Lost In Limoges

From the sheep-dotted pastures of France's underpopulated Southwest, Limoges rises in all its grey glory. The city's claim to fame: fine porcelain. The half-timbered houses of the Medieval center are surrounded by strip malls and McDo. Land-hungry Brits descend with flailing pocketbooks (thanks, RyanAir). The weather is remarkably cool year-round. Sure, I live on rue de Nice, but this is NOT the Cote d'Azur. Welcome to Limoges, "the middle of nowhere"-- or as Pierre says "everywhere"-- France.

Monday, May 22, 2006

A Sunday Walk Through Cordes-Sur-Ciel




From a distance, the town appears like a red and white mountain against a green backdrop. The sign at the village entrance is a plaque with a quote from Camus, who thought this little place was heaven on earth. It's the quintessential example of "bastide"-- or fortified village. The Gothic facades are built of varying shades of sandstone, and the church is elaborately carved with funky and strange looking gargoyles. The village was built around the church and central square with a covered market on the hilltop, a tough climb to the summit. You can imagine the challenge for invaders. It gets me musing about how warlike the French were in history. A countryside dotted with castles and competing armies and allegiances. Apparently back in the day (like 1200-1300), Cordes-sur-Ciel was a village of Cathars. For me, this town provides the ultimate image of the Middle Ages.


Beautiful Renovation Number 2: Salvagnac




The second renovated house we saw this weekend was in the little village of Salvagnac, where the boulangerie likes to skimp on the butter in its pain au chocolat, the butcher waxes her legs in her meat-truck, and there's a parade of antique roadsters every Sunday morning. Audrey and Fab bought a tall, three-storey house that sits at the entrance to town, overlooking wide valleys of wheat and green mountains beyond. The story of their house is pretty incredible, because they did the whole damn thing themselves. A 2 year+ project. I don't think I'd have the patience for that. Fab is pretty genius and taught himself all of the electrical engineering, installed the pipes in the kitchen, just about everything. They take such pride in the house, and showed us every little detail. The bathroom is like a spa, with huge jacuzzi and separate shower. Of course meals with them are picture-perfect also. They make it look effortless. While I'm slurping my second glass of Muscat aperitif, a salad with sauteed shrimp and garlic magically appears on the table. And the next morning, the table is already set for breakfast outside in the sunshine, coffee steaming in the pot. (Pierre and I made the run up the hill to the boulangerie, and basked in the Sunday morning commotion of the village- folks in the street, the long line for baguettes, vendors selling huge bundles of white asparagus...)

Driving through Le Tarn, Midi-Pyrenees




From Lot we drove south, close to Languedoc and the mythical land of the Cathars and Knights of the Templar. Forget the guidebook. Getting lost in rural France (with a full tank of gas, of course) is pure heaven. The countryside is dotted with thousands of historical villages, each with their own character, churches, fragrant gardens, and exquisite architecture. Actually any map besides Michelin is pretty useless here (so many winding, country roads). We ended up happily lost in a village called Puycelsi, where we walked up through the rose-draped alleyways to the ancient castle that stands at the summit. God bless French organization and bureaucracy; no matter how tiny the ville, there's usually an Information booth, where we got directions to our friends' little town of Salvagnac.

Lunch in Lot; or: Witnessing the Renovation of Two French Houses




This weekend we ventured south to Quercy and the limestone plateau of Lot. The landscape is dramatically different from the green Limousin two hours north: white, chalky soil and soaring cliffs cut by winding rivers. It was a weekend of contrasts also because of the two homes that we visited. First, a Saturday lunch with Lea and Mom's friend Lucy at her stunning historic stone house, followed by an overnight stay with our friends Fab and Audrey who have completely gutted and redesigned their house, doing everything by hand (including electrical wiring).

Lucy's house is straight out of A Year in Provence or Under the Tuscan Sun. It is magnificent, charming, and retains all of the historical detail while now also full of modern conveniences (though the fridge and separate wine fridge are camoflaged behind beautiful wood cabinets). The huge beams are still visible in the ceilings, and the kitchen has an enormous fireplace that is taller than I am. Lucy has exquisite taste, so all the furniture and paintings reflect that. (Check out the painting in the pic with me over-smiling. It's really awesome work- a local artist completely captured that South American landscape.) One of my favorite rooms was a cave, with arched, stone ceiling, that she converted into a cozy bedroom. Even with the cloudy, overcast day, we had gorgeous views from the terrace and kitchen windows. The house is well positioned-- on a hill, overlooking fields of lavender and wildflowers.

