's only the kids who are supposed to be on that diet, so I'm allowed to fall off the wagon for a month. I love the pastry available in the supermarket here - there are many kinds, brisée is a shortcrust pastry, and there are also some labeled as pizza pastry. I bought some gorgeous pre-made french puff pastry known here as feuillete. This utilises several ingredients that are easily found in french supermarkets, and now in many gourmet stores around the world. Even my local sells French feuillete by the roll and tinned chestnuts (marron).

Ingredients:

• 100g butter with salt crystals
  
• 1/2 cup sugar
• 1/2 tsp vanilla
• 1 1/2 cups prepared chestnuts (can be bought like this in tins or vacuum packs)
• 1 sheet round feuillete pastry
• 1/2 cup cream
• 2 egg yolks
• more caster sugar for sprinkling

 
Instructions:

1. Preheat oven to 180℃
2. Place pastry in a lined tin, and roll over the edge neatly all around, and set aside.
3. Over a medium/high heat in a small saucepan, cook butter, sugar and vanilla, whisking every now and then, until caramel forms. (It will start off looking like its just split, but eventually the texture will change to become creamy and smooth - about 5 minutes) Pour into pastry 'bowl' before it hardens, spreading out evenly.
4. Blend 1/2 of the chestnuts with the cream and egg yolks (I used a stick blender in a tall jar), then pour over caramel.
5. halve remaining chestnuts then push into the pie in a pretty pattern, then sprinkle with sugar.
6. Bake until cream firms and pastry is golden brown and puffy (about 25 minutes)

Serve warm. Also great the next day out of the fridge! If you can only get square pastry, you may need a couple pieces to make the base large enough.

Tours défectueux and Tourist Traps

I've just introduced my eldest son to the brilliance of John Cleese. Some people are proud of their children for their academic achievements, their physical prowess, or even their beauty, but important to me in conjunction to this, is that my kids 'get' my sense of humor. And he does - the little champ, thoroughly and pants-wettingly. And the clever little eight year old hit the nail on the hospitality head at lunch today, when he loudly declared: "Wow. This place is just like Fawlty Towers!"

Perhaps we should have known as we came between the gate towers, which at a distance had appeared ancient, but close up, a little like a film set. And as we wound our way up the stony hills of Chateauneuf du Pape, I heard myself compare the building to Kryal Castle - Melbourne's white trash version of a medieval knock-off. But the terrace was inviting, divine, in fact, and close up the stones had less of a cardboard appearance, and so I put it off, believing I am simply spoilt for chateaux - there are simply so many beautiful ones around this part of the world, it was bound to happen.

The service was intermittently nonchalant, surly or non-existant. Every 15 minutes or so, the female waitress would happen by, and give us a taste of professionalism, but then she would leave politely with our requests, never to return. We would be left with a very sour version of Manuel, who would forget orders, dump the wine bottle on the table with no offer to taste first, make one of the party hold up the menu blackboard for the rest of us, then fan off to the other end of the terrace to placate other unhappy customers.

The meal, simply two courses, one of which was a cold salad, took over 2 hours to be completed. In all fairness, the carpaccio was excellent, and the tomato salad good. But the mains were poorly chosen cuts of meat, scant to say the least (The cote d'agneau main was a measly lamb cutlet with a piece of meat the size of a golfball), and plainly accompanied by a small baked potato with lumpy sour cream and a half tomato with breadcrumbs. 23 Euro for two courses, 60 Euro for a bottle of wine that never got poured for us.

This restaurant has a Michelin recommendation, a Frommers suggestion to stay and dine, and one hat with Gault & Millau. It seems, however, the reviewers have not been recently, or perhaps we just turned up on the day the chef walked out. Upon arrival at the excellent vineyard nextdoor, we saw a fellow diner in the office behind the degustation table. We asked if she had enjoyed her meal. No. She had eaten nothing at all - it was bland, and besides she had lost her appetite by the time the food finally arrived.

