languedoc zombies

Finally back on after much thought …I have decided there will be no BLOG guilt

I guess I have committed many sins in my life … but we will not get into that now.

Well maybe just a bit.

Recently, meaning the last few years, gluttony seems to be the most recurrent. Is it the seventh sin ? Is it the first ? Does the order come into play when evaluating the depth of guilt? Does anything give when it is all self inflicted?

What is the cure ? Is it penance ? Seven Hail Mary’s ? Two Our Father’s ? Forgive me everybody, for I have sinned, and it has been quite a while, probably the last time was when I was ten and skinny as a rail, since I confessed.

I have eaten and eaten and eaten like a caterpillar moving towards it’s next transformation; for me it is highly unlikely to be flight. This Languedoc episode started about 11 yrs ago and has had me investigating supposed nutritional sources since….ha ha ha !

It began with simple, local food markets, light, fall wine harvests, innocent chestnut collecting, bouncy cherry picking in the spring. Then one is kindly invited to friend’s get together with a pot luck attitude; then we get fresh picked acacia blossoms in homemade batter, final product=donuts, omigod the sinning starts here ..I think. Then the others bring spicy, mixed salads, whole smoked fishes, salty tarts, french versions of crumble, more cakes, orange, courge soups all with a grandmother’s recipe to back it up and make perfect credibility.

Sinning continues: Local goodies galore, oysters, macarons, too much wine, tielles, wild boar stew, chevre, foie gras, cheese everywhere. BREAD, of course.

Ok, confession time.

Café in Grau d’Agde

L’Entrepot – Pézenas

L’Octopus – Béziers

L’Octopus – Béziers

a gourmet catalyst

BBQ with Garrigae Resorts

signed : une espèce de “food slut”

the gourmet catalyst strikes again

by Helen
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The fabulous bakeries and tea rooms of Lamalou-les-Bains series:
Part One: L’Heure de Thé

2 av. Maréchal Joffre, every day but Monday and Wednesday de 7h à 13h30 et de 15h30 à 18h30.

Driving into Lamalou, you’ll see this demure little tea house on your left.

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There are more than a couple of exquisite pastry chefs in this region. One’s hidden in his little hilltop restaurant.  (I’ve had an anise flan there that was so unusual and good that it’s sort of my default thought mode. Yes, I think about it like one might think of it like an old woman remembers a kiss under a bridge in Florence with a stranger. Except I wasn’t that old and his name was Alexander. He certainly kissed like a stranger.)

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But the more accessible place for dessert is this delicious tea house in Lamalou-les-Bains.

Lamalou is a smaller mid-sized town that has a sort of fin-de-siecle feel because it has two things that connote less than austerity: hot springs and a gambling joint in a sort of confectioner’s version of a building. Being France, the casino also doubles as the local art house movie hall. So, lose a little money, gain culture, then walk over to the tea shop where the fabulous chef Alain creates confections of which I have only tasted the equivalent of in Paris fifteen years ago. You can read a bit more about his background here:

The first thing you see when you walk past the stand of bamboo, is chocolate. A lot of it.



chocolates that greet you at the teashop of Lamalou-les-Bains

Wait, you didn’t get to see ALL the chocolates. Alain’s genius is clearly coupled with insomnia.



Then, after a longing glance at all the chocolate, we see the counter.

What a counter. Earlier, we’d snagged a chocolate croissant and reserved a few. Now there were TWO more pastries ( a chocolate hazelnut millefeuille and a raspberry millefeuille) that made me shriek. I love raspberry. I love chocolate.

Totally Sophie’s choice. Except that, of all my children, I do like chocolate.



I couldn’t let it go.



I’m talking about the perfect mille feuille here. Cream with layers of perfect, flaky, crustiness. How? And how does he cut that thing into even more perfect bite sized slices?

How does this man do it???I don’t know.

The plating at this tea house is absolutely extraordinary.


Translucent red currants placed precariously over a deep chocolate glaze, over a crisp layer of pastry, then an exquisite layer of cream. And it goes on.

