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.

Familiar Territory

Le Lavoir just doesn't want me to eat there. Tonight was my final attempt since tomorrow I have already made a reservation at another place. After a brisk and cold walk I have again found myself facing a closed door, with no indication of whether this was 'exceptional' or normal. Time to admit defeat and move on.

Bondi Beach in Pau, France - familiar territory, sort of

I'd made a small detour on the way to Le Lavoir to check whether another restaurant I knew from a previous visit was open. Perhaps I had secretly known that Le Lavoir would be closed. Whether or not I had had some sort of premonition, I now head back the way I have come, up a narrow flight of stairs to Gusto. I remember the stairway to be rather dark and foreboding but now it's brightly lit and the steps are painted with vibrant colours. I had discovered Gusto by chance on my first visit to Pau and this will now be my third visit. The first time, I had been exploring the lower part of the old town one evening and happened to glance into a small passageway off a dark stairway to see an unexpected flood of light and colour, with people sitting at tables having dinner. I had no plans for that night so I decided to go in. It turned out to be a great place, serving an Italian inspired cuisine, and doing it very well.

It's nice to have a few places in towns around the world that you know and can come back to. Of course inevitably some of them disappear or change (usually not for the better) but you discover new ones too.

The Tiramisu (not your average Tiramisu!)

Gusto is exactly the same as it was almost year ago. Even the menu is the same, so I already know what I'll have for the entrée and dessert. The bizarre - sounding foie gras crème brûlée and the tiramisu are both specialities and are very good. That leaves just the main course and the wine. I choose a vegetable Lasagne and a glass of red wine, which is an acceptable if unremarkable local variety. On my first visit here I made the mistake of ordering a half bottle. When it arrive I discovered that all the 'half' bottles

in this restaurant are actually half a litre and not the more usual half of a normal bottle. I like my wine, but half a litre is pushing the friendship a little far. This time I know the rules so go for wine by the glass.

Restaurant Gusto (picture from their website)
(you can imagine me sitting at the table next to the pillar)

I have a table in the middle of the restaurant; not ideal, but one of the drawbacks of solitary dining: you generally end up in one of the less desirable positions. Still, I have a pretty good view of things and there's enough to keep me occupied. The place is almost empty when I arrive around 20:15 but it quickly fills and a half hour later it is full and bustling. Again I can't fail but to be impressed by the ability of the two wait staff to handle the whole place, while still providing attentive service.

They are even not flustered by the arrival of a party of five (they have obviously booked as they head straight for the one remaining unoccupied table, which is set for five) who come with two enormous prams each containing what looks like newborn babies. The prams are the type you see young mothers jogging behind, clearing a swathe in front of them. They're more like convertible sports utility vehicles than baby transporters. They barely fit on a footpath - certainly they don't leave room for anyone else to get by - and they only just squeeze through the door into the restaurant. After a complicated series of multipoint turns followed by partial disassembly, the prams are finally parked. Luckily, the babies take all this in their stride and remain remarkably quiet throughout the process.

Colourful Contradictions

Later in the evening I notice that the two women in the party are chatting together over wines. The three men are at the other side of the table, cooing over the babies, which are being nursed by two of the men. The role reversal is complete. I wonder who will be driving the prams home.

On the wall I am facing there are several quotations relating to food and dining, written by hand on a large blackboard. In the restaurant last night there was something similar. One of the quotes is even the same; perhaps there are only a few people who've said memorable things about food, or this is a particularly good one. It's certainly by a well-known Frenchman, even if he's not particularly known for his food. 

Cuisiner suppose une tête légère, un esprit généreux et un coeur large: Paul Gauguin.

The Chatterboxes

After two nights of disappointment in my quest for a nice dinner, I was determined to get it right. And I'd planned for this one, since I had taken the, for me, unusual step of booking a restaurant for tonight. I'd spotted an interesting candidate in my earlier searches, and when I happened past the place several days ago it looked like it would be a nice place. So I went in and made a booking.

I'm happy to report that I had a memorably good meal, so it was third time lucky for me.