It reminded me of my last visit to Chateauneuf du Pape, where another commended restaurant similarly failed us. In all my visits to France, I have only encountered arrogance from the French on a few occasions. It seems strange to me that they have such a fine reputation for snobbery, as I rarely see it. But this particular waiter at his restaurant famous for its extensive cave (including sales and tasting in the grotto below), fit the stereotype perfectly. He refused point blank that my wine was corked, when it clearly was. We could only get him to agree to open a second bottle when we assured him we would pay for both if it proved it was no different. It was better, gorgeously so, and he reluctantly agreed that we should only be charged for one bottle.

But the arrogance did not end there - the remainder of lunch was spent trying to attract the attention of him, and the other waiters, who he had pulled onside with visible pointing and sneering at our table. Our food was slapped down before us like a piece of microwaved pie in a mid-west truckies' diner. Our wine ran out, as did our water. We weren't offered dessert. I finally got to see the famous french pout, I guess. But I must say, it's not so pretty on a boy who thinks he's a sommelier, but is failing visibly. I left feeling perplexed. The setting and the food were excellent, but I'd never go back - except maybe to see if the boy has grown up.

There are two sides to arrogance, and neither of them are welcome traits in hospitality. One is the sense of self importance. Confidence, in some measure is vital, but cannot be confused with a belief that the customer is stupid and lucky to be served by you. You're a waiter, serving me. Get over it. When I'm serving you (which I have done for years, incidentally), you can tell me how clever you are then. The second is a lack of care for the customer, which at some venues, can stretch to downright negligence. It's the easiest way to guarantee to upset a diner, and can end up costing the venue money if the gaps in care and the mistakes are big enough.

It goes to prove that three parts of the puzzle must fit together  - food, ambience and service. You might forgive a little failing in one, if the others are spectacular, but it's a balancing act, and unfortunately one that many restaurants in excellent locations seem to topple. Hence the phrase "Tourist Trap". And tourist traps are found in places where tourists frequent. Perhaps the waiters (and some of the chefs) of Chateauneuf du Pape believe that their diners are all sloshed Aussies who wouldn't know their Marsannes from their Roussannes, and need a little slap across the head? And perhaps, if we don't do our research, we don't deserve to stumble across the best restaurant in town. I will say, the castle restaurant was chosen by our children, who wanted to dine like lords. The other restaurant was selected for its position. Both were drive-bys, so to speak. I need to remember my own advice, and get off the main drag and find the jewel in the alleys behind.

And I need to put a review on the Michelin.uk website...

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At this point, I would like to re-state that the French do not have a monopoly on arrogance - it's just as easily found in many other countries, my own included. John Cleese captured it at various stages in Farty Towels, but the added idiocy and humor is like the spoonful of sugar that makes the medicine go down. In fact, many hotels now use Fawlty Training to demonstrate the futility whilst breaking the boredom at staff seminars. Perhaps I should send the Chateauneuf du Pape version of Kryall Castle a DVD...?

I have decided against naming the restaurants, in the hope that the first was just having a bad day, and that the second has changed staff. But if you are very keen to find out, you will probably be able to with a little nosing around googlemaps and Chateauneuf du Pape tourism sites. The rest of the day progressed well, as those involving wine tasting usually do. More on that soon...

Santé

Fatty Liver

This morning, the collection included a Muscadet, a Picpoul and a Chablis from our oyster wine-match experiment. Then, of course there was the Tavel - a palate cleanser before the main, then the rest of the whites with it. I think the "Vallon" from Mas de la Dame probably got popped about 10pm. God knows who opened the Loupiac - it wasn't me, although I do remember enjoying a little of it. Oh, I forgot we also had some aperitifs - a half bottle of Pastis 51 got finished by the pool with a bowl of olives, and someone was obviously drinking Heineken. There's another empty red - some non-descript vin de pays that was grappled in drunkenness after I'd staggered up to bed, no doubt. This morning the glass is scattered around the overflowing recycling bag like bones from a picked carcass. Flies hover, drawn by the putrid smell of over-ripe grapes and sticky dregs. To me, it smells like death. Never again...