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Then comes the lemon drizzle cake…a shot of limoncello sunshine that wakes one up. Neither too sweet or dense, it goes beautifully with the darjeeling. It’s one of those things that pretend that you might make something like that at home but I know better. The simplicity of it doesn’t make it any easier to make.


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The chocolate banana creme is a smooth delight, neither too banana nor cloyingly chocolate.



One is astounded, again, by the clean flavours and the wonderful sense of balance in the banana chocolate. Nothing is too heavy. They’re friends. Pastries are all in the details, I say.

I love the details here:

The tea, for instance, is served with a small timer.My niece lets me babble on: more pastry for her.


The chef comes out and pulls out the teabag. It matters to him.


And, indeed, this is one of the brightest, flavourful cups of Darjeeling I’ve had.

Last time, I had a delicate cherry green tea that also provided a nice foil to the sweets.

I swear I shall pay more attention to seeping at home.

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And the pain au chocolat here are legend. At least to fellow Zombie Lisa’s son, Emile.



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This place is like a church. People come in looking weary (it’s pretty windy outside) and then, within seconds of inspecting the variety, immediately perk up.

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The service is wonderful and cheery and the place feels just right: warm and cozy, a little traditional, a bit of Asian zen with the bamboo outside and the choice of teapots.



And, surprisingly, the quality of the pastries are matched by the wonderful tea. That’s rare. It’s usually one or the other. (Also, isn’t the gal just the human equivalent of pastries? )



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Lastly, because it’s the church of good feeling, I’m always striking up conversations with practically everyone there, half of whom, not surprisingly, are British although I’ve met an Irish man there as well. We’re all quite drunk on the moment of warmth, deliciousness and the slight, very slight feeling of being bad. Instead of working, we’re lounging about eating things that seem like the periphery of dreams, the sort you wake up wistful from.
Luckily, we brought some home. As Rimbaud would put it:

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Là, tout n’est qu’ordre et beauté,?
Luxe, calme et volupté.

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There all is order and beauty.
Luxury, peace, and pleasure

by Helen

So….today I wander over early in the morning with a bottle of fabulous Syrah (Yes, they have syrah here. A gorgeous silky soft blue violet on the tongue…drink too much of it and it looks like you’ve been hitting the blueberry kool aid with J.Jones…) as a thank you to a friend of mine who lives in practically the same village.

He makes the best tiramisu on God’s creation.

Anyhow, as I wander back, I notice some dark rumply looking things, the size of golfballs, on the ground. Walnuts.  I’ve picked up walnuts in four different villages so far. Every tree tastes different.  And, if you let them dry out a bit in your house, they go from that fresh, wet greeny taste to the familiar nutty deep bodied taste we know so well. Not sure which one I prefer.

In any case, this is the deal with walnuts: don’t touch em. Not the black golf balls, at least. Instead, roll them beneath your foot back and forth to rub off this skin. If they’re still green, then take them home and make an amazing walnut liqueur out of them (this is another story) but, right now, they’re all pretty black. It’s the end of October after all.  There will be a surprising number of already shelled walnuts as well.  Those, stomp on. Then gently pick the walnut meat out of it. It’s brutal but it works.

The black walnut skin can be used as a dye and it will stain your hands a deep dark brown that will be very, very hard to scrub off.  I met someone at the Mons bread baking festival who had nutted themselves.

So…walnuts. But then I notice a shiny red object. Chestnuts. Rather small compared to the store bought ones but I’ve heard Olargues chestnuts are famous.  Colombieres is right next to Olargues. I gather a bundle and come home, scar the bottoms so that they don’t explode, then toss them in my steamer.

UTTERLY DELICIOUS.

I’m not going on picturesque walks anymore.  I’m going a hunting and a gathering from now on….

Here are some things you should look out for here

1) figs. They’re on their last hurrah though. Earlier in the season, we had a wide variety ranging from black/raspberry insides to green/pink insides.  All incredibly honeyed. Perfect to toss into a crumble with some apples. Or make ice cream with some Greek yogurt (which, by the way, is sublime here.)

2) wild apples here are snappy, sour and delicious.

3) blackberries: small and intense.

