Drive On, Dionysus

Now tell the truth.  Would you go chasing all over the countryside for these two guys?   What’s that you say, either one of them?  Well then, we’re in synch.

‘Twas a dark and stormy day when we embarked on our last road trip in this corner of France.  We were in search of the black wine of Cahors, and weren’t going to be deterred by a little rain and thunder.

We crossed over the Lot river, leaving behind the Tarn et Garonne that’s been our home these past five weeks, and entering into a wild and wine-soaked part of France.

The harvest is over here, and the vines are turning.  Cahors wines are made of mainly Malbec, known locally as Auxerrois or Côt, plus a little merlot and tannat.  You probably think of Malbec as a wine from Argentina, but they had it here first.  In fact, the Romans appreciated it, trade wars have simmered over it, it was exported to Russia in the time of Peter the Great, and it tastes not a whit like its South American cousin.

We headed first to Clos de Gamot in Prayssac, hoping to buy some of the wine that accompanied this meal. After tasting through 5 years of their excellent wines, I was very happy to come away with a few cases of their delicious 2002 that’s 100% Malbec, although not actually black.  I was also happy to see that an ancient and venerable wine house

retains a proper sense of perspective.  The poster rhymes nicely in French, although the translation doesn’t:  one glass opens the way, three glasses bring joy.  Their wines made me really wish I had a cellar, since they’ll only keep getting better over the next 10-15 years.  However, the 2002 is ready to start drinking now, and that’s just what I plan to do.

The wines I wanted to compare with the Clos de Gamot were wines from Chateau de Gaudou in Vire-sur-Lot, also hundreds of years old and widely venerated.  I was interested because this domaine is represented in the US by our friend Michel Abood of Vinotas Selections, and if Michel likes it, I’m pretty sure to like it too.  These wines are made in a more modern style and are ready to drink earlier, but are still very carefully structured and complex.  And they’re more nearly black, but not inky like I was expecting.  I guess that actually black wine doesn’t exist anymore, with modern winemaking techniques.  Or maybe it was just poetry all along.

Fabrice Durou took the time to let me taste through a large selection of their wines

while his Dad Jean Durou undertook the less glamorous task of repairing the bottle labeling machine.

The low point of the day came when I found out that my two favorite wines weren’t available to buy, although I felt a little better when I learned that the 1994 that I totally loved would cost, if it were available, which it isn’t, about 200 Euros for a half bottle.  Oh well, at least I got to taste it, and if only all the wines that pass my lips were that good, I might have to give up food altogether and just stick to drink.  But although the ones we did bring home are pretty darn good indeed, it’s just that I’m permanently spoiled by that little half bottle of 15 year old magic potion.

Leaving Chateau de Gaudou we admired the pastoral and peaceful view they have out over the valley,

although just 40 minutes down the road we found ourselves in a sort of gravel dune desert.

We crossed back across the Lot with a little sigh of regret.  It’s a remarkable countryside, deserted, wild, alternately forested and teeming  with vines as far as the eye can see.  There’s wine on every corner, and I wish we’d had time to taste more of them, although we really started at the top and so avoided disappointment.

And now our wine bounty is fighting for trunk space with other essentials like clothing, because tomorrow we leave here and head to our home in Uzès.  I have lots more to tell you and show you about this part of France, but that will have to wait for a day or two or three, until we get settled in and back in the swing of normal life.  In the morning we’ll stuff Beppo and Zazou in the car, in amongst the wine bottles, and head off into the east.  See you when we get there.

Diving Into Duck

One of the best things about this part of France is that it’s Duck Central. Well, perhaps a little further west and we’d really be in the palmiped epicenter of France, but we’re surrounded by duck as it is.  Everything that can be made of duck, or parts of duck, including some parts of duck that you might never have thought about eating, is in the markets here.  So naturally when we had the opportunity to have some guests for lunch, all I wanted to make was duck, duck, duck.

The main course was as you see it.  A beautiful duck breast served with aillade, that garlicky walnut sauce that complements it so beautifully and is the perfect thing to make right now when the new crop of walnuts has just been harvested.  Fresh walnuts are really different, soft and slightly sticky, with a more delicate flavor than they will have when they dry.  I’ll give you a recipe, which you can make even if you only have dried walnuts and it will still be delicious.

But first we had foie gras served with a fig and ginger chutney.  I’ll give you the fig recipe as well, that way you’ll have a good excuse to spend a rainy weekend in the kitchen.  It’s pouring here right now, which is why rainy weekends in the kitchen are on my mind.  I even hauled a heap of chicken bones out of the freezer to make soup for our lunch today, which means that Fall has definitively arrived.

