We arrived in the quite lovely and picturesque village of Collobrieres rather early this morning and found the little house that our old friend Rodney had recommended quite easily, despite the jet-lag. We had seen the website and had been more than a little intrigued by the description of the property: “Constructed in the trapeze fashion with an expanded backside?” Expanded backside my ass, and here we are. Towards sundown after intermittent napping, what is it about roaring power tools and heavy hammers around here? Ted suggested that since Rod was typically indisposed, we should go out for dinner and see a movie, more like let’s download a movie then go out for dinner, the wifi connection seemed to have plenty of bandwidth so he had his laptop hooked up and was already perusing The Pirate Bay top 100.
This is not our first trip to France so we were prepared to do a bit of shopping around before finding a suitable restaurant, you see poor Ted is a vegetarian and doesn’t care much for Phish; he also stated more than once in his autobiography – Ted the Dead-Head – that he did not want to see another omelette as long as he lived. Here though we expected no difficulty in finding some of that fabulous Mediterranean food the stuff that diets are made of; marinated goat’s cheese and real sun ripened tomatoes, ratatouille, even a more exotic apricot tajine would do just fine. This was also the season for wild mushrooms, gorgeous juicy figs and of course roast chestnuts. As for the movie, he had settled on The Hangover 2 which was coming down nicely and we felt all cosy and safe from the ire of the copyright holders, tucked away here in deepest Provence where the only time you might get into a bit of bother is if you telecharge Johnny Halliday or his kidney.
Rodney had told us, among other more curious things that there were ‘shed loads’ of eating places in this tiny town and we had already checked out collobrieres-tourism.com, no less than eleven with all but two in very easy walking distance, so with mouths already watering off we set. We began down by the little river at the Hotel des Maures, not much information on the site and their link was broken, but “Cuisine Provencal” was a good enough start.
tarte-maisonI was intrigued by the Tarte Maison, forty thousand headmen could not have restrained Ted, but in the end anchovies, pigs and cows were more persuasive. I found out much later that an omelette aux champignons had always been a more less compulsory appetizer at this establishment and not only were the mushrooms of the canned variety but the eggs were supplied very cheaply by a man called Didier, who Rod does not seem to care very much for. What sort of name is Didier anyway?
It was with some trepidation that we ventured into the the Bar de la Mairie. Bar, restaurant, tobacconist and house of ill repute, just a couple of doors down. We were not really expecting an effusive welcome having read some of Rodney’s recent posts, but after ten minutes or so of being ceremoniously ignored we hopped across the street to the rather posh looking “Un Air de Rien“, no kidding. Just a tapas bar though really, spicy sausages and tortillas, omelettes by any other name, I wouldn’t get away with that. No Way. We did pop in for a drink or two though. Julian the owner is such a sweetie, sooh! attentive, I really think he should rename it The Dewdrop Inn though, or better, The Dude Drop In, that would be really sweet.
Not unduly discouraged, in fact buoyed a little by Lucien’s lovely wine we strolled the fifty or so yards to the Farigoulette, next on the list, but not forgetting to call back at the two previous bars for a couple of beers, I thought it better to give them a few of our hard earned dollars, to make up for their bad behavior, far be it from us to give American tourists a bad name.
The Farigoulette looked absolutely stunning, almost completely smothered in a glorious Virginia creeper and several beautifully hand-written chalk menu boards now this was more like it. Not so much for the herbivore however, unless Ted was to stick to the puddings. The chef, Franck did kindly propose some hot tuna, why do people always think vegetarians eat fish? His wife Karine was a doll and would not hear of us leaving without an aperitif as it was still quite early. She produced a half emptied bottle of Guignorix, a power packed cherry liqueur, from her husband’s secret stash in the kitchen and would not let us go until the bottle was finished. Before leaving I asked Corinne what the word farigoulette actually meant, but she had no idea, “We’re not from round here” she explained we just pay the rent, ”I think it’s just the name of the shop”. Francis was looking decidedly peeved.
