Diary entries of a Francophile
'Exciting' restaurants, waving Duras goodbye, and a quatre-quarts cake
In a previous post, I mentioned sharing some diary entries I stumbled upon from a visit to France in 2011 and 2012. Below is the sixth entry. The previous one is here. Each entry will end with one or two recipes written back then. Some have appeared in my books. The recipes will be exclusively available to paid subscribers.
Bonne lecture!
I haven’t written in a few days. Yesterday brought dark skies and heavy rain—but not gloom. After all, we’re in France. Our day started with a drive to the boulangerie for a baguette, which we ate under the terrace roof as it was absolutely pouring.
(Side note: This is an image of the bakery where we always got our pastries. Obviously not taken on that rainy day. I believe it’s no longer there. We’ll see in a month. The last time I was in Duras was in early 2022 when we went house hunting.)
The plan was to head to Bergerac, but despite having been there a hundred times, we somehow took a wrong turn. When Hans mentioned we’d be passing through Castillon-La-Bataille and asked if we should have lunch at the infamous Restaurant des Voyageurs—I couldn’t resist. I joked that I hoped we wouldn’t get food poisoning, and ironically, Hans ended up with a bit of an upset stomach.
(Side note: Before continuing this diary entry, here is the story behind the first time at that restaurant, as written in my book, My Heart’s Home: Memories & Recipes of France.)
Strong stomachs and adventurous tastes
We decided to trust the advice written in the little guest book we found in the house we had rented that summer and headed to a restaurant serving a three-course lunch (complete with a bottle of wine!) for only twelve euros. A bargain! What kind of meal that would be, was anyone’s guess, but for that price, I definitely wasn’t expecting too much. I was, however, extremely curious.
From the outside, the place looked deserted. The weather was beautiful, yet not a single table at the terrace was occupied. An obvious sign of trouble, I thought. But we were brave, and agreeing to give the place a chance, took a seat at one of the empty tables.
After ten minutes of waiting, I decided to send Hans inside to see if they were serving lunch. They were, but they were not about to serve us outside, considering the heat. We were escorted to the back of the restaurant by a gal with a raspy voice, fiery red lipstick (on the teeth more than on the lips), and a charmingly messy coiffure. I braced myself as I followed her, passing the bar full of sweaty men sitting in a cloud of cigarette smoke. The wine was already waiting at the table, open and in a bottle without a label. The only thing I knew was that it was red.
We sat down, poured ourselves a glass and contemplated what was happening around us. There was an older couple to our right. They were finishing some sort of salad, slurping their water (the wine was untouched) and not really saying much to each other.
The tables in front of us, on the other hand, were occupied by chatty groups of men (slightly better looking than the ones at the bar), greedily carving into their meat with their own Opinel knives.
It was fun to sit there and try to figure out what they were talking about. And hey, the wine wasn’t even that bad!
I noticed the large French windows shaded by thin curtains yellowed by cigarette smoke. There were other waitresses walking around, and the peculiar atmosphere combined with their nonchalance suddenly made me feel unusually at home. And the more wine I drank, the stronger that feeling became.
Half a bottle later, the messy-haired waitress came back to announce that the plat du jour was côtes de porc à la moutarde or an omelette and informed us that unfortunately, the starter was finished. It was a bit of a disappointment, but at that point I was just happy there was actually going to be any eating.
By the time the garlic-smothered chops arrived for us and the omelette for Kirstie, the wine was almost finished. Happily we tucked in, not minding at all that for the rest of the day, our breath would keep us from saying a single word to anyone (except each other).
Halfway through the meal, I remember looking at Hans and asking him what he thought about the food. He didn’t say much and instead poured me another glass of wine, which came with a complimentary dead fly. That didn’t seem to bother me, though. Seriously, has anyone ever died from an innocent little fly?
When we left the restaurant, it was a little after two in the afternoon. I really can’t remember much about the rest of the day except that my head was spinning and that every pore in my body was wreaking of garlic.
Only later did Hans and I confess to each other that we were glad we were spared a serious bout of food poisoning.
Back to the diary entry:
You always hope places like that will surprise you for the better, but they’re not exactly “serious” restaurants. Sometimes you get lucky; sometimes you don’t. Kirstie and I had brochette de magret, and Hans had the beef version. He said it was tough, and the last bite didn’t taste quite right. Still, our duck was pretty good, and the waiter (a man this time) kept us entertained—he spoke every language under the sun and had a slightly quirky character that I found oddly endearing.
Later that day, we stopped in Bergerac for a short visit and a glass of wine.
Today, we returned to Le Croq Magnon, hoping to relive last year’s incredible omelettes. Sadly, there was a new chef, and they weren’t half as good.
Still, it felt lovely to be back in Bergerac, and we’ve officially decided: we can’t stay away. We’ll be back next year. No doubt about it.
(Side note: Le Croq Magnon no longer exists, and judging from old reviews, it really went downhill before they closed.)
Tonight, we’ve made a reservation at Le Cabri—perhaps for the last time this year. Until tomorrow!
Our last day in Duras. It’s only been two weeks since we left Almere, but I swear it feels like two months.
As I write this, I’m in the car on the way to Orléans. We left Duras around 9:30 this morning, and I truly had to make an effort not to cry. Things feel so uncertain right now, and I honestly have no idea how we’ll manage a permanent move. But I have faith—and I know that it can move mountains.
Yesterday, our final day in France, felt like a preview of autumn. It was rainy and cool. People were wearing coats and thick sweaters. We decided to search for the town where we bought Kirstie’s hat that first year. Unsure of exactly where it was, we explored a few places we’d missed before finally finding it: Monflanquin.
The last time we were there, it was hot and humid—quite the contrast from now. We had lunch in the same corner restaurant where we had coffee last year. I ordered a simple salade niçoise, and Hans and Kirstie had galettes. Afterward, we drove to Agen, one of the few towns we hadn’t visited in past years. It was a pleasant city, though our visit was brief.
Hans mentioned it might clear up around six, and I really hoped we’d make it back in time for Kirstie to have one last swim. Sadly, that didn’t happen. While we had a brief window of sunshine in Agen, the weather turned worse again by the time we got back to Duras.
One bittersweet surprise: Zaz was performing that evening for the Prune Festival—I would’ve loved to have seen her. But instead, we were gifted something else: a majestic natural spectacle. Hints of fall shimmered in the trees, vineyards, and golden cornfields, and the sky—oh, the sky!—was a dramatic mix of dark clouds, piercing light, and even a few rainbows.
I felt tears welling again, especially when Hans pulled over by the château in Duras to take some final photos. I knew then that this would be our last time here this year. Sometimes, you have to be strong.
We finished the evening with a final dinner at Le Cabri, seated inside—just like that very first year.
I secretly hoped we’d sit indoors again; I find it so cozy and romantic. It turned out to be a dinner I’ll never forget. Mainly because of the conversation we had with Peter, the owner, who sat with us long after the last customer had gone. He told us how he and his family came to France intending not to move here—and yet, here they are.
“Life is what happens while you’re busy making other plans.”
In about an hour, we’ll arrive in Orléans. This is a beautiful, if somewhat heartbreaking, ending to another unforgettable French summer. Our holiday has come to an end—but our hopes and dreams of someday living here most certainly haven’t.
Today’s recipe: Quatre-quarts
Cake is medicine for the soul. This classic French cake is a beauty in all its simplicity, but if you wish, you can jazz it up with citrus zest, dried fruits or dark chocolate. For a special French touch in the summer, I sometimes add dried cherries and lavender.