Edibles tales from our French road trip: Part one
Chaptering mealtimes, dishes served & all that happens in-between is a habit some eight years in the doing. Migrating these tales from their previous home to Substack is new territory I'm exploring.
Wednesday
We’re in the thick of these final days before we cross the channel and wend our way first down, then back up, through the french countryside. There are to be celebratory nuptials in the middle of all this adventuring, darling friends whose decision to tie the knot in France became the impetus for these travels. We’ve excitedly elongated the few days needed to toast the newlyweds and revel in their special day, to pull a bucket list - somewhat frayed at the edges - into play. I’m certainly not known for my organisation nor time keeping; my preparation for this trip therefore is disconcerting, since I seem to have everything in hand.
In the pre-holiday spirit of running low fresh provisions - the young adults holding the fort in our absence will not miss a refrigerated drawer of greens nor a bowl of salad fruits - meals are fashioned from a menagerie of ingredients still to find a home. Brunch was a safe bet; poached eggs with slender green beans shown a steamer pan until just tender, chorizo licked at the edges until crisp and enough parmesan to mimic a first flurry of snow across winter. There is a deal of comfort to be found amongst ingredients that might perhaps look unhinged on a page when reading such an idea, but make all the right noises when sharing space on a dinner plate. A no more healthy version of sausage, eggs and beans if you will, and every bit as satisfying. It was a dish that needed to stave off hunger until the clock hands rolled into the first nod of evening, with a flurry of predictable pre holiday ‘technical’ appointments - hair, nails, waxing - shoehorned in across an afternoon where I gambled on traffic being kind and any notion of feeling peckish headed off by milky coffee slurped with each beauty magician.
We feast with our eyes only, sinking our imaginations into wheels of comte, pungent blues and soft curds fashioned from ewes milk.
Gratitude always runs high (along with a modicum of inner smugness) when dinner can be rustled in a meagre 15 minutes and relies on my edible wingmen in the kitchen - lemon, garlic, parmesan, butter, I’m looking at you. A solitary courgette is dug from the depths of the vegetable drawer and basil leaves torn from a plant that has seen better days. I’ll wager it will not survive our travels; these grown up kids have bigger fish to fry than keeping my houseplants ticking along. Linguine, the dried variety that I have no snobbery around and count as a blessing to have in the pantry meets a hot pan head on, with a predictable outcome some nine minutes later. The aforementioned ingredients have simmered gently alongside, puddles of butter coating each strand of linguine when it’s drained and upended, parmesan showered with a greedy hand. I settle with a few previously read pages to turn as I twirl the pasta around the prongs of my fork, holding this tangle of pasta in place in the well of a deep spoon. A deliciously untidy bowl of flavours that more than nod to the season, even if the skies outside tell a different story. A quiet half hour, where time to think is afforded, remains a total luxury when life is lived in the full glare of a busy family home and where all folk are encouraged to gather, natter and feast.
Thursday
The penultimate day, ahead of the first leg of our french adventures. I am knee deep in client files ahead of our departure for gallic shores tomorrow. Breakfast is overlooked, lunch is an artisan ciabatta roll stuffed to the guillons with a sturdy farmhouse cheddar and ingredients that would be considered in old fashioned terms ‘a ploughmans’ - onion, cucumber, tomato, lettuce and Branstons Pickle. I find the term ploughmans far more endearing than that of salad, which I suppose this menagerie of sandwich fillings are, but so much the nicer for being alluded to as something tucked into straight from the fields. I am still peckish in the aftermath despite it’s size and spoil myself with a rhubarb fool, streaks of ballet pink fruit and cream a nude white.
