Around The World In 80 Dinners Part 12

[image] THELEMA M MOUNTAIN V VINEYARDS http://thelema.co.za Stellenbosch 27-21-885-1924

[image] RUSTENBERG W WINES www.rustenberg.co.za Stellenbosch 27-21-809-1200.

[image] TERROIR www.kleinezalze.co.za Strand Road (R44), Stellenbosch 27-21-880-8167 fax 27-21-880-0862

[image] LE Q QUARTIER F FRANcAIS T TASTING R ROOM www.lqf.co.za 16 Hugenot Road, Franschhoek 27-21-876-2151 fax 27-21-876-3105 Fabulous food.

[image] HAUTE C CABRIeRE www.hautecabriere.com Franschhoek Pa.s.s Road, Franschhoek 27-21-876-3688 fax 27-21-876-3691

Cape Malay Bobotie SERVES 8 8.

Filling1 tablespoon vegetable oil1 tablespoon b.u.t.ter, preferably unsalted2 medium onions, finely chopped1 or 2 garlic cloves, minced2 pounds ground lamb1 tablespoon curry powder1 teaspoon ground turmeric1 teaspoon salt teaspoon freshly ground pepper cup fresh breadcrumbs1 large egg, lightly beaten1 tart apple, such as Granny Smith, peeled and chopped fine cup raisins cup chopped dried apricots1/3 cup slivered almonds cup slivered almondsGrated zest and juice of 1 small lemonTopping3 large eggs1 cup milk cup half-and-half or additional milk teaspoon saltStore-bought mint chutney or other chutney Preheat the oven to 325F. b.u.t.ter a large shallow baking dish, like one you would use for lasagna.

In a large heavy skillet, warm the oil and b.u.t.ter over medium heat and add the onions. Saute until the onions are soft and translucent, stir in the garlic, and cook about 1 more minute. Spoon into a large mixing bowl.

Return the skillet to the heat and add the lamb, breaking it up evenly while it cooks. As soon as it loses the raw look, pour off any fat and stir in the curry powder, turmeric, salt, and pepper. Cook for about 5 minutes longer. Spoon into the mixing bowl and add the rest of the filling ingredients. Stir together well, then spoon into the baking dish. Cover and bake for 1 hours.

Meanwhile, whisk together the topping ingredients.

Take the bobotie from the oven and uncover it. Raise the oven temperature to 400F. Pour the topping evenly over the baked meat mixture and return it, uncovered, to the oven. Bake for 13 to 15 additional minutes, until the topping is set and golden brown. Cut into squares and serve with chutney on the side.

FRANCE.

STANDING BESIDE OUR TABLE IN THE DINING ROOM at La Riboto de Taven, Christine Theme tells us, "When I was a small child, I used to think of this s.p.a.ce that we're in now as the sheep's bedroom, where they went to sleep at night. Jean-Pierre and I were born right next door in our parents' house, when the restaurant was the barn on our family farm. From as far back as we can trace deeds, to 1610, the land has been in our family." That's basically why we love La Riboto, because it's truly home in all respects to the hostess, her husband, Philippe, and her brother the chef. When they welcome you to their small plot in Provence, they welcome you wholeheartedly into their lives. at La Riboto de Taven, Christine Theme tells us, "When I was a small child, I used to think of this s.p.a.ce that we're in now as the sheep's bedroom, where they went to sleep at night. Jean-Pierre and I were born right next door in our parents' house, when the restaurant was the barn on our family farm. From as far back as we can trace deeds, to 1610, the land has been in our family." That's basically why we love La Riboto, because it's truly home in all respects to the hostess, her husband, Philippe, and her brother the chef. When they welcome you to their small plot in Provence, they welcome you wholeheartedly into their lives.

When one of us mentions to other people that we go as often as possible to Les Baux-de-Provence to enjoy a wonderful hotel with fabulous food, most of them who know the town a.s.sume we're talking about Oustau de Baumaniere, a famous restaurant that boasts some cla.s.sy rooms for overnight stays. About twenty years ago, we dined there during the haute cuisine phase of our French travel, but it no longer appeals much to us. In those days we took the Michelin Red Guide seriously about making any detours necessary to get to places awarded three stars, covering almost half of them eventually. Many of the heralded restaurants awed us, particularly the two led by Alain Chapel and Joel Robuchon in their prime, but we grew weary of the pomp, the frilly excesses of the multiple courses, and what seemed an increasing frequency of preparations structured for the sake of showiness rather than flavor. After an awful evening in 2001 at one of the most lauded of today's establishments, now called La Maison de Marc Veyrat, we retired pretty much from the hautest of haute cuisine.

Michelin recommends La Riboto de Taven, even paints it red to indicate special character, but the inn voluntarily gave up its culinary star a number of years ago, just before we discovered it in odd circ.u.mstances. One of Bill's most skilled and daunting local poker opponents, Bernard Trenet, comes from France, where most of his family still lives. During a game of no-limit Texas hold 'em-Bill's recreation of choice long before it became popular, going back to the days when saying you bet on cards was akin to bragging about debauchery-Bernard mentioned he would be in France the following summer, at a time that overlapped with a visit we were planning. He told Bill that his cousin Claire had married a talented chef, Jean-Pierre Novi of La Riboto, and suggested that we meet up with him at their auberge. Bill checked up on the place and learned that it used to have a Michelin star, but no longer did. He figured it was going downhill, though he couldn't say that to Bernard, so we just went. Maybe the lesser expectations boosted our initial reaction, but La Riboto stunned us in all ways, with its rooms, food, beauty, and genuine human warmth.