The Jurançon sec was a revelation

Le Pipelettes - Restaurant Bistronomique is a tiny little place run by two girls: one takes care of front of house and the other works in the (open) kitchen at the back of the restaurant. It's almost more like dining at someone's house than at a restaurant, and I liked that. With ten customers the restaurant was about two-thirds full. The decoration is minimalist and I couldn't help finding the "chattering" decoration on the windows a bit tacky (I got to look at it during the entire meal, and it distracted me by forcing me to decipher what it said in mirror image since I was looking at it from the wrong side of the glass). It was also a little cool in the restaurant and with no visible heating, I wonder what it would be like in winter. During the evening, I couldn't help noticing that apart from the fact that I was the only single diner (not unusual) I was also the youngest person eating there. But the waitress and chef made up for that by making me feel quite old in comparison.

The waitress was easygoing and cheerful, had a stud through her lip, and looked like she was barely out of her teens. She did a terrific job looking after everyone throughout the evening. The chef looked no older than her partner and also did a great job: everything was nicely prepared, plated, and of course most importantly, was delicious. Even if it wasn't all something I might have chosen. You see, this little place had no menu; you ate what you were served. But the good part was that it was a "degustation" consisting of six courses. And not tiny little morsels on enormous plates like you might see in some appallingly expensive places; passing bite-sized snacks off as "courses". Not here. In fact this was almost too much in the other direction; we're talking six courses, each pretty much the size of a normal restaurant course.

Velouté de cresson avec crème à l'ancienne started the food service. I'd already begun the evening with a glass of Jurançon Sec, which was something new to me. I'd always thought Jurançon was (only) a sweet wine, but the dry variety was a revelation - particularly to me as an almost wine-is-red-by-definition person. This was a complex and interesting wine, with a rich almost orange colour. The soup, which had a dollop of crème fraiche infused with moutarde de Dijon (I think) in it, was served in a glass and it was good. If I'm going to be picky, I would say that the spoon it was served with was too big for the glass. Actually, while we're talking about cutlery, this is probably my other gripe about the place; the cutlery wasn't changed between courses, meaning that some flavours of the previous course risked finding their way into the subsequent course. I did what any good French person would do and wiped my cutlery on my bread (which of course I then ate).

I am forced to admit - and this blog contains the evidence - that I broke another of my restaurant rules: don't take pictures of your food. But I was very discrete about it and somehow it seemed like the right thing to do here.

Souvenirs of the Camino de Compostela

Coquilles Saint Jacques followed. These arrived in their shells - of course - and instantly took me back to my three-week bike ride on the Camino de Compostela, the subject of most of the posts in this blog so far. An interesting connection. Not at all something I'd normally select on a menu, and so all the more interesting. And in fact, rather nice it was too.

Filet de Merlu

Filet de Merlu, served on a risotto of white and black rice as well as linseeds followed, and I was impressed. Again, not something I'd be ordering, but here I was enjoying it.

Daube de Boeuf was prettily served in a miniature cast iron pot and it was delicious. Even better, I accompanied it with a very pleasant Syrah. Not a big wine to be sure, but interesting just the same.

Daube de boeuf

After four courses it was time for desserts (plural, since the final two courses were both desserts). The penultimate course was a little tarte aux pommes which has an incredibly delicate pastry base and was nicely caramelised.

A meal like this would not be complete without some chocolate, and the final course was a gâteau au chocolat façon brownie, which was better than it might sound: moist, dense, rich, yet delicate.

At the end of the meal - something like two hours after I'd started - I had a chat with the the girls, complimenting them on the evening. There was the usual "where are you from" discussion, and they were suitably impressed to discover that I'd flown in from Australia just to eat at their restaurant. The restaurant had been going for just on nine months "it's like a baby" and the girls were clearly still very enthusiastic about the whole thing. I wondered if I should ask if they were the "chatterboxes" behind the name of the restaurant, but thought better of it.

I walked back through the cold, drizzly streets of Pau content and thinking that perhaps I might have eaten just a little more than I should have, but not regretting it for a second.