Foie gras is everywhere here too, and its presence will intensify between now and the winter holidays, when every French table will be graced with it.  As for all the rabid discussion about it that goes on in the US, well, let’s just say you don’t hear any of that hereabouts.

And just to be excessively ducky, as a second course there was a duck paté and a slice of cou farci, a deboned stuffed duck neck, which is more or less a paté in its own right.  Drizzled with a walnut vinaigrette it made a rich and satisfying little salad.

And then, after the cheese, because even I am not brave enough to serve duck for dessert, for those whose constitutions permitted it there was apple tart.  And there you have a French autumn lunch par excellence, one that you can easily recreate at home, should you be so inclined.  And if you have any friends who are card-carrying members of Protect the Palmipeds, it’d be best not to invite them for this meal.

Aillade

There are lots of recipes for this delight, but I’ve finally settled on a ratio that suits me.  Take 1 dozen whole walnuts and remove the meat, placing it in your food processor.  Peel three cloves of garlic, slice them up a bit, and toss them in too.  Add some salt and pepper, then grind the whole thing together until you have a coarse paste.  With the food processor running, start drizzling in some walnut oil, and continue this until you have a nice purée.  In the picture above I made it pretty thick, because the food processor I was using has really dull blades, but normally it should be spoonable and smooth.  It’s best to make this the night before you want to serve it, to tame the ferocity of the garlic.  Right before serving you can stir in some chopped parsley, or not.  It’s good both ways.  You can easily double or triple this recipe, and you probably should, if you really love garlic.

Fig and Ginger Chutney

This is a real treat, inspired by this recipe.  It’s wonderful with foie gras, and would be great with chicken or pork tenderloin as well.

1 kilo of ripe figs, stemmed and quartered
2 small onions, diced
700 grams sugar
6 decilitres vinegar – I used a mix of red wine, walnut, and blueberry balsamic vinegars
1 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg
2 Tablespoons finely diced fresh ginger
salt and pepper

In a large pot, simmer the diced onions for a few minutes with a little bit of water, just until they’re translucent.   Add the figs and the sugar and let simmer for 10 minutes.   Add all of the remaining ingredients and let simmer for an hour to an hour and a quarter, stirring often and skimming off as many of the floating seeds as is possible.  Don’t knock yourself out with the skimming, a few seeds are part of what makes it figgy, but it’s amazing how many seeds there are in a kilo of figs.  When it’s the consistency of jam, place while still very hot in clean jars and seal them immediately.

Bored In Bordeaux

It will probably come as no surprise to you when I say that Bordeaux is all about the wine.  Oh, there’s good food, too.  But mainly, it’s all about the wine.  And the tourists.  I was expecting something different: a gracious old waterfront city where one could drink well while enjoying the town and the waterfront.  Mais non, that wasn’t exactly our experience.

The waterfront, such as it is, is way below the level of the city, pretty much invisible.  Or it would have been had not this great honking cruise ship been ensconced there, probably the source of the seemingly endless number of Americans in the streets.  It was very hot when we were there, and one of the best things was this huge ankle-deep wading pond, usually filled with teenagers and assorted other refreshment seekers.

Those kids not wading were lounging on the steps of the Opera House.  There’s almost nowhere to sit in public in Bordeaux, unless you’re in a park, or paying to sit in a cafe.  And when I say paying, I mean to the tune of $12 dollars for a coffee and a glass of wine.  And that in a place where the waiter had to sneak us a glass of water because one was technically required to buy bottled water, the only place in France that I’ve even encountered that.

There were certainly beautiful old buildings to be seen

some of which had a special look that we haven’t seen elsewhere in France.

But a lot of central Bordeaux looked dingy, and as if it co-existed uneasily with the modern world.  And we couldn’t find anything to do.  There were wine tours galore, but they took 5 hours and the timing didn’t work out for our short visit.  There was a city tour bus and a joint-cracking shock absorber-less little tourist train.  And really, that was it.  If you want to be in Bordeaux, you really have to plan to do a lot of wine touring, or else….ta da…a lot of shopping and eating.

I managed to find a pair of black boots that fit like a dream, thus ending my fruitless months-long search.  By visiting two phone stores we found out how to end our frustration with our wireless service.  Those things are very good, but they’re not at all why we thought we were going to Bordeaux.

However, I knew that we would be having three meals in restaurants, and I planned them rather brilliantly, if I do say so.