Second and third visits soon confirmed our first impressions, and made us curious about the family behind the extraordinary inn. Philippe Theme credits much of the appeal to Christine and Jean-Pierre's parents: "Decades ago, when automobile tourism began to boom, they made a bold move in turning their farm into a restaurant. Maybe the founder of Oustau de Baumaniere inspired them a little, because he tried to buy their property for his new restaurant as soon as he arrived in town. As farmers, the Novis knew and loved food and eventually earned a Michelin star for their kitchen.

"Christine and I came here to help them," Philippe says, "when they wanted to cut back on their heavy time commitment. The two of us had already worked together for a number of years as hotel managers, first in the Camargue region, where we met and got hooked up."

Christine overhears the last comment and joins the conversation. "He was so handsome, as you can see, and quite the smooth operator."

"Anyway," Philippe resumes, smiling, "running a restaurant required similar hospitality skills."

"Until you fired the chef," Christine interjects. "We got bored with his heavy cooking," she explains, "and decided he had to go. It's hard to sack someone in France, particularly a professional. What an ordeal. For a whole year, Philippe had to take over the kitchen himself, which made us nervous about losing our Michelin star. It worked out fine in the end, after Jean-Pierre became our new chef in 1990."

"Introducing his elegantly crafted contemporary dishes," Cheryl says.

"Yes, he and Claire were living then in England, where he had already been awarded a Michelin star for his cooking. Both of them were keen to come back, and we're sure glad they did."

With the two children at home again now, the Novis and Themes decided to add a couple of hotel rooms on a midlevel plateau of the soaring limestone cliffs above the restaurant. They carved these "troglodytic suites" into the rock face of the bluff, giving them a magnificent cavelike feel, and romantically named them Vincent and Mireille, the Romeo and Juliet of Provencal poetry. As you enter Mireille, our chosen roost, you're struck immediately by the limestone out-cropping that surges above and around the large canopied bed. Fossil indentations and gradations of color, from ochre to gold to rose, enrich the creamy stone that continues along the walls into the bathroom, where it juts ma.s.sively over the large soaking tub and helps to enclose a corner shower. A high, pitched ceiling arches over a sitting area with velvet-covered chairs, and mullioned windows look out to a patio ideal for lounging in warm weather. From the terrace, guests have an incomparable view of the walled medieval city of Les Baux as well as the inn's wonderfully groomed grounds, featuring olive, cyprus, pine, and plane trees interspersed with shrubs, hedges, gra.s.ses, and flowers.

"The addition of those suites," Jean-Pierre tells us one day, "made a big difference here, but the really decisive changes came in 2000. We closed for much of that year to build a new residence for my parents on the property and to convert their former house into four additional guest rooms."

"Christine showed us the rooms once," Bill says, remembering them as comfortable, s.p.a.cious quarters in the style of a Provencal mas (farmhouse).

"More important," Jean-Pierre continues, "we reorganized the business completely so that Christine, Philippe, and I could do everything ourselves without other employees except a maid and a gardener. Previously, with the kind of broad a la carte menu you need for a Michelin star, we had to maintain a full kitchen staff year-round despite big fluctuations in reservation levels between high and low seasons. That didn't make financial sense for us, and created labor headaches, too. So we rebuilt my kitchen for the needs of a single chef, changed to a table d'ho te menu with limited choices, and gave up our star without any fanfare."

"That's really the key to La Riboto's personality, isn't it?" Cheryl says. "The family takes full responsibility for every little detail. It's like a good mom-and-pop operation with two talented pops. What a team you make!" Though Jean-Pierre just grins without comment, Bill knows she's right. Christine and Philippe take care of guests personally in the front of the house with utmost professionalism and charm, and Jean-Pierre cooks for them personally with the consummate skills of a great French chef.

Life on the road-even in the grandest of hotels or at anyone else's home-just doesn't get much better.

So we're returning to La Riboto again, simply because it doesn't seem right to go around the world without visiting our favorite inn in the world. Apart from that, a stop in France doesn't make much sense on our itinerary. It pulls us away from the warmth of the Southern Hemisphere, where all of our other destinations dwell, and takes us to the cusp of winter in a region north of some parts of Canada. New experiences lure us on our journey, a chance to see places we've never been, a longing to broaden our cultural and culinary horizons. France is familiar turf for us, a country we know reasonably well. It must appear we're abandoning fresh paths to indulge a pa.s.sion and sacrificing adventure to have a fling. Yep, low temptation thresholds.

Our flight from Cape Town arrives in Nice shortly before midnight and we depart again the next morning in a rental car bound for Les Baux-de-Provence. Since we're coming back to the Mediterranean city in a few days, we don't pause for anything now other than sleep and a satisfying French breakfast of strong coffee, fresh juices, crusty baguettes, fluffy croissants, and hard-boiled eggs so fresh that the mother hen might still recognize them.

