Raider of the Lost Fromage: The French adventure so far...

For those of you who want to recap before I resume my epic quest of Northern France, here is a little reminder...

Most stories start from the beginning, and some start from the end and go back to the beginning... flashback stylee (on this occasion the misspelling was intentional). But on this occasion I am going to take an unconventional turn and start from the middle of my trip as it was at this juncture that I found the essence of why I chose to travel solo, across the breadth of France, in the first place. 

Picture the scene: The author of this piece downing shot after shot of slivovitz chased with half pints of Ardennes-style beer on a barge perched on the Meuse. This was ‘Mawhot’ Charleville-Meziere’s main evening hangout, named after a legendary lizard that is said to inhabit the murky river waters that flow through the town. The crowd that evening was lively, and the rare-arrival of an Englishman was something of a novelty, especially one wearing rust-coloured cords and wearing a blue tweed sports jacket... adding to the experience, it could only be the Bloody Good Chap. Patrons decided to try to out-do each other in terms of largess and I was plied with all manner of lethal spirits as Aswad’s Greatest Hits played on the establishment's sound system. 

Just as the band's 1988 smash ‘Don’t Turn Around’ had finished, there was a call for silence as a buxom creature took to the floor with an accordion and started to play Breton sea shanties. This seemed rather odd, considering that we were, perhaps, in one of the most landlocked regions of France, but I went with the flow. Soon we were all dancing arm in arm, my new friends Yvette and Matthieu encouraging me to join in the singing and dancing, then ‘Request for the English! C’mon Marie, one for l’Anglais’... 

I don’t know if you have ever heard Kashmir by Led Zeppelin played on the accordion, and in retrospect I think I committed blasphemy in asking for this 8:28 minute epic to be delivered in such a style but... the fog of plum brandy, brown beer and a pack of Gitanes clouded judgement somewhat. This slow song is, how should I say, much, much slower when played in the style requested, but it didn’t matter, it was all in the spirit of the occasion. We partied that Wednesday night away as the famed rain of the low countries beat down on the roof of the barge, and the bartender got ready to pour another round of liqueurs and small beers. 

We finished around 05:30, and I woke up feeling like death, with a tongue like sandpaper, ruddy cheeks and stinging, crusty eyes, but very happy. I had found out what it was all about to travel solo, meet new people, have new experiences  without the encumbrance of friends or family in tow. It felt liberating and showcased the friendliness and inclusiveness of my destination. 

In this seven-parter series, I intend to take you through each of the seven locations I visited on my journey: Nantes, Angers, Tours, Reims, Charleville-Mezieres, Metz, Nancy and Strasbourg and hopefully give you an insight into each of their unique characters. Perhaps it might even inspire a future visit or holiday. 

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Nantes rarely seems to get much of a look in on the tourism agenda, yet, having spent the first 24 hours of my trip in Brittany’s former capital, I must say that I highly recommend it to those looking for a short weekend break, or a destination from which to start a big adventure. It could be anything from dipping down the Atlantic coast or following the Loire as it contours through the French interior to a leisurely drive/cycle through Breton pastures. 

I will warn those culture vultures and Medieval maniacs that Nantes is not a ‘pretty’ place, rather a working one, built on fishing, shipbuilding and biscuits (LU’s Petit Ecoliers come hail from here). It bursts with affluence and the glitz and glamour someone might associate with a major city, yet it is only a minor player. 

The layout is stereotypical, grand boulevards cut through sections of non-linear streets, punctuated here and there by squares teeming with ornate churches, casual cafes and rip-off restaurants. 

Arriving at 9:00am on a Saturday, I found that the city was yet to awaken - it was deathly quiet as I pitched up at my cheap, but very cheerful hotel! Dumping my bags, I headed off to explore and grab a cup of coffee. The local square was characterised by a large fountain and families enjoying their baguettes avec buerre et confiture, the sky was ominous, the climate hazy. Having only had four hours sleep the night before, I was in need of something to perk me up. Alighting on a tabac I found my first opportunity. 

