from oysters to geese, in SW France

It’s morning in Pons. I’m to head for the Perigord Noir, the region of fat geese and duck confit.

But at the petit Pons Saturday market, after purchasing a kilo of endive because I love it so, I note these two, who have came in with the oysters…




I turn the car away from Perigord Noir and head toward the Atlantic Ocean.

Eventually I get to what seems like the oyster hub of central France. I drive over the long bridge to Ile d’Oleron, just off the western coast. A stretch of flat land slapped on all sides by ocean waters. Muddy waters. The kind that oysters love to call home. (Oysters like slime it seems.)


beach and mud. what fun.



shell life



low tide?

I drive up and down the island and watch people do their island Saturday stuff. They do what we do on this day: chores.

Maybe this is why they are so frazzled on the road. If ever you are inching slowly on a French rural road, wondering if you should be on the D706 in the direction of Montignac, or on the N21 in the direction of Bergerac, concluding that you are completely off in your directions and only a u-turn will save you from yourself, you’ll get the equivalent of a finger for sure. French people on the road have no patience for the likes of me. Nor I for them. We finger each other (figuratively!) quite a lot. They become road mean and they bring out the tough and don't you push me around side of me that I thought I had left back in the old country.

Off the road, all is forgotten and we are fast friends, shaking hands and kissing each other furiously to demonstrate our sincerity.

But I digress. The oysters: yes, it is a big thing here. I wander in and around now empty oyster huts. Did people seek shelter here in bad weather?




I stay too long on the island chasing down mud banks and staring at those who fish in them for the stuff that eventually you and I will find so sophisticatedly decadent.



by hand



by boat (of sorts)



Refocus: head inland. Perigord Noir, dark and brooding, is waiting.

At first, the transition from the coastal land to the Perigord is nice, mellow. Hi there, cognac-country, wine-country, gentle slopes with vines that are just now waking up.





But then quite suddenly, it all changes. Fields are gone. Forests – trees still not entirely green – replace the vines and mustard yellow flowers. I think I like it, I think I like it… Hmmm…

It's like someone switched stations on me and I am now watching a different movie.



entering Perigord Noir

At every bend in the road, there is a sign directing you to a farm where you can visit and buy foie gras. In their spare time, all the people of Perigord Noir must be making foie gras. Should I go visit? Should I? After all, I watched a harvest of oysters and I photograph fishermen frequently. Aren’t fat geese, well treated fat geese in the same league? We take pictures of cows even though the vast majority of cows on our side of the ocean are so miserably treated it hurts.

Let me mull this one over.

In the meantime, I am getting acquainted with my village, Plazac. I’ll say this much about it now: it is remote!

More on my first encounters with the village folk tomorrow. Tres fatigue tonight.

[Post script: if there is one thing that will someday put an end to my travel blogging it is my relationship to the Internet in France. It has virtually always malfunctioned. It completely warped my email program in Pons. And here, in the Perigord, it killed my USB port, so that I can no longer download photos in any straightforward fashion from my camera. Thank you, Ed, for helping me find, by phone, through tedious, convoluted steps, a temporary fix until I get back to the States. France, you have GOT to do better with the WiFi! PLEASE!]

from oysters to geese, in SW France

It’s morning in Pons. I’m to head for the Perigord Noir, the region of fat geese and duck confit.

But at the petit Pons Saturday market, after purchasing a kilo of endive because I love it so, I note these two, who have came in with the oysters…




I turn the car away from Perigord Noir and head toward the Atlantic Ocean.

Eventually I get to what seems like the oyster hub of central France. I drive over the long bridge to Ile d’Oleron, just off the western coast. A stretch of flat land slapped on all sides by ocean waters. Muddy waters. The kind that oysters love to call home. (Oysters like slime it seems.)


beach and mud. what fun.



shell life



low tide?

I drive up and down the island and watch people do their island Saturday stuff. They do what we do on this day: chores.

Maybe this is why they are so frazzled on the road. If ever you are inching slowly on a French rural road, wondering if you should be on the D706 in the direction of Montignac, or on the N21 in the direction of Bergerac, concluding that you are completely off in your directions and only a u-turn will save you from yourself, you’ll get the equivalent of a finger for sure. French people on the road have no patience for the likes of me. Nor I for them. We finger each other (figuratively!) quite a lot. They become road mean and they bring out the tough and don't you push me around side of me that I thought I had left back in the old country.

Off the road, all is forgotten and we are fast friends, shaking hands and kissing each other furiously to demonstrate our sincerity.

But I digress. The oysters: yes, it is a big thing here. I wander in and around now empty oyster huts. Did people seek shelter here in bad weather?




