50 year, 50 km, *** calories

As it turned out I was much too tired last evening to take myself out for dinner, so I made a nice little salade nicoise (without the egg), and had a little fougasse and opened a bottle of red wine, and then settled into my newly clean pyjamas and House of Wits, a biography of Henry James and his immediate family. I think I read a lengthy review of it in the New Yorker so it was on my list to read and then I bought it when I was in New York at my favourite bookstore there (Shakespeare & Co.). I keep waiting for the part when Henry is tormented by sharing a bed with Oliver Wendell Holmes, but now I am thinking perhaps I read about that in a review of a new biography of Lincoln. It is so hard to keep up with the lives of eminent historical Americans (let alone remember the state birds). Then I turned in early (and enjoyed nice fresh sheets as well).

This morning I had big plans for a bike ride that would take in the Gorge de Nesque (relatively flat I believe and quite beautiful) with lunch en route in Mazan in a restaurant with a good reputation located in the former home of a man with a bad reputation (the Marquis de Sade). There was quite a flurry as I was leaving, what with chatting with the neighbours and playing with the dog and all. The long and the short of that was that I realized at about the 15km mark when I reached for my water bottle that I had left both of them in the fridge. Unfortunately I was at this point in the middle of a rather desolate but beautiful stretch of road with the closest town, with a reported population of 23, about 8km away uphill (seriously uphill). I decided to turn around and go back to a larger town (Mollans sur Oveze) where I knew there was a supermarket and I bought some water and roared down the hill (after a very short climb) to Entrechaux. At the first roundabout (this is for Glenn), on a whim I took the road towards Faucon and St. Marcellin. What a happy choice! Beautiful road recommended for cycling with hardly any cars at all and lots of rolling hills and curves as well as another nice spot for bathing in the river. From there I looped over to Vaison to take a picture of the roman bridge for Matthew, and then back to Entrechaux, where I treated myself to a little birthday lunch.

I went to the Restaurant St. Hubert, featured (possibly for the first time) in the 2009 Michelin Red Guide. I am not sure what it says although the entry was reproduced on the menu because the font was far too small for these old eyes. But that doesn't matter, since I am sure I will be returning soon. They had many set menus to choose from but most seemed a little heavy for someone who was getting back on a bike, even if I was quite close to home (more below). I had the mid-day lunch menu. 14 euros 50 for three courses: a delicious tomato tart on a puff pastry crust that had been brushed with dijon, served on a green salad; roast pork with a mustard sauce with cornichons and pink peppercorns, delicious mashed potato, carrot, broccoflower, and a red pepper puree; and roasted figs with passion fruit sorbet. I had all this plus a small pitcher of rose and an espresso (served with a pine nut butter cookie and chocolate buttons) for the princely sum of 19 euros 20. And the best part was I only had a 7km bike ride home across the fields where the terrain is fairly moderate in terms of altitude gained and lost.

I parked my bike on the terrace, where they in fact have a bike rack and invited other folks who were parking their bikes outside to put them there instead. The service was splendid. I could have been spending 100 euros instead of 20 and it would not have mattered a bit. The only downside was the comment I overheard from a table of 3 elderly people (2 women, I man) who were dining with a French (she)-English (he) couple. The older woman who reminded me of Miss Marple opened her mouth at one point to comment on a picture of herself on the old gentleman's digital camera. In a rather shrill voice a bit tremulous for age and a distinct London accent, she repeated several times: "I look just like a Red Indian Jew" (I have exercised only the slightest poetic license in adding the capitals). That was rather off-putting but she was fortunately almost immediately served half a lobster flambe and became quite preoccupied with dismantling it (not very gracefully) and that kept her quiet.

I am quite sure I will be returning here soon -- perhaps with Kate, whom I am off to fetch from the Avignon TGV. Or perhaps with Guy, if we have any stomach for eating after our long-awaited excursion to Maison Pic (one week and counting!!)