I have never really been a cigarette smoker and had fully intended to enjoy a cigar or two on this trip. However, my eyes alighted on a packet of Gitanes Filtre and I instantly knew that this would be my choice. No longer available in the UK the might Gitane conjure up a real sense of nostalgia, my father’s brand of choice, the smell took me back to the rugged landscape of the Lot-Garonne in the south west of France. 

I quickly found a cafe, “un Muscadet s’il vous plait”, I said with confidence. No one batted an eyelid, the fact that I was ordering a glass of wine at 10:30am seemed entirely normal. Anyway, it was my holiday, so restraint be damned! One wanted to say about the wine that it was ‘Heaven with Gitanes...’ (a Brideshead reference for my more literary followers). All I needed now was a stripy jumper, a plate of oysters and ecrevettes (large prawns) and the look would be complete. After all this procrastination, it was time for lunch.

The Gallette (buckwheat pancake) is synonymous with the area around Nantes and seemingly there was an establishment on each corner offering all manner of sweet and savoury fillings. there was a place the guide recommended, and yes, it was near my hotel. I pitched up, but it looked tacky and soulless compared to the one next to it. So it was that I took the road less travelled by, not for the first time in my life, and went to the smaller, rather less ‘bells and whistles’ establishment. 

As soon as I stepped over the threshold, I knew I wanted one of the famous Breton ciders, clear and flat, it’s served by the china bowl (boelee) and decanted from a pottery jug. It slipped down a treat as I tucked into a Gallette filled with onions, ham, cheese and of course, the obligatory egg, with an irresistibly runny yolk! This was quickly followed by a flambeed crepe topped with rum and raisins. It was a fine meal and a perfect introduction to my quest to sample as much regional cuisine as possible. 

The afternoon was spent pootling around town, stopping every now and then for a refresher. One place, Comedie de Vins, springs to mind where dry white wine played off against a plate of salty sardines and a bowl of saucisson as the sky became clear and the evening sun shone on my brow.

Here I take a moment to pause... as dinner deserves a short, stand alone post, given that it was one of the two big meals that I decided to indulge in on this bloody good adventure... 

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chose Le restaurant Baron-Lefèvre having read some very glittering reviews of the establishment on Trip Advisor and, having taken a look at the website, I was captivated by the modern, airy look of the restaurant. Plenty of exposed brickwork, steel railings, a playful green house on one wall and an open kitchen on the other, it looked inviting and contemporary. I then read their philosophy of staying true to local Nantaise cuisine, taking advantage home grown vegetables (for which the area is renowned), the abundance of the  sea and river, lamb reared on the salty marshes and time-honoured techniques of classical French cuisine. I made an advance booking. 

I arrived at Le restaurant Baron-Lefèvre and was ushered to my table for one. The nice thing about France is there were a couple of other lone diners and I was not made to feel unwelcome or a spectacle as so often happens in UK restaurants. Nor was I given a reduced level of service which also seems to typify dining solo. 

The menu was full of interesting preparations, a few classics, a couple twists on classics and some house originals. What I immediately noticed was the simplicity of the preparations and an emphasis on 2-3 core ingredients, proudly stamped with local provenance. There were plenty of mouth watering plates from a simple platter of langoustine (Dublin Bay Prawns) served on crushed ice to a traditional salt marsh rack of lamb with spring vegetables. However, there were a few things that leaped out at me. Here’s what I went for: 

White Asparagus with Sauce Mousseline 

Loire Valley Cremant (sparkling wine) 

White asparagus is not nearly as popular in the UK as it is on the continent where it takes precedence over the green variety. It has a subtler flavour, with a faint taste of oysters. Perfectly cooked, each part of the vegetables was tender and accompanied by a foaming, decadent sauce Mousseline, which is essentially a Hollandaise with the addition of whipped cream. Deliciously decadent, but judiciously portioned, it whetted my appetite for my main course. The dry, sparkling cremant was a light counterpoint which worked well. 

