Lamb tagine dinner

Two nights ago I had dinner in Haute Provence, which incidentally has the lowest population density of any French “department.” Perhaps that is why so few restaurants were open in Forcalquier along the Via Domitia, the old Roman road. Only the Vietnamese and Moroccan restaurants were open. I chose Le Jam, a warm, intimate place specializing in couscous and tagines.

Dining alone in France is not a solitary experience. The waiter engages you, fellow diners acknowledge you, and you feel part of a community of eaters.

I ordered a chicken tagine. When the waiter ceremoniously removed the lid, a great plume of steam escaped revealing a dish of tender chicken infused with lemon and smothered with onions, olives, carrots and potatoes, all in a broth of many spices.

Delicious and transporting!

Only the cooking vessel itself, a drab metallic affair, was disappointing. I felt like selling them one of our Terafeu Terafour tagines…

Bon appetit!

Deux Chevaux

…back to France.

Yes, there are more things to scout for and more experiences to collect, but it’s deeper than that.

I have to go to renew the bonds of friendship. If I stay away too long, the winemakers, chefs, café proprietors, book dealers and artisans will fear that I have forgotten them. The French are very sensitive. They need reassurance.

My friend Gérard, self-described the laziest antiques dealer in France, laments that 30 percent of his fellow dealers have retired or gone out of business in the past year. I have to go to his remote little village to make sure he continues to “pick” for me.

I have to go because I miss Mary-France Latour’s gratin de courgettes and her husband’s estate bottled Cotes du Rhone.

If it’s warm, we’ll play a game of pétanque.

I have to go to see what’s new at the Maison et Objet trade show in Paris.

I have to go because I have a foot in each country and the one in France will lose sensation if I neglect it too long.

I have to go to renew my spirit as much as my inventory and to rediscover what I already know, namely that it’s necessary to see everything again with fresh eyes. That’s how you find the best stuff.

I have to go!

Winemakers throughout Burgundy will celebrate his birthday on January 22 with a colorful procession, possibly a mass, and definitely a traditional feast of roast pig. Some wine will be consumed. One week later the patron saint of the vine will be honored again, this time in the town of Chassagne Montrachet for the Saint-Vincent Tournante (tournante because a different village takes its “turn” each year). Since 1938, the festival has been organized by the Confrérie des Chevaliers du Tastevin (the name alone makes you want to join). By the way, if you should need a tastevin or a wine map of Burgundy…

How Saint-Vincent became the patron saint of the vine, however, is a more full-bodied discussion. He’s also the patron saint of negociants, oenologists, wine inspectors, vinegar makers, and café proprietors. Some believe that the first syllable of his name provides a clue but by that reasoning, Saint Arthur would be the patron saint of the arts. The manner of his martyrdom, evocative of grapes being crushed by a press is not a happy association for such a pleasant profession. The journalist Bernard Pivot believes the answer lies with some of Saint-Vincent’s relics, a few of which found their way to a small wine-making parish in Paris. The monks invoked Saint Vincent to protect their vines from frost and hail and from that point his reputation spread. Centuries later the abbey would change its name from Saint-Croix-Saint-Vincent to Saint-Germain-des-Prés. No wonder a glass of red at the Brasserie Lipp, Les Deux Magots and the Café de Flore is so pricey.

A la votre,