Goodbyes and Thank Yous

I am trying to hold it together here at the Blueberry for one last post from the most beautiful spot in France. Already I have had a tearful farewell with my last departing visitor (Guy) at the Avignon TGV.

I really would not like to have tears streaming down my face here and neither would you. It would force me to don my sunglasses in lieu of my reading glasses, and I am not sure even the most generous of readers could tolerate a post that was both maudlin and mis-spelled (nor should they).

I have had an amazing time here, from learning to navigate my way around the countryside, to learning to navigate my way around a standard transmission (FYI -- Guy described the Picasso as "big" and with "touchy brakes"). The best of all of course was sharing time and conversation and exploration and meals with some of my nearest and dearest. I really appreciate that Rosanna, Crystal, Sandra, Glenn, Kate and Guy all committed the time and expense to come and help me celebrate the grand conclusion of my first 50 years, and I am sorry that others were unable to make it, but I can almost assure you there will be another opportunity to get to know this gorgeous countryside and all its epicurean and oenophilic bounty!

Guy and Kate deserve an extra extra heartfelt and inevitably insufficient thank you for treating me to what was, to this point, the most delectable and perfect meal of my life, and which is not likely to have any contenders for that title (until we come back with Jane)!

I also want to note that I have been very pleased to have blog "followers" (and some commentators, as well as a number of lurkers who have identified themselves, and some old-fashioned e-mail correspondents. Thank you all.

And thank you especially to Pat, June, Paul, Johanna (mis-spelled in an earlier post), and Rosie for sharing their hameau with me again!

The hike that never happened

It turns out Guy is an excellent guest to relax with in the country! Although we got all decked out in our hiking togs yesterday and had big plans to explore les Dentelles de Montmirail on foot from Gigondas after dropping Kate off, by the time we got there, lunch seemed like a better idea. Alas! All the restaurants (where we might deign to dine) in town were "complet". I recalled that there was a highly recommended one nearby. We had seen the sign for it, and we checked the map posted in town. I should have put a kibosh on the notion right there as it was quite clear it was a few kilometres out of town on a road that was only paved partway and led to a "col" of some kind, which as I know from quite a lot of time spent in my most generous bicycle gear is the highest point of any ascent significant enough to be given a name. I put all this aside and off we went, and found the place, and started up the driveway, which was too steep to ascend in second gear, and quite steep to get started on again. I switched with Guy, who sweated a bit himself to get going. OF COURSE this should have been our second cue to turn around, but instead we carried on up an increasingly steep and narrow laneway, only to come upon an area where cars were, in the usual fashion around here, parked every-which-way. Soon we were among them, only to discover when we got to the very beautiful and elegant terrace that the restaurant was "complet". We are determined to go there on another occasion, but think we might walk from the village, since, in retrospect, it was not really that far. Getting out of the parking spot was another sweat-inducing activity for our Guy, who carried on driving to Vaison, where I took over.

We went home and had a perfectly lovely lunch of tartine with tapenade, tomato sauce and fresh goat cheese, and tomato salad, washed down with a bit of local rose. We purchased the wine on the way home when I took Guy on the narrow road through the fields and we stopped at Champ Long. We preceded it however (whilst it was chilling) with a glass from the box. Here we have the first (and last) extant photo of Guy helping himself to wine from a box.

A bit of relaxing reading time followed and then we went to the Blueberry for the usual range of activities, and from there went to our 7:30pm dinner reservation at Le Grand Pre in Roaix, site of the now-well-known-but-still-funny-after-four-years story of the original La Wells siting, where Rosanna, through an intemperate fit of betting got herself into the situation of having to buy my multi-course (and by no means cheap because I am not like that) lunch. Kate seemed wistful on her departure to be hearing of this plan, so she may derive some comfort from the fact that the restaurant was "complet" and we had to eat from the bistro (Le Grand Pre-face) menu. Just to round the karmic circle somewhat, I bought Guy's dinner because La Wells did not make an appearance.

Dinner was delicious and the service was very gracious. I had pistou, lamb stew with pasta, and fromage blanc with fig jam. Guy had a charcuterie plate, saffron risotto with "encornets" (looked like squid), and an apple terrine with apple sorbet.