As we pull out of Nice onto the autoroute heading west, our first planned stop is the town of Les Arcs, to have lunch with Kristin Espina.s.se, her husband, Jean-Marc, and their two children. Cheryl became e-mail pen pals with Kristin several years ago when we stumbled across her delightful Web site, French-Word-A-Day. Originally from Arizona, she came to France during college and stayed to marry Jean-Marc, who exports wine to the United States, including his family's Domaine du Banneret Chateauneuf-du-Pape. In her Web site and now in a new book, Words in a French Life, Words in a French Life, Kristin chronicles her wrestling match with the French language, smartly using stories about everyday experiences in Provence to amplify her points. Kristin chronicles her wrestling match with the French language, smartly using stories about everyday experiences in Provence to amplify her points.

While all of us snack on briny home-cured cracked green olives, Jean-Marc pours the adults a round of a good sparkling wine, less yeasty than most versions and full of Pinot Noir character. He's cooking sanglier sanglier (wild boar) for lunch, provided courtesy of his cousin. He got the recipe, he explains, in Phoenix from Vincent Guerithault, the French chef-owner of Vincent's on Camelback, who ironically began his cooking career in Les Baux at Oustau de Baumaniere. Jean-Marc serves the tasty meat with a robust red-wine sauce studded with garlic, and brings out a bottle of his family's Chateauneuf-du-Pape as a perfect accompaniment. With the food, wine, and a spirited conversation about writing, publis.h.i.+ng, and working at home with a spouse (which they do, too), we lose track of the time and get back on the road late. Since we're joining other friends for dinner at La Riboto, we race off into the sunset at European speed, averaging close to one hundred miles per hour. (wild boar) for lunch, provided courtesy of his cousin. He got the recipe, he explains, in Phoenix from Vincent Guerithault, the French chef-owner of Vincent's on Camelback, who ironically began his cooking career in Les Baux at Oustau de Baumaniere. Jean-Marc serves the tasty meat with a robust red-wine sauce studded with garlic, and brings out a bottle of his family's Chateauneuf-du-Pape as a perfect accompaniment. With the food, wine, and a spirited conversation about writing, publis.h.i.+ng, and working at home with a spouse (which they do, too), we lose track of the time and get back on the road late. Since we're joining other friends for dinner at La Riboto, we race off into the sunset at European speed, averaging close to one hundred miles per hour.

Suns.h.i.+ne Erickson and her husband, Alain Garces, drive in from the opposite direction, from their home in Montpellier. Suns.h.i.+ne used to work for our former publisher in Boston and has been a friend for at least a decade. Alain, a research scientist, did graduate work at MIT, met Suns.h.i.+ne in the city, and returned to France with a wife as well as a degree. She's now studying wine marketing at a Montpellier university and doing an interns.h.i.+p with an online retailer and wholesaler of old vintages. They arrive a little before dinner, as we suggested, to see Mireille and sip an aperitif, a light Co tes de Provence wine we pick up in Les Arcs at the appellation's Maison de Vins. Suns.h.i.+ne brings us a wedge of carrot cake with cream-cheese frosting, left over from their American-style Thanksgiving dinner. Cheryl gobbles it a bite at a time for the next two days, savoring it like a rare delicacy.

Christine and Philippe greet us jovially in the dining room, gracefully switching between French and English in their welcome. Because it's late November, their slowest period, we're the only guests tonight, as we will be the following two nights. For an opening nibble, they bring out crispy cheese puffs, tapenade, and their version of home-cured cracked green olives, obviously a popular premeal snack during this olive-harvest season. Bill asks Philippe if he could present one of his patented olive-oil tastings to Suns.h.i.+ne and Alain, as he's done for us in the past. Philippe produces three small carafes of local oil and some pieces of bread, inviting us to sample and savor. They range from mild and b.u.t.tery, resembling most of the good oils available in the United States, to one that we recognize as Castelas, intense and peppery with hints of almond and artichoke. When Philippe seeks our opinions about the differences, he tells us he likes them all for varying uses. "The one Christine and I drink for breakfast, though, is the Castelas."

During the tasting, we survey the evening's table d'ho te menu, featuring an appetizer selection of skate salad and a tian of Provencal vegetables, followed by a main course of either roasted lamb loin or fresh rasca.s.se (a Mediterranean fish used in bouillabaisse). The four of us give Philippe our choices, making sure that collectively we get at least one of all the possibilities, and ask his advice on a wine that will go well with the range of flavors. He suggests a full but soft red such as the 2002 La Pialade Reserve de La Riboto de Taven, a Co tes du Rho ne bottled exclusively for the inn for forty years.

Everything sparkles, including his recommended wine. The tian distills the essence of Provence in a single dish, offering tomatoes, eggplant, and zucchini perfectly roasted in their own juices and seasoned with a few grains of flaky salt and a splash of sage-infused olive oil. The boomerang-shaped skate wing comes with greens and a tartarlike sauce greb.i.+.c.he enriched with olive oil and dense with cornichons and capers. Jean-Pierre serves the lamb rosy with jus smelling sweetly of thyme and roasted garlic, and tops the rasca.s.se with a sauce of garlic and late-harvest olive oil. On the side of both, he places a ragu of seasonal vegetables with tender baby Brussels sprouts, fennel, roasted potato, green beans, and Romanes...o...b..occoflowers.

When we finish, Philippe clears the table, preparing the way for Christine's turn at center stage. She always handles the cheese course, presenting a cart full of tasty alternatives. She knows each intimately because she's responsible for the affinage, the art of aging cheese to realize its optimum flavor. Our quartet focuses on the goat and sheep options tonight, appreciating in particular the heady Roquefort and the pert Banon that oozes out of its chestnut-leaf wrapper. For dessert, we wrap up with an ethereal chestnut souffle with a hint of brandy before parting company with Suns.h.i.+ne and Alain and wis.h.i.+ng them a safe drive home.