Another day another restaurant

The lower display lists all the rules and regulations
governing your use of the funicular railway

Spending a week on a business trip involves nightly forays into town to have dinner. On the one hand it's an appealing concept, being able to eat out each night at a different restaurant, discovering something new each time. On the other hand there's always the downside of a bad restaurant experience and the sense of lost opportunity that brings. Still, nothing ventured, nothing gained.

I head out into the night, a short list of potential restaurant candidates in my head. I've been going through restaurant reviews online, and while walking out from the hotel I try to remember how I would have done this in the pre-Internet days. The good old Michelin Red Guide would have played a role of course, assuming I'd had brought one along on the trip. We used to put our dining faith in the hands of one organisation and its reviewers; now we try to sort out the serious from the trolls and scammers on the Internet instead. Which results in a better dinner I wonder?

Although I have another restaurant in mind, as I walk past the Continental restaurant I am suddenly struck by a lack of enthusiasm for another lengthy walk through the back streets of Pau, and I manage to convince myself to break one of my restaurant rules (Never eat in a hotel restaurant unless you're staying in a place where the alternatives are even worse). The Continental restaurant is next door to the Continental Hotel, and although it's not officially part of the hotel, it seems to have a very incestuous relationship with it. I go inside anyway, and am now committed, despite the rather bleak vista of the large and almost empty space inside.

There's a table of three near the door, strategically placed by the window. This, I know from experience, is standard restaurant strategy: seat your first guests by the window, so it looks to the casual passer-by that the restaurant has lots of people inside, and therefore must be a popular and good place - disguising the fact that the place is actually almost empty. I get allocated the next table along, also at the window, helping to perpetuate the illusion that this is a popular place.

The already-seated party turns out to be an American family; mum, dad and daughter. During the course of my meal, I don't hear the father at all and the mother only every so often. But the daughter makes up for that, talking the entire evening. Americans - and I generalise of course - tend to stand out in French restaurants. There's many reasons for this, but one of them, amply demonstrated tonight, is that they talk loudly and a lot. Go into a French restaurant and it's a generally quiet place with muted conversations happening in the private space of each table. Go into an American restaurant and you're instantly confronted  by loud voices from all directions; nothing quiet or private about any of it.

As the evening progresses, more people arrive. At one stage there are five tables with lone diners, which sets the tone of the sort of place this is: these are business travellers staying at the hotel.

I order a half bottle of wine, and am treated to quite a show when it arrives. Two waiters appear and one of them - he turns out to be the manager - turns the serving of the wine into a training session for the other waiter, explaining how to remove the foil, put the corkscrew into the cork "never turn it too far, and be careful with half bottles because the corks are shorter" and so forth. I'm stunned. It's one thing to do some on-the-job training, but right here on my table without even so much as a word of explanation or perhaps confirmation that I don't mind? Maybe I'm being snooty, but there are ways of doing things, and this isn't one of them. Right at the end of this impromptu show, the manager explains, rather redundantly, that the jeune homme was a trainee. Really?

Actually, the manager looks rather like a trainee himself, with his white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar (with a tie), his shirt-tails half out, and a general scruffiness about him. He somehow epitomises the restaurant: it has pretensions of being a somewhat upmarket, slightly formal place with nice tablecloths, strategic plants, good glasses, wait staff dressed formally and so on. Yet when you scratch the surface ever so slightly, a casual scruffiness appears. And we haven't even talked about the food, which although it was perfectly acceptable, was in no way memorable.

The red wine is Domaine Guilhemas,  Béarn AOC, by Pascal Lapetre  vignerons de père en fils depuis 1909 (4 generations). Just a little reminder that you're in France, where they've been making wine quite a long time. It is good.

The trainee waiter comes and clears the main course. Without any preamble he begins to recite the dessert choices: moelleux au chocolat, gâteau basque, glaces et ... je ne sais plus (I don't remember any more). The best part is he does the whole thing without the slightest trace of emotion, feeling, or showing that he's actually interested. Even the "I don't remember" at the end of his list is simply included as if it were another dessert in the list, rather than an admission of any kind. Somehow, this nicely finishes off the evening for me; it couldn't have been better if it had been scripted.