4) chestnuts: Don’t confuse this with the horse chestnut (larger, redder…the pod doesn’t look like a hedgehog)  Chestnut trees have long, feathery flowers in season and big furry pods that fall down and cause you to bleed profusely. There can be three chestnuts in one pod. Usually, the middle one is much larger than the rest. Again, just step on it or use a stick. You can steam or roast them. Just make sure you x them on the bottom as they can take out an eye when they explode.

5) Golden purslane: this delicious, crunchy succulent is everywhere and full of omega fatty three acids. Think of it it as land tuna.  Not too long though.

6) mulberries: few and far between and a bit of an acquired taste unless you’re a silk worm but I do like them.

7) wild asparagus: I found a secret place full of em. Yippee! It’s a spring thing though. A little tricky as the soft furry foliage by which you distinguish them has not yet sprung.

mushrooms: Not yet. But I plan to go looking soon.  Not in hunting season though. Lordie. I went down to the river, heard gunshots then found a hunting dog had cornered a baby boar.  It was the size of two hands and I didn’t know what to do. It was squealing for its dear life and the hunter took off with it. I’m assuming its mother had been killed. Had mild fantasies of raising it because it’s striped like a chipmunk.  I’m afeerd of hunters but these are the hills. It’s like the Maine backwoods here for a while.  Wear orange if you’re in the woods. And, definitely, no stripes.

by Lisa

Japanese Fruit fashion comes to France:

More to come …

by Helen

Ah yes.   When things break down, they really do break.

My cellphone broke.  

I snickered.  

My Orange landline broke, I feigned boredom and start making a lot of onion jam.  That’s how it rolls with hermits. I was too busy hunting down ripe fig trees because, for a fig aficionado in September, every fig tree is like a different lover. Then my microcar broke down. I took notice, sent it in like an efficient citizen, remained stoic when they said the motor was utterly destroyed.  Fix it, I said.  They told me to wait.  I agreed cheerfully, not understanding that this meant something like dog years to human years.  Not three days.  Not a week. No. It’s been close to a month. I’m starting to feel like Hachiko, the faithful dog who sat in the same spot day after day. Long story short, the master was actually dead and the dog’s spot was turned into a statue around which people still wait to meet up with their friends.

Of course, I had been warned on no uncertain terms; it had simply fallen on deaf Swedish-American-Korean ears.  I didn’t realize how polite the French are. My mechanic had looked at me and said, “Why not get a new car?”

It wasn’t a suggestion, Hachiko.

Still, I didn’t break.  After all, I have a trusty moped that I lent to my friend for six months with nary a hitch.  I drive to Bedarieux, load it up with veggies.   Wait..the chain went out a few blocks from the scooter repair place.  I push it there and realize they don’t work Mondays.

I hitch home thinking that I will never, ever, ever buy orange juice again. Even for the undead, it’s like hauling liquid brick. Three weeks later, I’m still without transportation but, thanks to my opposing member, I’ve met a set designer for Woody Allen, a couple of librarians and I’ve learnt what sort of used cars to buy.  I’m buying a Kangoo. You can abduct mechanics in them.  I plan to abduct my mechanic if he doesn’t get on with loving my microcar back into shape.

Update: Okay….I’m riding the bus now but I’m still acting as though things are all right.  I have my internet and net phone.  Nobody can call me but I can call out.  I can text out but no one can text me.  Armed with the internet, I decide to buy a tiny, rather rusty but charming Renault 6 that apparently has only 45,000 miles on it.  My first manual car.   I’m going native.  Russell agrees it’s a fine idea to move on, get a new car, get a new life. And, please, he says, Helen, don’t underestimate the scarcity of dried chene vert. Get your wood on before it gets cold. Right, wood before car.

Update: Of course, when we actually meet the vehicle, it turns out to have a 100,000 more miles than advertised (because the counter went around, says the old man, charmingly, like life.)

This little Renault is sort of like internet dating. It’s quite a bit hoarier in person.  No matter.  I still agree to take it.  Wait, they want me to wait a week because they haven’t done the CT on it.  What? I’m unruffled. Go right ahead, I say. Do it. Do that CT. Call me when you’ve got it.

