Unusual tastebuds

I've been in Pau for a week now, combining work with a little sightseeing and culinary discovery. Since I've been in Pau a few times already my sightseeing this time has been more casual and away from the usual suspects: I've been strolling around the town, finding little snippets here and there rather than looking for the big events. I've been a flâneur as the French would call it, and I can't think of a better word in English (something like "strolling" but that doesn't really capture it).

For tonight I've again made a reservation. This is not the usual way I do things, but there's a little place that's been on my list for a while and I am obviously not the only one since it's invariably full. I've done my reconnaissance and have been there on the Saturday I arrived. I found the place and went in to find two guys in what looked like a wine shop with a few tables. They were obviously preparing for the evening, slicing plates of saucisson and cheese. My kind of place I immediately thought. When I asked about the possibility of a table for one they were at first apologetic: "We're full", they said. "Any day of the week is fine", I replied, "I'm only here for the week", lowering my self esteem and preparing to play the 'I've come all the way from Australia' card. They exchanged glances, "How about Friday?" "Perfect", I replied, "It's my last night", without even having to stretch the truth.

I arrive to find the place filling up already. But I spot an empty table set for one and know it's mine for the night. None of this 'you have to leave by nine o'clock' (so we can squeeze in a second sitting and make more money) nonsense here. A table in a restaurant is yours for the evening. I am impressed; the restaurant is indeed full and I am the only lone diner, occupying a table that could seat two. I promise myself to eat and drink enough to make it worth their while.

Les Papilles Insolites

The two guys who run the place just exude enjoyment of what they are doing. I am greeted by name as if I'm someone they are welcoming back (which of course is technically true since I was here to book my table, but is very impressive nonetheless). These guys are genuinely friendly and interested.

There's plenty in this place to keep me occupied while I'm not eating - apart from the the other diners of course. All around there are various knick-knacks displayed; it's a rather eclectic collection including a full-sized traffic light, some old radios, various wine paraphernalia, and of course, wine. There's a glass panel set into the floor in the middle of the room, through which you can see the cellar below. The walls are covered in shelves with neat rows of wines, arranged by region. Each bottle has a large, hand-written number on it, and throughout the night I am distracted by trying to work out whether these are the prices (the numbers would make sense) or whether it's simply a cataloguing system. There's a cast iron stand with a wooden platform on it. On this is a large assortment of wine bottles. I discover a bit later that the stand includes a mechanical arrangement connected to a pedal, which is connected through linkages to the platform, which can in fact pivot. It might have been some sort of old sorting table? The pedal is blocked by a piece of wood stuck underneath it, and during the evening I am distracted by thoughts of the consequences of that piece of wood coming unstuck and someone inadvertently pushing that pedal. Images of bottles of wine coming crashing to the ground appear. Another thing which fascinates me is the bottle that the water is served in. It's an old (English) lemonade bottle - I've heard of these but never actually seen one: the stopper is a glass marble, which is captive inside the bottle. There's even some clever moulding of the interior of the bottle to not only trap the marble, but also - as long as you hold the bottle a certain way - to prevent the marble from tolling back into the throat of the bottle and blocking the flow as you pour. When the bottle is full of fizzy drink the pressure inside presumably pushes the marble up, sealing the bottle. An engineering marvel. Later research shows it to be known as the "Codd bottle", named after its inventor, an engineer - of course - by the name of Hiram Codd, from Suffolk.

This is a wine bar that serves food, which seems to me putting the priorities the right way around.

The Codd bottle
(note the captive glass marble)

One of the two guys comes over to ask if I'd like a drink. I tell him I'll have wines (of course).  Since I am not familiar with their wines, and as there's no wine list anyway, I decide to leave the choice of wine up to him. I give him an idea of the sort of wine I like and wait and see what he comes up with. A bit later he returns with a glass of serious-looking red. He explains, almost apologetically, that it's a Côtes-du-Rhône - not from this region. This is a blend of Syrah (Shiraz, if you're Australian) and Grenache, and he's spot on - I like Côtes-du-Rhône, and this is a good one.

We're off to a good start, and it only gets better.

The second guy, who is handling the food and customer interaction part of the show, comes over with the blackboard menu. He knows I'm not French, and so he asks if I need any help or explanation with the menu. I tell him it's the handwriting I'm having more trouble with ("Poulpe" looks a bit like "Poulet" - and octopus and chicken are definitely different, so I want to know which it is!) He's good at describing and suggesting and the meal for the evening is soon established.