A little more sweating in the automobile followed as I inched my way out of a parking area suited to accommodate about 5 cars, in which about 12 had managed to wedge themselves. Then we sailed home for a nightcap.

Post Pic

We got unerringly out of Valence, where it was rather a grey and dreary day, and on to the autoroute to Bollene, with Guy in the front passenger seat reading aloud (as one tends to do on a road trip) all the road signs advertising the interesting sites en route. From Bollene we were headed to Vaison and had just got past Suze-la-Rousse, when I noticed a sign for Uchaux and the Chateau d'Hugues which makes some fine cote de rhone. As Guy noted, we had to buy wine for dinner somewhere, so we headed off in that direction, arriving at about 1:20 pm, to discover that the caveau opens at 2:00pm. We wandered about the fields and roads (a little activity to aid in the digestion of the croissants) for a while and then sat in the shade and waited, where we happily discovered that the folks at Chateau d'Hugues are very prompt. Five minutes later another group of four people arrived so it was quite crowded and convivial in the little tasting room. After tasting maybe 6 wines or so, we came away with 6 bottles of three different varieties and Guy was impressed that he was gently discouraged from unnecessarily selecting more expensive wines.

From Uchaux we went to Orange (only about 5km away) to fuel up. That was quite a production and none of it very amusing. We had to sort of circumnavigate the centre of Orange to get out in a useful way, so Kate and Guy got to at least see the large Roman arch, which is rather surprisingly in the middle of a traffic circle, and appears to be swathed with something for restoration. We also got quite close to the amphitheatre, but I was keeping my eyes straight ahead and anyway I have seen it before. It is a very right-wing town and we were not inclined to spend any more money there than was absolutely necessary.

There were no more detours on the road to Vaison. There were, quite incredibly however, some mutterings from the passengers about feeling "peckish". In Vaison we did a little shopping for dinner, and went to the fishmonger (twice -- as they open at 4:30pm and we initially arrived there at 4:25pm and were sent away despite the fact that the door was open). Finally we got two Bar (some form of small sea bass) that Kate had decided to bake in salt. We also went to the cheese monger, who recommended a local sheep cheese and a cow cheese from Dauphinee (because "we do not have cows here"), and we also got another Banon. At the fruit and vegetable store, the elegantly dressed ladies filled bags with cepes, baby arugula, cocos blancs, tomatoes, and plums.

Quite a bit of rose fueled the dinner preparations, among them the bean shelling and cepe cleaning. It continued to fuel some of the dinner execution too, which was a contributing factor in Guy's "remember, you are alone in the kitchen" moment (see above) in which a pan of cepes he was sauteing tumbled to the floor when he abandoned it for a moment to take a photo of Kate's fish prep. Two things were fortunate. One, I jumped back out of the way saving my flip-flop clad feet from injury. Two, Kate had just washed the floor moments before we took off for Valence and we had not really trod on the area of the spill so we had no compunction about retrieving the cepes and continuing to saute them, adding a bit more red wine to the mix for sanitization purposes.

Ultimately, we were quite pleased with our menu, which consisted of the following courses: a pre-dinner snack of olives and small slices of quiche; a spelt and cepe "risotto" with thyme; fresh white beans tossed with olive oil and lemon; deliciously moist Bar, with a drizzle of olive oil and slices of lemon; arugula salad; cheese and bread with olive jam and fresh figs (I climbed the ladder and Guy held the bowl and I am not sure now if this seemed the wise choice even before the cepes incident) roasted with lavender and honey; and a blackcurrant jam and fresh peach tart with vanilla yoghurt (really just yoghurt this time). Originally, we had planned to have a tomato salad, but Kate, quite uncharacteristically decided we already had more than enough food, although we ate all but a little bit of the risotto and some of the cheese.

Up until this point, I had found that it was not necessary for me to take lactaid and I could still enjoy cheese and other dairy products without incident. The combination of the 20 hours of eating at Maison Pic and our dinner, however, just about did me in, and I have now dusted off the bottle.