I feel like someone has been practicing gavage on me. I'm sure, that if you ran a liver function test right now, I just might break the graph. It's not just the booze. The oysters last night were so fresh they quivered away from the lemon juice. They were followed by bread. And butter, lots and lots of butter with coarse grains of salt that explode on the tongue as it melts. Saucisson - the devil itself wrapped up in a mouldy skin, bloody and fat-speckled, feral, dry and stringy. Lamb - agneau, slow cooked and glutinous, dripping and delicious. Fromage - quel dommage. Cheese that oozes and slides down your throat like viscous seasoned velveteen. Caramel, in nougat, in ice-cream or in its pure tacky form, so sweet it prickles your throat and cloys into the next day. And then of course the piece de resistance - foie gras - served with a softly sweet wine with zingy acid to bring out the richness and creaminess of the treat.

Foie gras translates directly as "fat liver". There's more than one kind available in France, so fortunately me and my enlarged and pale desperate organ may spare slaughter for a little while. There's quite a bit of press surrounding it at present, but it's hardly a modern invention. Gavage, or the method of force feeding birds with an oesophageal tube, has been going on for 2500 years. History in a sentence - the Egyptians discovered it, the Romans and Hebrews exported it, the French mastered it, and then the Californians banned it.

It's not at all ironic it's been banned in California, a state famous for colonic irrigation and the detox diet, a place where any fat liver is considered improper. Nor is it a first - the practice (although often not the purchase) of foie gras production is banned in many countries. Yet, for some reason, it's caused a little hoo-ha, and rebounded the topic around the world the way propaganda usually does. So again, we are force-fed images of bedraggled geese in tiny pens, bleeding from beaks and bottoms, vomiting corn and all in all having an incredibly inhumane life. But the news is not new - the practice is well practiced, widely practiced, and continues to be practiced. And the story will always end the same way, with the product either on the plate or off. This will depend on the individual's knowledge, or desire for knowledge on the subject, and which way the hart strings pull.

Basically, the way it works is this:
A duckling, or gosling, starts its life in fairly normal fashion, except that it has probably been hatched under a lamp rather than a cozy feathery bottom. It will wander around in a free-range area, or a communal pen until it gets to full size. Then it will be removed to either a different pen, or a solitary cage, where it will remain fairly much unimpeded except for 15-20 seconds, two to three times a day, whereby it will have a tube inserted into its throat and partially into its oesophagus, and have a fairly copious amount of grain delivered. This will go on for anywhere between 2-5 weeks, depending on the size of the bird. Over this time, the liver will become enlarged, and will end up comprising up to 10% of the body weight of the bird, and be up to 10 times the liver's normal size. The bird is then slaughtered, after a short life - as little as 10 weeks. The entire bird is used - not just the liver.

The producers will point out that the selected breeds of migratory bird have no gag reflex, and that the tube does not hurt as it would in humans (true - this is why chickens are not used - they have a gag reflex and the process would not work). They will also remind us that birds will naturally gorge themselves (incidentally, the french word for throat is gorge) before migrating for winter. This is also true, and in fact, the reason it was initially discovered in Egypt that the liver tasted better when it was fatty. Is is also still evident in the wild, proven by hunters of wild birds, who will often come across birds with naturally engorged livers. They will also remind us that foie gras is simply much better for cooking - it looks better - creamy pale, is finer textured, and of course is richer, softer, fattier, and bigger than standard livers.

Animal welfare supporters will argue the following very valid points.

1. It's just not nice. How would you like to be fed that way?
2. The feeding of birds in this way has effects besides simply enlarging the liver. Anyone who is overweight can tell you life is less comfortable than when they are lean. In some farms, it has been found that the practice has caused severe damage to the birds, beyond even this. (see the PETA site)
3. Birds are horribly confined and kept in unclean environments. (yes, this does happen, but not at every single farm)

So - are you in, or out?



Maybe I should add my own two cents. Don't kid yourself that if you just stop eating foie gras, that you are protecting animals from poor treatment. Ducks and geese farmed for foie gras are not necessarily treated worse that ducks and geese farmed specifically for their meat. In fact, apart from the feeding and the general feeling of being overweight, they may well have a better life. A duck farmed for meat can quite likely have a 7-week lifespan in a single cage. And we all know about battery hens. Essentially, it all comes down to the farm, and the way the owners want to treat their animals - there are some good, and some bad - just like in any industry. Grain-fed beef, people? If you eat any meat from a farm at all, you are probably condoning some form of animal cruelty - even free range chickens. So unless you are hunting your own food or vegan, it's probably best not to get on your high horse about foie gras.

