Where does one begin when it comes to French cuisine — regarded by some as the pinnacle of high gastronomy? This reputation was put to the test when I set off on an exploratory trail through the southwest of France. In a foolhardy burst of enthusiasm, I invited along the beloved who was hell-bent on his Indian meals.
To me, going to France and discovering Indian cuisine, was a feeling akin to visiting Agra only to reminisce about the Prince Of Wales Museum in Mumbai.
I begged, I threatened, I quoted a wise man who said, “Seeking out local foods will give us insight into the place we visit. We taste not merely the ingredients that grow bountifully here, but also the history, the heritage, and everything that happened every other time we ate it. How do we best bond with a new place unless we listen to their music, try on their clothes, eat their food?”
But the beloved wouldn’t budge. Crushed, I left him to fancy Indian meals in equally fancy Indian restaurants with names like Taj Mahal, Punjabi and Neelavanee, and used dining times to independently seek out assorted local foods and wines.
In Pau, the historical capital of the Bearn country at the foot of the Pyrenees, the temptation of bistros, terraces and gourmet restaurants serving up poule-au-pot chicken and trout and salmon from the mountain-rivers that dot Bearn-Basque country, was too strong a siren call for me to resist. In the coastal village of St Jean de Luz, the Basque style church with its magnificent high altar moves me nearly as much as the ttoro fish soup and red tuna.
Walking up the steep medieval streets of St. Emilion, a man proffers me a gift in outstretched palm. It is neither a single plucked rose nor shiny relic from the Monolithic church nearby. Rather, it’s a perfectly-formed pertly-shaped macaroon, made with ground almonds, egg whites and sugar.
Outside a pastry shop in St. Emilion, I see a shiny convertible and a broken-down jalopy parked side by side. As sure a sign of a gourmet sweet shop, if there was any. Inside the store, the aristocrat and the bohemian stand side by side, pointing to canelés little caramelised cakes cooked in fluted moulds, St Emilion macaroons, Noisettines du medoc or caramelised hazelnuts, dark or milk chocolate “vine-twigs,” and cork-shaped marzipan petit- fours. Drool will always be the great equaliser.
Then in Bordeaux, the fine-wine region most renowned outside France, I meet Marie Louise — a woman of formidable knowledge and appetite, a woman enlightening in a way that transcends recipes and digestion. She tells me that in France, people drink their wine as a sort of compliment to their meal and not to get drunk. Then she waxes eloquent on the camaraderie conjured by a multi-course meal.
And I am transported by her words to the memory of a lovely dinner at the Michelin star restaurant Les Pres d’Eugenie, not far from Pau. The meal we embark upon is not food geared for the frenetic way we live now. Its need for space and time may be slightly eroded by the fast foods of the present day, but thankfully, has not entirely disappeared.
Over the next three hours, between courses of exquisite foie gras and cheeses from the region, I get chatting with the lady seated alongside at the table and our conversation grows as deeply as our appreciation for the food. By the end of the meal we feel satisfied, both by the delectable repast and our blossoming friendship. I understand what Marie Louise meant about camaraderie.
I can’t eulogise enough the manner in which the meal appealed to all the senses. The eye in the colour of the pinkish-purple flesh of the foie gras, the sense of touch in the icy chill of the glass of Rouge de Bachen 2009, the contrasting tastes in the platter of thinly-sliced Pyrenees cheese against the dark, sweet black cherry jam that traditionally goes with it. This is poetry in the flesh for the finely tuned palette.
Later, happily intoxicated on white wine from the Juracon vineyards and then a fine red from a chateau in St. Emilion near Bordeaux, I imagine the beloved nursing his vegetarian kofta curry in some Indian restaurant and I am forced to reconsider our relationship. After all, disinterest in local food has less to do with food and more to do with vital personality traits.
So I left him and his food fixation, for a new, more experimental lad who promised romance would begin with a dishful of eel fricassee in a tasty blend of garlic and parsley. When in France…