The following evening I am out on the road again, on my nightly voyage of culinary discovery. It's cold tonight, and there's drizzle about. I have a destination tonight: Le Lavoir, which is a restaurant I've been wanting to try since my previous visit to Pau. Last time I was here, each time I went to try the restaurant it was closed either "exceptionally", or because I was there on one of the days it was normally closed. This time I'm prepared and I've checked the restaurant's hours. Tonight is the first night of the week that it's open. I walk briskly (it's cold) straight to the destination, which is about a kilometre from my hotel and arrive to find that, yet again, the restaurant is refusing to be nice to me: it's closed again!

So I go to Chez Canaille, the place next door, which is my backup plan. It's also a place on my list, although quite a bit further down.

It looks quite nice inside, and there's a table with a large group already inside (strategically placed so it can be seen from the street, of course). There's nobody else in the restaurant. The waiter is friendly and things are looking good. Then I scan the menu, which is quite elaborate, and begin to realise that there's nothing on it that actually has a lot of appeal to me. I'm not looking for pigeons, wild black boar, scallops, or sweetbreads. But there's hope, because this restaurant prides itself on its specially aged beef (origin controlled...)

I notice that the large group is speaking English and with dismay realise that it's a table of oilfield people. This is not a good sign.

I choose the Faux Filet since the other cuts are either huge (600g of beef on your plate?) or meant to share with 2 people. The meal arrives amazingly quickly, arousing my suspicion from the start. How could they have had the time to prepare and cook it?  I'd ordered saignante (rare) but this was pushing the boundaries. The meat looked the part, but it was barely even warm. A beautiful tender meat completely ruined by being full of sinew and other, to me, inedible bits. I imagine that had it been cooked more it would have been tough, so the chef - I am perhaps using the term lightly - has decided to cut his losses and not risk actually cooking it very much. The accompanying thick-cut chips were floury and old. The salad was tired with lots of bruising and brown bits.  It looks like the plate (actually a wooden cutting board) had been sitting there with chips and salad for some time. Pass the meat on the grill for a couple of minutes, plonk it on the board with some coarse salt and then serve.

I decide not to risk dessert (I had read bad reviews about the desserts, and the meal had certainly not impressed) and leave disappointed and unfulfilled. Two strikes in a row in my restaurant evenings.

Sunday lunch in Pau

There's a knock on the door. It's the 'femme de chambre' wanting to do the room.  I start thinking about what an interesting expression femme de chambre is, but then realise than in English there is the equivalent (and equally archaic) word 'chambermaid' so that train of thought goes back to the station. It's just as well she has arrived or I would possibly have spent the whole day messing around on the computer. So I take the opportunity and leave the hotel to go for a walk. I head for a nearby park, one of the few green bits on my map. The hotel isn't far from the centre of town but it's on the edge and in a pretty seedy area. I've stayed here a couple times before and know that at night in order to get into town (and dinner) I have to negotiate a path past the drunks and tramps who congregate outside a bar near the hotel.

The park is a bit like a fairy tale, but one with a dark storyline. There are areas of trees with low-hanging branches over dark leaf-strewn paths. I discover what turns out to be a holly tree, complete with red berries. I realise that I had no idea that holly grew as such a large tree. The holly somehow completes the fairy-tale image for me. I half expect to come across a little girl in a red cape carrying a basket in the woods ahead.

The promenade along the cliff looking out to the Pyrenees has a Sunday arts and crafts fair; the usual wood carvings, sculptures made from recycled materials, necklaces made from string and beads and paintings that mostly look like they were made by the dozen, which I suppose they were. You never seem to see anyone buying anything. The sellers are sitting in their little stalls, knitting, reading, having lunch - but not selling.

I end up near the castle, which is still bring restored. It doesn't look like a lot of progress has been made since I was here almost a year ago. No sense in rushing these things I suppose.