La farigouletteAn hour later we found ourselves standing forlornly outside the Petite Fontaine, where, we had been assured by Francois that we would find our bonheur. Cuisine provençale again, but this time recommended by nombreux guides, including Gault & Millau and Gantié no less. Their specialties were onion tart, local cheese and red peppers marinated in olive oil and farigoulette, the local name for thyme. Eureka! It was closed, which is probably a good thing because looking around we find that they don’t do credit cards and I doubt they give receipts[..]
The immediately adjacent and gaudily decorated Terrasse Provencal was packed to bursting, taking shameless advantage of their neighbor’s annual holiday to serve what sounded like, well I may be from New Mexico but I know what a Welsh rugby team sounds like especially when food is served on a bed of leeks.
So ever onward, a little further up the street we found the recently opened “Gourmandy’z”, their link was also a 404, so all we had to go on was an interesting variation of the cuisine thing , this time it was traditionelle. They should really have called it Wackjob’z , their menu being an arbitrary mix of
Wackjob'Zinternational fare; baked Camembert with a banana sauce for example does, I suppose, warrant a great big V sign – but vegetarians are notoriously unadventurous – isn’t that so Ted? Even I would have to pass on the tuna fish with chorizo. It did have thankfully, a traditional Spanish tapas bar attached as well. Two of those in one small French village, odderer and odderer, still, may as well have a few more drinks.
It was now way past nine ‘o clock and staggering slightly, hopefully homeward bound,we stumbled upon this little place.time trying to decipher the menu in the failing light and arguing briefly about what day it was, we at last settled for the beetroot vinaigrette, aioli with its vegetables, a Proustian cake and ice-cream, yum. We had found the menu
Something for Ted at lastbut there didn’t seem to be any kind of restaurant, how could this be? We tried a few doors and looked in a few alleyways, nothing, until a woman tugging a smelly cocker spaniel by a long piece of string came to our assistance. She turned out to be British and god, how do those people do it? She didn’t even bat one of her snooty eyelids when she told us it was the primary school cafeteria and judging by our appearance we wouldn’t like it anyway because they are rumoured to water down the wine for the 3-11 year-olds. She did though point us in the right direction home – even accompanied us for most of the way – until we made our excuses and hurried on. That dog really did stink.
I recalled in my tipsiness having seen a pizza to go flyer somewhere in the house, I agreed to call the order while Ted checked on the download. The phone was ringing and I was wondering just how this man Goertzy could possibly make pizzas in a wood burning oven in this little van when suddenly I heard Ted: Rar rar rar, its #!@?! password protected #!@?! .We have been married the best part of thirty years yet I had no idea that he was a fan of spectator sports, he always says that’s an oxymoron, so why all the rar rar rars all of a sudden? “Just typing in some mis-spelled expletives darling, you know, comments on TPB .”
So far its no dinner and no movie and the phone was still ringing…..Allo Pizza ! At last. Hi! ” Deux calzone mit extra formaggio, keine fliesch und molto capers por favor” . How well do I speak French after a few Drinks?
What's cookin'?Goertzy was all apologies, really polite, but why did I not know that it was Wednesday and that French people do not work on this day? he had worked also both the public holidays in July and August and must take the month of September to rest. Ordering a pizza at half past nine on a Thursday night should be punishable by law, even dough boys have rights don’t you know?
Well if he doesn’t sell pizzas and he patently does not, if he is mild-mannered and quite incoherent on the telephone, this surely begs the question, what exactly does he cook in there? Shake and bake?
Just over twelve hours in this odd little burg nor any bite to eat, though rummaging about in the larder I have just found a pack or two of Jiminy Cricket Brand super yum-yum chicken flavored instant noodles, Ted’s favourite. Also a bottle of schnapps just for me. More posts in a day or two.
Phyllis