We ate well: a yummy zuchini quiche, plate of charcuterie, salad, plate of cheese, fresh berries from the market, lots of Rose. Their friend Bruno entertained us with stories of near-death experiences walking across Africa.

Friday, May 19, 2006

No More Bread



After stuffing my face with buttery crossaints and pain au chocolat for two months, I'm bidding adieu to bread (I doubt the French have heard of dear old Atkins). Though I did steal a bite of a warm baguette at dinner. The French staple is as ubiquitious as the advertisements for cellulite removal in pharmacies across France (scandalous window sized posters of bum and skinny thighs sans cellulite.) Boulangeries may be everywhere, but I'm hard-pressed finding normal staples, like chicken stock, regular cuts of meat (pork tenderloin, anyone?), or even skim (!) milk. I am not about to eat my muesli saturated with thick cream in the morning, so get this-- I've started cutting it with water. Pierre gags, but it works like a charm.

PS Just kidding. I didn't last a day here in the land of bread. Consumed crossaints aplenty this weekend.

Sunday, May 14, 2006

French Farmer's Markets vs. Ferry Plaza


Sometimes I find myself still thinking I'm an SF resident. I read all the SF blogs, articles about new museum exhibits and restaurant openings, and Daily Candy newsletters. And I daydream about the Ferry Plaza Farmer's Market. Not the green hills of Marin, looking back at that white cityscape and red span of bridge, or a sunny day at Dolores Park or sitting in a North Beach cafe, but about the endless samples at the farmer's market. The weirder sounding the better. (Pluots? Gotta love them. But hadn't heard of them before starting my Saturday morning ritual).

So now it's been a few years since those sun-kissed days by the bay, and I still daydream about the cheeses from Cowgirl Creamery, Frog Hollow preserves, those tasty burritos, and thick, delicious Greek yogurt. Mmmmm.



To my delight, I've been discovering that the great nation of France, agriculturally-minded as it is, has some exquisite produce markets. They may not be a fancy foodie's mecca, like Ferry Plaza, but they aren't too shabby. There's a weekend market in almost every town, with beautiful displays of fruits, veggies, and of course the best fromage and saucisson in the world. The season is all about strawberries right now, and though the little fruit in our garden are rotting and gross, the market's got full baskets of perfect red berries.



My only complaint about these charming French markets? They skimp on the samples!

French Team Line-Up for the World Cup



We've been waiting with bated breath, and the day has finally arrived. At 11:30 am on the nose, France coach, Raymond Domenech made his announcement. (Understandably our entire day was planned around this 6 minutes of press frenzy.)

But alas, where oh where is Giuly? Barcelona's kick-ass player, who, besides Ronaldinho, sparks crushes across the world? Can Zidane lead the squad to victory?

By the way, I've found my new inspiration for learning French. The famous weekly sports show that provides all sorts of football coverage, at 5:45 on Sunday. Today I interrupted Pierre every 3 minutes to try and decipher the scandal and scoop behind the World Cup roster, and he really wasn't diggin it. But if I listen carefully, the weird nasal accent gives way and I can make out English words! (The French are such copycats!) TV is such a god-send. Who needs a tutor or expensive lessons when you can learn French by interpreting bad French sitcoms (and even worse made-for-TV movies, that make the Hallmark channel look good).

Saturday, May 13, 2006

Lazy Days in the Limousin: Collonges-la-Rouge




An hour's drive and you find yourself amidst some of the most breathtaking scenery in France: rivers cutting through rolling green and Medieval villages clinging to rock cliffs. The Limousin is still underpopulated and undeveloped, and is the picture-perfect image of rural France. (Not so the Dordogne, where towns like Rocamadour-- awesome from a distance, carved into a tall cliff-- are crawling with tourists.)





Case in point: the town of Collonges-la-Rouge, its every building made of red sandstone, poised on a hill above a tributary of the Dordogne. Here, as always walking through France, I am struck by how old everything is. Layers of history. The imposing church, an important stop on the pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela. And the red buildings, many of them capped with turrets, are shrouded in wisteria. Flowers blooming everywhere. Walk through the winding alleyways and become enchanted with the place. Smitten, really. Perfect shutters and flower-boxes, cats sleeping in patches of sunshine, contemporary shops hidden within ancient walls.

But the Orangina costs a good EUR3. Bring a picnic, or eat in the city of Brive (it gets a bad rap, but there are good cafes aplenty.)