Then, feeling rather cocky, I call up Orange and ask them how to fix my Orange net landline.  Midway through the conversation, they tell me to restart the modem.  Then the modem breaks.   Truly breaks.  Mailing it in will take two weeks. That will be the end of it. It shall disappear into the maw of French bureaucracy.

This is the proverbial straw on the camel’s back.  My niece suddenly learns a whole new dimension to the English language that I hope she puts out of sight and mind just like my explanations of predicates went right over her head.

Update: Have taken up religion, indiscriminately, veering towards pantheons – safety in numbers. I have to signal surrender to the gods somewhere, somehow.  So I stop swearing like a sailor and I put on a mostly white bathrobe (sign of despair) stand outside and wonder what to do.

I’ve got sliced bread (my niece didn’t understand baguettes for a week so I brought it home in a brown paper bag).  I’ve got no tomatoes.  And four bars of chocolate (Cote D’Or).  I realize that I am not properly stocked for the end of the world unless I want to eat spaghetti for two weeks. I console myself that I do have three kinds of butter: Bretagne butter (with salt crystals), the mainstay (President), and some sweet local stuff that’s scooped from a wooden pail (Lamalou farmer’s market).  I have HP sauce.  I have four kinds of honey.  Tilleul. Chataigne. Wild honey.  More wild honey.
Wait. An impromptu pan melted pain au chocolat doesn’t sound shabby…

Update:  Can’t call anyone.  Can’t email anyone.  Can’t drive anywhere. Buses here stop for three hours in the middle of the day making shopping a bit hellish.  No cat food at the corner shop.  There’s figs.  Yes, they’re ripe and dropping from the trees. They don’t look like lovers anymore. They look like figs.

Lucky, I called Russell before my net phone died.  We’d planned furniture run later today.  We sweep into Beziers, pick up two cell phones, a new modem, a truckload of bookshelves and sweep back. Now I can call Orange and ask them to set up my phone.  An hour later, I’m still listening to muzak and the minutes on my cellphone run out.  Oops.

Update:   My mood goes from black to Peugeot Blue as I consider the pace of the Valley.

I think of my former life.  One in which I did not drive a microcar.  I miss both my beemers.  They didn’t whack me in the gonads everytime I went over a bump.  They didn’t require that I go forward five inches before I could reverse gears.  They were civilized cars.  I miss the life in which I took care of things with a precision bordering on neurosis.  In which I was checking my watch at a friend’s birthday party.  Wait, I say. You did not miss that.

I take a deep breath.

Update: The old man delivers the Renault then confesses me that the car did not pass control technique. Fail.  I look at the mountainous list of things that need to be fixed. I show it to my mechanic. Fail.  He gets down and begs me not to buy this car. Tells me I should plant it in my garden (he did say this) I listen to my mechanic even though the heartless bastard still won’t fix my microcar.   I send the old man back with his car and remuneration although I think he’s a bit of a sneak.

Update: my car will be fixed friday.   I walk to visit a new neighbor and they are charming. We have really good savory crackers that he’s baked and he proffers me a bowl of really rather good cherry tomatoes.   Life is not too bad.

Update: my car will be fixed monday.

Update: my car will be fixed tomorrow. Tomorrow, by the way, is another day. I’m just saying I’m getting that Kangoo WITHOUT WINDOWS.

Update: today is tuesday.  My car is actually fixed.  Pinch me, sister. Wait. It’s going to cost 1500 euros.  My mechanic hides from me because he knows that I plan to kidnap him anyhow to relieve my deep emotional stress.

Update: My microcar is back.  It no longer accelerates but I’m not sure as they didn’t fix the speedometer (why? They’d ordered the piece a month ago.)  My new cellphone receives but does not send and I fear I’ve topped off someone else’s phone. My net landline works and will continue to work for a few minutes into the future.  My scooter is working.

Update: I am no longer standing by the side of the road looking overdressed and bewildered.  I also met a belly dancing teacher while hitching. I am going to take belly dancing lessons with my new neighbor. Possibly.

Update:  Things are mostly working.  This too shall pass.  Russell says that it’s not about controlling the environment. It’s about adapting to it. I tell him to go read Seneca.