So, as you can see, I'm not entirely against fat liver. I'd prefer not to have one myself, but as with the kind I can purchase, it will require some restraint if I want to avoid it. Not really my strong point, I'm afraid. Santé...

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For those who like to sit on the fence, maybe look for some ethical foie gras. It's kind of free range - the geese or ducks are free to roam on a farm, and are hand fed full grains twice daily. There are French, Spanish and produced ethical foie gras, but they take a little searching. Some of the US farms are also very happy to allow visitors to prove that their farms are not bad-eggs. If you want to avoid it all together, but feel like you might be missing out, maybe you might want to try some faux gras...? As with all food, if you care about what you put into your body, and how it affects the world around you, it's best to research, research, research. But you might want to do a taste test too...

Cherry Frangipane

A trip to a provincial market is always inspiring, but the recent one I took to Tarascon, in the Bouche du Rhone departement was an eyeful of the grandest degree. I came home with a bundle of goodies, not the least, but the cheapest, being a half kilo of deep purple ripe cherries for the grand total of 1.41Euros. It was hard to look at them and not think of Frangipane. The recipe below sounds a little fiddly, but it's not really - its just a matter of getting the ingredients laid out.

Ingredients:

• 300ml and 100ml almond flour (meal)
• 1 1/2 cups gluten free flour
• 3 teaspoons baking powder
• 120g and 80g butter softened and chopped (or use dairy free margarine)
• 100ml plus 2 tbsp sugar
• pinch salt
• 1 tsp vanilla
• 2 eggs
• 300g cherries, halved and destoned
• 2 tbsp cassis jelly and a dash of champagne (optional)

Instructions

1. Take 300ml of almond flour, the flour, baking powder, salt, 2 tablespoons of sugar and 120g of butter, and rub in, then knead together to make a soft dough. Reserve 1/4 of the mix, and set aside. Wrap the remainder of the pastry in clingfilm and place in the fridge for 30 minutes. 
2. Preheat oven to 170℃. In an ovenproof dish (or pie mould), press in pastry evenly along the bottom, coming up just a little at the sides. Place in the oven for 10 minutes while you prepare the filling.
3. Cream eggs and 100ml sugar, then add the remainder of the butter and the vanilla, whipping up well. Finally add 100ml almond flour, and the reserved pastry mix, and combine until smooth (this can all be done with a hand whisk).
4. Remove pastry base from oven. Pour over the filling, then arrange cherries on top. If desired, add champagne to cassis jelly and pour over (this is not necessary, but I find it adds some extra moisture and tang)
5. Place back in the oven and cook for 30 minutes, or until top is just firm and slightly golden.

Can be served hot or cold. If you wish to serve out of the tin, best to wait for it to cool a little. It will be firm enough to hold its shape on its own. As my family are dairy free, I served it warm with a little soy cream whisked with cinnamon powder and creme de marron (chestnut puree found in jars and tins all over France)
 

Saint Remy - the market, the yellow house and green zebras

Saint Remy de Provence is famous for being the place where Vincent Van Gogh tried to regain sanity. Unfortunately, it seems it did not work (He shot himself a year later, it's thought). It's a cacophony of a village, confused and overrun. Tiny, colourful and quaint, and full of loud tourists dressed in white t-shirts and socks under sandals. They fill the narrow lanes like a plague of locusts with cameras, snapping at everything, buying tack and gorging on the regional delicacies, which are beautifully displayed in slovenly glamour and sold at high prices in hungry portion-sizes. I did try to ask the nougat seller to 'super-size me'. Apparently that's not funny.

Market day is both mayhem and a homage to french tourism. I described the Tarascon market as Maman, but Saint Remy is a PR agent. It's both perfect and horrible. The stalls are designed for photographers, with distressed wood, antique linen and provincial yellow predominating all backdrops. Lavender in bunches rest as prettily as a Fragonard damsel in rickety baskets, or in colourful cotton pouches. Shoppers speaking only english snap them up as if they still use things that smell like grandma in their knickers drawers. Brocante traders tote silver plate and buffed copper with appropriate dents and bruises of history. They snarl at children with their sticky fingers and clumsy elbows, yet bow and flower at anyone who knows how to say "how much is this lovely thing?" in French.