Every food lover who goes to Bordeaux visits La Tupina. It’s a shrine to traditional southwestern cooking, one that I’ve wanted to visit ever since I first read about it in Paula Wolfert’s Cooking of Southwest France.

When you walk in the front door you can see your lunch roasting on the spit.

We sat by a lovely window and savored that iconic roast chicken

with its disk of delicious stuffing and a juice-soaked crouton, and I thought about how that plate alone cost 24 Euros, which is $35.  Although I didn’t have the fries cooked in duck fat that also come with it, and I don’t want to sell them short.  But I thought a lot about how I could feed four people a roast chicken dinner for that price, and that it might not be quite as good, but it would be close.  And then I thought that Paula had been here and eaten that and so, maybe, that made it worth it.  And it was very good.  In the end, I bought their cookbook, which is stuffed with great recipes, and now I can say I’ve been to La Tupina, and that maybe everyone should go there, once, and after that they can come to my house where I’ll be making a lot of those dishes over the coming months.

At the other end of the spectrum was La Brasserie Bordelaise.

It’s the kind of place where for 12.50 Euros you get a huge piece of cold roast chicken with homemade mayonnaise, a heap of fries, a giant salad

and cheese or dessert just like Mom used to serve you.

Unless, of course, your Mom actually brought you to the brasserie, set you up at the bar with something good to eat, and joined in the happy, noisy crowd of lunchers who know they are in the right spot.  Incidentally, this was one place where we didn’t hear a word of English, always a good sign.

I’d love to go back there sometime with a big group and eat downstairs in this tantalizingly beautiful room.

And speaking of beautiful rooms, it’s hard to imagine dining anywhere more beautiful than La Belle Époque. The food is delicious and creative, but go there for the room, lined in every direction with gorgeous tile work

that was hidden from the Germans in WWII under false fronts, and rediscovered later after it had been long forgotten.  They just don’t make ‘em like that anymore.

I do have to say that everywhere I ordered wine by the glass, letting the server choose for me because I don’t know the wines of Bordeaux, something very good appeared in my glass.  I learned that the white wines of Bordeaux are very nice, and I’m not much of a white wine person normally.

But honestly, it’s the first time ever in all of our travels that we’ve arrived in a major city and not been able to find anything we wanted to do.  It was a weird experience, and not one I’m in a hurry to repeat.  So I’d say go for the wine, go for the food, take lots of money with you in either case.  But if you’re looking for any other sort of fun and adventure, you too may find Bordeaux boring.

Okay, you can call me a Philistine now.

Les Babas Cool De Septfonds

We went to a little hippie festival the other day in nearby Septfonds, and I thought you might like a glimpse of French hippie life, country style.  First, let me say that the French word for hippie is baba cool.  You’ve got to love that, right off the bat.

I’d read about this festival in a brochure but when we arrived in Septfonds there were no, and I mean no, signs at all.  We thought it must be the wrong day, the wrong month, the wrong alignment of Aquarius with Jupiter, but we decided to drive around a bit, just in case.  And lo and behold, we saw a hand-crayoned sign that said Parking.  Not any special sort of parking, for anything in particular, just parking.  Okay!  A practically secret, underground hippie festival with free parking, even better.

We wandered in to find a pumpkin stand,

and a demonstration of edible flowers.  Shel wanted a snack, but neither pumpkin nor blossoms sounded appealing, so he had a cone of glace fermière bio, farm-fresh organic ice cream, which he pronounced to taste “exactly like any other ice cream.”  Oh well.

We’re in Occitan country here, and there was an Occitan bookmobile,

and a group playing Occitan music.  They were actually pretty terrible, but you didn’t hear that from me.  I don’t know how you say “plausible deniability” in Occitan, but I’ll learn, if need be.

Much better, in fact virtuoso, was this accordion player.  He makes the accordions, this one from olive wood, and plays them beautifully.  It was enough to make me want to learn to play myself, although his instruments run into decidedly un-hippie figures like 3000-4000 Euros apiece.

There were all the other hippie prerequisites, like workshops in how to build a geodesic dome,

hand spun and vegetable dyed wool for sale,

and a guitar made of pottery.

Utterly serious, and not to be trifled with, were the ladies making straw hats, a traditional product of the town, undoubtedly made by these same ladies since forever.

And speaking of fashion, I know you’re dying to see how French hippies are dressing these days.  Well, for the guys it’s baggy pants, maybe with a skirt on top,

or maybe not.  Although personally, I think this guy would look better with a skirt on top.  Don’t you?

