Sunday feasting

We have succumbed to the magnetic pull of Sundays in France. We now live like the French live on Sundays, and we have changed our ways and now eat our main Sunday meal at lunch time. Lunch usually starts any time between 12.00pm and 1.00pm and finishes any time between 3.00pm and 4.00pm. The courses go on, and on, so all you are really fit for after that is a slow amble down an easy street. Usually one leading to a bed.

We camped for a couple of days in Provence at a private Parc aux Escargots (a Snail Farm) in the valley, not far from a beautiful little restored Roman bridge, called Pont Julien, looking up at the lights of many of the Vaucluse perched hill villages. 

The delightful couple at the snail farm offered Sunday lunch in the dining room of their home. We were not about to refuse. We were joined by 2 other campers, and the young teenager daughter of the house and her school friend. 

There were two options on the menu: the snail option or the chicken option. Because we were sleeping just a few steps away from the snail production we thought we’d rather not be their predators. We chose the chicken option instead, as the chooks lived in two smartly arched corrugated-iron sheds a short field away, far enough that we couldn’t hear their squawks when they were throttled for our lunch.

Everything was home-made there in the house. Everything was organic. Every thing was pulled out of the fields around the farmhouse, and as fresh, crisp and clean flavours as I have eaten anywhere.

We started with an apperitif: a Vin d’Orange du maison. Home made. Delicious. The first course was home made tapenades on rustic cuts of home-made French bread. The second course was a selection of chunky pieces of rillettes and pates, all home made, using rich fatty duck and home-reared chickens. The third course was warmed chicken liver salad. The sauce the chicken livers was cooked in had been reduced down to something that approximated the texture of earthy cream to swallow: it became the dressing. I moaned.

The fourth course, accompanied by a half a carafe of rouge vin, was garrigue-herb flavoured chicken pieces accompanied by home made pasta. This was a long rough-cut twist of pasta, in flavour, not unlike a German Spaetzle. The chicken was rich and its chopped herb marinade clung to the flesh and the pasta. Delicious. The fifth course was home made soft goat’s cheese wedges, sprinkled with herbs and ground pepper, and served with more French bread. The French bread just kept coming, as did the wine. The sixth course was a cross between a crème brulee and a baked custard: served in one of the maison pate jars, topped with a soft topping of burnt sugar, browned but not crusty. I kept on moaning.

Finally, we were served fresh coffee. Mmmmnnn. The entire meal, including aperitifs and endless rouge ou blanc wines, cost us €25 each. Super value -- and we weren’t finished yet! After the meal, the chef came out to take his bow, and his wife – who did all the serving and explaining (an not a word of English anywhere) invited us into the sitting room to view a video on their snail production. Which, too, was in French, but easy to follow, and gave us a clearer understanding of what their snail farm was all about. 

After we’d paid, and were thinking of heading back to the car, the couple called us back again as their teen daughter and her friend were keen to perform a concert they’d prepared for us after dinner. So, back we trotted and followed their song and dance routine with lots of clapping and cheering for good measure. Such a lovely way to spend a Sunday. 

This Sunday, to continue our absorption of French culture, we found a tiny village, Ille-sur-Tet, about 10 kilometers away (so we didn’t have to drive too far home) and had a similar experience in a lovely little restaurant in the heart of the village with a view of the floral square, packed with diners our age enjoying every morsel of a very sophisticated menu that included: 

First Course:

Salade au chevre chaud (warmed goat’s cheese salad). I had this. 

Tarte a L’Oignon (onion tart salad) – which Pete and Bec chose. 

Second Course: 

I loved my Escalope de Saumon. 

Pete and Bec had Supreme de Pintarde (roasted guinea fowl). 

Every Sunday, at the moment, we can hear gunshots wherever we are, and right now, all around us they must be shooting guinea fowl. Poor little fat round speckly things. Though, our meals looked and tasted delicious. The mains were served with dauphinois potatoes, a baked oregano-dredged tomato, and a square of something that was a cross between a vegetable frittata and a light baked bread dressing, large quenelles of mashed potato and, we think, the rich orange pumpkin that we see being lined up for harvest in many fields in the south.

For dessert we were offered many a choice but we ended up choosing what looked terrific on the table next door: an Ile Flottant – which was the most delicious mix of icecream, nuts and fruits, somewhat like a wicked, but delectable, sundae. 

We eat out at other times too, but there is something about Sundays and market days that seems special. In Prades on a Sunday in the bistros in the square, we are often feted by an old fashioned piano accordian player. His hat is jaunty, his tunes are French, his attitude is jolly. Which all adds to the delightful sense of joie de vivre when eating out here.

Garrigue-herb flavoured chicken

Apperitif du maison. Vin d'Orange

Chicken liver salad

Herby goat's cheese 

Creme brûlée