In the morning, we return to the restaurant for breakfast, which consists at La Riboto of pots of coffee, tea, or hot chocolate, a basket with chunks of baguette, whole-grain rolls, and croissants, a tray of jam and preserves, a bowl of fresh fruit, and, if you wish, yogurt. The Themes prefer to seat people at night facing the fireplace, and in the morning, looking out over the dining-room terrace. The swimming pool, we notice, supports a faint glaze of ice today. Christine asks about our plans for later, and Cheryl says we're going to wander around medieval Les Baux and maybe drive over to nearby Saint-Remy de Provence. Christine sensibly suggests waiting on Saint-Remy until Wednesday, a market day, and tells us about a Christmas fair in Arles that we might want to see. She offers us free tickets that she won't be able to use this year and we accept gratefully.

An ancient Roman city, with the ruins to prove it, Arles is a quick twenty kilometers away. Grabbing a parking place within walking distance of the convention center, we join the throngs at the bustling fair, which sprawls through several halls packed with booths selling crafts, textiles, furniture, books, artisa.n.a.l food products, and more. The popular snack bar near the entrance makes an American counterpart seem as counterfeit as a crayon Pica.s.so. Instead of corn dogs, cheese nachos, and funnel cakes, shoppers stop by for small plates of duck foie gras with mesclun, crawfish salad with marinated tomatoes, hanger steak with morels, leg of lamb from the Alpilles roasted with garlic, and carpaccio of beef with capers and local olive oil.

From the cafe, aisles of baubles, bangles, and brocade radiate in all directions. Cheryl picks up a few small Christmas gifts, but we pause mainly at food stands, sampling apples at a booth with dozens of different varieties, admiring handmade chocolates, liqueurs, honeys, and confitures. That's all before we discover an entire hall at the rear of the complex devoted to culinary products, including huge rounds of pain d'epices, pain d'epices, a gingerbread larger than our heads; candied fruits such as whole minipineapples; nougat sold by the thick slice in flavors like coffee, coconut, bergamot, and praline; a wealth of tapenades and oils made from olives grown within kilometers of Arles; truffle cream and Arborio rice infused with truffle slices. a gingerbread larger than our heads; candied fruits such as whole minipineapples; nougat sold by the thick slice in flavors like coffee, coconut, bergamot, and praline; a wealth of tapenades and oils made from olives grown within kilometers of Arles; truffle cream and Arborio rice infused with truffle slices.

The stimulation whets our appet.i.tes for lunch, leading us back to a booth providing sample bites of incredible ham and selling sandwiches of the same. Artisan charcutier Jacky Gruson of Le Carre de Picq makes his own ham from Rosa d'Etienne pigs that he raises himself on a diet of corn, barley, and peas. He cuts us paper-thin slices of the meat and places them on whole b.u.t.tered baguettes, a treat as simple as a grin but good enough to be considered for a last meal.

On our way out of the convention center, we pick up a bottle of Bandol, one of our favorite wines, from a boutique producer, Domaine de Cagueloup in Saint-Cyr-sur-Mer. The vintner, Richard Prebost, tells us next week is the annual Fete du Vin du Bandol and encourages us to come. Bill tells him we'll be in Brazil by then, but will keep it in mind for the future. The winemaker smiles and starts dancing a solo samba, giving us a merry send-off from the Christmas fair.

In contrast to the scene in Arles, the historic center of Les Baux is quiet today, the main reason we decide to see it again. Most of the year, busloads of tourists swarm the place as if they've been invited to a sneak preview of Heaven. The towering hilltop location alone lures many of them. The Provencal poet Frederic Mistral compares it to an eagle's nest, soaring high above the rest of the distinctive local white limestone formations. The fabled history also draws in the crowds. Celts built the first defensive fortress on the site in the second century B.C. B.C., but the powerful lords of Les Baux, beginning in the eleventh century A.D. A.D., turned it into the "impregnable" stronghold of the Middle Ages, which didn't fall until Louis XIII laid a royal siege.

Even though we have the old streets and sights mostly to ourselves on this bl.u.s.tery day, we find little to detain us for long. Right before we leave, Cheryl peers over the city wall next to the castle ruins to search for Mireille in the valley below. She spots her and blows a kiss, saying we're on our way home, from where the historic city looks even more majestic, particularly on moonlit evenings.

Before dinner, Christine and Philippe tell us about the origin of the name of their inn. "Riboto," they explain, refers to a communal feasting table in the old Provencal dialect. In Mistral's epic poem about Mireille and Vincent, Taven is the good witch who helps to unite the lowly basket maker's son and the aristocrat's daughter. Charles Gounod turned the story into an opera that Christine and Philippe once saw in Avignon. They swear the set looked exactly like their property.

For an appetizer, Bill selects the lamb-sweetbread salad, with crisply tender sweetbreads that Jean-Pierre allows to cool slightly before adding greens and a saffron dressing. Cheryl opts for the langoustine ravioli, luscious little pouches of seafood swimming in a broth of squid ink and olive oil. Both of us follow up with a roasted veal sirloin with sauteed cepes and parsley, which comes with baby root vegetables. As with many of Jean-Pierre's dishes, the jus elevates fine ingredients into a spectacular success. Philippe matches the veal flawlessly with his wine recommendation, a locally produced 1999 Chateau Dalmeran blending Syrah, Cabernet Sauvignon, and Cinsaut grapes.