Supper is given more thought, not least to hoover up any remnants of the vegetable drawer. I forego the usual gathering of ingredients to make a base for a thai style curry and plump for a tiny jar on the shelf in the supermarket instead; it saves me having to invest in sticks of lemongrass, galangal, chilli’s etc that won’t get used in our absence. Upending a can of coconut milk - full fat of course - into a cast iron casserole pan and stirring in most of the paste cuts my prep time in half. Time is always what is needed to get such flavours on side. Atop the stove it putters and gently splutters, all the while growing in numbers as I ransack the spice rack. A stick of cinnamon, star anise, cardamom pods from the dry store, a lime (zest and juice of) & knob of ginger from the fridge. Broccoli, hastily snapped into petit florets, the best leaves of a bad bunch of spinach, past their best green beans, spring onions hanging around from a party across the coronation weekend and a fistful of kale from Sunday’s table all join the fragrant liquor. A teaspoon of bouillon and generous seasoning can hardly be credited with much, but with jasmine rice quietly simmering alongside until sticky it proves to be a supper that impresses more than the idea did when I suggested it. Crispy onions, reserved for such dishes are scattered with a careless hand and we crowd the kitchen bench, the sun dipping below the tree lined skyline beyond the steel kitchen doors and casting amber shadows.
Friday
It’s a steady drive from the middle of the country to the south coast, with all the usual stop-start traffic. A crusty sourdough from the bakers is badly sliced by yours truly - too much haste to get on the road - with a shamefully thick bed of salty butter gripping tranches of ham in place. The upper side is smeared with far les Dijon and cornichons, sliced lengthways, are poked between the sheets of ham. A car picnic for such adventures rarely makes it out the county, no matter how close to breakfast we get on the road. A door stop of a sandwich, it does enough to halt hunger until we reach the ferry port. The heel kicking begins, time to neither use for anything productive nor find it disappearing in the blink of an eye. I have the same fondness for the canteen food on a ferry as I do the wonderous trays of food served on an airplane, where miniature trays are foil wrapped and the contents hotter than lava. Haute cuisine it is not, but somehow these meals remain wonderfully symbolic of the adventures any travel overseas opens the doors to.
A previous crossing on this route - Portsmouth > St Malo - served up a casserole of tender pork with grainy mustard and ratatouille; some nine years have scurried by since, yet I still call it to mind with greedy fondness. Mr Smith thinks me absurd and disillusioned for my expectations to remain so high, so much that my relief at reading ratatouille on the menu board is enthusiastically vocal. In place of pork they mention beef stroganoff, more than passable when bobbing about the English channel. His plate, one of crimson sausage bearing hallmarks of merguez, sits in a bath of herb flecked tomatoes. He disappoints by plumping for petit pois in place of the revered ratatouille, a dump of rice gracing both plates. We chew on anti-nausea tablets and retire early, waging that sleep is the best way to overlook any possible queasiness. Top bunk feels likes a privilege reserved for childhood.
Saturday
Neither of us can boast of sea legs and disembarking onto terra firma is always a relief to the stomach. Within minutes of leaving St. Malo behind, fields and windmills fall away at the roadside and skies, watery blue at the edges nonetheless encourage us to lower the roof. The villages are eerily deserted as we pass though, without evidence of life within the shuttered buildings we pass. A solitary gentleman in his twilight years, braces and a flat peaked cap a charming nod to the dress code of his generation, is the only clue as to human existence for some 40 kilometres. A roadside bakery certainly not beckoning with any kerb appeal does however impress with it’s wares. We share a baguette the length of my forearm, grated gruyere a soft sweet bed for damp ham clamped within the confines of the slender loaf. I am not alone in my opinion good bread should demand chewing and work with the jaw; this does exactly that. The balance of ingredients v. bread is a key steer to it’s eventual success and this baton of deliciousness is passed between us, neither wanting to relinquish it to the other.
We play the tourist game and pay Mont Saint Michel an early visit before the masses descend. It’s a sunny jaunt with the ancient Abbey majestic on the skyline and the shoreline faint in the distance at low tide Traipsing up and then back down the well trodden cobbles underfoot, marvelling at restaurant menus that have the ability to dampen hunger with their hefty price tags. We make a vow to satiate our tummies in Rennes instead. It’s a city we circumnavigate with the unhelpfulness of a satnav numerous times, before stumbling upon a vast car park and take our chances on foot. I am quite confident we missed plenty that a guide book would direct us back to, but sometimes being lost leads to all the best places. Certainly I can’t complain as to the yard of bread, a flattened version of a traditional baguette, smothered in pesto, littered with roasted peppers the colour of sunshine and smothered with comte. Mr Smith feasted on a crusty stick packed full of creamy brie and ham; it would seem we have a penchant for pork in all guises.