Remember: in France, fat chance of anything being open for lunch past 2pm. You can beg and plead, but when the kitchen's closed, these leisure-loving restaurant employees are not budging. So if you get grumpy and low blood sugar like me, when traveling around France, carry peanuts or-- eek!-- plan your meals ahead.

Cinco de Mayo in France



A trip to the beautiful and famous Limoges train station can only mean one thing: friends in town! We were so happy to celebrate Cinco de Mayo with Tobie and Dan. (The margaritas and pinatas may be scarce but the foie gras, cobble-stoned villages and red wine are plentiful...)

We Love Foie Gras



There's been a lot of hoopla over Chicago's controversial ban of foie gras. I mean, doesn't the city have more pressing problems to deal with?

The blogging world has covered the topic ad nauseum:
"Foie Gras Today. Tomorrow, veal. The day after, vegan Big Brotherism."

And some philosophically argue: "Nobody would object to force-feeding a sick animal for the animal's benefit. It's the force-feeding on top of the animal-killing..."

Despite all this, I think the delicious factor can't be disputed. Close your eyes, forget where the stuff comes from, forget imagining how the French ever devised the dish in the first place, and you'll swoon at the rich, fatty goodness that just melts in your mouth.

Current Events in France

Today, the French people are up in arms. Nope, it's not about the dismal state of their universities, as outlined in a brilliant New York Times article yesterday (and it's shocking to learn of their poor facilities, and to imagine libraries closing at 5, after pulling all-nighters during exam time in my college libraries):

"Universities are factories," said Christine le Forestier, 24, a 2005 graduate of Nanterre with a master's degree who has not found a stable job. "They are machines to turn out thousands and thousands of students who have learned all about theory but nothing practical. A diploma is worth nothing in the real world."
Today, the French people are taking to the streets in the Pyrenees region and-- I'm not kidding-- taking their flocks of sheep with them. Why expend all this energy, you ask? Why bother to shepherd their herds past beeping horns and deafening loudspeakers? Because environmentalists have released a bear into the surrounding mountains, in an effort to reintroduce the species after folks killed them off (or carted them off to the Big Apple for circuses) in the beginning of the century. And the farmers are freaked that the bear will attack their animals. Apparently the farmers don't imagine that a single bear could decimate entire flocks, but that fear could drive the animals crazy. And because the bear no longer has a natural fear of man (having been raised by scientists in Slovenia), it could get dangerously close to the villages. Back in the day, the bears didn't stand a chance in sharing territory with man. Looks like the farmers in the Pyrenees still don't want to share, and will take to the streets in serious protest.

Monday, May 08, 2006

Pays, Pigs, and Protectivist Prejudice



Look closely at the picture at right. (Notice the clean lines of French design, the perfect color, the... just kidding.) But do you notice anything out of the ordinary? Anything to catch your eye? No?

Neither did I! But the French... well, that's another story. The French are keen observers, harsh critics, and adamant defenders of the faith. So when a car-- even if it's a cute, French-made, Renault Megane Coupe-- should trespass from a neighboring pays to "sightsee" in another, well, then, that is an episode that deserves to be mocked. See, the last two digits on the French license plate indicate which pays, or region, you are from, and in our case, since we bought the car in the Vendee and have not yet received our Limoges license plate, we have been ridiculed TWICE in the space of two days about our origin. I mean, cruel slurs about pig-raising or something like that. By countryfolk, even! What is up with that?

Why the Relais de Margaux Kicks Some Hotel George V Booty



So maybe the hotel lacks a private in-room jacuzzi. Or fancy chocolates on your pillow. Or personal butler service to cater to your whims as you watch the sunset over the golf course. Or ingratiating (and secretly mocking) front desk folks.

But how many hotels have shoe-shining machines outside your door? For a quick touch-up before a delicious dinner at the Brasserie? Pierre was obsessed. Step 1: put leather shoe under the polish. Step 2: move shoe under the brush. Step 3: push button and watch the magic. Shoes turned new in a matter of seconds! From a standing position!

Other gadgets that are dangerous for boys: in-room steaming machines which magically press shirts and pants within minutes, flat-screen TVs, heated towel racks, and tubs with rainshowers.


The Relais de Margaux is the essence of comfort in the middle of wine country. Rooms are new-- and thus lack the charm of older residence-hotels, with their whimsical antique-filled rooms, but who cares when the service is so friendly and unpretentious (and un-French) and the food is so divine. (Try scallops on a pumpkin puree with sauteed mushrooms, followed by a chocolate pizza(!): rich melted chocolate over a thick, round crust of brioche.) And breakfast.... heaven-on-earth.