The food is good, but not as special as it can be (e.g. at Tarascon). Locals avoid this place like the plague, so food is to be bought and munched presently - no cooking required. It's understood the clients stay in hotels. Cheese is comprehensive, as is saucisson, and most baked goods - look for both macarons and macaroons, and even some macaroons that think they are macarons. The treat is the nougat. Pavlova-sized pats shaped with Van Gough's palette knife, and exploding with just about anything you can think of. I bought some with salted caramel chunks in a cake-shaped wedge, and was rewarded with enough sugar to last me until Christmas, and a new crown for my molar into the bargain.

Don't fill up at the market though. Saint Remy de Provence may even be better called upon when it is not market day (Wednesday for the big one, but Tuesday and Saturday also have small markets). It may be possible to at least find a carpark within a one-kilometre walk of the town in Summer. Seek out the Bistrot Decouvert, with its cult following, well priced regional dishes, some with a modern twist, and excellent wine list, or the tourist favourite, Grain de Sel. There are also a couple of Michelin Stars in the village - Marc de Passsorio at Hotel Le Vallon de Valrugues, just a short stroll out of town, with his modern cuisine, and La Maison Jaune, which sticks to a more traditional style. 

La Maison Jaune gets mixed reviews, and it's not hard to see why. It is definitely a love-it-or-leave it kind of place, and personally I'm heading towards the love-it end. It seems very likely that some past reviews have hurt, but that advice has been taken. Prices are (now) reasonable - a 38 Euro set lunch menu will give you four courses and mini-bits at either end. The menu remains simple, but could never be called negligent. Flavours are fresh and seasonal in the main. Perhaps some expect fireworks when dining in a Michelin Star restaurant. They probably won't find them here. It's a little yellow house, that is all. It's tiny (only seats 35+), and the menu and winelist are also brief. But the food is really quite good, and the atmosphere sweet and gentle.

Amuse bouches were amusing - pretty quail eggs with tomato creme, salt cod mousse and a very good and mild chevre shaped like mini marshmallows. The Pistou froid de légumes - a cold vegetable dish with a thorough understanding of the summer palate was perfectly balanced and sized. The pigeon richly flavoured and exactly cooked for main (this was the only let-down. The advertised pintade with anise was not available).


Cheese was a celebration of la Chevre (the goat), and partnered with a very inspiring green tomato marmalade (see recipe below). Dessert was extraordinary, yet uncomplicated. Pithless orange segments spiralled in a peach-tea soup with candied peel and micro basil. My son stole my passionfruit granita. "Friandises", served after the meal, were equally perfect. Tropical pate de fruits in pyramid form, wafers of nougat and candied drunken cumquats had both me and my companions moaning.



After the meal, we met with chef Francois Perraud, who was kind enough to share the recipe for his excellent accompanyment to salty and zesty goats cheese. Our friends will return next week to relive the experience a nuit. We might compare Marc de Passorio's offering.

Marmelade de tomates vertes

• 1 kg green zebra tomatoes, peeled and deseeded
• 1/4 teaspoon of vanilla bean greans (1 bean)
• 1 cinnamon quill (or 1/2 tsp cinnamon powder)
• 2 tsp fleur du sel (coarse salt)
• a dash of balsamic vinegar
• 1 cup sugar

1. Chop tomatoes, then marinate in vinegar, salt, cinnamon and vanilla for several hours (preferably 24)
2. Add tomatoes to sugar in a saucepan over medium heat, bring to the boil, then reduce to a gentle simmer. 
3. Stir frequently, adding a dash of water if necessary to stop sticking. When tomatoes are very soft and liquid has reduced (about 2 hours) remove from heat, blend, cool, and pour into sterilized jars.

Green Zebra tomatoes are found at markets all over Provence in season (summer) - either with a yellow or red hue. If not available, try and find any kind of green or yellow tomato variety that is not simply a rock-hard under-ripe fruit.

