Market day

Just a brief update to the blog, because I have just finished lunch. It comprised nearly all the items I bought at the market I went to today. This market is held twice a week in Luxembourg, normally in the Place de Guillaume. I was foxed slightly to arrive and find the square full of temporary restaurants (I think – perhaps a Lux reader will be able to provide more specialised knowledge).

So, having already got it wrong about the buses in a Saturday and obliged Dearly Beloved to leave work and take me into the Gare, from where I caught a bus to the La Ville Haut, I regrouped, had breakfast of  croissant and pain chocolat, and walked up to the Glacis  where the market was well into its working day.

What a treat. It’s so exciting, going to the market in Luxembourg. It’s always a guess which language the stall holder will greet you with initially and it’s fantastic to be able to buy local produce which could come from any of four countries. I breathed in the smell of the fresh roasted chickens, and resisted the sausages, on the grill. 

At this time of year, the plant sellers have taken up most of the central pitches, and so the ground is covered with bright orderly rows and squares of geraniums, busy lizzies, all types of herbs and, interestingly enough, hundreds of baby lettuce plants. Bunches of flowers are set out in groups of colours, with white and pale green tulips progressing along the ranks to episcopally purple peonies. I bought three huge hydrangeas, white tinged with lime green and blue – the elderly gentleman made no fuss about separating the blooms I waned from the bunch, and then wrapped the stems carefully in cellophane so that I could carry the home without them dripping into the rest of my shopping.

The best way to shop is to join a queue, on the basis that local knowledge points the way to the best produce. Hordes of people were gathered round the fruit and vegetable stall, where huge punnets of strawberries gave off their summer scent. I listened to the conversations around me and gathered that these were grown by the stallholder who had brought them in from Belgium that morning. They were plump and irresistible – two punnets went into the bag, along with a dark green cucumber, still spiky from the vine, and crisp haricots verts. The prettiest white cauliflower followed, its curds as curly as the child Shirley Temple. Woodland honey, dark and viscous, from the tiny German stall on the corner and dark chewy “dreikorn” bread from the Eifel region.  A French stall sold Greek salads drenched in olive oil and herbs, to which I added sundried tomatoes with basil and pitted olives with oregano. And because I tasted it and loved it, some sharp and robust Luxembourgish goats cheese.

We have now eaten the Greek salad, gasped at the tang of the cheese, chewed the fragrant sundried tomatoes and devoured nearly a whole punnet of strawberries. Dearly Beloved has gone for a lie down.

Bon Appetit.

Easter Feasts

I remember saying a while back that we hoped things would pick up with the good weather.

Well I am delighted to report that it had been just so. I think all of northern Europe had basked in sunshine since the latter part of March, and April brought longer days and increasing warmth. This has seen the terraces come alive with tables, chairs and umbrellas: smart, chic, cloth covered tables and cushioned rattan chairs in the Place D’Armes in Luxembourg ville, wrought iron and glass effects outside the Cafe  Crème in Longwy and even their ragamuffin brothers and sisters, the Bar du sport and the Café Troc, along the main roads have scraped together some plastic garden ware  and now, tout le monde is to be seen relaxing, drinking and eating as we expect.  At last. 

 

Easter Week saw Dearly Beloved and me out tasting the wares and sampling the vins of the many countries at our disposal. It must be said that the award for “Petit Dejeuner du mois” goes to IKEA, just outside Arlon, where it nestles as close to the border of Luxembourg as it can possibly get without breaking the ban that prevents it from trading within the Grand Duchy. At 1 euro, it offered petit pain, croissant, a slice of cheese, butter and jam with coffee and tea. First thing in the morning the place was clean and quiet, the rolls fresh, and the croissants sweet, flaky and soft – the best we have had to date. I think it is because it is situated in the country of gourmand heaven, Belgium, that the difference is made – why, I have even had moules-frites as the dish of the day in the same IKEA earlier in the year. And we were thus suitably refreshed for the horror that is flat pack later on in the day.

Another place that caught our culinary eye was the Roud Haus restaurant in the Rue de Neudorf just outside the centre of town. The evening of Maundy Thursday took us out as guests of Dearly Beloved’s supplier  where Mr M’s wife and son came too, making it a warm family occasion. Junior M dearly wanted to try frogs’ legs. Luckily, whilst sipping my customary coupe de cremant, I espied “cuisses de grenouilles al’ail et au persil.” We dared him and he took the challenge. Others of us played it a bit safer with the warm goats’ cheese salad and pate de fois. We were delighted when the waiter appeared with tiny bowls of a delicate pea and mint soup as our “ amuse-bouches”. This is a Luxembourgish restaurant with a French chef – so the menu is an eclectic merge of dishes from the two cuisines. The frogs’ legs were tried, reconsidered and their similarity to babies’ legs noted. It was the mopping up of the delicious garlicky butter that won the praise. The mixed grill won over the speciality tripe for Dearly B and Mr M; Mrs M had poissons au saison and I had a soft, buttery tender juicy maigret of duck. Definitely I think I favour the French side of the culinary border for such things, especially when crème brulee follows.  The restaurant itself is smart in old fashioned Luxembourgish surroundings: beams, dark wood and dressed stone walls. The company was great – gently conversation over holidays and other meals - a warm up for the weekend to come.

