The Meal

A friend, David, from the climbing club picked me up with his girlfriend, Cecil, at about three in the afternoon because he wanted to take me to this place and treat me to a real Cassoulet. I talked about this with them last night, but in America if I were to take you out to dinner, I would pick you up, we would go straight to the restaurant, eat, then leave and I would take you home. That is the short, of it, but that is usually how it goes. Here, no no no no. That doesn’t work. We walked around Castres, my city, for a little while, bought some good beers for the before dinner snack, he choose a Belgiun, I chose one from Corsica. We got a little fois gras, went to get some bread in Mazamet, then up in the hills to walk a little in a midevial town called Hautpoul. Braving the wind and cold we made our way down to a wooden toy shop, then hiked back up to the warmth of the car. It was really enjoyable. He is a sweet guy. Loves to climb, lives in a cool little house with his girlfriend, and their cat. Anyway, while his girlfriend went out to get groceries because they didn’t want to do it on Sunday, we sat and chatted and he showed me all his favorite books, and favorite comic book artists, the chair he was going to buy for his birthday to start what would be his library, and talked climbing. I will say, I have noticed that French as a whole read much more than Americans. Just a side note. Once his girlfriend returned we sat down with our beers and fois gras, pate, and bread and had a delicious pre dinner meal. We were all super hungry, and had to stop ourselves from eating to much. Off to the restaurant!

It is this little place outside of town where you have to make a reservation before coming, but it isn’t all that expensive and the food is about as authentic as you will find. The two servers rush around putting things on the open grill, taking orders, busing tables, and laying down plates of traditional French fare. For us, there was no choice, Cassoulet. It is made with white beans, duck legs, a few different kinds of sausage from the region and some pork for flavor. Heavy, yes, but not as heavy as you are thinking. The trick is the beans. Just to cook them you have to make a stock out of all kinds of vegetables and pork bones, which in itself is a delicious soup. And the trick is you can’t over cook them. There is a fine line, and these beans cannot fall apart and become a puree when you serve them. I tend to do this when I make black beans, but I like the texture better a little more mushy. In any case, when this maneuver is done, you layer some pork, cooked beans, sausages, beans, sausage, beans, then the duck legs, and more beans. Cover it all with the stock from the beans, and it goes into the oven for another hour or so. It simmers until the top beans just start to turn brown. You have a little bit of crust on top that is super flavorful plus all these fun treats inside that have been baked in the broth. Fatty duck, sausage, pork. Fat city right? Nope. I don’t know how they pulled it off, but there was NO floating oil or anything in the sauce, it really did seem light. You better believe all the sauce that was left on the plate gets wiped up quickly with the table bread. Mmmmmmm.

Interestingly enough, Cecil’s dad is a winemaker in the south, but Cecil doesn’t like alcohol at all. I am the American of the group and David, tries, but admittedly, he is no wine expert. So David asks our server for a wine that would go well with the cassoulet, half bottle of course. The woman brings us the bottle and opens it so that it can breath. This was the first time in my life that I tasted a wine, didn’t like it all that much, but the taste totally changed with the meal. It complemented the beans and the duck meat perfectly.

We sat for another forty-five minutes digesting, while the servers were rushing about. We talked about life in France, and some of the differences for me I have noticed. I tried to tell stories about being in Bellingham and Nashville and the organic movement there. Family, friends, telling funny stories isn’t all that easy in another language I have found. I have been trying to make soup lately, it has been going well, but Cecil is apparently an expert so she was giving me tips, but it all stopped when dessert came.

Think of the richest plain yogurt you can think of, solid, almost like ricotta cheese, but light and in about a six ounce container. It comes raw, no pasteurizing or anything from a little village about seven miles away. You empty it out onto your tiny plate and then with the little dish of honey they have brought you, drizzle ever so lightly, or generously, as you want and then be carried away into dairy heaven for the next ten bites. It was heavenly. When we finally pushed back from the table it was ten thirty, a slow two hour dinner is always healthy.

Upon returning to my apartment, I went straight to bed, got up this morning and without even the slightest need to eat set out for a long, long walk along the river under gray skies, and glowing trees of tangerine, yellow, and deep blood red all around. Back to the apartment to make some more soup.