Update: I don’t care that I can’t accelerate.  It beats thumbing a ride any day.

I am now wearing a Kenzo cardigan that I picked up in Bedarieux for fifty cents. It makes me look like an extremely well dressed Milanese grandfather. ROCK!

I am feeling pretty damn smug on my half broken techno island.

Update:  I have a car, I am well dressed.  I have apples. Winter is coming. I know several woodcutters. I know more woodcutters than I know iphone developers for the first time in my life. Beat that with a moped chain. And, mechanic, I know where you work.

Update: This is entirely true.  My car now goes backwards but not forwards unless one fidgets with it for a minute or so- a rather long minute if you’re in traffic. My mechanic says the exhaust can be fixed later and he’ll take me in on Monday. That’s….five days away.

The exhaust DROPS OFF on the way home.

 I’ve decided to write off my mechanic as a charitable organization.  I am calm. I am very, very calm.  Why? Because I’m seeing another mechanic tomorrow morning.  He won’t make me weep.

Update: Left car at new mechanic. Hitched home again. Must hitch back now. I just had a pain au chocolat so am properly drugged.

Update: I’m clearly hallucinating. I think I bought the wrong cardigan. It’s not a Kenzo. Am I on the fast track to senility?
Is string theory true? Is there some alternate universe in which I am in a Kenzo, driving a Kangoo and I have an in house mechanic?

Because I don’t think anything less is going to work for me.

I want a van.

Like a diary that I started way back when during my days in the 80′s New York, I again, hesitate to start writing. I can come up with a few quite common reasons such as: I am nervous, not a good enough writer, insecure. Or, where to start? But as Fraulein Maria says “at the very beginning”? Perhaps I am sick of writing for therapeutic benefits or that my blog partner is such a clever, talented and witty writer. Maybe la grande finale, Who cares anyway?

I do have something to say, therefore, I will start at now, at the present..on y va against all odds. (You see the doubt arises even wtith this horrible franglais writing…why am I desperately so  frightened of making a betises?)

PS.I will ask Helen to edit me..ooooffff.

PPS.That New York diary got stolen with my handbag …ooh la la This ‘let yourself inside out’ blog writing is insane.

So…, here I am in a small new flat in Montpellier so that my daughter can attend high school at the notorious Lycée Joffre; the best in the south of France??? I am in this particular flat because it seems that this building practically dragged me in.

One of the first times that I visited Montpellier, approximately 8 years ago, I met my old friend Léa here and she pointed out a surprising,at least  to me at the time, shop filled with dried herbs, glass jars, exotic teapots, green painted wooden furniture displays, a strange odor of trees flowing outdoors, a magical kind of spot. She explained that there I could tell the woman behind the counter what particular desire, ailment or thirst I needed quenched and that she would concoct an organic remedy especially for me.I have come to know now that some French pharmacies do this as well; a far leap from Duane Reade. Well this particular lovely, natural witches den is right downstairs.

Do I dare to ask if she has a potion that would make me less american and more french?

Since I have visted a few times, living in the Hauts Cantons one must come to the BIG city, to do les courses etcetara; but a few months back I was invited to a friend’s friend’s birthday party in town. With no kids in tow, all dressed up tiara and all, I set out for some fun! I We all ended up in an at least 1000 m2 apartment swinging away to Arab pop songs….in THIS  building.

Let me tell you about this ‘building’; a Hôtel Particulier, yes,17th century with a glorious pale yellow entry enhanced with sculptures of children, animal faces and such. A stone and wood staircase bound by wrought iron hand rails glides up and down. And the best part, the paint is a bit chipping and all is a bit worn down with long term usage. Aaaahhhhh.

This love of the Beauty of this period of time started with a visit to Avignon a while back when I visited the church of Francis de Aquise(?) …. the Italian influence so prominent and just so excrutiatingly beautiful. The inscription at the church entry talks of Beauty being Love and surrounding ourselves with these proportions, sculptures and materials is ‘the key’.

Needless to say, when I was on the internet looking for flats to rent for my daughter (and myself, as I will live with her half time) and I saw THE yellow entry way in a photo….I knew this is was where I was supposed to be.