I stay too long on the island chasing down mud banks and staring at those who fish in them for the stuff that eventually you and I will find so sophisticatedly decadent.



by hand



by boat (of sorts)



Refocus: head inland. Perigord Noir, dark and brooding, is waiting.

At first, the transition from the coastal land to the Perigord is nice, mellow. Hi there, cognac-country, wine-country, gentle slopes with vines that are just now waking up.





But then quite suddenly, it all changes. Fields are gone. Forests – trees still not entirely green – replace the vines and mustard yellow flowers. I think I like it, I think I like it… Hmmm…

It's like someone switched stations on me and I am now watching a different movie.



entering Perigord Noir

At every bend in the road, there is a sign directing you to a farm where you can visit and buy foie gras. In their spare time, all the people of Perigord Noir must be making foie gras. Should I go visit? Should I? After all, I watched a harvest of oysters and I photograph fishermen frequently. Aren’t fat geese, well treated fat geese in the same league? We take pictures of cows even though the vast majority of cows on our side of the ocean are so miserably treated it hurts.

Let me mull this one over.

In the meantime, I am getting acquainted with my village, Plazac. I’ll say this much about it now: it is remote!

More on my first encounters with the village folk tomorrow. Tres fatigue tonight.

[Post script: if there is one thing that will someday put an end to my travel blogging it is my relationship to the Internet in France. It has virtually always malfunctioned. It completely warped my email program in Pons. And here, in the Perigord, it killed my USB port, so that I can no longer download photos in any straightforward fashion from my camera. Thank you, Ed, for helping me find, by phone, through tedious, convoluted steps, a temporary fix until I get back to the States. France, you have GOT to do better with the WiFi! PLEASE!]

post from Pons

All you have to do is guess which country has Pons in it. No Wiki checking! I am helpful, I give photo hints:

This morning, I eat an early stand-up breakfast here:


early illy

Tired and, I admit it, a little cold, I nonetheless continue on my journey. I hesitate only half a second before deciding I should pick one of these up for the ride:



By mid-afternoon, after a bus, a plane and a train, I am almost there. I do the last short lap by car. This one. It's my partner for the week:



It would have been less than an hour on the road had I not stopped to admire these:


spring vines

Now you’re thinking – wine. It’s all about wine. She’s doing her vineyard visit thing. Next thing you know, she’ll be pushing one wine or another and telling everyone what to drink.

No.

In truth, I am so very close to the place where Ann’s favorite post-dinner beverage is made. It's all about the c word here. This is serious stuff. Take a look at the selection from local producers, displayed at my evening meal in Pons (some 20 kilometers from the town of Cognac):



I’m not here for long – just one night. I am waiting for my house rental to become available on Staurday. That will be in the deep Perigord Noir (the black Perigord). Okay, in case you haven't quite located it -- it's in the southwest of France.

Most people regard the Perigord region as the place which gave us overfed geese with huge livers. I prefer to associate it with cepes (the mushrooms) and berries. But all that should be talked of tomorrow. Today I am at the edge of it, closer to the Atlantic coast.

Pons has a very nice little restaurant (indeed, I chose it because I am a huge fan of small, regional restaurants with rooms). Nothing fancy, nothing elaborate. Just a place to take your dog or spouse to when you want to step back from your stove for a bit. Inside and out, it looks like a million others.


Hotel de Bordeaux: no, it's not in Bordeaux, but close

But the kitchen is not a run of the mill place. In my opinion, it is outstanding, even for this side of the ocean.

Around me, I do not hear much English. True, there is a British couple right at my side. Easy to spot. She orders a plain salad. Perhaps she is on a diet. She is thin, but you know how odd people can be about maintaining a good weight. (If I were her, I would maintain the good weight while in England and chomp away here, south of the Channel, but that’s just me.)

A groan is heard. A loud one. It’s from the dog by the French speaking table on my other side. Meanwhile, its owner is surveying the cheese board. She asks for recommendation from the young waiter. And I mean young. How sweet to have confidence in what he has to say about cheese.






Oh, but this country is insane about food. The restaurant is packed (with two Brit-occupied tables, a dozen French settings, and of course me). We are in the middle of nowhere and people are lining up, as they are in the town next to this and the next one and the next, just to have themselves a fine meal at the end of the day.

And it is a very, very fine meal. Carpaccio of scallops with shrimp and carrot mousse, fish fillets over braised endive with cocoa and orange sauce, crepes stuffed with a Grand Marnier soufflé – those are just my main dishes. Well worth the long, long trip over to small, insignificant Pons.