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Eels in a parsley and garlic butter sauce with Nantes spring vegetables

A Carafe of Muscadet

Eels and apprehension go hand in hand in the mind of the Englishman and I do think this a sad state of affairs, as there are few greater pleasures that the taste of eel flesh with its tender, oily flesh offset by a reassuringly organic earthiness found in river fish. The Loire abounds with Eels so this really is the place to eat it. This time, I had it prepared in a very classic style in a parsley, garlic and butter sauce surrounded by tiny new potatoes. It’s a winning combination and made even more special with a small cocotte of turned carrots, fresh peas and green asparagus tips. Wanting to drink the local tipple, I went for a carafe of Muscadet, where its fresh, slightly acidic taste worked well with rich food. A truly stunning dish. 

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Rum Baba with Tropical Fruits

Cafe Noir

Given the richness of the main course, I was tempted to pass on pudding until I saw that one of the specials for the evening was a traditionally made Rum Baba. Although a speciality of Lorraine (where I visit later in the trip) I could not resist - it’s one of my favourite puddings, a sure way to my heart. I was presented with a  light doughnut type pastry on a bed of pineapple carpaccio and raspberries, topped with a generous portion of Chantilly cream then liberally doused with white rum (which soaked into the pastry). With each mouthful I felt my stomach agreeably expanding! It’s highly alcoholic so there was no need for a digestif but I a well made black coffee cut through the richness! 

The total bill was €57, which, given the amount I had consumed was not to bad at all. It was a superb meal, if you are in Nantes, I thoroughly recommend making the time to visit. 

*

It was time to leave Nantes, so stopping off at a bakery on the way to the station, I grabbed a baguette filled with saucisson and cornichon and a black coffee to stiffen my resolve. Although the night before had not been too heavy, I had enjoyed a few nicely chilled beers and a couple of glasses of eau de vie in the buzzing city centre at the popular Circle Rouge. Being a solo traveller I had attracted a bit of attention with my trusty book in hand, ‘Ad Men and Bad Men’ and of course played the role of affable tourist answering a stream of questions on my English credentials. 

Arriving at the station I had a little time to kill, so I opted for the first of many customary train beers. As the rather sub-par Kronenbourg original (non of this 1664 rubbish) slipped down, I kept hearing the the opening bars of Shanice’s 1991 chart topper ‘Smile’ to a point where it became quite irritating. Of course it wasn’t the R ‘n’ B classic but a weird jingle for the constant stream of announcements from the team at SNCF. It was a sound that was going to characterise the trip as I experienced the French railway system. 

The lush countryside of the Loire Valley unfolded before me as we wended our way to Angers and I munched away on that delicious sandwich, full of cold butter, cured meat and piquant pickle. Before I knew it, the ancient city of Angers revealed itself and it was time to enjoy the second destination on the trip.

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Any fans of medieval history will be familiar with Angers, the seat of the legendary Geoffrey of Anjou and a wealthy dukedom. It houses a number of treasures, including a set of UNESCO tapestries of the Apocalypse and a great collection in their museum of fine arts. Furthermore, the city is beautifully preserved full of fine architecture so there is plenty to see and do. Unfortunately, it was a Sunday so the town was somewhat sleepy, but that didn’t stand in my way too much.

I dumped my bags at the ever reliable Ibis Hotel, a French institution and hit the town, but not before I had a discouraging exchange with the hotel’s concierge, who told me that the only place to eat in the whole place was the rather uninspiring hotel restaurant. I’m sure the food would not have been that bad, but I was not hear to dine in the bar at a chain hotel. I knew I could do a bit better, even when taking pot luck. 

It was time to explore the town, take in the cathedral and, have a glass or two of the local tipple, Rose d’Anjou. A strange wine, this beverage is not that popular in the UK and is a little bit rough and ready, however, it goes down quite agreeably on a piping hot day when chilled, especially with a bowl of finely sliced saucisson in a well-appointed square in the shadow of an ancient tower. 

An hour in the Fine Arts Museum was rewarding, especially for the small but impressive room of 16th and 17th Century Flemish old master paintings and some sombre but beautifully crafted 12th and 13th Century iconography. It was well worth the 6€ ticket and I recommend popping in if you find yourself in Angers.