A strategic lettuce leaf completes the meal

Passing through the square near the castle, with its restaurants with tables set up outside, I decide to have lunch today. After all, I might not make it to dinner since I know jet-lag is going to set in around that time. Normally these sort of restaurants don't have a lot of appeal, since they invariably seem to aim rather low in terms of quality, relying on a tourist trade that doesn't depend on repeat business. But I see quite a few groups that look like they might be local, so against my usual (and it turns out, better) judgement, I sit myself down at one of the places. The blackboard menu announces the day's special: Souris d'Agneau au miel et au thym, avec garniture du chef. The 'garniture du chef' turns out to be chips and a single lettuce leaf. Clearly the chef is lacking a little imagination. The lamb isn't bad, but it's not at all inspiring either. Plus it takes forever to arrive, which is pretty impressive, considering it's the special of the day and it's a dish that is cooked well beforehand. Perhaps it took them a long time to select which single lettuce leaf to add to my plate.

Still, the Madiran by the glass arrives quickly, and isn't actually at all bad. While I'm waiting for my food there's plenty of opportunities for people watching in a place like this.

An impossibly cool (at least, I suspect he thinks so) guy in a suit and sunglasses walks by. Or rather, he struts by. He's the sort of person who'd be wearing those sunglasses inside as well. A little later, Ronnie Corbett (half of the Two Ronnies) walks by. I know it couldn't have been the Ronnie Corbett, but it was definitely his twin. At the restaurant across the street, a woman who looks nowhere old enough to be the mother of the girl she's with - but probably is - is changing tables to take the one vacated by someone there. The waiter arrives and she explains that her daughter wasn't happy at the other table; the waiter obligingly shuffles tableware between the tables to accommodate her. A bit later the daughter decides she wants to sit on the other side of the table, meaning she's pretty much sitting on the street now. The mother is negotiating with her daughter about this, but clearly losing the argument. Not long after the daughter decides she's had enough of the restaurant and they leave. Clearly it's the daughter who is running this relationship.

At the table next to me is a guy in his early sixties with his daughter. Or is it his girlfriend? It's hard to tell, and although I do my best, by the end of the meal I still haven't worked it out. It keeps me occupied though. Surprisingly he asks me if I mind him smoking - an unheard of question in France, particularly when sitting outside. Even more amazingly, he doesn't light up when it's obvious that I do mind. I am impressed.

The dessert I've ordered finally arrives and proves itself to be definitely not worth the wait. I remind myself that this is the reason why I don't eat at places like this and tell myself "I told you so". Maybe next time I'll pay more attention.

Fragile eggs on the road

Different country different restaurant

A bit more than a day later and I am in a different continent and in a different  restaurant. And everything's in a different language.

But it's much more than that. The place I have chosen for a quick dinner is relatively small; there's about 30 people inside. There's another fifteen or so outside, even though it's November and we're in the northern hemisphere. Actually, it's unusually mild for this time of year in France. But here people sit outside even in the middle of winter - as soon as the sun makes an appearance you'll find people outside. Of course the fact that it's night-time now makes that logic less relevant, but you get the idea.

To serve forty or so people there's one waitress and two cooks. It never ceases to impress me how here in France a single waiter will manage an entire restaurant. That's not something you will see in Australia, and it sort of goes against the general labour market trend in the two countries. Restaurants and the job of the wait staff are clearly an exception. Actually in a sense in this particular restaurant there are one and a half people serving since the waitress is heavily pregnant. Her enormous tummy is bulging over her pants and other parts of her are also straining at their containing garments. She's already not a small person, and now is doing an amazing job getting around the tiny restaurant. 

The two cooks look like they've been working here for decades and look like caricatures: if you saw these characters in a movie you'd say they were overdone. The only thing missing is a half-smoked 'Gitanes' between their lips. One is behind the counter in the tiny open kitchen putting large handfuls of spaghetti into an enormous pot of boiling water and plating up veal escalopes and chips while the other is manning the pizza oven, which is just behind the front door so he's essentially standing in the doorway as he makes his pizza bases.

Although the restaurant is called "L'Entrecôte" - a pretty archetypal name for a French restaurant where you'd expect to find steak-frites, crème brûlée and mousse au chocolat on the menu, this turns out to be a pizza and pasta restaurant. Not quite Italian, since both the pizza and the pasta have a decidedly French influence, but nevertheless it's Italian-inspired.

