Thursday, October 3, 2002

    A late start this morning but it didn't ruin our day! Perhaps we're beginning to flag a bit?
    Our first activity was a bit frustrating—searching for the dolmen Gallardet near Le Pouget. This was one of the first sites for which we actually saw an official sign, but try as we might it remained a mystery. As we drove toward town, there was a road sign for the dolmen. That was promising. We drove slowly through le Pouget, with no other signs. We drove through town and out the other side. No signs. We drove on a bit. No signs. We went back into town, looked around. No signs. We drove back out of town, and back to the original sign. Sure enough, official highway type sign, "dolmen" pointing back the way we had come. Back into town, this time to what seemed to be town hall, a newer building facing the old marie that was now a school. B took the white guide in to ask directions. He was serious, the dolmen Gallardet was both a Bruno and a white guide recommendation. And although Bruno's directions said, as best we could understand, that everyone knew where it was, and just to ask, Bruno and the white guide failed us.
    B got another hand drawn map (we should have known) and the instructions to go back to Place de la Fontaine to begin following the roads marked, with assurances that there were "indiquées" along the way. While he was inside, he apologized to a lady who was waiting for service, for taking her time. She told him that she was glad we were visiting her town! That was nice, but following the directions was not. We saw no signs, could not make out what the map was indicating. We were slowly easing out of town when suddenly we noticed two tiny little signs pointing up a narrow lane: "Dolmen." Ah hah!
    We followed them, found another; were driving along a tiny lane that soon became a dirt road. We drove along it, and saw another tiny sign painted on a stone pillar. It marked a track, hardly a road. We drove out of town on it, and came to a dead end. B parked and we noticed green blazes on some rocks by a path. We followed these on foot, winding about through scrubby woods. The light was beautiful and the woods full of herbs. After many twists and turns, we came out into a farm field. We thought then that we must be following a hiking trail that had nothing to do with the dolmen.
    Now we were both stubborn. We went back to the town hall, but it was closed! We asked some men who were conversing outside, they said to ask Mr. Gordet, who knew everything about town. Mr. Gordet was supervising some street repair. He didn't know about the dolmen. When we showed him the map, he perked up. This he knew. Yes, we had been on the right track. Just go out to the Campotel, and follow "les indiquées." We did find the Campotel, without luck. No signs in sight. I managed to persuade B that it was a lost cause and that I wanted to go on. That wasn't easy, but he finally agreed. Or seemed to, for as we left lovely Pouget, he remembered that there was a working farm museum nearby, and that the map showed it to be right by the dolmen. As a last ditch effort, he drove us to it, and we knocked and rang at the gate, but no one appeared. It was terribly frustrating to have spent so much time, a couple of hours at least, with no results. But B really did capitulate, and we had much better luck with our next stop—Chateau d'Aumelas.
    According to the white guide, the castle was built sometime before 1036 by the lords of Montpellier. We drove a lovely deserted country road through a "rotten borough," almost uninhabited, although still an official commune. We found the castle, and could see it perched above us. We had to backtrack a bit to find the stony dirt road that we drove slowly to the top of the mountain. The view was incredible, of course! A couple of times we drove the car across the garrigue, avoiding bad places in the track, and the smell of the herbs crunching under our tires was overwhelming. After we had been there a while, another couple came walking to the site.
     This site was appealing because so few people visit it—we had it all to ourselves most of the time we were there—and because the chapel is mostly intact. We took many pictures of the ruins and the views and then drove back along the track a bit for car lunch on the garrigue. A couple of hunters in a battered old jeepster stopped and asked if we had seen their two lost dogs. Shades of Antoine Riviere!
    I drove back down the track and on to the Cirque du Moureze. This was my first foray into French driving and it went fine. The cirque—good lord! Moureze is right next to us and I didn't even realize these gigantic, fantastic rocks were there! B says a cirque, of which there are apparently a dozen or more throughout the mountains of the midi, is where a river has made a kind of oxbow—a big loop. Hence "cirque" for "circle." Some of them are really almost huge holes, but a mile across. Ours at Moureze is not so big, but the limestone has eroded into fantastic pillars that rise right behind the town, another lovely ancient place. The day was getting on, so we had time for a few pictures and a bit of looking, but not much exploration. During our travels we had been trying to call places for supper, but phones were out of order, or places didn't answer. In Moureze we finally struck gold—an answer at Les Muscardins in St. Martin de Londres! This is fast becoming our favorite town! Les Muscardins gets two forks from the red guide, a bit pricey, but the white guide raves about it, so we felt we were in luck.
    A quick jaunt home to get cleaned up for supper, and off to St. M. de L. As often happens, we were running a bit late and B got into a cross country race outside of Gignac. We and two other cars were barreling north in the fading light, and the one behind us was chafing to pass on the tiny country road. He eventually did, the one in front turned off, and B drove like the wind to St. M. We had stopped to look in the window at Les Muscardins on an earlier pass through town, and remembered just where it was. I went in to take our table while B parked. We needn't have worried. There was one other couple in a dining room that could have seated dozens of people in comfort. We made the second, and no one else showed up all night! Les M. is what Gabriel was trying—and mostly failing—to do in Frederick. Nine or ten large tables had cone shaded lamps whose wires ran right across the table and dangled down; a bundle of wire on the floor. The art on the walls was a bit over Gabriel's caliber, but not much!
    The big round tables were covered with heavy white damask, and we used twenty utensils apiece! Our server placed each new fork tines down. It was an oddball and very enjoyable mix of luxurious and shabby, very comfortable and the perfect place to enjoy the meal we had. After a bit of discussion, we both decided to plunge into the 64 EUR Menu Grand Gourmand, and to have our server choose wines by the glass for each course. We totaled 192 EUR and left a 20 EUR tip, which was for the French an extravagant tip, but one we felt was fully justified.
    Now we try to recall the menu. Take a deep breath! Note that for each course, we both had the same thing. B asked if we could have some variations, but our server explained that there were sauces and preparations (of some kind) that prevented any variations.

