I PARKED IN THE main square of Saint Symphorien and made my way to the cleaner’s to pick up the clothes that had barely survived the encounter with what I firmly considered to be sangliers. There was no way I was going to admit being almost killed by amorous pigs.
“Had to mend lot of rips and tears,” said the girl, explaining the amount of the bill. They had done a good job and the pants and jacket were serviceable, though not qualified for banquet occasions.
On my way back to the car, I was edging past a newsstand that took up half the sidewalk, as do many in France. It had the usual array of gaudy-cover magazines and I was several paces beyond the stand when I realized that something had stirred my memory. I turned back to the stand and studied the display.
Then I saw it, the red and black cover of the popular magazine Paris Éclat. It was one of those periodicals that relentlessly pursue the famous and the wealthy. Many such publications would expire from lack of circulation if it were not for the shenanigans of the British Royal Family, but on this occasion it was a French face that had caught my eye. The caption read, “Joseph Tourcoing,” and no wonder my subconscious had been jogged—he was the silver-haired man I had seen taking the box that Monika had brought to the Petit Manoir.
I bought the magazine and hurried back to the car. Tourcoing was almost as famous a name in French cuisine as Bocuse, Robuchon, or Guerard. I read through the article on him.
Tourcoing was born in Pau and grew up in the shadow of the Pyrenees. He went to a small, local cooking school because nothing else interested him. He found himself becoming more and more fascinated by cooking and went to work in a restaurant in Saint Jean Pied-de-Port. From there he progressed to Biarritz and rose to popularity at the famed Miramar Hotel. Seeking wider experience, he worked with the renowned Gerard Boyer at Les Crayeres in Reims and with Alain Senderens in Paris. In 1986, when Senderens sold his restaurant, l’Archestrate, Tourcoing put his life savings into opening his own place, Le Reveillon.
He was a purist, the article said. His oysters came from Quiberon, his prawns from Roscoff in Brittany, and even his salt was special—he bought only the special gray Guerande salt that has been collected since the seventeenth century by workers called paludiers using long wooden rakes and working only by hand. Tourcoing’s own favorite specialty dish was roasted duck served on a bed of its own crushed giblets with vegetables.
One of the luminaries on the Paris scene, he was innovative and always eager to experiment despite retaining a love of the traditional, the article continued. He had just gained a third star from Michelin.
So why his visit to Le Petit Manoir and why was he masquerading as a butcher from Castellane? What was in the box and why had Monika pushed the Maserati to its limit in order to bring it to him? I now had a lot more questions to add to the long list that already baffled me.
Perhaps the box contained gold coins like the one I had held in my hand. Maybe Tourcoing was planning a chain of restaurants and he needed financing for them … I put a stop to this speculation. It could go on and on.
I recalled seeing a bookshop on the next corner. I locked the car and went to it. I found the section on travel guides and located a shelf of the excellent French Entrée series, each book dealing with a different part of France. I selected the book on Provence and turned to the pages on Palliac.
Le Petit Manoir was the first restaurant to be listed, as befitted its status. The service and decor were given high marks and the food was highly recommended. The reader was warned that the prices were elevated even though the quality justified them. Some of the dishes were described and reference was made to the extensive offerings of foods containing truffles. Le Petit Manoir was “a truffle lover’s heaven,” said the author. It was the concluding paragraph that leaped out from the page, though:
“Alfred Rostaing, the owner and head-chef of Le Petit Manoir, continues to improve on his own high standards,” the entry stated, “and if he maintains this rise, he may soon eclipse even his cousin, Joseph Tourcoing of Le Reveillon fame in Paris.”
So … the two of them were cousins. What did that mean? It meant nothing right now but I filed the fact in my mind and was returning the book to its place when my stomach reminded me that it was lunchtime. I opened Entrée to Provence again and saw that it showed three places recommended for lunch. One of them was Le Chaudron, not far from here.
It was a delightful place with vaulted ceilings that dated back to when it was a wine cellar and shop, a plaque informed me. Now it had a reputation for seafood and the menu included bourride, the thick, creamy fish stew; baudroie, a Mediterranean fish that is no longer too common; grilled sardines; and another unusual dish, poutargue, a pâté made from red mullet roes, blended with salt and baked in the sun. It is then formed into small balls and cooked quickly in hot oil.
There aren’t many opportunities to enjoy poutargue for it is a specialty of the Bouches du Rhône area, and is rarely found elsewhere. I ordered it to start and as a main course, a tuna steak Provençale style. For many people, tuna means opening a can, but there is no resemblance between that product and a fresh steak of tuna. The fish grows to three feet in length and its flesh is firm and savory. Being a little oily, it is ideally suited to the Provençal style of cooking which calls for studding it with anchovy fillets, marinating in olive oil and lemon juice, sautéing with onion, garlic, and white wine, then baking in the oven, basting frequently.
It was a very good meal and I drank a half bottle of a Willesford white wine with it, the one carrying the name Pont Vieux on the label. It was surprisingly good, the reason for my surprise being the unbelievably low price of eleven francs. I had avoided it until now because I had assumed that at such a price, it would be barely drinkable. Instead it was a fine Chardonnay, well balanced and as the wine buffs would describe it in their hyperbole, “… with flavors of oak and vanilla, finishing with ripe pear and a vibrant acidity.”
Why was it selling at such a low price? The question bothered me all through the meal even though it did not spoil my enjoyment of it. I don’t let anything do that. The waitress brought a fine-looking Tarte Tatin to the next table and I was sorely tempted but resisted manfully. Some describe it as an “upside-down apple pie,” but when well prepared, it is considerably better than that.
At La Relais du Moulin, Madame Ribereau had a message for me. It was from Monika and I called the number given. There came a series of clicks, then some musical notes. A buzz followed, then one of those silences that only telephones can provide—a silence that is not a silence. On this occasion, no heavy breathing followed and I supposed it was a satellite relay telephone link. Perhaps Monika was in some impenetrable jungle either driving an all-terrain vehicle at an outrageous speed or modeling for Christian Dior. She came on the line promptly, though, and wasted no time getting to the point.
“I’m doing a photographic assignment at a Provençal fair,” she said crisply. “Traditional dances, displays, exhibits … there’s a wine tasting, too, and some good food. Thought you might like to come along—it’s your kind of thing.”
“Where is it?”
“An old château, only a hundred kilometers or so from the Relais. It’s a big event. I think you’ll enjoy it.”
“Sounds great,” I said.
“Good. Pick you up about ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”
“Okay, I’ll be ready.”
“Pack an overnight bag,” she said breezily. “I have an invitation—the accommodation there is said to be excellent.”
The connection broke with a few more clicks and tones.