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I become a habitual snacker when I go on holiday, making the most of the change in cuisine and, pottering around the quiet Sunday afternoon streets, I found the most amazing of fast food emporiums: The rotisserie. It was an emporium of meaty wonder and a rare place of activity as the sultry sun beat down. 

I entered and the enticing smell and site of chickens ‘turning and turning in a widening gyre’ or rather spits greeted me. But that was not all, there were trays of Rillons (confit pork belly), sausages, Morteau, roasted lamb, bowls of sauteed potatoes, pots of homemade mayonnaise, chopped hard boiled eggs... 

This was real fast food! Rather than the disgusting array of draft soft drinks, there were half bottle of wine and plastic glasses, cans of beer or freshly squeezed juice. We desperately need this in London for the masses. I went for a Rillons sandwich with a can of lager, it was unctuous and delicious, sticky, slightly gelatinous, slightly greasy, utterly deliciously. If sex was a sandwich, this would be it! 

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Dinner soon came around and despite the Rillons sandwich, a little aperitif of Rose de Anjou and a bowl of olives whetted my appetite for a simple plate in an equally simple restaurant. Yes Basserie de Gare (opposite the station as you might guess) was basic, but not unpleasant. It was a fine evening so I took a table outside. Scanning the menu and looking at the rather pedestrian offering I saw something that had long been on my bucket list of things to try, Andouilette. 

For American readers this is not to be confused with the Cajun Andouille which is a spicy pork sausage, this one is actually made of pigs intestines rolled into a cylinder and bound in more intestines. It has quite a high, offaly smell and an acquired, chewy texture. It’s not for the faint-hearted and is certainly an alien taste to the Anglo-American palate. I ordered with some trepidation, and the waiter was rather surprised, ‘really?’ he said. This made me more determined, ‘of course!’ I replied, ‘d’accord’ returned, he went away shaking his head, probably thinking I was made. I ordered a glass of Sancerre (another Loire Valley wine) and awaited my fate...

I must say the dish that arrived did look very inviting, a rustic white sausage with appealing grill marks, a pile of fries and some simply dressed lettuce arrived. I tucked in, and I must say that I don’t know why I was so apprehensive. Tasting the andouilette dispelled any negative illusions that had been communicated to me by others who had tried this delicacy. Yes there was a slight barnyard-y element to this, as one would expect of anything associated with the digestive tract, but it was not unpleasant. I love chewy, gelatinous textures and I consumed my meal with gusto, almost as soon as it had arrived, it was gone! 

I did not go for a pudding, I didn’t need it, instead I went back into town for a digestif, in particular a glass of Cointreau, another local tipple (it’s produced on the outskirts of Angers). Luckily, bars are open on Sunday evenings and so I was not disappointed. It was a great way to round off the day, accompanied by a half-pint or three of beer. Another perfect ending to another delightful day...

Before sunrise - Vienna part I

Until this point in my life I had only every heard of Vienna through the somber Ultravox chart topper and Richard Linklater’s masterly film ‘Before Sunrise starring a young Ethan Hawke and Juliette Delpy. If anything it is through the goggles of the latter that I liked to imagine this romantic city, full of history, baroque grandeur and mystique. I must say that from my recent trip I was not disappointed, although I had a little more cashola than the two protagonists of that film of fleeting ecstasy and youthful carefree. 

I arrived in the old city at 11:30 on a sunny September morning and proceeded to check into my hotel, located on the edge of Old Vienna. The Hotel Am Parkring was immediately welcoming and, after having grabbed a quick shower I hit the streets to find something to whet my growing appetite (I had neglected to partake of breakfast). Fortunately, for a comparative ‘rube’ a friend who resided in this fair city gave me a recommendation. Cafe Korb, located just off the main square Stephensplatz promised to offer the finest Wiener Schnitzel in the capital (that is flattened veal escalope, breadcrumbed and flashed fried). Served with a potato salad dressed in vinaigrette and accompanied by a crisp, hoppy beer I wolfed it down enjoying the deliciously crisp, savoury flavour of the meat against the sharp, clean flavour of the potato salad. It was a perfect introduction to the holiday and gave energy for an afternoon of getting to know the city. 