Pic II

Dinner started on a lovely outdoor terrace overlooking the bistro. We had glasses of champagne (a vintage Moet & Chandon rose for Guy and me) and Pol Roger blanc for Kate and sipped away for a few moments before a long narrow heavy glass plate containing a series of little amuse bouche (if any of my dear readers knows how to pluralize this, feel free to exercise some license here in your reading) was put in front of each of us. One was a little ball of foie gras mousse; two was a peanut marshmallow; three was a little green quivering ball of basil and ricotta that seemed hollow in the middle but was perhaps just very light; and four was a macaroon of sundried tomato and lemon. They were all delicious, with many different textures and tastes, but the last one was (in my view) the standout. We lingered for a while over these while Guy browsed the telephone book of a wine list and consulted with the sommelier over our wine selections. That task over (and the sweat wiped off his brow) and our plates and champagne flutes emptied, we were escorted to our table in one of three indoor dining rooms, where our bottle of red was waiting in a little cradle.

Our first wine, however, was a viognier made by a female winemaker. The label is pictured below. Very tasty we all thought, and a perfect accompaniment to yet another amuse bouche, quite easily the tastiest thing I have ever eaten -- it was a little foie gras creme brulee with a dollop of Granny Smith apple mousse on top.

There is no picture of the next course, which involved a ring-shaped parmesan crisp topped with little vegetables (a paper-thin baby-radish slice, some little peas and pea shoots) topped with cepes (porcini mushrooms) in a light light touch of a cream sauce. We were a bit over-stimulated at this point and neglected to take a photo, until I remembered when only a shard of the parmesan crisp remained. Soon we had to calm down and focus, because there were several more courses to follow.

The next course was a thick slice of foie gras de canard, pan seared, and served with a whole roasted black fig and topped with a lemongrass butter. All the dishes came un-sauced and then a waiter attended with a little pot containing just enough sauce for our table and drizzled it on our individual plates, spoonful by delicious spoonful.

Next we had langoustines (scampi), two ways. One was uncooked, chopped finely, marinated with sweet caramelized onion and lavender and formed into a disk on which sat a whole flash-seared scampi. The sauce was a scampi broth. Again, nothing at all to complain about here!

Lightly-steamed turbot followed, accompanied by a bit of cucumber mousse, and some morsels of sweet and sour cucumber with a little anise butter drizzled over.

I have had to consult the photo gallery to verify that the next thing that came our way was a little palate cleanser in the form of a concoction of coffee and limoncello foam.

By this time we were ready for a red wine -- a very nice Cote Rotie (label pictured). It had very strong vanilla notes and was simply delicious. Definitely among the top few bottles I have tasted.

This is where the faint of heart might have taken a deep breath. Pan-seared veal sweetbread with a tomato-pineapple chutney with nutmeg. Kate had never eaten this particular "abat" before, and Guy essentially told her not to bother ever ordering it again because whatever she ordered would not measure up.

When the cheese cart was wheeled over, Kate actually sprang to her feet in rapture, much to everyone's (including the "driver's") amazement. Guy made a remark about children and Father Christmas which seemed to settle us all. The server asked each of us what kind of cheese we liked and then recommended certain ones and cut off small servings, so that we each had a slightly different course. I have no idea how many different cheeses were on that cart -- 50 or so maybe -- but she really had to know her business, as in fact did all the staff.

In the fine French tradition, an off-the-menu "pre-dessert" (Guy's term) followed. There were three little items on a plate that we were told to eat in one mouthful. The flavours of each were incredibly intense. Equally interesting were the textures, which varied from one to the other in much the same way as the range of amuse bouche had. Also it was served with a cup of something foamy, which none of us can remember now as I write this 36 hours later, and truth to tell probably could not have remembered when we were brushing our teeth before bed the night we consumed it.

The advertised dessert was a "declinaison de fraises" -- strawberries in various forms -- as a marshmallow; as a marmalade; and as spun and caramelized, all served on a tasty hit of peppermint sorbet.

We were waddled out to another terrace for coffee, which of course was served with a few more little morsels of chocolate. We declined brandy and cigars etc. It was already 12:30am and we had been eating since 8:00pm.

The following morning we all rose to face the day with our livers miraculously intact. Two went running, and one attempted to update her blog but none of the Google sites were available. What a waste of time that was! The runners returned, feeling "peckish", which I found a bit hard to believe. After we had all enjoyed the luxurious shower facilities and lounged about a bit in the robes and slippers provided, we decided to venture down to breakfast at the fine hour of 10:30am.

