Milady has finally begun to adjust to la vie francaise – we dined last night at 20:30 instead of our usual routine with dinner at 6PM. There’s nothing wrong with dinner at six, except in Europe most of the restaurants, if they are even open that early, are still serving lunch. At half past eight last night, the bistro was coming alive with Bordelaises chattering away, waiters scurrying to and fro, and the music of the kitchen at full volume. The atmosphere was wonderfully alive and the people-watching superb. But first, we enjoyed a day worthy of comment.

Our day was spent visiting with a recently discovered cousin and touring the monolithic church at Aubeterre sur Dronne. We took our midday meal at L’Hotel De France in Aubeterre, dining on the menu du jour while seated outside on the village square and being astounded. The astonishment was caused by both the meal and the church. The former was a 3 course repast which began with freshly prepared shreds of duck breast wrapped in a wonton skin and flash-fried to crispy perfection. Placed on fresh watercress and graced with a side of Chinese-style duck sauce, it was just so good I would have ordered several more and been deeply satisfied. The main course was a delicious bavette (the iconic small French beefsteak) – mine was delightfully saingnant, Milday’s was too rare for her comfort, but nice glasses of the vin ordinaire made everything all right. Dessert was a light, airy lemon mousse – the acidic citron freshening the palate in preparation for the afternoon’s explorations.

The second astonishment was the monolithic church. For those unfamiliar with monolithic churches, they are churches carved from a single block of stone. There are fine examples all over the area – St. Emelion boasts one too. Actually, the one in Aubeterre is not carved from a single block, but rather into the hillside. Entered through along a wooden bridge crossing the crypt, the nave soars more than 50 feet high and is supported by huge pillars carved by hand. There is a neat little reliquary and chapel with an audio presentation of the history of the church. But the astonishment comes from climbing the interior stairway, walking the gallery, and staring down at the sanctuary. Echoes of the past gently tickled my earbones as we walked along the slightly slippery limestone – and the touch of claustrophobia along my spine didn’t stop until we emerged into the afternoon sun. The ride back to Bordeaux was enhanced by both the operatic soloes and the samba music emanating (at appropriate intervals) from the sound system. Our driver returned us safely in the late afternoon – giving us ample opportunity to stroll back to Cognac Only for souvenirs. (Just in case you were wondering, cognac turns a dragon’s fiery breath a handsome shade of blue and adds a pleasant overtone to the normally sulphuric scent.)

We conferred with the concierge to find the evening’s dining spot – Les Noailles just a scant block from our rooms was his suggestion. Milady wanted to nap and “freshen up” after our extended visit to the countryside, hence the choice of a later, but much more lively hour. The bistro is quintessentially, well, bistro. The enclosed “sidewalk” dining area with the traditionally tiny round tables and too small, slightly embarrassing chairs, gives way to a warm, wood-toned room dominated by a marble and brass bar to the right and a maze of dining tables and banquettes to the left. Tiled floors, overhead fans (turned off at the moment), brass railings and huge potted palms with overhanging fronds complete the setting. Our waiter, red apron around his waist, salt and pepper short hair, mustache and harried expression was exactly as expected.

Smiling indulgently at the human male’s attempt to speak his sacred language (it amazes me that the Mass wasn’t sung in French long before Vatican II) he brought a fine St. Estephe (Beau Site 2007), two glasses, a glass of kir royale for Milday, a bottle of sparkling water, two more glasses and bad news all at once. The kitchen was out of the requested scallops with wild mushrooms, another choice would be necessary. An ongulet (flank steak for the American audience) with sauteed leeks was suggested, as well as pommes frites. The waiter didn’t bat an eye when we decided to share a salad of chevre roti as a first course. The toasted goat cheese on a slice of baguette was smooth and creamy, the accompanying greens varied and clearly very fresh, with a very light vinagrette dressing. Off to an excellent start, the main courses did not disappoint. Milady chose a grilled sole – realizing only as the cutlery was changed that it would arrive unfileted. Normally, de-boning fish is something Milady prefers to leave either to the kitchen, or failing that, a sympathetic headwaiter; left to her own devices, she proved remarkably adept at the task. The fact the sole was grilled to perfection with a simple butter sauce probably didn’t hurt. She pronounced it delicious and looked much happier with her main course than she had been at lunch. I found my ongulet deliciously crisped on the outside, quite saignant on the inside and a marvel of chewy, beefy flavor, even without the sauteed leeks, but better for their presence. The pommes frites were everything one could hope for – crispy, incredibly hot, and ready for salt. Meanwhile, our waiter was briskly serving several tables of three, including one teenage birthday girl who was thoroughly mortified when a large slice of birthday cake, complete with dimming of the lights and a roman candle sparkler, arrived to the strains of “Bonne Anniversaire”.

The platter of desserts arrived and we chose a bistro classic – pommes tartin. Not an American style applepie, apples surrounded by a thick pastry crust, but the French version of thin butter crust underlying thin slices of Granny Smith apples dusted with just enough sugar to crystalize under the broiler. It was idyllic. Our only concern was the length of time it took to receive “l’addition” after it was requested. A table of seven ladies, the youngest of whom was easily into her seventh decade, arrived and were seated adjacent to our table. Our waiter (who was also their waiter) scrambled around trying to meet their expectations – answering questions about the preparation of the dishes, the availablity of substitutions, suggesting a single appropriate wine for seven different dishes and generally doing his job. We waited patiently and enjoyed the show – complete with French soundtrack. It was a lovely evening of Gallic drama and gastronomy played out as only the French can.