I'm starting with the Duo de cèpes, sablé parmesan noisette, granités persil. This arrives and is a combination of a cooked and uncooked mushroom, placed on a parmesan-flavoured biscuit, contrasted with a parsely sorbet. It's a rather unusual combination that actually works remarkably well. I'm sold, and am already looking forward to the main course now.

Joues de cochon confites, anciens légumes et wasabi is my choice for the main course. The wasabi initially put me off choosing this, since although I like the taste of wasabi, I normally find it too sharp and overpowering, particularly with a nice wine. Actually, I would normally never have chosen pork cheeks either, but hey - we're experimenting tonight and when I suggest to the waiter that I might have this but am undecided, he immediately says "ah, that dish is really popular, everyone loves it - you'll really enjoy it". Normally when a waiter starts trying to sell a dish at the table like this my suspicions are immediately raised. I'm far too cynical to believe that they really mean it. I mean, how many times have you heard something like that, only to be told - when you decide on another dish - that you'll really love that one too and that it's an excellent choice? Like they are going to tell you not to order something because it's really bad? But somehow this guy is simply too genuine and I believe him.


The wine half of the couple comes back to my table, since he's noticed that my glass is empty. "Something else?" he asks. Of course! This time he comes back with a wine that's obviously a bit lighter, which surprises me (since I've started with a serious wine, it may have been better the other way around). This time it's a Cahors, something more local. It's very unusual and is almost - but not really - pétillant. Very different and I'm not sure I like it or not. As I'm working on discovering my wine, I realise who the wine guy reminds me of. In fact, if he was wearing a cowboy hat and had a roll-your-own in his mouth it would definitely be him. With his stovepipe pants (how does he get them off?), his sideburns, his slicked back hair - it's him. He is Lucky Luke, the cartoon character created by Belgian cartoonist Maurice De Bevere. I'm guessing that if he wasn't inside his restaurant he probably would have the cigarette too.

Trilogy of Cheeks

The pork cheeks arrive and there are three on the plate; I suppose that they come from more than one pig, unless pigs are asymmetrical or these are not whole cheeks (I've never had pork cheeks, so I am easily convinced). The plate is arranged with the three cheeks in a line, interleaved with vegetables and with a swirl of what I first assume is potato puree, but which is actually the wasabi. It is absolutely wonderful.

The waiter comes over an asks me if the meal is OK. "The wasabi isn't too strong?" More like the opposite, I have to admit - I can barely taste that it's wasabi, which isn't in fact a bad thing. But I'm bemused that he could think that it could be too strong. Then I remember that I'm in France, the land of aversion to spicy food. Have you ever been to an Indian restaurant in France? It's a disappointment. The food is pleasant enough, but nothing is even remotely spicy!

The conversations at the tables around me are becoming more animated as the evening progresses and more wine is served. I remember my earlier comment about French restaurants being quiet, but this is a wine bar after all.

It's time for dessert. I am thinking; cheese or dessert? "Have them both", he suggests. "But the cheese we didn't make ourselves so we can't take any credit." I like this statement, so I am sold on the dessert, and I choose the Biscuit moelleux guanaja/tonka, potimarron/orange. I struggle with this choice, since I keep wondering what Tonka Trucks have to do in my dessert. I haven't had a full explanation of this one, and it's only when I do some later research that I discover that Tonka is a type of aromatic bean (which has - another thing to add to my "only in America" list - apparently been declared illegal in the USA). The Guanaja is actually a type of chocolate (sourced from the island of Guanaja I suppose). Whatever the case, the dessert is a big success. It's sublime. A sort of chocolat mi-cuit (fondant) with an orange- (and pumpkin!) flavoured sauce, but which is much better than that description would have you believe. That no doubt explains the exotic description, which I have to admit is more appropriate.

People at adjacent tables are starting to talk to each other. There's even some comparison of dishes going on and one group is asking advice from the next table, who are all trying to "sell" their choice. Not something you'd normally find in a French restaurant. But it's that sort of place.

It's quarter past ten. I've been here for more than two hours and it hasn't seemed that long at all. I am just having my coffee. I can't help thinking again of the article I was reading in Sydney that was bemoaning the fact that more and more restaurants there were starting to limit the time you could spend over dinner so that they could have two sittings in an evening. Following the American model. Sometimes it really does seem that Australia likes to copy America's bad habits. I am glad that in France when you book a table it's still yours for the whole evening. 

But now it's time to go. I still have to pack, and I'm getting up at 04:30 in the morning to catch the first flight out of Pau. I'm very glad I made this booking and didn't decide to have a sensible early night, and I walk back to the hotel very pleased with my choice for my final meal in Pau.