Each of us holds back on the cheese course, sticking with just a wedge of Saint-Marcellin, because we know additional cream is on the way with dessert. Alongside an apple tart, a spiral of roasted apples on b.u.t.tery pastry, Jean-Pierre scoops a globe of vanilla ice cream churned just minutes before. On top of that, he dribbles a sundae crown of golden, light olive oil, which works beautifully. Only in Provence.

The next morning we drive down the road a couple of miles to drop in on olive-oil producers Jean-Benoit and Catherine Hugues, who make Castelas. The couple jumped into the business about a decade ago when they bought a house and six hectares of trees from a family that had cultivated olives on the land since the seventeenth century. The original owners, who had no heirs, would only sell to people who promised to take excellent care of the trees. The Hugueses must hug each one every night judging by the oil they extract.

The trees don't deserve all the credit, however. The Hugueses press their oil on the same day that they harvest the olives, usually within six hours, and they use a production system designed by Jean-Benoit to obtain optimum flavor. A professional engineer with a specialization in automated processing, he showed us his custom-built machines with great pride on a previous trip. Jean-Benoit employs water in his scheme only in the initial step of bringing olives to the right temperature for pressing. A blower dries and destems the fruit and eliminates leaves. Another apparatus pushes the olives through a grate just slightly smaller than them, so that they crack but aren't crushed, as happens with stone grinding. The next machine tumbles them into a paste in an airtight tube and a centrifuge drains out the oil, which stays in stainless-steel vats until bottling. The label on the final product proclaims its Appellation d'Origine Contro lee (A.O.C.) status, just like French wines enjoy, under the region called the Vallee des Baux de Provence.

Just around the corner, Mas de la Dame makes some of the best local A.O.C. wines. The old farmhouse looks the way it must have for decades, if not centuries, featuring limestone block architecture with a faded red tile roof. In the tasting room, bottles of current vintages sit on the counter, including our two favorites from past experience, the Coin Cache and Le Vallon des Amants. After sipping a little of each, Bill buys a bottle of Le Vallon, the longer-lasting of the pair. Cheryl starts looking closely at the lovely holiday baskets on display and Bill goes en garde. In France, Cheryl sometimes buys and hauls home some of the most unwieldy items in the country-the worst excess being a fragile, three-foot-high walnut-drying rack that she carried back as checked luggage after begging yards of bubble wrap from shops in Saint-Tropez, of all places. This time she exercises restraint.

After escaping unburdened, we drive south a dozen or so kilometers to Saint-Martin-de-Crau for lunch at Auberge La Pastourello, another of our treasured spots in the area. You enter the restaurant through the bar, which Monsieur attends, and pa.s.s a miniature living room furnished with a sofa and a TV that's always on and tuned to a game show around the noon hour. The proprietors and their family station themselves here before and after meals. The adjacent dining room, which Madame oversees, is exuberantly decorated with a collection of antiques and objets (not all d'art) that define the essence of eclectic. Wherever you look on the walls and shelves, you see musical instruments, operatic masks, ceramic ware, copper pans, carpenter's tools, santon santon figurines, paintings, and kitchen implements such as coffee grinders. An enormous cooking hearth blazes today at one end of the room, directly across from a grandfather clock and a piano. figurines, paintings, and kitchen implements such as coffee grinders. An enormous cooking hearth blazes today at one end of the room, directly across from a grandfather clock and a piano.

In warmer months, when we've come before at lunch, La Pastourello sets out an expansive buffet of Provencal fare. In this slower period, the restaurant offers a recited menu of daily specials for a three-course prix fixe meal with house wine. Cheryl starts with a "pizza" on a puff-pastry base with cheese melted over tomato and ham, and Bill leads with a custardlike mussel terrine accompanied by an anchovy-laced salad. For a main course, both of us order dorade (sea bream) in pistou, the Provencal equivalent of an Italian pesto. Delicious fillets float on creamed chard, and pistou swathes the fish. Cheryl chooses the ile flottante ile flottante (floating island) dessert, while Bill has a (floating island) dessert, while Bill has a tarte au citron tarte au citron that's as close to a lemon meringue pie as we've ever seen in France. At ten minutes until 2:00, the restaurant clears completely as all the other patrons head back to work. that's as close to a lemon meringue pie as we've ever seen in France. At ten minutes until 2:00, the restaurant clears completely as all the other patrons head back to work.

In the afternoon, we read lazily, learning later that Christine, Philippe, and Jean-Pierre are toiling hard at the same time, helping with the olive harvest. It doesn't diminish their spirits at dinner. Unusual for us, we decide to get the same dishes this evening, foie gras for an appetizer, followed by roasted macreuse, macreuse, a cut of beef unfamiliar to us. The sauteed foie gras rests on a thin potato cake, crispy and garlicky, and drips dabs of red currant sauce. A gla.s.s of Muscat from the Languedoc mates perfectly. a cut of beef unfamiliar to us. The sauteed foie gras rests on a thin potato cake, crispy and garlicky, and drips dabs of red currant sauce. A gla.s.s of Muscat from the Languedoc mates perfectly.