As we popped out of the elevator, we all started to twitch and coo in unison because there before us was Anne-Sophie Pic herself, very diminutive in her chef's whites, and introducing herself to all the guests. She was extremely gracious when Guy said how much we had enjoyed the meal and apologized for not having come to see us the night before and thanked us for trusting her to feed us.

We all swooned and carried on waxing rhapsodic into the garden, where we settled our widening butts into the chairs and proceeded to enjoy pastries (croissants, pain au chocolat, various breads, madeleines -- my first and now the experience I will always remember when I have one!), jams, fromage frais with coulis, raspberries and strawberries, cafe au lait, something we called yoghurt but which was in fact a chilled vanilla pot de creme with a bit of set fruit coulis on top -- amazing. When we had just about stuffed ourselves silly the waiter came to see if we would like anything savoury. I saw Kate's eyes light up, so I indicated that "she would" and a plate of cheese (fresh picodon and another much tastier goat cheese) and charcuterie (Iberian ham and chorizo) appeared. Of course Guy and I immediately dove in as well and we polished that off in no time flat and finally rose from the table.

After we had claimed all our belongings and checked out and stowed them in the car and were just about to take a small digestive walk (to the cooking school and boutique two blocks away if the truth be known), someone came running out with bottles of Vittel for our drive.

What an amazing experience. It was, hands down, the best meal I have ever had -- quite a bit ahead of Charlie Trotter and Lumiere. It is food just the way I like it. For the most part very simple preparations of the highest quality ingredients with just a single counterpoint to the dominant flavour offered by a sauce, also with one single flavour. The amuse-bouche, the pre-dessert, and the palate cleanser still demonstrate the focus on single intense flavours, but also serve to show the boy chefs of the world that she knows how to use a chemistry kit too. It is no surprise at all that she has 3 Michelin stars and has recently been named France's chef of the year.

Thank you very much to Guy and Kate for such an unforgettable 24-hours.

Pic I

Thursday began with a good and proper housecleaning before we set off to collect Guy from the TGV station in Valence. It is about a 90 minute drive (taking the autoroute). We stopped for lunch at a little restaurant (La Truffe Noire) in the town square in Grillon, where we were amused by a small canine habitue of the premises who spent his time alternately begging silently for table scraps from the various diners and being chased away scoldingly by the server. Our appetizer there was notable -- a pureed soup of potiron (which is a kind of pumpkin).

We got to the TGV station just a few minutes before Guy's train was due to arrive, and even though it was almost ten minutes late, I still got to enjoy the triumph of once again getting in and out within the free parking window. From the station we followed the signs to Valence Centre and, despite not really knowing where we were going, managed (with the assistance of just one person on the street) to get quite promptly to our destination, Maison Pic. So promptly did we get here in fact, that we arrived just shortly after 4:00pm (earliest available check-in) although Guy hopped off his train (where someone else had taken his seat) at 3:50pm.

We were immediately agog to discover that we have private elevator access directly to our suite, which has a large lovely sitting area with a white sectional sofa and coffee table and large-screen TV (on which I finally managed to catch a little US Open tennis action). There was a nice little basket of fresh fruit there when we got in and shortly afterwards someone arrived with some little desserts and a bottle of water. The desserts were very architectural -- a bright-pink glazed bombe of a cookie crust, raspberry puree and chevre mousse. Very tasty.

Guy washed off the transatlantic flight and then we went for a little stroll about the place while Kate made some further travel arrangements. There are some beautiful gardens and terraces, and an especially lovely allee to the pool. Guy and I found ourselves pretty promptly on one terrace with a nice glass of champagne. When asked for our room number (there are only 15 rooms) we blanked, and had to describe it as the large one with the elevator (#15 apparently). That little gaffe was compounded not much later after Kate had arrived and we had guided her about the gardens. When we were ready to return to the room to get ready for dinner, we discovered that each of us thought one of the others had the key, so we had to get the desk to activate the elevator for us.

The lobby itself is quite impressive at reminding you exactly why you are there. There is a long glass-topped museum table containing bound volumes of all the red michelin guides mentioning the Restaurant Pic, which since it opened in 1889 and has been featured ever since the first guide was published, is quite a few! There is also a large wall panel, showing photos of Anne-Sophie Pic's grandfather and father, as well as her own photo.

