Cher Journal,
Here I am in Brittany just hanging out. I love the name of the bar tabac in the background--Du Loup which is basically the Wolf. Very old and charming towns here, lots of stone walls and slate roofs. No more tile roofs as we are now in the north. Each town seems to have a pharmacy, a bakery, a bar tabac for smoking and getting a drink and a newspaper, a town hall and maybe a butcher shop and other assorted small shops. All the small villages have narrow streets where the doors of the houses open right on the sidewalk and all the houses have adjoining walls so you have a block of houses, a street and then another block or the countryside--depending on the size of the village.
Coffee, I do love my coffee. Today I brought my own cup. In France you don't see coffee to go in paper cups. You sit down and take a time out to enjoy the world going by while you sip your excellent coffee with hot milk and two tubes of sugar. Yes, sugar comes in long tubes for the most part, paper tubes that you rip the end off of and dump into your coffee for that milky sweet wonderful taste. Almost everyone also serves a little treat with the coffee, a chocolate or a little cookie. I could get to to like this lifestyle...
Ah, the pig of Yolanda and Charlick. The Wolf bar and tabac was at the top of this diary entry, so it seems fitting the pig would be here too. This is not one of the three little pigs as there were five of them in the pen. This was a farm that had sheep, a goat, mules and pigs. The pigs are raised to feed guests in the restaurant. We had pork pate one night from one of this guy's ancestors and it was great stuff.The pigs were having breakfast the day I visited them and they were having it all over them as they were basically up to their hocks in their trough while they shoveled in the food. It reminded me of a certain fast food restaurant in America which has a clown hanging around most of the time. The clown is making inroads here in France but I stayed as far away as possible from chez hamburger and frites.
Frites are what we call French fries and boy are they ever good here. You see moules and frites at every restaurant. Moules are steamed mussels and they seem to be almost a national dish. Tasty little morsels and we ate our fair share of them from Bordeaux to Paris. I loved watch ing French people eat them. Moule eating is a science I think. They use one empty shell as pincers to pull the meat of out the mussels. This is about the only time I saw French people touch food with their hands. Most everything is eaten very tidily with a knife and fork--including fruit and cheese.
On to Honfleur tomorrow, I can't wait.
posted by Rocket Davis @ 10:49 AM
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