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Bicycle GourmetGourmet Moments

Producer/Director/Author Christopher Strong shares the human, senic, cultural, culinary, and historic “Treasures” discovered during the filming of his TV series – BICYCLE GOURMET'S TREASURES OF FRANCE.

Gourmet Moments

Of all the French words/phrases that have been universally adopted, one is “first among equals.” It is the phrase that so perfectly describes social sins, that it has joined such mondiale stalwarts as sex, taxi, and radar. The phrase, of course, is “Faux Pas.”

We’ve all made them dear reader. Have we not? From the harmless tie in the soup, to the irretrevieable whisper of the wrong name at the magic moment. (If you get my drift. And I think you do.) In my gourmet ramblings, I’ve committed many. Here are three : I am the guest of a Father/Son chef team who run a medium sized/priced hotel restaurant in the Provencal Alps.

After a welcoming verre with Dad and junior, I settle into my ground floor palace for a short siesta. (Hey….I’ve just ridden five mountainous hours in forty degree heat!) As the Sun lowers the wattage and dinner looms, I torture myself with some Tai Chi exercises on the lawn. The hearty “Bonjour” of Papa chef pierces my zen-not concentration. He waves in passing; adding with a wagging finger : “Fait attention du Soliel!” The dining room glows with a genuine familial ambience. Two waiters fuss over me during the preliminaries. Then junior chef himself appears to take my order. The tourists from Des Moines at the next table freeze in mid-forkful. I chose the lamb. Snatching my menu with an Imperial grin; junior chef does a half bow from the waist and scurries stove-ward.

The Idaho escapees have now abandoned eating for furtive whispers. I sniff my wine regally. Impressed by the first round of the dual chef’s efforts, expectation (and saliva) are rising as the lamb arrives. Three velvet medallions. Partially submerged in a pool of aromatic essence. Rosemary. Thyme. Unknown herbal wonders. First bite. The doors of gourmet heaven opened. Second bite. I saw Escoffier himself. Surfing the room, I groked we were all happy campers. Even the Des Moines. Now eagerly destroying their dessert. Then, a feeling came over me, to which I know, dear reader, you will relate. A feeling that rarely emerges. But when it does, is unmistakeable in both intensity and intent. A feeling that is truly undeniable. It is the feeling that informs you, that at this perfect moment, in this perfect place, in front of all these strangers, that you, are going to bring up your cookies! You – Bicycle Gourmet – former exotic stranger from the far away lands…….are about to – HURL! The waiter sussed my discomfort. (My color, perhaps?) I rose slowly, casually, with my best always-turn-this-color-when-I-eat-lamb smile. And strode confidently toward the exit stairs. The feeling persisted. But I was in control. A jaunty wave as I passed reception and reached the stairs. Suddenly, I was not in control. Bolting down the stairs, I reached the bottom in two giant leaps. Just as the door opened and my lamb exited. Decorating the shoes of a well coiffed matron just entering. Fortunately, head down, I was unrecognizable as I stumbled forth into the starry, starry night. Any respectable Asian, would, of course, have fallen on his sword then and there. But, alas, I, white trash with no blade, was destined for a more extreme punishment. Lying awake all night, wondering how I was going to face my hosts in the morning! The night’s agony produced no solution. Naturally, I passed on breakfast. Brain immobile. Body Fragile. I hid in my room ‘til just before noon. Then, after successfully slithering unnoticed to the middle of the lawn – they got me! It was Papa chef. He beamed a big smile. Then, again wagging his Fatherly finger intoned : “Fait attention du Soliel, eh?” Hal-a-freakin-loo-yeah! Saved by French culinary hubris! Bien sur…….it would never occur to a French chef that his cooking could be responsible , so, it must have been, too much sun! Lamb and I now have a distant relationship. I pass them. In their fields. At a distance.

In every field of human endeavour there are stars. And Superstars. Those who have left “excellence” in the dust, and jetted on to “exceptional.” Chef “X” was a superstar. Idolized by foodies, critics and chef “wannabe’s.” Respected by colleagues. An innovator who never lost his edge. Cookbooks. Videos. Seminars. Multiple International restaurants. Honors up the yin-yang. Chef X was truly the culinary Big Man on Campus. And I was the salivating freshman stepping up to his plate!

In my, dare we call it a “career?” (I think not) of “gourmenting”, I’ve found that the phrase : “power behind the throne” is particularly applicable to chef’s Wives. Like their counterparts in other personal/professional unions, the chef’s Wives run the business, while the Men, dumb thuds that we are, simply do what we can. Mrs. X. fit the profile. Beauty Queen looks of the twenties, matured into immaculately turned out businesswoman of the mid forties. Next to Mrs. X, a slight, unsmiling, white-aproned man. Early thirties. (A “May-December marriage?” and this guy is “May?”) Was he the illustrious one? Mrs. X was mercifully brief as we discussed the filming program.