I am falling over from tiredness. I didn’t even try a cognac. I know, do as the locals do. But for me, the day ends with an Illy noisette and a dish of cookies. Too tired to contemplate anything else. I post an unedited post from Pons and collapse. Tomorrow – the Perigord.

post from Pons

All you have to do is guess which country has Pons in it. No Wiki checking! I am helpful, I give photo hints:

This morning, I eat an early stand-up breakfast here:


early illy

Tired and, I admit it, a little cold, I nonetheless continue on my journey. I hesitate only half a second before deciding I should pick one of these up for the ride:



By mid-afternoon, after a bus, a plane and a train, I am almost there. I do the last short lap by car. This one. It's my partner for the week:



It would have been less than an hour on the road had I not stopped to admire these:


spring vines

Now you’re thinking – wine. It’s all about wine. She’s doing her vineyard visit thing. Next thing you know, she’ll be pushing one wine or another and telling everyone what to drink.

No.

In truth, I am so very close to the place where Ann’s favorite post-dinner beverage is made. It's all about the c word here. This is serious stuff. Take a look at the selection from local producers, displayed at my evening meal in Pons (some 20 kilometers from the town of Cognac):



I’m not here for long – just one night. I am waiting for my house rental to become available on Staurday. That will be in the deep Perigord Noir (the black Perigord). Okay, in case you haven't quite located it -- it's in the southwest of France.

Most people regard the Perigord region as the place which gave us overfed geese with huge livers. I prefer to associate it with cepes (the mushrooms) and berries. But all that should be talked of tomorrow. Today I am at the edge of it, closer to the Atlantic coast.

Pons has a very nice little restaurant (indeed, I chose it because I am a huge fan of small, regional restaurants with rooms). Nothing fancy, nothing elaborate. Just a place to take your dog or spouse to when you want to step back from your stove for a bit. Inside and out, it looks like a million others.


Hotel de Bordeaux: no, it's not in Bordeaux, but close

But the kitchen is not a run of the mill place. In my opinion, it is outstanding, even for this side of the ocean.

Around me, I do not hear much English. True, there is a British couple right at my side. Easy to spot. She orders a plain salad. Perhaps she is on a diet. She is thin, but you know how odd people can be about maintaining a good weight. (If I were her, I would maintain the good weight while in England and chomp away here, south of the Channel, but that’s just me.)

A groan is heard. A loud one. It’s from the dog by the French speaking table on my other side. Meanwhile, its owner is surveying the cheese board. She asks for recommendation from the young waiter. And I mean young. How sweet to have confidence in what he has to say about cheese.






Oh, but this country is insane about food. The restaurant is packed (with two Brit-occupied tables, a dozen French settings, and of course me). We are in the middle of nowhere and people are lining up, as they are in the town next to this and the next one and the next, just to have themselves a fine meal at the end of the day.

And it is a very, very fine meal. Carpaccio of scallops with shrimp and carrot mousse, fish fillets over braised endive with cocoa and orange sauce, crepes stuffed with a Grand Marnier soufflé – those are just my main dishes. Well worth the long, long trip over to small, insignificant Pons.









I am falling over from tiredness. I didn’t even try a cognac. I know, do as the locals do. But for me, the day ends with an Illy noisette and a dish of cookies. Too tired to contemplate anything else. I post an unedited post from Pons and collapse. Tomorrow – the Perigord.

promises

... of internet connections, even in Pons -- my first stop on a not too complicated itinerary (but it is a long journey, so be patient, I wont get there 'til tomorrow).

...of good weather later in the week.

... of good food, of calm, quiet.

Spring break is never a total vacation. But I can put myself elsewhere and it will feel like a vacation. That's the joy of being away from home.

Whether some of the other promises -- of good weather and Internet access -- hold, now that remains to be seen.

Check back tomorrow and see if you spot a posting from Pons.

Spring break. Finally. How nice.

promises

... of internet connections, even in Pons -- my first stop on a not too complicated itinerary (but it is a long journey, so be patient, I wont get there 'til tomorrow).

...of good weather later in the week.

... of good food, of calm, quiet.

Spring break is never a total vacation. But I can put myself elsewhere and it will feel like a vacation. That's the joy of being away from home.

Whether some of the other promises -- of good weather and Internet access -- hold, now that remains to be seen.

Check back tomorrow and see if you spot a posting from Pons.

Spring break. Finally. How nice.

the other side of march

Cold. Wet. Windy. Generally gray.

Never mind. I’ll not dwell on any of it. Instead, I promise a change for the Spring Break ahead. Tomorrow night, I’m setting out for Pons (where, I hear, it is also cold and wet and windy, but it has other attributes and so I am not deterred).