For the girls, something tight, something flowing seemed to be the favorite combo.  French girls don’t try to hide anything, hippie or not.

Even the scarecrows in the demonstration gardens were fashionable, in a country hippie way.

All in all it was a charming afternoon, and the fact that we weren’t the oldest people there was very reassuring.  I don’t suppose that I’ll actually take up the accordion at this point in my life, or dying hand spun wool with onion skins, but then, you never know.  Those hat ladies were really and truly old, and still hard at it, thank heavens.

Got (Raw) Milk!

Last night, on the way home from Bordeaux, we stopped for milk.  Raw milk, from a mooing machine.  As they say in French “Je vous explique.” Let me explain.

Not long ago we were in the florist shop getting a little gift for the pharmacist, who has proven herself to be the most diligent pharmacist in France and possibly in the world.  None of which would seem to lead us down the primrose dairy path, except that the the florist had a sign saying that one could buy raw milk direct from the farm 24/7,  in  the nearby town of Caussade.  I asked her for details, she went upstairs to consult her husband (who was evidently the shopper in the family), and returned with the information that there was indeed a machine that dispensed raw milk in front of the supermarket.  Wow.

I couldn’t help but remember a time when we were on Orcas Island, in Washington, in an artsy sort of little head shop.  A tall gangly guy came in and went furtively towards the back of the store.  I even entertained the notion that he might have been a shop lifter, so I turned in his direction in time to hear him say, sotto voce,  to the shopkeeper “I hear that you can get….milk.”

It turned out that the San Juan Islands are home to a raw milk underground, wherein trustworthy people take the ferry from one island to another collecting raw milk and distributing it, quite illegally and in utter secrecy, to raw milk afficionados of their acquaintance.

And yet here, in a French supermarket parking lot, was a little hut with a raw milk distribution system that was even more ingenious.  The machine will sell you a sterilized plastic bottle for 20 centimes, or a glass bottle for 3 Euros.  The milk is 1 Euro a liter, but you can get smaller amounts if you wish.  You buy a bottle, or bring your own, insert it into the machine, and immediately ice cold milk issues, accompanied by loud mooing sounds.  They might even be described as bellowing sounds, loud enough that every person in the parking lot, and possibly some shoppers in the store who are busy buying milk in small cardboard cubes that keep forever, know that someone somewhere is buying raw milk.  It couldn’t be less secret.

The sign on the machine instructs you to use a perfectly clean bottle, to refrigerate the contents immediately, and to drink your milk within three days of purchase.  In other words, the machine treats you like the adult you are, except that it moos at you, in a most delightful way.

I, of course, got a glass bottle, which happens to say MILK MILK MILK all over it, instead of LAIT LAIT LAIT.  That’s extra ironic, given the fact that if there’s one thing you’re practically sure never to see in the US it’s an automatic 24/7 mooing raw milk dispenser.

To which I can only say tant pis, too bad, way too bad.

Le Temps Des Cathédrales

Stop!  Turn on your speakers.  This post has a soundtrack.  Click here.  Thank me later.

We’re off to Bordeaux overnight, and I wanted to leave you with a little eye (and ear) candy, in this case the utterly magnificent, stupefying, impossibly beautiful cathedral at Albi.  Should you wish to do more than gaze and listen in awe, you can learn more about the cathedral here.

Quite something, isn’t it?

From Here You Can See Perfection

You love France and all things French, right?  So I’ll bet that you’ve read Michael Sanders’ From Here You Can’t See Paris, the story of the year he spent in the kitchen of La Récréation, watching a young couple committed to serving great food struggle to create a restaurant in a tiny town that’s hard to even find on the map.

Shel and I both loved the book when we read it a few years ago, but never for a moment did we imagine that we’d one day find ourselves dining there.  So when we realized that it was not too far from our current temporary home, it was pretty much a done deal that we’d go there tout de suite.  But wait, I’m getting ahead of myself.

To get there from Saint Antonin we drove north to Cahors, home of the famous and ancient vin noir, or black wine, and also home of Léon Gambetta.  Just about every town in France has a Boulevard Gambetta, but Cahors also has a statue of its native son, a rabble-rousing statesman of the mid 19th century.

Cahors is also home to a covered market with an excellent fromagerie. The selection here was the best I’ve seen anywhere this side of Lyon, so of course we had to buy some local cheeses

as well as some of this beautiful butter.