 

 

Tarascon - the Maman of markets

Each market in France seems to have its own personality. It’s odd, because often, I see the same vendors in different market squares on different days, and yet they slide into each market puzzle seamlessly. The markets are faces of a partially solved Rubik's cube, the vendors its coloured squares. Sometimes they are neat, symmetrical, othertimes haphazard. They can be in perfect monotone, or riots of clashing colour, and yet they always form an unbroken square. Most markets are balanced, complete. The ones you prefer, however, will depend upon what you have inside of you.

Tarascon's Tuesday market is Maman – Mother. It’s wholesome, hearty and welcoming. Not only that, it’s got a pot of something warm and yummy waiting for you as soon as you step over the threshold. 

It’s a market famous for paella, but that’s not all you’ll find served up. Go early, and don’t eat breakfast. Your nose will find the market for you soon after you enter one of the many arches that lead through the ancient walls. It’s hard to go past the rotisserie chicken, dripping its lovely juices all over salted potatoes resting in the tray underneath. But do – head for the porc roti – either a scotch fillet of pork, or even a whole beast with head attached. It will be rolled and stuffed with herbes de provence and rose pepper, then slow roasted until the fat breaks down and leaves the meat behind. Buy it in slices and eat it with your hands as you stroll the rest of the market looking for lunch or dinner.

Take an insulated shopping bag, and stock up on seafood. Tarascon is not a port town, but very close to Marsaille and the Camargue, and also resting on the Rhone River. You will find everything you need to put in a bouillabaisse – mussels, cockles, clams, calamari, gorgeous shiny dorade grise (sea bream) and prawns ranging from thumb sized pearly ones to king Nigerians almost the size of lobsters. The fish is bright and clean smelling – almost the best I’ve seen. It sleeps on ice, with clear eyes wide open, smiling, as if it knows it’s going to make a grand dish. Every stall has a home recipe rouille (an accompaniment for bouillabaisse) in petit pots for sale by the gram. It’s inspiring. 

 

Despite the range of pre-prepared food, Tarascon’s is a cook’s market. Those who know their produce will be happy as the proverbial pig in the whatsit. Tomatoes? At least 12 varieties at most stalls. Herbs come still growing in pots rather than in decapitated bunches. Basil in small, medium, or large sized leaves. Little old men pass their wares to you for assessment, and regardless of your French, they will smile and nod while they watch you put the cherry, olive or the biggest oyster you’ve ever seen in your mouth – they know you will buy.

Compared to many markets in the region, Tarascon gives off the feel of an authentic market. The stall owners will expect you to speak French, and you should – the intensity of this little town’s atmosphere should was away all your ‘tourist’ in seconds. You will be a local before you know it. 

The market visit resulted in the following inspired recipe: 

 

Tarascon Prawns

4 Nigerian Prawns (or the largest prawns you can find)
1 onion, sliced
2 cloves garlic, loosely chopped
2 shots pastis (about 60ml)
1 cup liquid stock (preferably fish, otherwise vegetable)
1 tsp dried thyme
1 bay leaf
100ml rouille (see note)
olive oil, salt and pepper to taste
1 lemon and fresh bread for garnish

Instructions:

1. Butterfly prawns (see instructions below), then place on a plate, flesh down, cover with cling film, then put another plate on top to flatten, and place in the fridge.
2. Fry off garlic and onion in some olive oil at a medium-high temperature – let them brown a little. When they are nearly soft, add pastis, and cook down for a minute or so.
3.  Add stock and herbs, reduce heat, and cover. Simmer until onions are very soft (about 15 minutes) 
4. Strain sauce, and and whisk in rouille, then add creamy sauce back to onions back in the pan. 
5. Remove prawns from fridge, sprinkle with salt, and grill under flame. Start flesh side down, then turn once the shells are pink, then cook until flesh is white and has no translucence. (about 5-8 minutes total) If you cannot grill, then panfry, starting flesh side down. When cooked place on a plate, belly-up. 
6. Warm sauce. It will split, but don’t be concerned. Add salt and pepper to taste. 
7. Pour over prawns and serve with bread and lemon wedges.

