France

I like this photo from a hike we took in December 2017 for two reasons;  firstly because it shows the halfway point (almost) on the Chemin de Saint-Jacques between Vézelay in Burgundy and Santiago de Compostella in Spain. Secondarily because it gives the false impression that we actually hiked that entire way.

The spot, just outside Sauveterre de Béarn, is marked by a pretty little chapel dedicated to St.-Martin

Monkfish filets from the Golfe de Gasogne, artichokes, peppers, garlic and spring onions.

A rainy Sunday in Orthez with plenty of time to prepare and enjoy a leisurely diner de dimanche.  Sunday dinner in France, especially in the countryside, is a late lunch that serves as the main meal of the day.   The PM meal will usually be something simple, like soup and salad or an omelette.

L’heure d’apéro, in this case a glass of sweet wine from Jurançon, radishes and air-cured duck sausage.

Although fish is not traditional for Sunday dinner  (un rôti would be more common, roasted chicken, for example or a roast rack of pork), I make it a rule to follow my instincts when shopping…when I find an ingredient that grabs me, the menu de jour has to follow along.

The finished main course:  Pan-roasted monk fish tail, artichokes, peppers and spring onions sauteed with white wine, and brown rice.

If you have any hesitation in answering the above question with a resounding “YES!”, please check out this article by Paris based food writer Alexander Lobrano.   Alex brings the old time religion, seriously thumping the bible of French culinary excellence.

And I couldn’t agree with him more.

Red muscat grapes from just north of Salies en Bearn.

In the interest of fairness and honesty, here is an update on a post from last week about making grape jam.  In that post, I mentioned (a bit snidely, I am afraid) that the older woman at the Saturday farmer’s market in Orthez, from whom I purchased grapes for jam making, promised a bulk discount but then miscalculated that discount in her favor…so much for faith in human nature.

Well, hold on, because the next Saturday, when shopping at the market, the same woman rushed up to grab my arm and say how happy she was to have found me again.  Evidently, after I left her stand with my grapes, she had realized her mistake fearing  that we would think that she had cheated us simply because we were foreigners, had searched the market and put her fellow venders on alert to look for a “tres grand” americain.  Not having had any luck, she had had to await the next Saturday market day in the hope that we would again be shopping.

She then make up for her error in calculation by giving us a big bag or grapes.

Makes my cynical old heart warm.