We did manage to resist the offer of a foie gras sandwich with a free glass of wine, although it was tough.  Foie gras is as common as baguette here,  and we had better plans for our lunch.

The first part of those plans involved driving for another half an hour into the absolutely most remote corner of France that we’ve seen thus far.  Tiny one lane roads through forests with nary a car in sight, which is a very good thing given the size of the roads, lead us finally to the minuscule hamlet of Les Arques, and to La Récréation.

After parking our trunkful of cheese in a shady spot, we were greeted by the vivacious and charming Noëlle Ratier, wife of chef Jacques Ratier.  She’s the public face of the restaurant, and we watched in awe as she moved from table to table, lingering with each guest, making each one feel like the guest of honor.

The pretty dining room was empty, because we all wanted to be outside on one of the last perfectly warm days of the season.

Since I was interested in vin noir Madame Ratier  deftly helped me choose a half bottle, as well as selections from the menu to complement the wine.

We sat on the sun-splashed terrace under a 68 year old wisteria and started with a light bright tomato bisque that tasted of the last days of summer.

A terrine of foie gras followed for me

and fillets of rouget on a bed of artichoke hearts for Shel.  This dish, and the artichokes in particular, were what made me realize that our lunch was in the hands of a maître saucier, a sauce-making genius of a chef.  I’d go back to La Récréation just for those artichokes, and I might be tempted to sell my soul for the recipe.

Next I had a ballotine of poultry with girolles, a savory golden mushroom

while Shel had quail with foie gras and a sweet grape sauce that was far and away the best quail I’ve ever tasted.

Following the tiny and perfectly creamy cabecou that we both had as a mini cheese course

Shel had this gorgeous tarte tatin with a caramel crème anglaise and I had an eau de vie of plums that sent me searching for a bottle to bring home.  So there you have it, a brilliant 5 course lunch for 33 Euros a person, served in a lovely setting by a friendly and super-competent staff, which has got to be one of the most incredible deals in France.

After lunch we strolled through the town to the other attraction, the Zadkine Museum, which is absolutely worth visiting.

It defies understanding how such an admittedly lovely but minute village, which boasts a population of 181 people, could house two such major attractions.  And nothing else, mind you, neither butcher nor baker, not a grocery store, not a hardware store, nothing else at all, in the middle of what really does appear to be nowhere.

As we strolled we talked a lot about what life would be like, so far off the beaten path. But you know what?  I kind of have the feeling that if you can see La Récréation, you really don’t need to see Paris.

The French Underground

In French, when you’re drifting, not quite all there, and someone catches you at it, you say “O pardon, j’étais dans les nuages.“  Sorry, I was in the clouds.  Because usually when we drift, it’s up and away, we’re not normally thinking of what lies down there right beneath our little pink sneakers.

The upper crust is all we normally know of our planet, and we think of it as solid.  So when we saw signs for the Grotte du Bosc, I was immediately drawn to seeing what might be underneath it all.  Alas, when I called about a visit, I learned that the season was nearly over, only groups could be accepted, and the two of us didn’t count as a group.  Expecting nothing, I asked that if a group should happen to schedule a visit in the few days remaining before the grottoes went to bed for the winter, we be allowed to join them.  And lo and behold, a a day or two later the phone rang.

It was Monsieur Pierre Régi, who with his wife Michele owns what we were soon to discover, the fabulous grottoes underlying the tiny hamlet of Bosc.  I’d never really considered that a person might own a grotto, but M. Régi’s father discovered the grottoes in 1936, and the family eventually developed and now displays its treasures proudly.

We didn’t know it when he called, but we were being invited to join a small class of deaf students as they explored another nearly soundless world 70 feet below the surface of their daily lives.  The kids were very excited by it all, and so were we.

The caverns were narrow, damp, steep, slippery, and utterly majestic.

We slithered our way through passages so narrow that some of us had to turn sideways,

clambered down steps so precipitous that even M. Régi, who went ahead to explain what we were seeing, looked as small as one of the kids next to the rock formations at the bottom.

A long-ago bear had found its way down into the river that formed the grottoes, but not out again, which thrilled the kids, who were getting the story through an amazing assortment of amplifying  headgear and some signing by their teachers.

I think the adults were more thrilled by this column, formed from the fusion of a stalactite and a stalagmite, but looking for all the world as if it had been carved in Roman times.

M. Régi explained that the area is undoubtedly riddled with such extravagant displays of beauty, destined to remain unseen, which I find mind boggling.

I’m just grateful that this one has come to light, and that we got to share it with a group of giggling kids who have their own deep, dark places to navigate on their way to finding their personal bit of solid ground.