A paragraph as to the stupendous supper served by our hosts Rebecca and Tim will not do justice here. I will pen a more fitting acknowledgement of the dishes devoured whilst seated beneath a sky that slowly filled with stars another time. Their beauty of a home, more than a stones throw from any nearby village, serves up exactly what’s needed. A considerately curated menu, with creamy asparagus soup kicking off proceedings and lemon posset closing play, sandwiched pan roasted salmon where peas and fennel swam against a tide of beurre blanc and a board of natty fromage. Sitting down to a meal, for us at least, is a sum so much more than dishes served. I fell for the homemade elderflower cordial, where torn leaves of mint danced on the surface and opaque cubes of ice chinked when I raised my glass to sip. Baskets of bread were omnipresent, replenished as our greed capitulated to still warm rounds of a granery-esque loaf. Local honey, so astonishingly good as to rouse comment, played a blinder alongside the softer cheeses on offer. A singular violet head distracted from the milky curds spiked with tart lemon beneath; whilst we concluded chatter our hosts turned down beds, replaced lamps with tealights and pulled shutters tightly closed to enable a good nights sleep.
Sunday
Not withstanding my fullness still from dinner, I am drawn to the breakfast table like a moth to a flame. The generosity of good bread served across France is not lost on me; I tuck in with gratitude. With promises of a continental offering, conserves are homemade, so too the berry compote - tart currents of the red and black variety in abundance here - to twin with pots of milky yoghurt. More tea, pots of coffee so strong as to hold a spoon and we are back on the road. We detour via a supermarche so capacious we could fill our day wandering it’s aisles. These are shelves designed to thrill the overseas visitor, where items are bought with eyes alone. Squat jars of conserve, fat bottles of apple juice scrawled in an enviable font and slender necked artisan lemonades with clip-top swing stoppers are all pledged to find their way home with us, once we’re on our return leg. The sprawling area given over to the greengrocers finds us both murmuring with appreciation; heritage tomatoes two a penny and clumps of herbs permeate the humid air. Fruits resembling the harvests across my grandmothers orchards as a child, where leaves and debris collect amongst fuzzy fleshed peaches and blush cheeked apricots, spill from crates and sacks.
My navigation licence temporarily revoked by Mr Smith due to repeated offences - seventy miles in the wrong direction I am told is frankly an instant ban on map reading - I instead settle into my seat with the full sun in my face and pick my way through a paper sack of cherries, stalks and stones the only evidence when we arrive some three hours later at our destination. A manoir befitting of a fairytale, with no stone left unturned across the sumptuous renovations within. This leg of our adventure is all Mr Smith’s handiwork and he’s not come up short. A suite with full length windows throwing wide the grounds that fall away from the building; a collage of lakes, chattering brook, copses, rose beds and resident peacock family who patrol the gardens, peachicks hurrying to keep in stride.
This being Sunday, everywhere is closed. I applaud their continued tradition in this modern day to uphold values from yesteryear, downing tools as the midday hands strike and shutting up shop until Monday rolls into sight. Hours that belong to a weekend rather than an extension of what was once framed as a working week. Our earlier pitstop to gather provisions had supper in mind and I assemble a board of delights, ahead of making our way to the waters edge. A knobbly stick of saucisson, studded with hazelnut, squidgy ripe curds of sheeps milk and soft pale gorgonzola dolce streaked with blue ink are the bedrock to such a picnic. Tomatoes shaped like christmas baubles and weighty with sweet juices are sliced, tucked amongst avocado and green olives dusted with herbes de provence. Papery ribbons of translucent ham and salami’s bold with flavour join this ensemble. Entertainment comes by way of the wildlife, a moorhen emerging from the reeds with a half dozen chicks in tow, whilst a riotous frog chorus halts conversation, deafening back chat from one pond to another much like the home and away fans at a football game.