The macreuse, Philippe tells us, comes from the top front of the shoulder, guaranteeing full beefy flavor, and is cut in a way that increases tenderness. Jean-Pierre presents it in medium-rare scallops with a caramelized shallotred wine jus, and nestles it with a melange of fall vegetables-fennel, baby turnips, green beans, roasted potatoes, and marble-sized Brussels sprouts almost as sweet as fruit. As Philippe clears the table, we somehow get into a discussion of American barbecue sauces. The ones he has tried all overwhelm and mask the food, he says, a flaw we've seen also in some French sauces. Jean-Pierre's meat sauces do the opposite, complementing and melding flavors because they are reductions of the original juices minimally but skillfully enhanced with garlic, wine, and other seasonings.

When Christine arrives with the cheese cart, we're still drinking the red wine we had with the beef, a local 2000 Chateau Romanin that combines Grenache, Syrah, Mourvedre, and Cabernet Sauvignon. To match the wine, she picks for us two aged sheep cheeses and an Alsatian Muenster. Dessert is sauteed pears with a pine-nut praline and intensely fragrant lavender ice cream, dribbled again with olive oil.

Bill takes a gla.s.s of Armagnac back to our room, and we relive our dinners of the last three evenings, concluding that the food is as satisfying to us today as most of what we've had at three-star restaurants in France in previous years. Although the style of the meals is less elaborate, the attention to detail, the overall quality, and the pacing reflect the same seriousness about dining well. The conversation leads to a momentous decision that both of us take an oath to uphold: as soon as Bill wins the World Series of Poker, which he says will be any year now, we'll retire permanently to La Riboto.

The next day, we return to Nice, stopping first at the open-air market in Saint-Remy, the town where Vincent van Gogh committed himself to an asylum after cutting off his left ear. The artist painted many landscapes here, often depicting the local trees that still form a canopy above lots of village streets. Today, gnarly but elegant plane trees, cut back in winter, cast shade and shadows over the downtown market area.

You can buy most anything of personal use from one vendor or another: stocking caps and coats suitable for the weather, ladies' lingerie less heedful of the cold, shoes and boots, books, CDs, Laguiole knives, diminutive grapevines, even roses and tulips. Among the numerous food booths, we find one selling only kiwis, another specializing in oysters and mussels, and a third just roasting chestnuts. Other stands boast loads of leeks, turnips, and other root vegetables, chickpeas dried and fresh, walnuts, hazelnuts, eggs, hearty breads, honeys, and sausages flavored with herbs, fennel, and pepper. As usual at a Provencal market, a man stirs a huge paella pan full of rice and seafood, an Asian stand offers spring rolls, samosas, and other fried treats, and spits loaded with chickens and meats spin at a rotisserie truck, where the proprietor watches distractedly as he bites off chunks of a baguette to wash down with red wine.

In Nice, we drop off our rental car and check in at La Perouse, a seaside hotel in the old center of town where we've stayed several times before. When Bill made the reservation, he requested one of two specific rooms that enjoy the same great view, and the accommodating reception staff-generally cheery young men and women fluent in many languages-oblige. Our preferred rooms are small, but feel almost s.p.a.cious because of the expanse of gla.s.s on two sides. A big shuttered window opens fully toward the city, and French doors gaze out to the Mediterranean and lead to a standing-room-only balcony that overlooks the whole of the bay, the beach, and the hotel pool. The higher of the two rooms, where we land today, abuts the top of La Colline du Chateau and offers exactly the same perspective on the town and the water, a view that virtually every tourist pays to see for a couple of minutes. While they come and go, we sit and stare at the vista for hours at a time.

The hill (colline) and the remains of its chateau beside us figured prominently in Nice history. In the fourth century B.C. B.C., Greeks routed Ligurians living in the vicinity and established the trading post of Nikaia (the basis of the city's current name), placing the town on the plateau as a natural vantage point for protecting the port. The residents had built a cathedral on the site by the eleventh century, and next to it, the ruling counts of Provence put their castle, eventually razed in later battles of succession.

Control of the strategic city changed a number of times before France finally established lasting sovereignty in 1860. Through the frequent political turmoil, the people of Nice remained remarkably independent of their rulers, as if they owned the fiefdom themselves. They still annually celebrate the courage of Catherine Segurane, whom they credit with saving Nice from the Turkish fleet in 1543 by mooning the invaders. Maybe she misunderstood Machiavelli, who must have said somewhere that when the odds are against you, attack from the rear.

Shortly after we arrive, we find ourselves on a street named in honor of the heroine. It descends from La Colline du Chateau into Old Nice, where the population gradually expanded around Segurane's era. It's always fun to walk the maze of narrow pedestrian lanes in this neighborhood and that's what we do on our first afternoon, after making an initial stop at La Merenda to secure a dinner reservation, which is always necessary despite the restaurant's refusal to install a phone for that purpose. In the heart of the old town now, we wander aimlessly, admiring the historic architecture, browsing a few stores, and absorbing the food aromas.

Almost equally split between local and visitor appeal, the mix of shops fascinates us. At one we buy a toddler's backpack for our granddaughter Chloe, engraved with the French spelling of her name with an accent over the last letter. Just a block or so away, we gape at a boned whole, head-on suckling pig resting in a case in front of a boucherie. boucherie. It's known as It's known as porquetta, porquetta, a trademark dish of the area stuffed with ham, artichokes, mushrooms, and other vegetables, and then roasted until the skin is crackling crisp. a trademark dish of the area stuffed with ham, artichokes, mushrooms, and other vegetables, and then roasted until the skin is crackling crisp.

