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Getting
out of Avignon
We got up early and
went down to get breakfast. The Hotel D'Horloge is
a great place. It has a large elevator and we were
advised to get off on the First Floor (the one above the
ground floor). From there we could walk down steps
into the breakfast room and not have to go outside into
the weather to get food. Marsha pushed the button
and we didn't go anywhere. Then we did. The
elevator car rattled, hummed and whirred its way down to
our morning meal. It stopped and went nowhere.
The doors would not open, and Marsha pushed the
emergency alarm button. It gave a short blast of a
siren, and then went to emergency lighting. I
tried prying the doors open, and discovered a
cinder-block wall.
The elevator had
doors at the front and the back. I eventually
tried the other set and we got out on the ground floor.
This would have to be an omen, some warning that we
should pay attention to. So, Marsha worried about
the elevator crashing or stranding us, used the stairs.
Neither of these events occurred. We did get a
taxi to take us to the TGV station to catch a 10:12 am
train back to Nice.
We had about half an
hour to kill at the train station. We read the
sign to see where it was boarding. It said that it
was delayed till 1:00. We were not happy,
but found a place to squat and waited. I
eventually went back to see the board and discovered my
error. The train was delayed 1:00 hour not TILL
1:00 o'clock.
I tried listening and
comprehending the announcements on the Public Address
system. Eventually, a train, bound to Nice was
announced for departure. We ran and got on the car
number printed on our tickets and tried to find our
seats. They were occupied. We finally asked
a train official what was going on. We had got on
the WRONG train to Nice. This was an EXPRESS
train, delayed from earlier, and we were on the wrong
train heading to the right town. We found empty
seats, and rode to Nice.
Marsha settled in
next to Claire. Claire is 20, lives in Paris and
is an economics major in university. Her family
lives in Nice, and the holidays are calling her home.
She said her sister won't be there this year, and my
heart sank a little thinking that she had departed.
Her sister got married in September and packed up her
husband to circumnavigate the globe over nine months.
His family is from Bogotá, and not in the drug trade.
Go figure. The newlyweds cashed in all their
wedding bucks and whatever else they could scrape
together for the trip. Great idea for a honeymoon.
Claire was a wealth
of information, and we were glad to have made her
acquaintance. We grabbed a taxi back to the
apartment and decided to go grab lunch at one of the
MANY restaurants around the corner from us. We
went in to the Flagman. The cook took our order
for wine, and sent the waiter to our table. This
place was a combination of French and Italian.
Marsha ordered Spaghetti Bolognese and I ordered
Fruit de Mer (seafood pasta). Marsha asked the
cook to repeat the name because he said it sexy in a 55
year old cook in a t-shirt kind of way. I asked if
he were Italian. Nope, he was from Alsace.
Food came. Mine
had a big shrimp on top with a ring of mussels and tons
of tiny shellfish in a saphron and crème fraiche sauce.
It was great. As we were finishing our lunch, the
kitchen staff were starting theirs. The waiter and
the cook were sitting down to their meal. They
served us coffee and Marsha asked what they were eating.
The cook, a proud, but not arrogant man, took us to his
table to show us what they was eating. One of the
plates was Pot au Feu, the next days Special. He
poured us shots of vodka from the Ukraine, that featured
chili pepper. He had the young waiter get us lemon
wedges to go in the booze. This was all for our
health. It would aid digestion. Well, if it
is a health issue, we had to comply. He dragged us
into the kitchen to see the next day's special "resting"
on the stove. What a great kitchen. Clean,
neat and a large pot of beef and veggies on the fire.
He had us sample the broth. Clear, simple and
delicate. Subtle seasoning, and a good wine and
vodka buzz were the order of the afternoon. He
kept telling us to relax and stay as we were getting up
to go. He really didn't do English and my French
is barely adequate. Food sort of transcends the
language barriers. So does mutual respect and
alcohol. He kissed my wife on both cheeks and we
stumbled into the mid-day sun.
I love seeing cooks
ply their craft. No pretense to this guy's dishes.
Simple, traditional cooking. One can only imagine
the duration of the waiter's years working with this
craftsman. Is he learning the trade, or just
waiting for the rest of his life to happen. If he
chooses to feed people, he could pick a worse teacher
for the basics. Food, both flavor and presentation
are important, but so is ambience. Not enough can
be said about the warmth of lunch at the Flagman.
These guys got it right. It is like eating in a
cousin's kitchen. He would have given us all of
his recipes, knowing that the important ingredient can
not be taught, Experience, passion and patience is
evident in every bite. You cant tell that to a
visitor in your eatery.
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