The centre of Vienna is characterised by an imposing, Gothic church. It’s an ornate building, not much to my liking but inside is a different matter. Some of the most amazing carvings can be seen in there, my favourite and one which is touted rightly by the guide books is a charming depiction of the cathedral’s sculptor which cheekily pokes out of one of the walls to give a more human face amongst the grim agonies of the saints getting martyred and the holier-than-thou saintliness of the blessed virgin. 

Of course going into a cathedral is thirsty work, especially when you have followed it up with the garish and flamboyant interior of Peterskirche just round the corner. In need of a refresher I found a very agreeable bar opposite this latter location. Le Cru is a lovely little bar come shop specialising in Champagne and Champagne only. Buying from both the big names and from the smaller, boutique supplier you can be sure of an original vintage and something a little different. It’s not the cheapest place with a flute costing between 8€ - 14€ depending on what you go for but, of the two I tried I must say that I couldn’t fault the quality or the temperature served.To make matters better, as I was ruminating on the culture I had taken in, I was served by a young lady who was rather reminiscent on Vanessa Paradis - another blessing indeed! 

Much like Rome, Vienna’s streets are a museum in themselves with amazing carvings, moulding and plasterwork arresting the visitor’s attention endlessly. It was then that I happened upon the inevitable cigar shop - damn how they seem to appear like oases to me in these far flung locations. It was then that I thought that I could take advantage of the fact that you could smoke in most establishments in the city, especially coffee shops. It them became my mission, after purchasing a very smooth, Partagas No. 3 I chanced upon a lovely little place on Franziskanerplatz, a pretty little square about three minutes down from the bustling centre. 

Kleines Cafe was full of locals enjoying an afternoon coffee, and, as is my custom, I like to try and blend in, steeping myself in the local culture (albeit with a massive cigar as opposed to the Lucky Strikes that everyone else seemed to be chain smoking). The outdoor seating was filled so I opted for a seat in the small front bar with vaulted ceilings, glass tables and worn leather banquettes. It was one of those places you could imagine the great turn-of-the-century intellectuals, philosophers, artists and poets crowding around, enjoying a glass of Gruner Veltliner (a popular Austrian white wine) debating the hot topics of the day and fermenting ideas. 

I opted for a strong black coffee and a glass of fire water, the local apricot schnapps and the perfect foil to the rich taste of the cigar. I positioned myself where I could see when the next table would become available outside and as soon as one freed, with the deft leap of a jungle cat, I pounce securing a spot to puff merrily away on my stogie as I enjoyed the afternoon sun. 

Pangs of hunger were not too far away and, after a very badly made Old Fashioned at Kruger’s American Bar, an experience saved only by a conversation with a charming Danish lady from the pharmaceutical industry, I returned to my hotel, showered, shaved and donned a jacket in readiness for dinner for one. 

There is something strangely enjoyable about dinner for one, especially in a foreign country and, being a Friday night I drew a lot of looks when I took an outside table at the very pretty little restaurant around the corner from my hotel called Zu Den Drei Hacken. The evening was balmy and although I had been making beer my drink of choice on that day, I decided to go with a chilled glass of Austrian riesling which dry and crisp. I started simply with some slice ham with horseradish on black bread which was tasty if a little unexciting but given that this was a traditional restaurant I wasn’t too surprised and anyway I was holding out for the piece de resistance the deep fried and breadcrumbed calf’s brain. 

When i told people after the event that I had sampled this delicacy, I was met with incredulity and warnings of CJD and BSE yet I would urge you to try one if you regard yourself as a foodie. So inspired by the great Stefan Gates I embarked on this organ adventure. When I ordered the dish I was imagining the dish as prepared by the Italians, chopped into delicate little morsels coated in a crispy shell. The waiter looked rather surprised as he took my order and asked if I would like it fried or roasted. I plumped for the former and wasn’t disappointed. With a flourish the waiter produced the dish, a whole brain on a plate, it was huge, the size of a small victoria sponge. I ordered an Austrian Chardonnay to go with it and it came with an acidic potato salad and some dressed frisee. 