Other Nicoise food specialties abound as well, most of them seldom found elsewhere. Cheryl gets a p.i.s.saladiere p.i.s.saladiere snack to go at the same storefront eatery that Calvin Trillin once raved about in a snack to go at the same storefront eatery that Calvin Trillin once raved about in a Gourmet Gourmet article for its local article for its local pan bagnat pan bagnat. Resembling a pizza, p.i.s.saladiere p.i.s.saladiere is flatbread covered with onions cooked down slowly to their essence and then topped with a smattering of black olives and anchovies. is flatbread covered with onions cooked down slowly to their essence and then topped with a smattering of black olives and anchovies. Pan bagnat Pan bagnat consists of a split loaf of round bread rubbed with a garlic clove and then filled as a sandwich with tuna canned in olive oil, lettuce, tomatoes, hard-boiled egg slices, and maybe radishes, scallions, celery, artichoke hearts, or anchovies. Made simply with chickpea flour and olive oil, consists of a split loaf of round bread rubbed with a garlic clove and then filled as a sandwich with tuna canned in olive oil, lettuce, tomatoes, hard-boiled egg slices, and maybe radishes, scallions, celery, artichoke hearts, or anchovies. Made simply with chickpea flour and olive oil, socca socca looks like a giant, thin pancake, and the equally unfussy looks like a giant, thin pancake, and the equally unfussy tourta de blea tourta de blea features chard and pine nuts in a savory pie. The original mesclun, in contrast to salads that go by that name in the United States, brings together greens gathered mainly in the hills of Nice, particularly dandelion stalks, purslane, arugula, small bitter lettuces, and chervil. features chard and pine nuts in a savory pie. The original mesclun, in contrast to salads that go by that name in the United States, brings together greens gathered mainly in the hills of Nice, particularly dandelion stalks, purslane, arugula, small bitter lettuces, and chervil.

By dinnertime, we're eager to eat. La Merenda raised eyebrows in the French food world when it opened years ago because chef-owner Dominique Le Stanc quit a prestigious haute cuisine position heading the kitchen at Chantecler, in Nice's grand Negresco hotel, to start cooking the kind of food he personally likes to eat. He has dubbed it "family cooking," but that doesn't translate well in American terms, since few families in the United States sit down to such regular menu dishes as tripes a la nicoise, andouillette (tripe sausage), and stockfish (pungent salt cod soaked for days and cooked with onions, tomatoes, and white wine for a couple of hours). The restaurant also stirred a little indignation at its inauguration by doing two seatings for dinner, at 7:00 and 9:00. Normally in France, when you book a table, it's yours all night. At La Merenda, they pace the service to get you out within two hours. Dastardly.

Promptly at 7:00, the early s.h.i.+ft arrives, including us and all the other two dozen patrons who can fit knee-to-knee and elbow-to-elbow in the tiny s.p.a.ce. Tonight, as we know is usual from past visits, the blackboard carte offers six appetizers, a similar number of main courses, an optional cheese course (the server just asks whether you want a goat, sheep, or cow variety), some desserts, and water or house wine to drink. The waiter carries the portable menu from one table to the next, expecting guests to choose and order quickly. Bill starts with a tarte de Menton tarte de Menton-basically a p.i.s.saladiere p.i.s.saladiere without the anchovies-so deservedly popular that the night's complete supply disappears by 7:15. Cheryl's house-made spinach tagliatelle with pistou also s.h.i.+nes, a model of everything pasta can and should be: al dente, flavorful itself, and dressed with a perfect amount of basil-rich pistou. without the anchovies-so deservedly popular that the night's complete supply disappears by 7:15. Cheryl's house-made spinach tagliatelle with pistou also s.h.i.+nes, a model of everything pasta can and should be: al dente, flavorful itself, and dressed with a perfect amount of basil-rich pistou.

For our main courses, Cheryl goes for the daube daube with with panisse panisse (chickpea fries) on the side. Our favorite style of beef stew, shaming all Anglo-Saxon versions, daube must be cooked for hours in an ocean of red wine, as Dominique Le Stanc does artfully. Bill's sausage with lentils features a fresh pork (chickpea fries) on the side. Our favorite style of beef stew, shaming all Anglo-Saxon versions, daube must be cooked for hours in an ocean of red wine, as Dominique Le Stanc does artfully. Bill's sausage with lentils features a fresh pork saucisson, saucisson, fragrant with fennel and garlic, served a touch soupy in a shallow bowl with plump green lentils simmered with chard. Finis.h.i.+ng with cheese-goat for Cheryl and sheep for Bill-we stagger out happily about 9:00. fragrant with fennel and garlic, served a touch soupy in a shallow bowl with plump green lentils simmered with chard. Finis.h.i.+ng with cheese-goat for Cheryl and sheep for Bill-we stagger out happily about 9:00.

The next morning we resume our vigil on the balcony, watching a half-dozen swimmers brave the frigid water. Although we've never been here at Christmas or Carnival, even colder periods, some residents reportedly celebrate those occasions by skinny-dipping in the bay. These polar bears today wear regular suits, which they deftly slip off their legs when leaving as they pull on warmer clothes over their heads. The beach promenade is far more active at this early hour, lively with joggers, bikers, Rollerblade enthusiasts, and plenty of walkers, many of them tethered to a dog. Our strolls around the city frequently lead us to the busy promenade, but we seldom go below to the uncomfortable beach, formed by rocks instead of sand.