Mad about Margaux (or: Bored of Bordeaux?)



A week has past since the May Day celebrations in France (and today is yet another National holiday-- Fete de la Victoire 1945-- imagine that!) and I've kept you in suspense about marvelous Margaux for over a week. The premier of May was spent in serious tourist terrain (I'm talking caravans of gaping tourists and thirsty Brits) near the village of Margaux.


This is the world-renowned Medoc region, celebrated for producing the world's most prestigious red wines. Northwest of Bordeaux, bordered by the Atlantic and the Gironde Estuary, the Medoc (meaning "the middle territory") is situated on the 45th parallel, benefiting from an ideal temperate climate and a unique gravelly terroir. These spectacular vineyards produce high-quality grapes of many varieties: Cabernet-Sauvignon, Cabernet-Franc, Merlot, and Petit Verdot. The big guys are Chateau Lafite Rothschild, Chateau Mouton Rothschild, and Chateau Margaux, renowned for their premier grand cru classe (Californians take note: Rothshild colloborated with Mondavi on the most fabulous and tasty Opus One)


Needless to say, we missed the boat for their tours and headed to the little family-owned vineyards instead. Chateau Siran rocks. The estate is deeply aware of its history; the family has collected ancient Greek amphoras, Roman wine-making relics, and Medieval artifacts and displayed them throughout the wine cellars and amidst the enormous oak barrels. Delicious wines have been produced here for centuries. The coolest part about the place-- besides the wine tasting, of course-- is the artistic labels with which they adorn each vintage. Take for example, the picture displayed at right. The 1986 label is painted with the bright orange flash of Halley's Comet, which streaked across the sky that year.

Thursday, May 04, 2006

The Suite Life: Living it Up at the Grand Barrail Chateau



When we first drove into Saint-Emilion, Pierre pointed out the window: "Wow! Winston, look at that castle!" I stared at the towers and turrets and grassy green of the estate set amidst the vineyards. As we drove by, I craned my neck for a closer look and saw the gold-gilded placard with the name "Grand Barrail Chateau Resort and Spa." Good God! This was our hotel for the night!

Later in the afternoon, after I was buzzed on sparkling wine and macaroons, even more wobbly on my heels, we returned to check in, and learned that the place had only earned four measly stars. (And we were thinking it was the finest accommodations in town, sheesh.) My tour unveiled comfortable and spacious guestrooms, but without much charm. Lots of light, but almost too clean-- no ancient, antique-filled salons or whimsical tea rooms. The Spa looked heavenly, but I had to suppress a giggle at the seated mannequin positioned in a chair in the "Relaxation Room." The Russian mob had taken over the pool-- 8 or 10 fierce, mafioso-looking chaps had rented out the entire new wing of the hotel.


The sunset was remarkable over the vineyards and golden-hued townships; we drove around snapping pix of silos, and stone walls, and churches, and large stone crosses casting shadows over the grapevines. Our wallets were hurting, so we decided to skip dinner and feast on chocolate and left-over macaroons while watching the French Football Cup. Paris vs. Marseilles, which was more entertaining than watching the unsavory Russian mob splash around in the pool. These teams are arch-enemies, so we ended up watching more fights, and screaming matches, and dangerous kicks, and menacing stares, than we did outstanding passing sequences.


I woke up the next day so starving that Russian horsemeat washed down with cold vodka didn't sound half-bad. And the breakfast-- at EUR 20 a pop-- was worth it. The breakfast room was decorated with stained-glass windows and elaborate woodwork on the ceiling, and the buffet was enormous. I was expecting the tiny French portions, and was pleasantly surprised to see the copious quantities of hot crossaints, meats, yogurts, cute little jars of confiture, and of course the beautiful display of cheeses. And like a true American, I went back for seconds... and thirds.

Wednesday, May 03, 2006

The Burro of Saint-Emilion


An Afternoon at the Monastery



(It's Wednesday and images of St-Emilion are still dancing in my head...)

In the ruins of Cloitre des Cordeliers-- where the sun bakes the Romanesque arches and trees sprout from the grassy courtyards-- a winery has existed for over a century. In the midst of the monastery's ruins, they've set up tables and chairs where people gather over bottles of sparkling wine, and boxes of sweet, almond-flavored macaroons (a local delicacy-- the recipe was first brought to the town in the 17th century by Ursuline nuns) tied with blue ribbon.


