ENVOYAGE TO
The road to
Again my mind reflected: We had left Baumanière
and were heading from Aix towards St. Paul de Vence,
taking country roads. The country was flat, the quiet road lined with
tall shade trees, and a tiny sign appeared: "Cavaillon"
–those incredible melons. There’s nothing picturesque about a melon field, it’s
flat and uninteresting. Then I saw a sign, "melons a vendre". Okay, a French roadside
farm stand, why not! Besides, if I didn’t taste a Cavaillon melon right here and now, then there was no point
at all to the trip. I was already reduced to being a mere stomach eating
its way across Provençe. I hit the brakes and
turned the car around. There was also some garlic that hadn’t been dried
or aged yet, it was fresh out of the ground. I’d never seen it before. I
bought some of that and some other fresh fruits too. My luggage and I should
have known better. As I continued my drive, the melons took my wandering
mind away from the car and the Italian road, and back to
Nearby to Beaumanière, the venerable
three-star all-stone restaurant of Chef Outhiers, was a large mountain-like rock formation, made of bauxite.
It’s incredibly steep. Atop of which is an ancient Provençal
fortified town, now a ruin and tourist attraction. It is called "Les Baux" Eons of erosion have left the terrain all
around it flat and very low, sparing this immense hard rock, which rises like a
monument out of the countryside. The unexpected way it sits on the
landscape makes it appear like a living presence. Ancient times saw
captives thrown off the cliff, and animals were driven over the top to leave
their corpses at the base and be gathered for meat. On the
particular gray-damp afternoon we were there I met a boy named Victor, who was
a homeless urchin and who had found a way to survive from the kindnesses of
tourists at Les Baux. The afternoon was still
chilly and there was the wind, inescapable, and he was wearing a thin tattered
brown sweater which wasn’t warm enough. He had large brown soulful eyes,
full lips and a head of long curly hair. I guessed him to be somewhere in
his mid teens. I gave him my address in
My thoughts left Victor, and now I was reviewing the meeting I’d had
in the kitchen of Baumaniere with their sous chef, Jacques. A previous visitor to
Continuing my drive, I was re-experiencing the all too hushed
breakfasts at Jean-Pierre Silva’s restaurant near Savigny-les-Beaune,
Le Vieux Moulin. There were melons there
too, so I knew that these precious fragrant beauties were to be found
nearby. I was young and inexperienced when I began touring, and my
‘Yankee’ attitudes came with me. I know it’s cultural, but I love the
mornings. In the better inns in
"JP", as his friends call
him, is a young, friendly, down-to-earth master-chef, and he and his wife
Isabelle had borrowed heavily to finance their fabulous 2-star inn. They bought
it with her parents. I introduced myself to Jean-Pierre, and we hit it
off right away. Of course I got a tour of his sparkling modern kitchen, and a
chance to show-off to him my new technique, "Toasted Cream" He loved the possibilities. Chef Paul Bocuse also liked it a lot when I had shown it to him in
One evening I asked him if I could accompany him to market. I
knew it would be a great favor of he granted it. Three times a week, he’d
make the ¾ hour long pre-dawn drive to the market at Chalon-sur-Saone, and return to his restaurant laden with
cheeses, fresh vegetables and fruits for his guests. Chalon is a typical ancient Burgundian
town. Because of its crossroads location, it’s easily accessed from the
farms and the many great Michelin-starred inns and restaurants in the
region. Hence the market here is interesting to say the very least.
You never know which great chef you might run into, however markets are the
great equalizer in our business, the ‘greats’ mingle freely with the not yet
so. "Egalité" as the French are so
fond of saying, and forgetting.
I awoke especially early, and slightly hung over from the Nuits St Georges the night before, and loaded myself,
slumped next to him, sans café, in his tiny beat-up blue Citroen truck in the
chilly, damp Burgundian morning. He drove, like
most French chefs I know, way too fast. His driving woke me up. The
market was just setting up and would be totally dismantled and vanish within a
few hours, leaving no trace of it’s having been
there. While the light in the just-after-dawn sky was blue gray, the
produce was bursting with freshness and color. Farmers were showing beautiful
springtime produce. Kodachrome flowers were
heaped high on low tables. Enormous soft green cabbages, mountains of bright
orange carrots, and perfect cream colored parsnips, leeks without a blemish,
huge white asparagus. Fresh garlic (just in season),
oranges, and Cavaillon melons. He bought
- I just watched, I was dying of envy. After all, even though I was
in French Country Market Heaven, where would I cook it? It was just
enough to be there where such things were available. I shared the joy of
a man who had what he wanted in his life.
He carefully selected some fresh farm cheeses, and some other
treasures. His regular produce purveyor delivered the ordinary products
to the restaurant daily. I wanted to linger, but he moved very quickly
through the stands, and as he danced from stand to stand, some farmers called
out to him to show him one thing or another, sometimes holding it up in the air
for him to see.
"You’ve got to be careful, not to buy what you don’t
need, but when they save something for you, it’s good to buy some just to
keep the relationship"
He poked, sniffed, frowned, challenged,
made purchases and disappeared before I could turn around. His speed
assured he’d have a chance to get at the best before anyone else grabbed
it. He knew and cultivated his sources, just as I did in
The sun had already started to burn off the cool morning mists, and
it was time to head back. Now he seemed to be more relaxed, and as
he drove (no less speedily, I add) we spoke at length about our mutual joys and
frustrations in the business - the help, the suppliers, the hours, and the
fact that hospitality was the best life a man could ask for. We joked
that one day we’d have to "grow up and get a real job" someday.
We laughed at the close scrapes, the times we’d get away with things in order
to have a dinner come out perfectly, and no one knew… I feel a warm sense of
comradeship with this man whom I had only just met. We’ve been living
such similar lives an ocean apart.
We knew that no matter where in the world you are, no matter which
way you worship, you are brothers if you are chefs and restaurateurs.