I spot some flies circling in the open kitchen and am glad I cannot see further around the corner where presumably the salads are being made and the dishes are being washed.

Most of the people in the restaurant are seated at two long tables. When I arrive the waitress points me to a still-empty space between two groups and I squeeze between the rows until I get to the indicated spot. It's almost convivial, although I detect a certain coldness in the returned "bonjours" of my neighbours who clearly were not expecting someone to join their party. I am in between a group of four (mum dad and daughter with boyfriend) on  my left and a young couple on my right. I am facing the kitchen, and together with the two groups on either side of me and the goings-on in the kitchen I have plenty to keep me occupied during the meal.

There are too many notable things happening around me to be able to remember them all, but here are a couple of highlights:

The young guy on my right has ordered a steak with a creamy pepper sauce. When it arrives, his first comment is "where's the mustard?" Even his young girlfriend questions this: "You want mustard with a pepper sauce?". He insists and calls the (rather busy) waitress over to bring him his mustard. "I can't eat steak without mustard". 

At the end of the meal the family on my left asks for the bill. The boyfriend rushes to grab is from the waitress before the father can get it - clearly this is going to be his treat! There's a mock argument about who's going to pay for the sake of appearances and he triumphantly pays the bill.

When I finally leave, the restaurant is still completely full inside (the family on my left has been replaced by another party of four). When I get outside I discover that the tables there are also almost all occupied - and it's still just the one waitress! Admittedly, someone from the back (the dishwasher?) has appeared and is helping to re-set the tables, but the food service is still being done by that same waitress, who even manages to say goodbye and thank me for dining with them. I leave impressed.

Restaurant voyeur

At the airport again. Thank goodness I am flying business class and so get to benefit from the lounge. And there goes my train of thought. Derailed by the expression I have just used: 'thank goodness'. Like so many expressions we use without thinking about them, if you make the mistake of actually thinking about it, you begin to realise how strange they really are and you start to question where they came from. In this case it seems to be a form of 'thank God' without the religious overtones.

Meanwhile there's a lot happening around me.

To my left there's a large woman. Actually, when she stands to go to the buffet, I realise she's not just large, she's huge. She walks with the aid of a walking stick; by the way she moves I guess she's had hip surgery, or perhaps she needs hip surgery. One thing she does need is to lose weight. She's at the buffet and with the help of one of the staff she is loading up with pretty much everything on display. Back at the table a waiter is offering wines. He returns with several bottles and she tries them all before settling on one.

A bit later the waiter is back, this time with not one, but two main courses and a large bowl of salad. She sends the salad back. What seems like moments later, the waiter is back again, this time with desserts (plural). I can't help but see the Monty Python sketch of the exploding fat man: "just one more little wafer" prompts the waiter before the fat man explodes from overeating.

To my right is another woman. She's slim. Although she's almost certainly quite a bit older than the woman on my left she looks much younger. She orders the smoked salmon and a coffee. A decaf soy. A healthy choice perhaps, but also a double oxymoron of sorts. Firstly there's the contradiction of coffee without the caffeine. But she's added insult to injury - I feel my thought train derailing as I write this - by asking for milk that isn't milk.

The waiters are lovely. One even remembers me from my previous visit, or at least is very sweet about pretending to. They are male and Filipino and while it would be rather presumptuous of me to say that they are gay, they're certainly camp. They do a great job, as does the chef: good food in an airport lounge is not what you would expect, but the Etihad lounge is very impressive.

Two tables across there's another woman. She acts like she's used to being waited on and makes no attempt to be nice to the waiter. He takes it in his stride. A bit later  the woman is joined by a friend. A colleague perhaps? The two women discuss their respective challenges in getting to the airport on time. It seems like it's a contest. "I was still packing when the driver arrived" says the second woman, effectively winning the contest. She orders and makes even less attempt to acknowledge the waiter as a human being than her friend did.

There's an older couple who look like they don't do this sort of thing very often. They both have drinks; his looks like it might be a gin and tonic and it looks like it's not his first. I don't see any food on their table. She looks like she is resigned to having to deal with him; no doubt she has years of experience.