Monday
Without the rigidity of an agenda, these are days to fill as we go. We pressed the owners for another night at the Manoir, the tranquility and pull of a pool to lie idle alongside on these hot days across early summer a welcome contrast to days of late. Breakfast, a decidedly impressive affair where eggs softened against a gentle heat until loosely bound were the talking point, keeping the edge off hunger until nightfall. Tumblers of orange straight from the fruit and delicate pots of yoghurt stained with compote will remain inked on the memory, so too a lump of salty butter no doubt from the hands of an artisan. Mr Smith draped his eggs with smoked salmon, a lip smacking affair of pleasure it would seem, although smoked salmon doesn’t make a fan of me.
We bask in the late afternoon sun, striking up conversation poolside with fellow guests breaking their journey from the Dordogne, back to life in Lincolnshire. Some folk just strike the right chords, where chatter runs deeper than small talk, no topic off the table as we dug around in our backstories with unflinching honesty. Discussions only serve to highlight aligned values & beliefs and I’m grateful for the crossing of our separate paths. In contrast, dinner is nothing to write home about, a mediocre brasserie in a nearby village that could learn a thing or two, but without a disappointing meal here and there, there is no barometer for excellence.
Tuesday
We are on the move today, an eleventh hour hotel reservation in Ile de Re’s esteemed capital. La Rochelle will be our hunting ground en route, a city that brags of it’s food heritage and commitment to the palate. Breakfast is every bit as good as our feast yesterday, eggs sunshine yellow and stubby glasses of orange I’ll never tire of. The casual elegance of the salon, windows thrown wide and shutters flat against the pale walls, affords just four tables. Conversation is struck with a couple from down under, three weeks into a European adventure some thirty years after she spent a summer in Milan as a nanny and with memories of six long hot summer weeks in Ile de Re still at the fore of her time on this continent. The skies are impossibly hot as we drop the roof and pick our way across the region to the port of La Rochelle.
The market, under cover and consistent with expectations is not far from wrapping up for the day. Crabs move sideways on a bed of ice, glassy eyed fish lain in rows for inspection. Oysters seem omnipresent in this neck of the woods, folk gathered with platters of shells and cold wine paler than sun bleached straw. Try as I might, I cannot find a fondness for this fashionable delicacy, instead we make a beeline for counters of fromage. We feast with our eyes only, sinking our imaginations into wheels of comte, pungent blues and soft curds fashioned from ewes milk. When hunger surfaces, some hours later, the market is shuttered up. Heat and hunger become an irritable combination as we retread a maze of cobbled streets for something that takes our fancy. We take shelter in the cool shade of a tiled doorway, it’s step wide enough for bottoms to perch and devour burrata, rocket and jambon blanc, melded within a slender baguette courtesy of a industrious contact grill.
Ile de Re’s capital, Saint Martin, a myriad of cobbled streets that I still have no bearings of when we depart forty eight hours later, brags of old fashioned charm. Pastel painted bikes - cornflower blue and calamine pink - are two a penny and climbed on by all. A town that embodies Parisian chic in spite of it being out of season for their summer descent - 15th July - 16th August I learn - boasts boutiques and boulangeries to lure all. We are still without facilities to cook, hampering any market splurges. The quayside draws all to dine, folk effortless in their casual attire. These penultimate weeks, before the island finds itself knee deep in the season ensure any oversight of a table reservation doesn’t equal hunger. A sauce that near hums with it’s salty blue curds arrives with a lump of beef, flame licked and pink within. My own bowl, leaves of simple lettuce lightly dressed, where lardons of bacon lie low and goats cheese crostinis steal the limelight, is reminiscent of a favoured dish served many years before in our home town. It’s nostalgic in place of knock your socks off brilliant but does the trick as we watch the sun slide from cloudless skies.