In the meantime, from my dining room table, today, a shot of Ocean colors:

the other side of march

Cold. Wet. Windy. Generally gray.

Never mind. I’ll not dwell on any of it. Instead, I promise a change for the Spring Break ahead. Tomorrow night, I’m setting out for Pons (where, I hear, it is also cold and wet and windy, but it has other attributes and so I am not deterred).

In the meantime, from my dining room table, today, a shot of Ocean colors:

eats

It’s rare that I am at the front of the queue, trying out a new eatery before a single review is even posted. I’m just not that together. I say a lot of “we should try that new place…” before I actually do try that new place.

But, I got a rather insistent call from a person who rarely insists on this sort of stuff. We’re eating out at the new Peruvian place on Park Street tonight.

We are? I’m set to eat a salad with a bagel on the side.

No, really. We are.

And so we do.

And now I can say this: I know (“know” is a relative term) Peruvian food. Heretofore, I knew South American food. In our usual myopic fashion we lump foods from “over there” into something we ascribe to tremendously vast regions. African food. Continental cuisine (that would be Europe; would you believe it? Europe as a style of cooking!). South American. Asian. And the thing is, we sort of kind of think we know what we mean by any of that.

But Peruvian food – now that’s a stumper.

Not anymore though. Not if you live in Madison. You can break out of your Machu Pichu ideas about this country and try something truly authentic. At Inka Heritage, on Park Street.



I, myself, started with the mushroom cerviche (adorned with HUGE kernels of corn and sweet potato, in a tangy sauce)…



… and then proceeded to the dish I always ask for insofar as it is on any menu – seafood stew, or soup, or casserole, or soup, or something brothy like that. Described variously, it is a dish that speaks to me: bits of seafood in a liquid that is seasonaed with the imagination of the cook.



Delicious!

Inka Heritage is a family run place. True, our waitperson was herself not Peruvian, but had I not asked, I would have guessed otherwise. Something about the way she pronounced the items on the menu… And yes, I know that not all Europeans speak Polish and not all South Americans speak Spanish. But to me, she sounded Peruvian Spanish. I am easily influenced by the circumstances.

Let me go back to the food: it is really quite good. Don’t be one of those who only goes in if the entrance is lavish and has valet parking. In case you've not been on Madison's Park Street lately, it's not Park Avenue-like. Go in anyway and focus on the menu. Have a glass of reasonably priced wine. Maybe another. Then discover the Peruvian in you.

And don’t forget to send me a thank you email, once you try the food.

eats

It’s rare that I am at the front of the queue, trying out a new eatery before a single review is even posted. I’m just not that together. I say a lot of “we should try that new place…” before I actually do try that new place.

But, I got a rather insistent call from a person who rarely insists on this sort of stuff. We’re eating out at the new Peruvian place on Park Street tonight.

We are? I’m set to eat a salad with a bagel on the side.

No, really. We are.

And so we do.

And now I can say this: I know (“know” is a relative term) Peruvian food. Heretofore, I knew South American food. In our usual myopic fashion we lump foods from “over there” into something we ascribe to tremendously vast regions. African food. Continental cuisine (that would be Europe; would you believe it? Europe as a style of cooking!). South American. Asian. And the thing is, we sort of kind of think we know what we mean by any of that.

But Peruvian food – now that’s a stumper.

Not anymore though. Not if you live in Madison. You can break out of your Machu Pichu ideas about this country and try something truly authentic. At Inka Heritage, on Park Street.



I, myself, started with the mushroom cerviche (adorned with HUGE kernels of corn and sweet potato, in a tangy sauce)…



… and then proceeded to the dish I always ask for insofar as it is on any menu – seafood stew, or soup, or casserole, or soup, or something brothy like that. Described variously, it is a dish that speaks to me: bits of seafood in a liquid that is seasonaed with the imagination of the cook.



Delicious!

Inka Heritage is a family run place. True, our waitperson was herself not Peruvian, but had I not asked, I would have guessed otherwise. Something about the way she pronounced the items on the menu… And yes, I know that not all Europeans speak Polish and not all South Americans speak Spanish. But to me, she sounded Peruvian Spanish. I am easily influenced by the circumstances.

Let me go back to the food: it is really quite good. Don’t be one of those who only goes in if the entrance is lavish and has valet parking. In case you've not been on Madison's Park Street lately, it's not Park Avenue-like. Go in anyway and focus on the menu. Have a glass of reasonably priced wine. Maybe another. Then discover the Peruvian in you.

And don’t forget to send me a thank you email, once you try the food.