The afternoon is spent lingering in the railway station for a train that had been delayed a couple of hours, we were never able to find out if it was the icy weather conditions or just the usual idiosyncrasies of the French rail system. The biting wind on the platform was taking its toll on the patience of the waiting passengers and they complained bitterly and stared dejectedly into the distance along the track. When the two carriage, nondescript grey train finally appeared it is with relief that we clamber aboard and within seconds thaw out in the warmth of the heaters pumping hot air onto our frozen toes.
The warmth dissipated quickly as we walk through the cold streets, remote faces peer into the gloom framed by woolly hats and wraparound scarves, bodies shielded by warm coats with high collars and feet protected by thick soled boots. It is not far to the small hotel, modernised by a chic Parisian couple. They had retained the façade of the baroque style architecture, which was styled in the soft rose pink brick for which Toulouse is famous, and with the typical blue-grey shutters. The location is ideal for the City centre and from some of the hotel windows there are views to the beautiful Basilica of St Sernin, which was named after the first bishop of Toulouse who was martyred in 250 AD. He was the victim of a popular pagan uprising and killed when pagan priests tied his feet to a bull which dragged him along, what is now called Rue du Taur, until dead. The image is horrific but illustrates the religious struggles between pagan and christian to dramatic effect. The church later became an important stopover on the pilgrimage from Arles to Santiago de Compostela and was repeatedly augmented to accommodate the throngs of pilgrims.
The hotel room is modern and fresh looking but characteristically small, the dominant Queen- sized bed not leaving much room for anything else. A small problem with the mechanics of the air conditioner is resolved with the help of the cheerful receptionist, who I find by following the delicious smell of baking emanating from the small kitchen off the breakfast room.
Her head appears around the door and her arms extend a large tray of warm biscuits, “Please have some,” she said, “I make them most days for the guests.”
Our taste buds are stimulated and our stomachs grumble, breakfast is long gone and we had not eaten lunch, we started immediate research to find a dinner venue and compare the positive and negative aspects of various restaurants, with the help of comments by Trip Advisor gourmets. We decided on Le Colombier’, which, so says the website “has been feeding people since 1873.” The current proprietors have been cooking since 2007 and “specialise in traditional French food” with the inevitable cassoulet dominating the menu. As we still have two hours to while away before the earliest dinner reservation at 7.30 pm we put on hats, coats and gloves and set out into the darkening evening, treading carefully through the remnants of snow still evident on the pavements, particularly on the small side streets. Our destination is Betty’s Cheese Shop. My husband wants a huge creamy Brie to take back to Vietnam and this is the place to find it. The shop is not large but every corner is devoted to cheese, sourced from all over France. The sample plates, which lie in front of the racks of shelving, groan with the regional cheeses, there is no sign of the supermarket plastic wrapped, carefully labelled wedges that lay in the sterile comfort of the open fridges. Here there is a fantasy of temptations sitting in artistic congeniality crying out to be slipped into the mouth, a promise of wonderful tastes and illusions of all that is good and fresh and unsophisticated. This is France we think, it is a pleasing idea, that this pleasure and emphasis on food is so different to the way that other cultures live it.
“There are over 250 types of different cheeses in France”, said the voluptuous milkmaid look- alike; a black apron stretches tightly across her chest. “These are the pressed cheeses from the cows on the farms of the Auvergne Mountains; and here, Compté, a delicious French cousin of the Swiss "Gruyère" from the Franche Compté region of eastern France.” She paused to hand us a saucer with the relevant cheese cut into sampled sizes. “All the milk that goes into this cheese comes from cows that graze at least above 400 metres in altitude; and then Mimolette, a round orange cheese from Lille in northern France; or Tomme de Pyrenees, a mild cheese with a black rind.”
“And Brie?” My husband queried, “I would like a really soft creamy one.”
“Voila! There … each region has its own specialities.” She moved to the other side of the shop her hand waving over the wealth of soft cheeses. “ Many of these, particularly those with appellation contrôlée - are manufactured in small units. There are two sorts of Brie, Brie de Meaux and Brie de Melun, both appellation contrôlée (AOC) cheeses named after two nearby towns in the country some fifty miles south east of Paris. Camembert from Normandy is perhaps the most famous French cheese. It must be soft, not too runny.” She continued, as she handed us a small sample which melted smoothly on our tongues. “A young Camembert will tend to be hard and dry, and rather tasteless, an overripe Camembert, going yellowish on the outside, will smell strongly.”
A vivid illusion crept into my mind, conjured by her words, of my father’s Camembert sitting in the cupboard of our sideboard, the air around it having a pungent odour of dirty socks which became almost unbearable when the door was opened. Us children would shriek and hold our noses and giggle as he placed it on the dining-room table.
After more tastings we decide on a Brie and wait while our charming milkmaid vacuum packs it ready for its journey. Two bottles of red wine retrieved from a small cellar at the back of the shop are also wrapped, the delightful staff joking and laughing, delighting us with their warmth and high spirits.
The chocolate shop, a few metres away, is beautiful in its ordered arrangement of chocolate flavours, in different shapes, decorated by modest slips of orange, violet, lemon or nuts. The exotic names bear little resemblance to the content of the chocolate but conjure up a promise of something exceptional. A sample placed before us confirms this as it melts slowly on our tongues. After these appetisers we walk back to the hotel to change before dinner, the sound of a lonely busker playing ‘La vie en rose’ on his accordion accompanied us through the evening shopping crowds.
Our chosen restaurant, Le Clombier, is not for the trend- setter or action seeker, it carries a timelessness which is evident in the style of the furniture and décor and the hospitality of the mature woman who greeted us on arrival. There is only one other table of diners at this early hour of the evening, most French do not eat until around 9pm, and the same woman lights the candles at our table and hands us the menu hovering nervously just beyond our immediate sight. The food is proudly traditional with the inevitable cassoulet with goose confit topping the list. Our previous experiences with cassoulet had not been very positive, containing an overabundance of beans visiting unfortunate consequences on the gaseous regions of the body. However, the cold night and the reputation of the restaurant were good enough incentives to sample the traditional dish in its home environment.
The cassoulet arrives thick and bubbling in a ceramic bowl that is brimming with white beans, pork, pork rind, red sausage, white sausage, goose confit and a dash of the tomato puree that is the hallmark of a Toulousain cassoulet. We love the hearty slow-cooked stew which warms our bones and gives a good lining to our now extended stomachs, it wouldn’t win the endorsement of a cardiologist but the rusticity and delicious flavours certainly modify our previously negative outlook.
A good night’s sleep and our ‘petites vacances’ was over, delivering a host of small experiences that left us with an anticipation of returning to explore more of this delightful City.