Six mornings a week, including this one, a big pedestrian boulevard in Old Nice, cours Saleya, hosts an open-air market, with produce and prepared foods at one end and flowers at the other. Ambling over, we find it noticeably slower at this time of the year than in sunnier months, with fewer vendors and visitors both. At least the invincible Theresa shows up, looking as striking as ever even bundled up for the weather. Chez Theresa has been a mainstay of the market, and a Nice icon, since the 1920s. She's not that old herself, being the third Theresa to run the business, but she upholds the legacy with regal pride, selling socca, p.i.s.saladiere, pan bagnat, socca, p.i.s.saladiere, pan bagnat, and and tourta de blea tourta de blea like they're her crown jewels. Her name isn't really Theresa-it's Susy-and she's not from Nice-lived much of her life in Israel actually-but no one complains about food fraud. like they're her crown jewels. Her name isn't really Theresa-it's Susy-and she's not from Nice-lived much of her life in Israel actually-but no one complains about food fraud.

A local man, whom we take to be her husband, does the cooking a couple of blocks away. Our last time in town, we were watching him work through the window of his small storefront kitchen when he waved at us to join him inside. He showed us his wood-burning oven, more than seventy-five years old, and demonstrated how he makes the socca. A biker pulling a cart transports the food to the market and Theresa keeps some of it warm on the top of a big barrel that sits over a charcoal fire. She stations herself most of the time right behind the barrel, smiling and showing off her socca with the coy conceit of a new mom.

For lunch, we wind up right across the street from her booth at another Chez, named after Freddy in this case. Both of us yearn for local seafood and the restaurant provides gargantuan plates of it. Cheryl gets oysters on the half sh.e.l.l and moules frites moules frites (steamed mussels with French fries). Among a variety of paellas, the house specialty, Bill picks the one with the most goodies, including sh.e.l.lfish, fish, rabbit, chicken, and chorizo. The waiter plops it on the table in an iron skillet so loaded with the promised provisions-as well as a thick stew of tomatoes, onions, and garlic-that Bill can hardly locate the rice. It's far from a Valencian version, but this is Nice, not Spain, and everything here is distinctly Nicoise. (steamed mussels with French fries). Among a variety of paellas, the house specialty, Bill picks the one with the most goodies, including sh.e.l.lfish, fish, rabbit, chicken, and chorizo. The waiter plops it on the table in an iron skillet so loaded with the promised provisions-as well as a thick stew of tomatoes, onions, and garlic-that Bill can hardly locate the rice. It's far from a Valencian version, but this is Nice, not Spain, and everything here is distinctly Nicoise.

Isabelle and Michel Vernaud always guarantee that at Lou Pistou, our dinner restaurant this evening. Next-door neighbors with La Merenda-at the same physical address in fact-it shares much in common with its compet.i.tor, from the size of the s.p.a.ce to a similar menu of well-executed local cla.s.sics. The two differ primarily in personality, and on that measure we prefer Lou Pistou, a quintessential mom-and-pop bistro. Michel takes care of the cooking by himself in the small, fully open kitchen, always looking calm and collected in an ap.r.o.n-draped T-s.h.i.+rt while he manages a dozen tasks simultaneously. Isabelle, whose hair is so red she seems to be on fire, handles the front of the house alone with boundless energy. They love what they do and it makes you love them and their food.

Cheryl starts with an arugula salad, which Isabelle tosses at the table with hefty chunks of Parmesan and balsamic vinaigrette. Bill has grilled red bell peppers, topped with chopped garlic. When Isabelle brings the plate to the table, she hands him a can of olive oil to pour over the appetizer to taste. We both follow up with daube and pasta, but in two different preparations, with Bill's beef served over tagliatelle and Cheryl's stuffed in ravioli. For dessert, we opt for a lemon tart and a honey-rich nougat glace, full of pistachios and candied fruit. It's all superlative, on the same level of quality and delight as our dinner at La Merenda. Incredibly, the bill is exactly the same in both places, 76 for three courses each and a bottle of wine.

In the morning, after a long gander at our view, we linger over breakfast, since it's going to be our last meal in town. Our hotel sets out a cold buffet daily worthy of indulgence. The baguettes, croissants, and pain au chocolat excel, as do the selections of French cheeses and charcuterie. Bill dives into the bowl of hard-boiled eggs, while Cheryl favors the quiche and yogurt, both of us leaving ample room to wrap up with fresh fruit salad. After another walk through Old Nice and a shower, it's time to head to the airport.

Our taxi driver turns out to be a talkative young woman. She asks about our stay and Bill says we've had a wonderful visit, enjoying the food in particular. Cheryl tells her about our meals, and the driver tells us about her mother's cooking, bringing us to mutual agreement about the culinary bounty. Then when she pauses at a red light, she turns and looks at us seriously to say, in a typically feisty Nice way, "It's not like this in northern France, you know. Parisians understand nothing about olive oil. Their food is so heavy, they might as well be eating the rocks on our beach." An apt parting thought, true or not.

THE NITTY-GRITTY.

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fax 33-4-90-54-38-88 Worth a detour from a different continent.

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