LETTER from PARIS
A Moveable Feast in a Tour de France
T
By John Sherman
he medieval town of Bargemon sits 40 miles (about 183 twists and turns) above San Tropez. Fortunately, car rental agencies in France are discouraged from renting to those of us over 80. So the chore fell to my travel companion. It was odd and engaging to actually see beyond the next hairpin. Provence this spring day was spread out with poppies and wild mustard—and fields and fields of budding grape vines. And the green/gray of regimented olive orchards. The town seemed concocted by a set designer, with all the props of an imaginary France. Its narrow streets are cobbled. Umbrellas shade small cafes that face out onto a square with a central fountain. Gitains and Gauloises are still smoked at a local bar. There’s the church and the eight hundred old stone ramparts looking out at a dramatic mountainous terrain. And, of course, bistros and brasseries, with their sidewalk menu boards and bright awnings. One evening, we slid down to La Compana and managed to bluff our way into this small dining room of six tables. Husband chef. Wife waitress, who moved around the room like a dervish, joking and laughing as she went. I ordered oeufs en meurette followed by foie de veau. Over the years, memories of my dear mother’s menu of liver cooked grey and the very edible onions and bacon, had mellowed. I requested saignant, rare, raising the eyebrows of my dinner partners. It came with haricots verts and frites. Oh, yes. A couple of days later we drove north to see their Grand Canyon. We stopped off for lunch in the small village of Comps Sur Artuby. The Grand Hotel Bain had a good feel on this sunny midday. We sat under a sycamore tree. Skimming the hard cover menu, I felt a sudden excitement, as there, under hot entrees, appeared two of my dream plates. Cheek by jowl: tete de veau with a sauce ravigote and tripes de boeuf facon niçoise. My wife, a former chef, speaks euphemistically about the “extremities.” Our restaurant’s kitchen at the Ashby Inn would bridle at dishes foreign to them—-along with bluefish (too oily). I would tout sweetbreads and liver; they would plead not to put “freaks” on the menu. “A complete turn off. A money loser.” I reluctantly backed off, though I had a major victory with bluefish. For sheer taste and adventure, I will head directly for the offal. Well, maybe not Rocky Mountain oysters. The old expression that meat is most tender near the bone. That may be true, but it’s the outer cuts that have the most character. Filet mignon is nothing but a marshmallow compared with, say, a bavette—-never mind the tail of an ox. PETA devotees may now be excused. This is not for the faint of heart. Tete de veau is just that, a calf ’s head. It comes with many recipes, but is essentially the head, tongue and brain boiled in various stages. The platter traditionally shows sliced tongue, chunks of head meat and chopped brains—-served with a sauce
ravigote, a dressing of olive oil, mustard, egg, capers and cornichons. The day’s menu, however, listed a terrine of tete de veau, a far less dramatic and more palatable for most. Like most terrines, it carries the boiled offal pieces with chopped carrots and other colorful vegetables encased in gelatin. On the side came a generous dollop of ravigote. The stares of curiosity and distaste from my companions only heightened the pleasure. I ordered a bottle of Morgan from Beaujolais, light and slightly chilled, to match the terrine and the heat of the afternoon. Tripe, the honeycombed lining of a cow’s second stomach, is one of offal’s most heady celebrities. I would walk a mile through snow for a steaming bowl of tripe. Like many of its cousins, it demands skinning and cleaning and boiling. Bland by itself, it gets its flavor from the spices and sauces they’re cooked in. The kitchen produced the classic Tripes a la Niçoise. The tripe is cooked by itself, cut into bite size pieces. It’s then sautéed in olive oil, before adding calves feet, tomatoes, white wine, bouillon, garlic, onions and a myriad of spices and herbs. The
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MIDDLEBURG SUSTAINABLE COMMITTEE| Autumn 2022
Roma and John Sherman pot is often sealed with a mix of flour and water and put in the oven for up to 12 hours. With minimum cooking time left, in go Parmesan—-and, of course, a measure of the local eau de vie. Pret a manger. The chef ’s wife, a stout woman with gapped teeth, set down steak frites, trout meuniere, a composed salad before my table mates. As she presented the tripe—-a shimmering bowl of deep red sauce with a side of boiled potatoes—-she gave me a slight smile of approval. I had just been inducted to the vaunted Societe des Amateurs de Tripes. The tripe had a subtle chewiness, bathed in a light tomato sauce. At my urging, we sprung for a bottle of Pouilly-Fume from the Loire, where I was stationed in the army in the 1960s—-defending France with fixed bayonet from imminent attack from the East. It’s where I received my baptism at French tables. Quenelle of river pike, goose liver, decomposing pheasant. And the deep satisfaction of taking detours from the common coq au vin, steak frites and boeuf bourguignon, through the darker, richer passages of the beast. There lurk the savors and textures that history’s most celebrated gourmands—the Gargantuans—sought.