With luck, French dexterity, hope and the American, ‘just do it now’ behind me, I am sitting on my bed in the Hôtel  after cleaning, painting and shopping in the near by Ikea(for 6 wildly exciting and exhausting hours one day) writing my first blog spot.

Just a final note: there is a shop called Zoé and a shop called Lisa on this street.

One of MY most favorite ‘pleasures’ about France, I can’t help it, sorry about that, is the language. Everyone tells me that Italian is the Top Gun, but I have not lived in Italy… yet.  Though, after 17 years in France, I still and probably always will smile and find deep satisfaction when a new phrase or word that I do not know pops up. Particularly when the words are archaic or perhaps old fashioned and hold an acute meaning in time. No better said then that of the protagonist , an intellectual disguised as a common concierge,in the novel I am reading, The Elegance of a Hedgehog by Muriel Barbery; this character  has a demanding locataire come to her door and thinks; “I am a complete slave to vocabulary, I shall have named my cat Roger, this fellow is a nuisance but his language delectable.”

A personal and  recent example is within a telephone conversation I had with my locataire or tenant at  my more permanent house; when I asked Françoise how my cats were handling the situation, she replied, “ils viennent nous voir touts les matins en demandent leurs petit pitance.”

Lovely!

Still in Montpellier and decided to relax and enjoy the city before la rentrée in September.  So after one week of cleaning, painting, Ikea shopping, scrubbing, lifting, hauling, questioning color, admiring, worrying about parking, etcetera etcetera,then collapsing I  consequently pulled myself up off my temporary blow up camping mattress(with all new white sheets and cozy, fuzzy polar blankets, and went ouside for a check on the car and a wonder around.

Yes, no parking ticket!

But I had put on a white dress bought from some summer market years past and needless to say I do not yet have a full length mirror in the flat yet. Well, while food shopping in Monoprix I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the clothing aisle…omigod..kind of see thru..and omigod, those, those hhhandles…all bubbly and hard to believe. Am I retaining something? Is it a food baby? I seem to be married for life to anything containing lipids or carbs since when? What am I doing walking around in public like this? I thought I was only eating rice and veg and salads lately. Except for of course that flan au coco from Chez Paul (I was about to faint from shopping ), oh yeah the Brasserie pizza when my boyfriend’s son was in town, oops the heavenly ice cream fron the new pink store called Louise on the Comédie and oh yeah the Ikea cookies and crisps bought after the buying marathon…..

Why does everyone look so skinny in this town anyway?

Because they are young? Students? Mediterranean? Modern?

I have witnessed  and proven that this is the city to eat out…a place with goodies oozing out from all over, like a delicious hive with a constant buzz. Couscous from the  Gambetta neighborhood, moules/frites from around the corner, paninis galore from around the corner, THE MARKET, oysters, macarons everywhere and the list goes on and on(more on who, what, where, when & why later)

A diet? Zut alors!

I think it is impossible …my DNA has an ingrained memory  and my cells are screaming for french tasty treats salt and sugary alike.  I cannot pacify them with anything but the real thing.

I was always a stick and now people tell me I look good with weight on…”better.”..how disturbing for an ex new york stylist, fashion victim, yankee freak that I am.   Even with all the American deprogramming and pro european programing by myself and under the onslaught of others over time, I still cannot drum up the #**!&#! self control.

As I look around at the asian girls, soooo skinny, frenchies, so thin & beautiful, ‘oh stop comparing’, then I feel envious of the Arab women, all covered up(wrinkles included).

I seem to find all my hearts delight in France, but where can I find some self stopping discipline?

Maybe the brew making sorcier downstairs has something for this too?

Yummy snack place – Rue du Clos René (near the station)

Groovy café - Les Cyclades Place R.Devic, triangle bas

Old style Boulangerie – Rue Delpech

My absolute favourite. If you need to buy a gift, go here – Etat d’âme 12, rue En-Gondeau

Looks like you can eat it but you can’t – Bain de gourmandises 3, rue Joubert

Frozen yogurt back in style – Next to “Les halles”