This particular evening we were led through a rural landscape, now shrouded in dark grey rain clouds that had been relinquishing their heavy load all afternoon. There were no lights beyond the direct beams of our car on the roadway which showed glimpses of the earth banks on each side and the odd protruding tree root.
The restaurant was brightly illuminated within the confines of an otherwise insignificant village. We pulled into the car park, our minds full of anticipation, fuelled by recommendations from local connoisseurs who had spoken of ‘nourriture saisonnière de la région’ (seasonal food of the region) which was prepared by the chef, who also doubled as the host and the waiter. Our table had been reserved a week before as opening times were limited to Friday and Saturday evenings and Sunday lunch and these exclusive dining hours were usually fully booked we were told.
On the marble surface of the long wooden bar, which was the main feature of the room we entered, was a row of magnum size green wine bottles, their contents neatly described by a hand written title, ‘fleur de sereau’ (elderflower) , ‘chataigne’ (chestnut), ‘ mandarine’, ‘abricot’, ‘pamplemousse’ (grapefruit), ‘mure’ (blackberry), ‘framboise’ (raspberry), ‘fraise des bois’ (wild strawberry), peche (peach),’ myrtille’ (blueberry), ‘griotte’ (morello cherry), and ‘cranberry’. Prospective diners were already sampling the range of aperitifs offered, helping themselves in the small glass tumblers placed there for this purpose.
I sampled the elderflower liqueur, the sweet floral scent of summer floating into my nostrils before the aperitif’s honeyed sweetness trickled onto my tongue.
“Luscious!” I wondered if the aperitifs were alcoholic and with that thought decided that additional tastings should be left to future visits or I might not make it to the dinner table.
The dining area was simply furnished with wooden tables and upright wooden chairs and at 8.30 pm we were all asked to take our seats, our host seating the twenty-five diners at their reserved tables. It was a limited menu but as our host was responsible for all the demands of the diners I reasoned that he would not have been able to cope otherwise.
We waited for our host to come to our table, we longed for some water and a glass of wine. We were situated next to a window, but there was nothing to be seen, the night was black and we could no longer observe the rain only hear it drumming softly on the glass, but the conversations of the other diners muffled even this sound. He arrived at last, a slight man, not wearing any type of uniform that would mould him into one of the roles he aspired to.
“An aperitif?” he questioned. We asked for wine, we could not agree on whether we wanted red or white, each member of the party preferring something different.
“Can you recommend a light red?” we asked, after a few minutes of discussion. I was aware of the other diners all waiting to be served but he didn’t look in the least impatient or disagreeable about waiting. He nodded.
“And your main course?” he continued. There was another delay while we asked him to describe the menu, which had been written up in French on the blackboard in the bar, and which we had now forgotten. There were words we were unfamiliar with…
“Osseline?” we questioned, “what’s that?” He spoke no English and his French description still left us no wiser.
“I think”, I decided, “I will have the fish.” The fish was described as ‘Dos de lieu au beurre de fruits de la passion’, a local fish cooked in butter with a passion fruit sauce. My husband also selected the fish.
The third choice of filet de volaille (poultry) au foie gras was agreed upon by the third and fourth members of the party and our host left to continue to the next table.
He returned after several minutes, “Mesdames, Monsieur, the wine.” He showed us the label, a local red wine, which, when poured did not reflect the light cherry colour of a light wine but the deep burgundy of a heavier tipple. I sighed but my companions looked happy. I nibbled on another portion of bread which had been baked in the village at a gourmet boulangerie which specialised in homemade country breads. They were only open for a few hours a week.
The entrée arrived, placed unceremoniously in front of us by our host before he continued on to serve the next table. The presentation was messy, the white plate contained a large portion of what looked like spinach surrounded by small petoncles (scallops) which had been dressed in an asparagus sauce. I thought of the poor man rushing around the kitchen trying to cope with preparing twenty-five entrée dishes and placed my fork into the dish before me and tasted. It was delicious.
Our host apparently lived alone in this isolated village, it had not been his intention we were informed. He and his wife had moved here and renovated the building together putting in place their dream of operating a country restaurant, but she had shortly afterwards fallen ill and died very quickly. How sad, I thought, and how brave of him to continue on alone.
His main courses were not as successful with our group as the messy entrée had been. The fish was dry and lacked flavour and the poultry, which looked like the leg of a small chicken and served with foie gras, ‘was not inspiring’, our companions noted with disappointment.
“When I came to eat here a couple of weeks ago the main course was the most appetizing part of the meal”, one of our companions stated with a guilty look at us.
It had been at her recommendation that we had come to this place and we reassured her that having one disappointing course did not delegate the whole experience to failure. The cheese tray was making its rounds from one table to another, the soft white, blue and yellow varieties in different shapes and textures making an appetizing selection.
My husband was tired; he had not been well for some weeks. “We have to go.” He stood up and we all looked at him incredulously.
“But dessert,” I protested. The decision had been made earlier between fresh strawberries or a melange of petite chocolate puddings.
“I’m sorry, I just have to go.”
Our host looked worried and as we were collecting our coats from the stand in the bar I saw him talking animatedly to our companions.
“Ah,” they said, “the meal was magnificent, there is just a slight problem, Monsieur is not well, he is so sorry to inconvenience you.
We crossed the dark courtyard to the car park, the clouds had started to clear and one or two stars twinkled next to a bright rain- washed moon. The conviviality and uniqueness of the restaurant sustained us on the long drive home. Our companions phoned the next morning to enquire as to my husband’s health and to acquaint us with the results of the end of the meal.
“The desserts were magnificent. The best part of the meal. Oh what you missed”. They went on to describe the various chocolate puddings and the freshness and voluptuousness of the strawberries soaked in liqueurs.