RB Donkey Love

Red Bikes (Won a month in France), Day 17

Today we were chased by a donkey. It happened at a French farm house restaurant located 2 kilometers down a rock strewn road. We were amazed when we pulled up to it (stone walls spanning a sloping hill, chicken wire everywhere) to find all four of our tires still intact. Not quite sure we were in the right place, we wandered about a bit until we saw a sign tacked to a tree that said “Ferme de Peigros”—a name only slightly different than that given in the guide book. We climbed the stairs. A candy-apple red headed woman greeted us and sat us on the balcony with a 180-degree view of the unmarred valley, topped with acres and acres of forest. There were no other buildings in sight. There was no menu either, but as soon as the food started to arrive, we didn’t care about that at all.

First to hit the table was a salad with lettuces picked from the garden, accompanied by house made pate studded with hazelnuts, prosciutto from last season’s hog, and tapenade with olives from the trees just up the slope. As we ate, a donkey brayed below. Looking over the edge of the balcony, we realized we were eating on top of the barn. That’s the deal with farm house restaurants—there is no marketing gimmick, no mood lighting, the restaurant is just a farmer’s house, and the farmer’s house is going to come with a barn and animals and the whole bit because without those things, there would be nothing to eat.

At our “La Cheverie de Peigros” (the guide book name of the place) the entree course was chicken served up with baked carrots and potatoes gratin. I’ll admit we were relived. The table next to us was eating goat, a main staple of this particular “Cheverie,” and while we had vowed to clean our plates, we were hoping for something that didn’t ba. The cheese course, however, was fully Goatized. It began with an herb crusted fresh chevre and got progressively stronger, ending at a musky orange wheel that tasted like the way the animal in question might smell.

After dessert we were barely able to make it out the door without collapsing and decided it was necessary to take a little walk before braving the “road” again. As we meandered, keeping one eye on our feet to avoid piles of manure, Rooster discovered a pig. A hog actually, who was as big as a St. Bernard and just as friendly. While Rooster squatted down to talk to it (he has a soft spot for dogs and pigs and anything else that has capacity for affection), I heard a pounding from the hill above us. The musical donkey which had so roughly serenaded us through the meal was barreling down the hill. Rooster, busy with his pig, was oblivious. I have a bit of a reputation as a Neurotic Paranoid, and keeping this in mind, I stifled my scream. When the donkey took a last switchback and headed straight for my husband, I threw paranoia to the wind.

We ran. Pounding down the rocky stairs away from the hog’s pen and onto the main dirt road I became acutely aware of the manure problem. Go, go! shouted Rooster. The pate and gratin and goat cheese and chestnut puree we had eaten for dessert was sloshing around in my stomach and I was sure Eyore was going to catch up and kick straight for it. We reached the car and poured in, closing and locking before daring to look. There was Eyore, just up the hill, standing where we had been in front of the hog. From the safety of our car, it looked to us like he was protecting it. Heaven help the farmers when it comes time to slaughter that one for prosciutto.