AU COUP DE SILEX

“If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world.”

— J. R. R. TOLKIEN

Food is a necessity in all aspects of life, it is our nourishment and medicine. But good food, great food, that is something else. It is a wonderful thing, to taste something to its full extent - a thing that tastes exactly as it was meant to, such as a rich and earthy tomato, can be a revelation. So much of what we eat is eaten without ceremony, without thought to the various complex flavours. But pay attention to a single leaf of rocket - that spice and tang - and you will reach ecstasy. 

Ecstasy is exactly what we felt, Oliver and I, when we ate the best meal of our lives. All parts of that meal had conspired to make it phenomenal... 

A plate of pastries, a wheel of warm goat's cheese, and a pot of honey, all drizzled with balsamic.

The small mama swallow who swooped to and fro above her nest of birdlings, in the corner on the wall.

The fat of the foie gras, cut by the spiced tartness of the white wine and the toasted gingerbread. 

On that note, I must include the gingerbread-like quality of the restaurant, what with its timber vaulting and exposed beams.

The raw simplicity of the ingredients, all pared back to their humble but beautiful selves.

Lemongrass infused, butter slathered, still-slightly-crisp vegetables.

A scattering of candied walnuts.

Moments of sharing; the passing of plates, and the wonderful conversations that come from appreciating one-another's dishes. Pure delight in the empathy.

The duck... that goddamn duck. I knew about halfway through that I would never, ever, not in a million years, eat duck that tasted that good again. Holy Jesus it was good. Marinated and cooked in its own fat till the meat was so tender it could have almost dissolved in my mouth without chewing, and the rich, crunchy intensity, and the salt, and the fat, and the pure game-y quality, and those perfect pairings of crisped potatoes and the red wine... All of it made that duck the best dish I have ever eaten. Boom.

That few precious minutes when we both talked only of the duck, appreciating every tiny morsel.

The searing hot plate of another, now thinly sliced, duck; bitter raspberry sauce on top.

A view of the cliffside, looming over the tiny town of stone houses, all draped in window boxes of blooms. Watching the sunset, the blues of dusk then melding into the blackness, and the candles that were taken out and lit on each table.

That happy-tummy feeling, once all the wine and the food has mixed itself together, half of it entering your blood stream and the other half sending dopamine to the brain.

Desserts:
(Two are always better than one)
1. A coconut panna cotta, served with warm, grilled, overripe pineapple. 
2. The obligatory chocolate cake, molten middle, homemade ice cream and berry coulis. This one was so divinely simple that I seem to remember scraping the chocolate shavings off the plate in an attempt to save any part of the dish from being wasted.

The end note: a small coffee and a biscuit.

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Naturally, we returned to this same restaurant the following three nights.

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LES EYZIES DE TAYAC

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IF THE STONES COULD TALK

THEY WOULD TELL TALES OF:

Human hands, paint covered, tracing elaborate lines in the dark places of the land - undulating swirls of bison and elk.

The tap-tap-tapping as one stone was shaped by another into a sharp point.

The outcrops and hillside growths of stone villages, slowly rising from the cliffs from whence they came - moulded into pockets of air, the dwellings of men.

   The creeping of vines. 

      The chanting of monks, echoing in the walls.

The reflected sun, from the chalky white ground to the grapes up above. The grapes themselves ripening beautifully, as if they had nothing else to do in the world.

The swish and chuckle of a river, and a brief flash of a silver fish - a shadow on the river rocks below.

   Lightning storms.

       Silence. 

Village festivals, celebrations, markets and days of joy.

And maybe they would talk of us - of me and you, and that moment of total bliss under a hail of fireworks. 

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THE BLACK FOREST

“The grove is the center of their whole religion. It is regarded as the cradle of their people, and the dwelling place of the supreme God to whom all things are subject and obedient.”

— TACITUS - GERMANIA c. 98 A.D.

Enter the forest.

Setting of so many folk tales and legends. Of Hansels, Gretels, witches, wolves, woodcutters, enchantresses, and sleeping beauties. 

Woven through these tales, the forest has its own persona. One veiled in mystery - the forest hides its secrets well, revealing them only onto the select few: a small cottage among the trees, a commune of dwarves, or a riverbank of red berries ripe for the taking. But then the trees grow close again.

The forest speaks in whispers, in the tongues of leaves and creeks. 

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In the evening they came to a large forest, and they were so weary with sorrow and hunger and the long walk, that they lay down in a hollow tree and fell asleep.

The next day when they awoke, the sun was already high in the sky, and shone down hot into the tree. Then the brother said, "Sister, I am thirsty; if I knew of a little brook I would go and take a drink; I think I hear one running." The brother got up and took the little sister by the hand, and they set off to find the brook.

But their wicked stepmother was a witch, and had seen how the two children had run away, and had crept after them stealthily. as witches do creep, and had bewitched all the brooks in the forest. 

Now they found a little brook leaping brightly over the stones, the brother was going to drink out of it, but the sister heard how it sang as it ran. "Whoever drinks of me will become a tiger." Then the sister cried, "Pray, dear brother, do not drink, or you will become a wild beast, and tear me to pieces."

The brother did not drink. although he was so thirsty, but said, "I will wait for the next spring."

When they came to the next brook the sister heard this also say, "Whoever drinks of me will become a wolf." Then the sister cried out, "Pray, dear brother, do not drink, or you will become a wolf, and devour me."

The brother did not drink, and said, "I will wait until we come to the next spring, but then I must drink, say what you like; for my thirst is too great."

And when they came to the third brook the sister heard how it said as it ran, "Whoever drinks of me will become a deer." The sister said, "Oh, I pray you, dear brother, do not drink, or you will become a deer, and run away from me." But the brother had knelt down at once by the brook, and had bent down and drunk some of the water, and as soon as the first drops touched his lips he lay there a young deer. 

And now the sister wept over the poor bewitched brother, and the little deer wept also. But at last the girl said, "Be quiet, dear little fawn, I will never leave you." She plucked reeds and wove them into a soft cord. With this she tied the little beast and led it on, and walked deeper and deeper into the forest.

And when they had gone a very long way they came at last to a little house, and the girl looked in; and as it was empty, she thought, "We can stay here and live." Then she sought for leaves and moss to make a soft bed for the fawn; and every morning she went out and gathered roots and berries and nuts for herself, and brought tender grass for the fawn. In the evening, when the sister was tired, and had said her prayer, she laid her head upon the fawn's back: that was her pillow, and she slept softly on it. 

For some time they were alone like this in the wilderness. But it happened that the King of the country held a great hunt in the forest...

an extract from:
THE BROTHERS GRIMM - LITTLE BROTHER & LITTLE SISTER

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