After folks are sufficiently intoxicated-- as tradition seems to dictate-- they tie the ribbon around the cork, and try to throw it up into one of the trees. The dangling blue ribbons look like Christmas ornaments. When I tried to lodge it in the tree, a crowd of spectators had gathered-- to watch me completely miss the aimed-for tree-- as the cork flew backwards behind me into another (untargeted) tree. D'oh.

Tuesday, May 02, 2006

Wine-tasting at Chateau La Clotte




The fun really started when Niko arrived. Pierre's tall, striking, and absolutely awesome friend from University in Pau happens to work with a woman who owns Chateau La Clotte. The vineyard is located on un terroir grand in the absolute center of Saint-Emilion, a family-owned joint now run by three female cousins who strive to create the same delicious wines that their grandfather did when he started tending grapes in 1912.


How would we have found this place without Niko, whose family lives just over the hill in a tiny, neighboring hamlet? (And the boy brought me a beautiful, glossy magazine about Aquitaine because he knows I write about travel; what's not to love?!)





After meeting Niko at the Maison du Vin, we strolled (or: limped) along those cobble-stones until the town gave way to vineyards enclosed by ancient, crumbling walls. Just ahead, a stone house framed by purple blossoms. And beyond that, in a hill-side of rock that used to serve as a quarry, the enormous cave for wine storage. How genius. Cart out the rock and store the wine in a natural sort of cave.


The tour was amusing. Especially when the guide started comparing wine-tasting to the seduction of a woman. How French. I was also amused by the photographer from the local newspaper who pursued us with a huge zoom lens and made us feel like paparazzi-hunted celebs as he clicked away. Nice shots I'm sure-- with our noses deep in the wine glasses, nostrils flared.

Leisurely Lunch





Check out the aerial view of our lunch spot.

There is nothing better than eating lunch outside in the sunshine, staring up at the immense ruins of a 9th century church built into the side of a cliff-- literally carved from limestone walls. Even if the Salade Nicoise has slimey, detestable anchovies on top.

While working on my face tan and nursing a giant glass of Rose, I eavesdropped on the animated (shrieking and giggly) table to our left which polished off 3 (count em- 3!) huge carafes of wine without bothering to eat a bite.

Sunning and Sipping in Saint-Emilion, France



The sun was shining in Saint-Emilion, all the chateaux had opened their doors for the May 1st weekend, tours were whimsical, tastings were plentiful... so bear with me as I wax ecstatically. I can see why the Roman poets were so enchanted with this place. The untainted landscape of meticulously planted vines rolls on as far as the eye can see, and the wines are undeniably out-of-this-world.


The town itself is a tourist's delight, 30 minutes from Bordeaux in the midst of the world's most famous wine-growing region. (And in the summer it must be impossible to get a table, or even squeeze through the tiny cobble-stone alleyways.) The town is steeped in history-- its name derived from the Benedictine monk hermit who resided in a cave here between 750 and 767-- and the luxurious traditions of art de vivre. The vineyards and township of St. Emilion are UNESCO-heritage protected sites because they've endured-- virtually untouched-- since the Romans camped out in Gaul and extolled the virtues of the rich wines.

This region was the site of fierce combat during the 100 years war, but apparently the succession of kings always allowed Saint-Emilion independent rule as long as it kept producing brilliant wines for the royal table. (Hmmmmm, a slightly inebriated populace= peaceful coexistence; wine= peace; W., fall off the wagon already!)

We walked through the winding streets, gaping at the shops and cafes spilling wine bottles out their doors, and gaping some more at the views that would materialize between stone houses: the panoramic portrait of green countryside dotted with red-roofed houses. I wore high-heels for my hotel appointment later in the day, and thus was slipping and sliding down the slick marble stones. Saint-Emilion is built into a hill... a very steep hill. I think Pierre was mortified when I decided to chuck the shoes, and slide barefoot down that hill. I got some serious stares. But the smooth cobblestones felt so great on my blistered feet!

Of Pampered Pooches: The French and their Dogs



I assumed since Pierre has such viscious contempt for dogs (especially the mangy chuchos in El Salvador that would routinely vandalize the kitchen and swipe entire chickens) that all French citizens shared the same disdain for dogs as pets. Not so, I realized today, as I ran through the park and watched an elderly gentleman carefully pour water from an Evian bottle for his waiting mutt. Relief washed over me and I felt right at home. This could be the Castro (!) with adorable gay couples walking their dachsunds in matching plaid jackets. Or Alexandria, where the ladies-who-lunch stop in the doggie boutiques for a freshly baked biscuit for Fido. Almost.