For The Love Of Fruit

I dream of fruit.  I long for fruit.  I admire fruit wherever I find it, whether in its natural or transformed state.  This is actually a sweet winter squash, although I might not have believed it had I not seen

the transformation taking place before my eyes, the other day at the Moissac festival of fruits and vegetables.  Maybe I need to learn to love fruit as an object of art, instead of thinking of it as something to eat.

This watermelon is actually not begging to be eaten, because who could bear to spoil its perfectly carved symmetry?  Not to mention the fact that watermelon is said to be one of the very worst fruits for diabetics, full of sugar that goes straight to your blood and stays there.

Even the fruit that is just normally beautiful calls out to me.  I don’t answer, but it calls.  Some diabetics say they can eat half an apple, if they eat it with peanut butter or cheese, but I personally could eat that whole box of Reine Claudes, one of my favorite plums.  I could, but I don’t.  I don’t eat even one.

But as Frank Zappa famously wrote “Call any vegetable, call it by name… and the chances are good the vegetable will respond to you.”  And so I called the radish.  These were exceptionally vigorous and virile radishes, longer than my hand and twice as pink.  And I wanted to do right by them, plus it was a chilly evening when a warm vegetable responded better to my dinner plan than any salad could.  So into the pot with them, et voilà, Butter Braised Radishes.

This isn’t an original idea, as variations of it are to be found all over the Internet as a low carb favorite substitute for potatoes.  I wouldn’t say the resemblance is close, as the radish retains a slightly peppery freshness that a potato just can’t achieve.  But it’s a delicious dish, one I’ll be making again soon and so should you.  It’s not fruit, it’ll never be fruit, but it’s one of the next best things.

Butter Braised Radishes

1-2 large bunches of radishes
a large chunk of good butter
salt and pepper

Trim and clean the radishes, saving the greens to toss into a soup, where they’ll really surprise you with their pleasant flavor.  Cut radishes into large chunks, as you would with potatoes if you were making home fries.

Melt the butter in a heavy pan, one wide enough to hold the radishes all in one layer.  You really need a decent amount of butter, so don’t hesitate to add more than you think is prudent.  You’re not going to eat all that butter anyway.

Add the radishes to the melted butter, salt and pepper them, and reduce the heat to medium low.  Allow the radishes to braise in the butter until they are tender and golden brown on all sides, about 20 minutes.

Serve them with love, and I’m pretty sure that those radishes will respond to you.

Old World Order

What the heck was this baby bald eagle doing at the Abbaye de Belleperche yesterday?  Same thing we were, watching demonstrations of falconry and medieval music and dancing.  He was only six months old and still an unruly but huge infant, my next shot was of his wing brushing my camera.  There’s no shot of me hurriedly jumping backward into the mud to escape the mighty span of his feathers, but trust me, I jumped.  It’s ironic to come from Washington, home to thousands of bald eagles, all the way to France in order to be brushed by an eagle’s wing, but life is like that.  How he himself got here I’d really like to know.

It was a great day for seeing the half-wild birds, who evidently didn’t mind the rain as much as we did.

I hadn’t realized before that owls were also part of the falconer’s armament, but here’s a little beauty, not biting the hand that feeds her.  It was amazing how the birds would fly to nearby rooftops, always returning for that little scrap of meat held tight in the glove.  They work for food, just like the rest of us,

even though they don’t always look happy about it.  Hmm, there could be another parallel there, depending on how much you like your job and how well you eat.

Now here are some guys who clearly love their job, a kind of combined minstrel/troubadour/commedia del arte troupe.  They sang, they played,

they juggled,

one of them even made a blond joke about me when I couldn’t answer a question he posed to the audience.  I didn’t even know they had blond jokes in France!

There was even an herbalist under the vaulted roof providing instruction about how various plants were used medicinally in medieval times.  I was tempted to ask him how they treated diabetes back then, but he was always surrounded by a crowd of curious rain-avoiders.

The French have a passion for their history, and I’m starting to understand that myself.  When you look at the faces of people around here, you see the same faces that you’ll find in old paintings.

They have a connection with their past that we Americans can never have, not only because we’re such a young country, but also because we’re the land of Continuous Improvement, of change for its own sake.  Nonetheless, an American eagle caused a sensation here, for his size, and savage beauty. ” A new world bird” is how he was introduced, but I’m not drawing any conclusions from that about a new world order.  France, in all its historic glory, is definitely here to stay.