My First and Last Restaurant Review

Hamlet, the Old Dog, Learns a New Trick 2017. Acrylic on paper, 17 x 23"

[A few years ago I applied for a job as food critic for a local newspaper, and was asked to send a sample restaurant review. I wrote about a meal I had in Southwestern, France while on artist residency.
I didn’t get an interview:( In video following the review, you can hear our band Rose and the Amateurs practice from the garage. The footage is from that month I stayed in France. The shots where you see my wine drunk feet walking on the street were taken just after dinner in downtown Cahors.]

Review of Restaurant Auberge du vieux Cahors

Last October I traveled to Southwest France for a brief artist residency in a 12th century Bastide. My first stop after a five hour train ride from Paris was Cahors, a small city on the Lot River about 50 kilometers east of my final destination. I would spend a night there and take the bus out to my residency the next morning. Even with a severe case of travel fatigue, I was determined to get out and indulge in some local architecture and cuisine.

At the hotel I was told that all of Cahors, its shops and restaurants, practically shut down on Sundays. This was my second reminder that day of the popular misconception Americans have that France is a wild place for closet nudists and surrealists to let go and unwind after a lifelong buildup of Catholic behaviorism. Hours before in Paris I noticed the streets clean and clear on Sunday morning. An old man, dressed for church, was picking out the day’s bread at a corner patisserie. My cab companion explained to me how Paris is closed on Sundays for families.

Back in Cahors the hotel attendant recommended the one and only restaurant open to travelers like myself. It was a walk across the city to its east side where eight hundred year old alleyways conducted business in an economy known especially for its Malbec, or the cherished black wine of medieval Popes.

Not a car passed by on my walk across town, which was eerily silent for 6 p.m. Restaurant Auberge du vieux Cahors (Restaurant Inn of Old Cahors) sat across the street from a flowered courtyard where two alleys of the old town converged. A medieval structure built before the time of the Iroquois, it had the omnipresent French bistro red awning with French doors letting me know my credit card was accepted. Wood tables and chairs were a bit too close together for my comfort, and the room was painfully quiet for a hyper-sensitive France newbie like me. However, the low, warm lighting was just the thing to ease my traveler’s anxiety. Across the room, behind an old oak bar, the waiter and his manager stood wiping down silverware while attending the diner’s needs. The boy waiter, (not a day older than sixteen), approached me at the door and accepted my very bad French with a nod, pointing out a corner table, of which I was grateful, for it hid me from the view of the other patrons, the French speaking ones, comfortably seated at their place on earth.

The boy, neither rude nor polite, yet not speaking, handed me a dinner and wine menu. Without opening the latter I asked for a glass of Malbec which warranted a smile from him and a relief in me of getting past another traveling dread—trying to communicate in an unknown language. The dinner menu was another challenge I feared would out me as a clumsy Americain. It listed traditional fare, straight out of Gastronomique. About thirty entrees of different meats, poultry and fish matched with a specific sauce. I could have been anywhere at anytime since the first days of the revolution. I imagined myself dining between the world wars with the pointillist painter Henri Martin, a Cahors native.

• Filet de Boeuf sauces morilles (filet of beef with morel sauce)

• Escalopes de Ris de Veau sauce Porto (veal sweetbread cutlets with a port sauce)

I chose the familiar (or so I presumed) house entree: Canard Cassolette, at 21 euro.

Oops. Another language mishap. I have made “cassoulet”, the traditional white bean and pork dish that appears simple enough but takes days to prepare. However, “cassolette” in French means a small, heatproof porcelain container with handles used for savory ragouts of all varieties. A few minutes into my wine the waiter came back to take my order, after seating an older couple from southern England, who I saw earlier on the other side of town taking pictures of the 13th century Pont Valentré.

Ah, English! My confidence soared, another glass of wine poured, and I was thankful for conversation, yet hoped I was not putting off the couple who might have been in Cahors for reasons other than small talk with a chatty American. The waiter arrived with the cassolette, and I went silent while eating, enjoying what I dreamed would be a traditional French meal in France.

I was not disappointed. The black enamel cassolette was served on a large white plate along with a homemade fettuccine pasta tossed with butter and fresh parsley, whipped butternut squash, and sauteéd zucchini and onions. A crunchy piece of baguette was served on the side.

The cassolette held a rich, deep flavored brown sauce with tender escallops of succulent slow-braised duck. I was tempted to spoon the sauce into the fettuccine, and did so with careful awareness. This was my first trip to France, and I knew from research that I had better slow down through meals and savor my food and wine. I set down the fork and knife many times throughout dinner, sitting back, pleasing the senses, sipping the “black wine”. The sauce made the meal. From personal experience and years of stock preparation I was able to appreciate a three-day sauce that I have heard is routine in many French kitchens. Not so in Central N.Y. One would be hard-pressed to find a well made sauce in the best restaurants of Troy or Binghamton, cities equivalent in size to Cahors. I just happened upon one in the only restaurant open on a Sunday night in Southwestern France. Probably not a coincidence.

Tales about butter use among the French are not exaggerated. It was heavy. The squash, sautéed zucchini, and the fettuccine were glistening with fat. Delicious, yet without the wine to break it down, (a third glass already poured), it could prove deadly on my walk back to the hotel.

I soon realized that although I came to paint religiously at a residency, I would have to allot at least an hour a night for supper with my hostess. France is slow food, especially in the homes, which I would come to find out later in my stay. In a world where daily fine dining is rare among the peasantry, the French are blessed with a classless cuisine. In the United States French cooking is elitist. In France, it’s dinner.

The dessert menu was less endowed, which I always consider a good thing. Cakes stale quickly. Custards leech liquid. Ice cream crystalizes.

My choices were: Ile Flottante (floating islands), Carpaccio d'Ananas Frais (carpaccio of fresh pineapple), or tarte tatin (French apple upside down cake). I chose the latter, to compare it with mine at home, which is a Throop staple every October after a day of apple picking.

It was served warm with fresh lemon whipped cream. The crust was buttery, the apples browned, the juice syrupy. I wondered what apples were featured, (I use Golden Delicious), but would never attempt that conversation with my waiter. It was enough just being delicious.

Coffee was offered yet I refused, and asked for my bill in what three glasses of wine assured me was perfect French. I bid adieu to my new English friends, and strolled back to the hotel a great man. The entire French Restaurant experience plus gratuity cost 52 euro (about $71.00 USD). Well worth the trip to the only restaurant open in Cahors on a Sunday night.

Differing Interpretations of Freedom 2017. Acrylic on paper, 15 x 23"