Dinner was so spectacular it deserves a separate posting. In fact, the cheese course alone deserves a separate posting.

Newtonian Principles applied to Cycling

The law I am thinking of is the one that states for every action there is an equal but opposite reaction. I have relied on the truthfulness of this observation all my life, but lately my faith has been shaken. There have been a number of bike rides I have commented on where I had the impression at least that I was always going uphill and hardly ever downhill (the road to Veau -- or for that matter, the road from Veau -- being a prime example). Then it crossed my mind that all the loops I cycled clockwise were more uphill-y than the ones I cycled counterclockwise. I know there are things that happen differently (like the toilet flushing circles of water) depending on whether one is in the northern or southern hemisphere, but I have never heard that direction inevitably or necessarily influences altitude gain. Secretly, however (by which I mean without telling Kate of my nonsense) I decided to test it today.

But first, I went to the market. This was Malaucene market day. I went just around 9am when everything was set up to buy Guy (who arrives tomorrow) some white tea. There was only one available from the tea merchant and I fear it will not be up to his usual standards. I also stockpiled some soap for myself (rosemary, thyme and lemongrass). There was a surprising amount of traffic and paucity of parking space and any number of unexpected vehicular encounters (all at low speed fortunately) before I got back to the house.

Shortly after I returned Kate and I left on a grand cycling adventure. We went to Bedoin via the usual route, and then (up) to Flassan, and climbed the col des Abeilles (996m) towards Sault. After a tremendously fast but short seeming (of course I was travelling in excess of 65km per hour) downhill, we turned off towards Monieux and the signs for the Gorge de la Nesque, rather than carrying on to Sault. It is a fairly narrow road and doesn't look all that promising initially, plus there was a bit of a headwind and we were required to regain all the altitude we had just lost, so that was a bit irritating. Still there were a lot of cyclists en route, including a trio led by a formidable woman older than I am with toeclips on her bike, so we assumed there must be something rewarding coming up. The first thing I noticed was one of those signs advising that a beautiful spot is just 200m in one's future. Then we rounded a bend and faced a sheer wall of limestone. After that the vista just became more and more spectacular. There were some rocky structures that resembled a natural amphitheatre, and a really precipitous drop down to the coy Nesque River (at least I assume she is coy as I saw no sign of her -- just a rocky riverbed). The road from this point on was amazing. It just hung on the edge of the gorge. I think it is called a corniche road, which is a type the French favour -- there is a famous old one from Nice to Monte Carlo which features prominently in the novel House of Mirth and also marks the end of Isadora Duncan (decapitated when the trailing bits of her headscarf caught in the wheels of the convertible she was driving). Nothing so dramatic happened to us as we sailed through tunnels carved out of the rock -- all of them portentously announcing the maximum height of the vehicles that could pass through. I say it was portentous because I noted that at either end of the road, there was a 2.3m limit, and yet the tunnel in the middle had a 3.4m limit, which should have been unnecessary to announce after all as nothing more than 2.4m could ever manage to approach it! The road was also downhill for at least 13km, but gently so. We sailed right into Ville sur Auzon and then on to Flassan and back to Bedoin, where, alas, the service de dejeuner had terminated. So we each had a Clif bar for lunch and carried on back to Malaucene, where Kate dropped off her rental bike and then came to the bar to wait for me while I rode home (total km just over 101) and came back in the car (after changing out of my rather uncomfortable cycling shorts as I am suffering from some irritating saddle sores). Is there no limit to the suffering that la patronne will endure for her loyal readers? Not to mention the pursuit of scientific knowledge -- the route was clockwise -- part way through I was quite sure I had again been cheated in terms of more uphill than downhill -- then I encountered the glorious descent of the Gorge de la Nesque. Now I am thinking my theory is a lot of hooey.

How is that spelt?

Kate's day started just after (or possibly slightly before) the church bells rang. She went for a long run, choosing a route from a very handy little book of all the walking routes in the Ventoux area. It was in the house, but is, ironically, the book she ordered (and paid for) over the internet and had mailed to me (apparently), but which never arrived.