The Man in white did his Sphinx imitation. I waited for the introduction that never came. Finally, stepping up to the plate, I asked the, to me, obvious question : “When would it be possible for Me to meet chef X?” The Man in white surfed the carpet. A graceful, but solemn smile from Mrs. X.“I’m afraid that won’t be possible …….You see……….Chef X ………..is dead.” Well, who knew??? Just everybody in the World. Except the Dufus who’s typing this!

My most memorable French meal(so far) was “sans fromage.” The monster meal began in Capt’n Bob’s office. During my “post-Tamara” period. The good Doctor, being a good Doctor, had come in on his day off to lay healing hands on “the-man-who-comes-from-far.” (And pays with a chicken.) An hour past rendezvous – No sign of chicken man. Bob’s eyes glaze over with the “I’d rather be sailing look.” I play the straight man: “So…..uh….where’s the wind today?” “On vacation.” He replies morosely. Staring vacantly ahead, it’s clear the Capt’n’s enthusiasm for this day, is as becalmed as his boat. How to pull him out of his funk? Only one arrow left in my meagre quiver of possibilities. A longshot. But my only one. “Why don’t you call Olivier?” Bob has heard this suggestion often. And always found a reason not to call. But today, his face lights up like a New Year’s Roman candle. Becalmed funk be history! Bob’s tempermental Puegot, obviously sensing the importance of this mission, behaved as a Lady should.

Bob’s other lady – “Wally” – was pacing in small,tight circles As we pulled in beside an expensive, red Italian something. Her considerable beauty could not completely mask the reality that inside, she had more free-floating anxiety than a netless tightrope walker. Bob, the original “Mr. Hang Loose”, slid out of the Puegot, like he was body surfing at Waikiki. (Do opposites really attract?....uh…….yup!) The maitre’d sniffed imperiously as we approached. Obviously Wally was not the object of his disdain. Favoring us with his best industrial smile he huffed: “Et vous…………………dans le liste?” Mr. Hang Loose just smiled. “Monsieur Cares.” The gatekeeper scanned “le liste” theatrically. Then slowly, raising his head, mouth open, his face became that of one who thinks he is eating a radish, but, is, in fact, chomping the World’s hottest Chili Pepper. “Oui…

Monsieur Cares!.......Absolutement, Monsieur Cares!!.....Sil Vous Plait ….attendre une petit seconde !!! With Olympic speed he bolted inside. Seconds later, a beaming Olivier emerged in his chef’s whites. Striding toward us, arms outstretched. “Cher Bob! Quelle honor!!” After kissing Bob on both cheeks, Olivier delicately clasped Wally’s hands, and arching his head as He gave her an appreciate “once over” purred: “Madame…vous etre trop beaux!” Wally smiled demurely. But did’nt contradict him. Quelle surprise! As Olivier led us to our sea-view corner table, the assembled multitude were transfixed. Naturally wondering : “Are they………….’somebody?’” Well,…..Wally could have been an actress/singer/news reader. But, Bob and I? Talk about an “odd couple.” He’s dark and medium. I’m tall and blonde. And neither of us, as presentable as we were, would have been mistaken for GQ cover boys.

But then, whenever I’ve spotted somebody who’s…..well…..“somebody”, they’re usually so “dressed down”, that it takes a while to grok their “somebody-ness.” I won’t bore you with a course by course run-down. Suffice to say – this was Olivier’s “Tour de Fork.” We were denied menus. The great man simply kept the great grub comin’. Accompanied by appropriate wines of all colors. (And there are more than three.) Served in Crystal, Gold and Silver. Two waiters and a waitress hovered constantly. Undeniably, this spectacle was unexpected entertainment for our dining partners. Brains strained attempting to nail our “somebody-ness.” Their puzzlement was only half of my entertainment. The better half being contributed by Wally. With her constant whine that this couldn’t possibly be “on the house.” As indeed it was. And had been for the two years that Bob had been “quacking” Olivier’s back.

Our “Grande Bouffe” began around one. By five thirty, only we remained. Olivier, ferrying a wicker basket of freshly baked goodies, joined us for b.s. and coffee. The next night I was back in my little kitchen in Bob’s office. Sitting at the postage stamp table with the red and white checked plastic “cloth.” I had some bread and reasonable wine. Judy had left a tin of something her girls wouldn’t eat. Fois Gras du Canard. And so it glows.

Until next time, this is the Bicycle Gourmet wishing you great Adventures!

MORE “TREASURES OF FRANCE” at www.soulmuse21.com

More articles from the Bicycle Gourmet.

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