Birthday misadventures

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It was all so carefully planned. Malcolm’s birthday was going to begin with chocolatines fresh from the baker’s and coffee, followed by a healthy tramp across some Pyrenean foothill, working up an appetite for lunch at a restaurant of my choice. Erm…. I hadn’t got much further than that, but just as well really, because almost nothing went according to schedule. Apart from breakfast.

The first disappointment was the weather. Soot-grey clouds sulked over Mont d’Olmes, limbering up for the rain that started gently enough by 11, but soon became torrential squalls lasting most of the rest of the day. DIY as usual, then. By quarter to 12, I was chivvying Malcolm into the car to take him to his unknown destination. He was intrigued. Would we stop at La Bastide de Bousignac to try the restaurant there? No. Mirepoix then. Nope, been to most of the eating places there. Besset? No.

At Coutens though, we pulled in to a restaurant car park, to find my careful research had come to nothing. I’d been told the food there was good. The website confirmed it was open for lunch on Tuesdays throughout the year. But there were no vans in the car park, no lights at the windows. There was, though, a hand written notice pinned on the door. ’’Exceptionellement ‘, it explained, the restaurant would be closed today.

What to do? Back to Mirepoix, or on to Pamiers? We decided to go on, and aimed for a restaurant I’d spotted several times as we passed through Les Pujols. ‘Chez Pierrot’ had few vans outside either, but inside, the place was crowded with ouvriers in their working clothes, and looked promising.

After a few moments, a carafe of wine and a large pan of vegetable soup were plonked on our table. Nothing refined at all. Huge carrots had been roughly chopped into 3 or 4 pieces, leeks into maybe 2 or 3, potatoes too, and simmered in a tasty stock. A small pastry parcel, enveloping fish, and coated in a bright mustardy sauce appeared next, and after that, for the first time we had a choice. For Malcolm petit salé aux lentilles (salt pork with lentils), and for me, tartiflette, a wonderfully cheesy and savoury potato bake. Could we finish our platefuls? Not a chance. We thought they should have portions for The Working Man, out chopping logs or whatever all morning, and more modest ones for the likes of us. Nevertheless, we both found room, somewhere, for crème caramel. Somehow, our disappointment at finding the first restaurant closed seemed to have vanished. Chez Pierrot is firmly on the list for future visits. If you come to visit, we may take you there.

After that, we spent an afternoon dodging the rain by visiting a tile warehouse and M. Bricolage, a French equivalent of B&Q. As we came away from Pamiers having bought tiles for the kitchen with no disagreement whatever, we considered the time well spent. Then it was back home via a very fine baker to buy decadent cakes for afternoon tea (Harrogate readers: think Dumouchel), and an unheard of luxury, never before indulged in while we’ve been in France - a copy of yesterday’s Guardian. A cosy evening with the paper in front of the wood burning stove wasn’t at all a bad way to end the day. The birthday boy didn't think so, anyway.

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