I, on the other hand, started my day more slowly. Coffee and the James' biography. I contemplated a long ride today, but my legs felt a bit stiff when I was lounging on the sofa so I decided on something shorter -- a quick little loop to Nyons. I went over the fields and through Entrechaux to Faucon, then Puymeras and Mirabel aux Baronnies and then on to Nyons, where I encountered some nasty construction work in the last 2km approach to the town. In town I rode around a bit, spotting a western wear store (called Key West!), and then settled into the arcaded town square for lunch. I had the plat du jour -- roast chicken, frites, ratatouille. It was fine, but the rolls it was served with were particularly good. They were made of farine de petit epautre (spelt flour). And the biere blanche I was served tasted a bit unusual to me, but I managed to ascertain from the disintegrating label (and without my readingglasses, which, by the way I also lack as I write this) was a local (to the Drome) beer made with spelt, which is the same as farro and perhaps related to or at least similar to wheatberries. Apparently, there is an artisinal brewery right in Nyons (proche de la gendarmerie) called La Grihete. I think it makes several different types of beer and I know it sells directly to the public because I rode by later. The one I had, which tasted a bit herb-infused, not unlike the Colomba from Corsica, is called Mange-Soif. It was delicious.

I rode home by taking the road out of town towards the oxymoronically-named (in my view) village of Vinsobres, which is a much nicer road than the one under construction, and is not under construction. From it you can swing back to Mirabel aux Baronnies, and then take the lovely quiet largely downhill (but gently enough that one can enjoy the view) road to Villedieu. Going that way adds about 3km to the trip home (the total round trip was about 67km) but is well worth it.

As luck would have it, we also bought some epautre the other day and are planning to have it for dinner tonight, in a kind of risotto-like cooking treatment with a long sweet-looking red onion and some leftover chicken. I think there are a few other leftovers (tomatoes and salad greens for sure) that we will make our way through as well.

Pat left this morning on a great adventure and will not return until after I am gone. I have promised that all the guests will record something in the guest book and that I will cull my photos and send her a selection on a cd. I have also promised to return before another 4 yesrs go by. In the meantime, I am envious of her trip. It starts with the train from Avignon to Lille, where she meets up with a Canadian friend, and then involves retracing the route of Arthur Young, a Brit who tramped about France shortly after the French Revolution and wrote some popular accounts of it. He is often referred to in that excellent book I read just before coming here -- The Discovery of France by Graham Robb (who discovered it by biking some 12000 km over 4 years).

I seem to have left the camera cable at the house (and I am now, of course, at the Blueberry) so a couple of pictures will have to be posted later.

A Ride Revisited

We went to the Bedoin market today, and bought fruit and vegetables and bread and all of that sort of thing, and looked at everything else and then had coffee and croissants (my first since Glenn left) and arrived home just in time for lunch. The weather has turned warm again so we ate outside. We had a delicious tomato salad and some pate aux poivres verts and some dried pork sausage (also with peppercorns) plus two cheeses -- the ever-popular beaufort aka the mountain man's cheese and Banon. The latter is a goat milk cheese, quite runny, wrapped in chestnut leaves and tied with raffia. It is an AOC product and comes from a town of the same name on the "slope of Mont Ventoux". We scoured all available maps and finally located it on the one that had a scale of 4cm to 1Km. Unless it is merely a goatshed by the side of the road (distinctly possible) Glenn and I have passed it (he twice) on our ascent of the Col des Abeilles between Sault and Bedoin. I for one have a lot of time to read on those ascents and I do not ever recall seeing the name on any sign. It was delicious, even if elusive, or perhaps all the more so for being elusive.

Lunch made us a little drowsy. Certainly too drowsy to head right off on a bike ride. Plus the high temperatures have returned and what kind of lunatic rides in the mid-day heat? Consequently, some napping and reading ensued. Just before 4pm, Kate thought she'd like to go for a bit of a ride. Since I was but two pages from the end of a chapter in my book (House of Wits, which reads a bit like a 19th Century serialized novel, all cliffhangers and foreshadowing), I volunteered to go as well. Our route was one I had done before (the "most beautiful bike ride") but in reverse. What a revelation! The scenery is equally (or almost equally) lovely, but the terrain is hugely improved as there is one brutal but short climb and then one quite manageable one later and everything else (75% at least) is all glorious downhill. My cornering is improving and I hardly had to use my brakes at all. We stopped at the Bar du Pont in Mollans sur Ouveze on the way home for a pastis and they were very busy preparing for some kind of community event or dinner (or it COULD have been a private party) with tables all lined up and marked "reserved". I of course fantasized that it was some kind of festival to celebrate the coco blancs harvest, but who really knows what was going on -- well, actually the man who showed up with a bottle of prosecco probably does. Much as we might have liked to, we could not wait around to find out because it was getting a bit late and we still had to make our way across the fields before sunset (which I thought was more imminent than it actually was due to my tinted riding glasses).