 

Note:

Rouille is a traditional french sauce used with bouillabaisse. Unfortunately, if you can't buy them in little pots at the market, then you might have to make it yourself. Don't buy anything on the shelf from a supermarket - fresh is best. There is no definitive recipe for Rouille (pronounced roo-ee), as it has always been a home dish made from the left-over ingredients. It must include saffron, garlic and olive oil, and usually red peppers. It is thickened either with breadcrumbs or egg yolks - personally I prefer the latter. If you must make it, try this:

4 garlic cloves, crushed 

1 teaspoon salt

2 egg yolks

1 cup olive oil 

Cayenne pepper to taste (I like 1 teaspoon)

pinch of saffron

palm sized piece of grilled red pepper (deli-bought or home cooked), very finely chopped.

Start making like a mayonnaise with the first three ingredients, either with a mortar and pestle or using a blender. Drizzle the olive oil in slowly whilst continuously beating - this makes an aioli, then add final three ingredients and stir until smooth. Refrigerate to let flavours enhance.

To butterfly prawns leaving the shell on:

1. Remove head with a twist and a gentle pull. Most of the innards will come with the head. 
2. The digestive tract should protrude a little. Pull ever so gently, and it should slide out fairly easily. If the prawn is not as fresh, it may break, but you can remove the rest later. 
3. With kitchen scissors, cut off legs, then slice up the belly all the way to the tail.
4. With a sharp knife, slice down to backbone, then open up, removing any residual gore. Make a small cut with scissors at the head end. 
5. Wash, then pat dry. 
6. Place the prawn belly-down on a board or plate, then flatten with your hand gently. The shell will crack in places, but remain intact. 

On taste, or goût.

“So French.” It’s a compliment. For just about any other nation, it would probably be accompanied by a roll of the eyes and a groan – “So Australian.”, “So British”, “So American.” But the French have somehow put a stamp on their style, bonding it to the country’s name with a cordon bleu and wrapping them both up in antique lace that still manages to fit in a modern society.

It seems to me that the French can make anything beautiful. Does it go without effort? As much as I would like to think that décor is in the blood, I don’t believe this is so. The French are artists – each and every one of them, to some small degree, and it’s not entirely nature, but also nurture. It seems that for as long as the French have been calling their sons Louis, taste, or goût, has been instilled in progeny.

In Australia, we “set the table”. In french, the term translates as “perform art of the table”. They don’t have “knick-knacks” or “trinkets”, they have “objects of art”. Even waiters and truckies only hang original paintings, and every little part of visible life is selected with care. I discovered that even street art is distinctly polished and a la mode in Saint-Remy de Provence.

In 2010, UNESCO declared that L’art de la table was an intangible cultural treasure that needed to be preserved and protected. It’s more than just the food, and it’s more than just the table setting. It’s an observance of all the elements that go into the perfect meal – the order of courses, the balance of the wine, the presentation, the service, gastronomy at every level. And it doesn’t have to be fancy – it just has to be perfect.

I remember, once, trying to leave a friend’s apartment in the 5th in Paris with a plastic bag full of picnic items for the Luxembourg gardens. She was horrified. It did not matter that our plates were paper, our lunch was bread and ham, or our wine was a three-euro screwcap. The whole prospect of walking down the street with a plastic bag in hand was abhorrent. We finally left the house with a basket, rug, napkins, and a change of outfit for me - us Australians just really don’t know how to dress for a picnic. I remember laughing and asking why it mattered. She had looked as shocked as she first had when eyeing the plastic bag. “We just. Don’t. Do. That.” She had said. Mauvais goût on my behalf (bad taste).

street art

It’s one of the reasons France appeals so strongly to tourists. Of course, there’s natural beauty, but it’s no better than many surrounding countries. It’s the way they wrap it up – the perfectly sculpted vineyards, the tidy ruined castles, the wooden shuttered windows, the excessive use of crystal glassware and table linen, aperitifs, digestifs, the breaking of bread over a lined basket, the merging of beauty, quirk and history in every single view. I find that every time I cast my eye in a different direction, the view is framed like a purposeful photograph. France truly is an object d’art.

Ma bouche en La Rhone.
A month in the Bouche de la Rhone deserves more than a couple of pages of love and admiration. An effort to post daily, and possibly even compile information for a book follows. What comes out of my mouth, and what goes in. What I see, and what I feel. What this region does to me.