Now, before you balk, brain is delicious and I urge you to give it a go. It has a soft, creamy texture which I can imagine would put people off but has a buttery, delicate flavour and is incredibly rich. The salads were a perfect foil cutting through the offal’s fattiness. My clean plate and full belly at the end of the meal was testament to how good it was but I found that I had not the room for pudding so I finished the meal with a glass of schnapps and a strong black coffee. 

I found a suitably appointed little bar for a nightcap and drowsily contemplated my next day. It seems that brains are a good narcotic as I slept like a log that night!

Thanks for reading. In a few days I will publish part two so stay tuned!

The January Man

A new year should be all about new resolutions and January is the time to start acting upon these, a time of remorse and self-pity where everyone feels compelled to tell everyone else that they are ‘detoxing’ and ‘being good’... until February! How sanctimonious!  That is why I have taken the opportunity this month to shun convention and carry on as normal... and what fun I have had. So while these ‘holier-than-thou’ carrot munchers quaff their wheatgrass smoothies and pop their cod liver oil tablets, I declare ‘boo-ya-sucks-to-you’ in this joyous post focusing on some of the hedonistic highlights of this month. 

Nothing is more comforting on a chill winters evening than a quiet pint of tepid bitter in an old fashioned boozer, and while such establishments are few and far between in South London, there are a small few that still offer a very convivial and warm setting for a civilised drink. The Alexandra (or the ‘Ally’ as it is known locally) is one such place, a large but friendly pub fifty metres from Wimbledon Station with a killer selection of bitter which includes my favourites: Young’s Special, Winter Warmer, Wandle and Junction as well as a few craft ales from the Meantime Stable along with the ubiquitous selections of commercial lager. Okay it might not be the gastropub that so many now crave but it served a lovely, frothing pint in a jolly atmosphere which is helped by great staff. 

For those looking to step back in time even further, I recommend a seedy, scummy little pub in the grand surroundings of Duke Street St. James, Chequers. A regular haunt of mine this pub is perfectly positioned being a five minute walk from Green Park Station, JJ Fox and Dukes Hotel’s legendary bar. Only last Friday you would have found me there under the searing blaze of their outdoor heaters indulging in a fine cigar, a NUB Sungrown. The stogie was full bodied and rich smoke with a thick plume of smoke wrapped and filled with some very fine Nicaraguan tobacco, well worth the £13.00 it cost. I coupled this with a very reliable pint of London Pride and a little nip of brandy to warm to cockles of me heart with, of course, some great banter. Inside it is somewhat dated with beer stained carpets, badly kept urinals, gin and tonic served in goblets and no room to swing a cat. Hear of ‘Tavern’ brand crisps? Neither have I and, after sampling them I cannot say i will be recommending them to anyone! 

Looking a little later into the evening London in January offers no end of entertainment, a veritable mix of iniquitous dens where one can dance and drink the nice away. Bart’s Bar is one such place, a ‘speakeasy’ on Sloane Avenue it is a room in an apartment complex decked out in weird objet d’art and hunting memorabilia. Potent cocktails and spirits on the rocks are the order of the day at this late-night watering hole as well as the presence of many uber-chic glamour pusses. Far too cool for me but sometime riff-raff like me are allowed to make an appearance.The same could not be said of Sugar Cane on Lavender Hill, a far from salubrious place, in which the smell of stale mojitos mingles uneasily with an atmosphere of passive violence and cracking knuckles, not the place for a drunken, shrinking violet like myself! After too too many badly made cocktail it was difficult to remember much of the decor, and indeed some of my more riotous and dangerous dance floor moves, but needless to say it was like a Tiki bar designed by someone devoid of all sense of taste! But then again, what do you expect of a place by three AM in the morning? 

Well that’s your lot for this week, but if you, like me, have decided to stick two fingers up at the broccoli brigade then please feel free to comment below and tell me about some of the places that you have been this January, I am always on the lookout for recommendations!