(White rolls throughout.)

Aperitif:
    Loie, Kir champagne; Bucky, a vintage Maury. For the table: two each of tiny bow tie shaped croissants, tiny brown bread muffins, mussels, rounds of toast with a mousse of anchovy and lobster.

First entrée:
    Three of the thinnest slices of raw beef ever cut, in a little bit of olive oil.
    No wine.

Second entrée:
    Sautée of fois gras, so light it melted in the mouth; little bundle of greens with oil, wrapped in a crisp like an egg roll, standing upright to make a bouquet; fruit.
    Sweet white wine.

Third entrée:
    Lobster tail in dark reduction sauce; breaded claws, one lemon, the other lime.
    Chardonnay of a local domaine.
    (Here we received an important bit of education. Part of the name of the wine was "of the garrigue," and when our server showed B the label, B read the name aloud. Mais non, pas GAREeh-gue, say gareEEgyuh. Now B and the server were becoming fast friends. Our server explained to B that when a final syllable begins with a "g" and is followed by a "u," it is pronounced with this kind of choking sound: "gyuh." If the final "g" is followed by any other letter, it is slurred, as in "garr-ah-zhuh." All this in French, of course, with B happily nodding and getting, I think, one out of three words, but enough to repeat a few crucial phrases. Now we know how to pronounce garrigue. Goodness, after all this time!)

Fish course:
    Fish with skin on. This course was varied, my fish had a buttery sauce and was garnished with a scallion or spring onion and B's was lemony.
    Continue with chardonnay.

Pear wine sorbet.

Meat course:
    Pigeon. Medallions of breast, leg with skin peeled down and stuffed with pine nuts; green vegetables.
    Pic St. Loup "Lascaux."

Cheese course:
    Here we also varied. I can't possibly remember all we had from this very nice chariot of cheese, but there were at least two semisweet; a roquefort, sliced with its own wire slicer; B had a very fragrant Pellardon (goat's milk) and the highlight was the tete du moin.
    (Time for our education to continue. The tete du moin was a circular upright cheese, a squat pillar about six inches wide. The very outside was a thin dark rind around a creamy interior. A metal post rose out of the center, and on the post, above the top of the cheese, was a metal blade, fixed like a flag. Our server rotated the blade, and its bottom scraped off a thin shaving of the top of the cheese. The shaving curled in a kind of cone with a very fluted outer edge. Beautiful. B asked what it was, and our server told us "tete du moin." We knew tete, "head," but du moin? Whose head? He tried to explain, "A man who lives in a church, [something we didn't understand. . .]" B remembered our tour of the Priory of Grandmont, the monks who were buried without coffins. . .a "moin" is a monk. . .and at the same moment, B and our server looked at each other, and both said "avec le tonsure." The outer rind of the cheese is the "hair," and the creamy interior is the bald pate! Only in France: a cheese that is called "the head of a monk"! Now of course B and our server are buddies for life.)

First dessert:
    Chocolate cookie over warm orange marmalade; green tea sorbet; cooked chopped apples with crystallized ginger. B identifies the ginger, we have to ask about the sorbet.
    I can't remember the wine!

Second dessert:
    Chocolate mousse stick with creme anglais; saffron ice cream.
    Sweet red wine, local, of course.

Coffee for me and digestif for B.

    I made no attempt to record the wines. The meal just wasn't the type of experience to interrupt with that. We'll never see any of them at home anyway! We were walked to the door by our server, whom B is now calling "notre professeur." We had a little chat, he told us he was going to America to Johnson and Wales College for two weeks. Of course B knows J&W—a school of professional hospitality—because it's in Rhode Island where B went to college. Oh brother!
    We are desperately hoping that our professor of French cuisine is going to be a guest teacher, and not a student. To think of this wonderful restaurant being Americanized is a horror beyond contemplation. A pleasant drive home through the dark French countryside. I napped most of the way, B navigated himself.

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