Red Bikes (Won a month in France), Day 3
They call the wind in Provence “the Mistral" and it makes me hungry. Rooster and I have launched our trip with a technique called "wander dining." That's when you wander aimlessly until it's time to dine. This evening we wandered nearly one full block until we rounded a corner and found Le Vieux Bistro.
“Bonjour,” we said, in unison to the host. “Bon soir,” he replied. Heads turned. A brief silence ensued. “Bon soir!” we replied. The other guests resumed eating. The host smiled and seated us at a quiet table for six, tucked away in the back. We ordered the prix fixe without understanding any of it and sat back to see what arrived.
The first dish was, to the best of my taste-budability, a creamy sorrel soup. It was served in a delicate two-ounce sipping glass with a straw. Next appeared small mounds of chopped fish wrapped in cured salmon and served in petite tulip shaped bowls. The capper in the pre-entrée selection was the plumpest fig I have ever seen stuffed with silky chevre and a spicy basil leaf so thick you could almost eat it like a chip.
The main courses were thankfully not lamb tripe, which we later learned was an option on the menu, and instead consisted of two crispy pieces of monkfish flanked by a row of cherry tomatoes roasted whole on the vine and also a duck breast cooked rosé and surrounded with more of that luscious fig—this time pureed into a thick, blushing sauce.
Suffice it to say, dessert was crazy. There were five different kinds served to us, but I was just about passing out in my chair by that point, so I devoured my chocolate pot-de-crème and handed over the rest to the bottomless pit I now call husband. I think it's going to be a good honeymoon.
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