Hey! Over here…Yeah… F-r-a-n-c-e.

Yes. Yesterday. Sixty. Happy birthday to me!

And instead of doing nothing about it, did quite a something and it worked out.

2 months ago, in one of those rare instances of thinking ahead, I had tried to reserve a table for my birthday meal at Michel Bras’ restaurant up in the hills of Aubrac 2 hours north of Albi. It’s a place renowned for its sumptuous (but paradoxically, contemporary) setting, sumptuous food rooted deeply in the notion of terroir, and its 3 Michelin stars. A place to go before you die.

At the time, I was told that they were full up for lunch. (Damn!) I was told that I could be on the waiting list. (Well, umm, OK). Last week, I received a call from the resto, telling me that a table was mine. (Youpee!)

With 3 friends, Robin, Meredith, and Ann, we trundled up to Aubrac, heart of the Aveyron profonde. A tiny sign, easily missed, points to the path that leads up to the hilltop restaurant. The place is an interesting glass, stone and slate complex that looks out over the valley. Everything, including the valley itself, is lush and austere. It’s a combination that works.

We were greeted cordially then seated in a circular salon d’apéro where we were meant to settle down, have a drink, get happy, look at the menus, look out the glass wall that made up 100% of the large room, make serious decisions about what we were going to eat. Certain of the menus (called ‘carte fixe’ in frenglish, I believe) could only be ordered if everyone at the table ordered that particular menu. We all ordered the “Découverte & Nature” menu.

We were then ushered into the dining room, which was lush and modern. Comfortable. Muted. Another window wall, more fields of grass and valleys. It felt to me like no effort had been spared to swaddle the senses, put them, put oneself, into a sublime state of aisance, a necessary preamble to the meal we were about to have.

Then did the wonders commence. I didn’t take notes (hahaha! Does anyone take notes at a meal like this?) and my memory capacity is that of a 60 year-old, but here’s what I remember:

• an amuse-gueule of an egg and chanterelle soup served in a perfectly cut eggshell accompanied by a multigrain biscuit and onion tarte tatin. (We asked, they have a machine to cut eggs)

• The signature gargouillou, a plate of many, many vegetables, mostly cooked (lightly), arranged as a salad.
• a foie gras poelé, served with a few poached cherries and various sauces. I loved this, because I had “invented” the same dish last year, and got to compare my cooking to Michel Bras. (Ok, I have a lot to learn. But I also have a small staff.)
• the best piece of turbot that I have ever tasted.
• the second best slice of lamb that I’ve ever tasted, composed with little vegetables and edible wildflowers.
• a cebe, another signature dish, a braised sweet onion powdered with black Aubrac truffle.
• The largest cheese plateau I’ve ever seen, only local cheeses. But no disappointment there, aside from the fact that we were all feeling very well fed by now.
• A series of wonderful desserts, like angelica ice cream on a warm raspberry-filled sablé, and a few other sweets.

Service was perfect and unstuffy/friendly/helpful. Not at all what I would expect to expect from a reputed French restaurant. More happiness. We were all up for a walk after this meal and lo! and behold, the hilltop around Michel Bras’ is scattered with marked walking trails through the beautiful countryside. It was the perfect way to wind down. At this point, I should mention negatives, make some critique of what they got wrong. But, darn, there was nothing to criticize here. A perfect 3-star experience on a memorable birthday with wonderful friends.

PS: Robin and Meredith gave me a birthday card that said, “A friend is someone who likes you even though they know you”. Which proves, at the very least, that they know me.

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Body Mass Indexes from around the world. (From Wikimedia)

For those of you who, like me, would love a chance to eat at El Bulli’s, but don’t know how one goes about getting a reservation, here is a fantastic pictorial preview to tide us over.

If I say to you that I just tasted the best margaritas in the world, you could reasonably point out that I had only drunk margaritas 2 other times in my life, and that those were many many years ago, in places with names like Hooters or Fred’s Steakhouse.

But, in substance, you would be wrong. Meredith does make perfect margaritas, and here is how she does it:

• Place nicely-shaped glasses with large perimeter rims in freezer for a few hours.
• Mix 1 part strained freshly squeezed lime juice, 1 part Triple Sec, 3 parts good Tequila in a glass vessel. Stir.
• Take the glasses out of the freezer, quickly dip the lightly moistened rims in fleur de sel. Add an ice cube made from good water.
• Pour
• Drink
• Pour
• Drink

In his impassioned defense of the French wine industry, Eric Asimov, in today’s NY Times, makes some strong points that are worth toasting. He responds intelligently to the generalized international gloating (mainly American –surprise! surprise!–) about France’s troubles in keeping it’s wine culture “modern”.

Nonetheless, no country comes close to matching France, either in setting demanding standards for its wine industry or in producing such a variety of consistently excellent wine.
…
It’s harder to imagine New World countries like the United States and Australia reaching the same pinnacle. Their leading wines, whether made of cabernet, chardonnay, shiraz or pinot noir, will always be measured against the French, and regardless of the blind tasting here or there, few people really take seriously the notion that the New World wines will surpass the French reference points on a large scale.”

This is so true. For now, and the foreseeable future, at least.

But the French, who are so habile in snatching defeat from the jaws of victory, and who are feeling particularly suicidal (from a socio-political point of view) these days, might just prove us wrong in the end.

The article is here.

It has been cherry time here in the the sunny SW of France for a few weeks now and I am lucky enough to possess 4 venerable, fully-charged trees in my garden. In this context, Life being a big bowl of cherries comes down to lots of confitures, crumbles, clafoutis, and freezer bags that have been assiduously and unrelentlessly pitted, baked and boiled.

Ultimately the same question that pops up every year pops up now — what else can a foodie do with cherries?

Some years the responses are pretty boring (buckwheat cherry pancakes with cherry compote topping is good but will make no one’s recipe shelf). This year, though, I think I cracked it.

(Continued)