Glenn's little feline friend has suddenly returned -- although she is still quite friendly, she is definitely camera-shy and seemed to be looking all over the apartment for something -- perhaps the dwindling traces of eau de Glenn have her nostalgic. Or else she wants to meet Pierre le Souris (glimpsed by Kate just yesterday).

Now we are at the Blueberry where we have just had dinner, quite a lot of dinner in fact, while two woman in short shorts appear poised to learn some soccer skills on the sports channel (although I had been hoping to see some US Open coverage).

Duo d'abats d'agneau, or Kate learns a new word

This post is about Sunday's adventures. As usual, things started quite simply with me drinking coffee and making a beef stew while Kate went for a run. After breakfast, which involved, among other things, about 10 figs each, we got ourselves organized for a little bike ride. We went to Vaison, skirting it on the south side, and then to Seguret. During the hilly approach to that town I noticed another cyclist with very poor riding habits ahead of me, weaving around on the narrow road, but primarily occupying the middle of it. As my overtaking him was inevitable, I decided to do so sooner rather than later when there might be oncoming traffic. Of course he reacted the way all male cyclists do when passed by a middle-aged woman -- he attempted to speed up and pass me. What a lot of huffing and puffing and snorting ensued. Of course I picked up the pace a bit and he eventually tired of the game or something -- he abruptly made a u-turn in any event (according to Kate's amused report). We by-passed Seguret entirely because one can only stand to visit the most beautiful town in France once on any single trip and headed straight for Sablet on a lovely gradual downhill through the vineyards and carried on on the same road to Gigondas where there was the place was hopping due to a community festival.

Fortuitously, we arrived just shortly after noon and snagged a table at L'Oustalet in the town square. It is a restaurant with excellent reviews (Pudlo, La Wells and Michelin). There were a few words on the menu that we did not recognize. One of them was "abats" so we asked the young man who came to take our order. In retrospect, we should have asked the woman who appeared to be in charge. He did not at first know how to explain, but readily agreed that they were "chops" so Kate ordered them, to follow her appetizer of foie gras de canard with pineapple chutney (in red wine) and fleur de sel. I had the same appetizer but played it safe for my entree with "epaule" (shoulder) of lamb. The only other entree we might have chosen was a fish dish. In any event, when Kate's arrived, it was clearly NOT a lamb chop, but we did not know what it was. She tasted one small lumpy bit at the side of the plate and claimed it was liver. Then she tasted an even lumpier bit on top and thought it might be liver, until she dug into the slab underneath it, which was unmistakably liver. Now we think/understand that she was served kidney, heart and liver of lamb. And, imagine, she was the only one in the whole restaurant to order it!

After lunch we went round the corner to the Carre Gourmand (recommended to me (and Glenn) by some British touring cyclists) for coffee and ice cream (for Kate). Actually she ordered sorbet but it was very creamy indeed and intensely apricot-flavoured. I do think it rivals any frozen treat I have tasted in, say, Italy. Full of lunch (which also included a glass of rose and a glass of red each) and coffee and sorbet, we took to the road to Vacqueyras which is quite enjoyable on a non-windy day, and then went through Beames de Venise to Caromb where I finally found the road that goes north from there to meet the road to Bedoin just past the Beaumont du Ventoux Cave curve. It is the road to Lac du Platy (a man-made lake stocked with fish). From Caromb it involves a steep (really steep) but short-ish uphill, after which there is not much pedalling to be done for about 5km.

At home we decided, since it was Sunday and a day of rest, not to come to town to check e-mail, blog etc. We stayed home and read and then enjoyed a very tasty (but somewhat tough) beef stew.