Good Friday is not a public holiday here, so our long weekend began later that warm Friday evening, whenDearly Beloved, coming home and hearing voices in the courtyard, presumed I had joined the neighbours for a drink and went to see. It says a fair bit about his understanding of me. But on this occasion he was wrong – I was, in fact, preparing a light and nutritious salad, with a bottle of Bergerac Sec on ice. However, our neighbours, from Berlin via Poitiers, invited us to join them. That bottle of cold white wine has never moved so fast. It was on the neighbours’ table before even a degree of the balmy weather could take effect. The evening evolved into a gentle evening of bi- lingual chit-chat during which we learned how Frau S’s mother and father met.  He was 16 and she was 21. He went into the local pub and he saw her for the first time. She had boyish cut short hair and was smoking a pipe. He went home and told his mum he had seen the girl he would marry. He was a prisoner of war in Canada and returned to Germany in January 1947. They married in the February and our neighbour is now here to tell the tale.

And that is one of the lovely things about life here in the chateau. If the weather is kind and the circumstances allow, it is easy to spend a little time chatting in the mews, or, like we did the following day, to cross over to the main building for home made cakes, vodka and wine with the parents of a sweet two year old girl, Marielle. As we settled over martinis and vodka, Marielle disappeared into her room and emerged with plates of egg and chips complete with a full set of cutlery. We all tucked in with gusto, but miraculously the little plastic comestibles remained unharmed. There is a story behind the vodka: Father of Marielle is German and met mother of Marielle in Poland. She spoke no German and he no Polish, so the language of courtly love, as ever, was English.  Ten years on they speak each other’s language plus French, and the little girl admits to only speaking French, when not tied up with domestic duties. He, in the meantime, vigorously promotes the Polish vodkas perhaps in compensation for the loss of love in another tongue. Who knows?

Easter Sunday was a treat and a half. We had been invited by members of the congregation at the Anglican Church of Luxembourg to join them for a festive roast lamb dinner at a restaurant in the Duchy; however, for domestic reasons, it emerged that we were now to eat at the home of the Churchwarden, who, having been here for over thirty years, has renovated a beautiful old priory in a farming village north west of the Ville. We followed our neo hosts (who had issued the invitation but were not hosting - with me so far?) as they drove maniacally, with the confidence of a knowledge of a route well travelled, through the valleys of the deep cleft gorges that run up towards the farmlands and villages. Obviously a labour of much love and effort over the years, the house sits comfortably round a cobbled courtyard and is in turn flanked by its shaded gardens where every year the congregation hosts its annual fair.

Its renovation has evidently been a group project as guests and hosts reminisced over various projects and pointed to the tall trees that they themselves had planted. We drank champagne on the terrace over looking fruit trees and roses, and ate in the huge lofty dining room with its barn struts and wooden floors. I sat between a Swedish air pilot who had flown for Cargolux in the days long before the smart new airport was open, and a now retired gentleman who is an expert on the battle fields of the Verdun. The hostess explained how when the children were young at school in the city, she bought a camper van in order to transport and entertain the various age groups without constantly driving back the house some 40 minutes away. So the children had their lunches in the van, did their homework and napped while various brothers and sisters went to rugby and music lessons before eventually making their way home. Wish I had thought of that!

Finally, on the Easter Monday we went back to the old part of Luxembourg Ville to witness the Easter Fair. One heard it and smelled it long before encountering it. The Organ grinder was in full swing( no monkey though) creating his ambience in a little crowd, the country dancers  in their own versions of smocks and mob caps danced dos-a dos accompanied by an accordion while stall tenders sold roasted hazelnuts, candy floss, sausages in a bun and all the delights one expects across European fairs. But the main noise came from the item peculiar to this Easter Fair, the Peckvillchen, Indeed there is even a pub there named after them Peckvillchen are little pottery birds; a competition is held annually for the best design. The noise? Well, many of the birds are in fact ocarinas.  You blow into the tail (and not as Dearly Beloved in a coarser moment suggested, “up its bum”) and adjust the sound, recorder style, over holes on its back. Charming, but rather shrill with hundreds being played simultaneously.

I think we can safely say we celebrated the holiday suitably this year,

A bientot.

Missing the bus

I missed the bus the other day by a whisker. It was waiting at the bus stop across the road at the top of our street but the crossing lights were against me. I waved but to no avail. The bus must meet its target times. UK, take note.

I say “missed”. I was actually in good time for the bus I thought I was going to catch. This is because there are two timetables in this part of France - one for weekdays in during the “Periode Scolaire” and the other for Saturdays and school holidays. I was mistaken in assuming that because all the children I know at the Church in Luxembourg are already cooling their heels in preparation for Easter, and those who go to school in Belgium have nearly finished their Easter break, the schools here in France would also have broken up. How is a girl to know?  There are only so many timetables I can hold in my head at one time, let alone cross boundary variations.

Be that as it may, I didn’t fancy hanging about for another half an hour nor did it seem worth my while walking back to the chateau. I thought that, if I was smartish, I could nip down the road and catch the bus further on as it looped round the town to pick up other shoppers for the supermarket complex. So I walked down Mont Saint Martin’s steep narrow main street, where I haven’t been since the heavy ice and snow at the beginning of the year. There was a surprising amount of traffic, with drivers jostling for places to park by the side of the road. But where do they all go? I could see that only the florist and the chemists were open. There are plenty of shop front windows along this road, but like the “Poterie Maeva”, they are now either whitewashed and advertised for sale, or covered with net curtains and made into dwellings. The couscous restaurant at the bottom of the hill near the former railway station is still carrying out its renovations, the friterie next door is not set up for mass catering on this scale and Snack Antalya was not yet open as it was only 10:30. There was no evidence of any mobbing of either the chemist or the florist.  So I can only assume that everyone was making their way either to the hospital or the old people’s home that is attached to it. Like most hospitals, it suffers from insufficient and expensive parking and so my guess is that the frantic driving into recently the vacated positions along the high street was to avoid charges and still be within staggering distance of the doctor.

I very much wish it were different. I accept that the supermarket at the top of one of the hills and its smart complex of stores represent the march of progress and, more to the point, attracted valuable funding to an area so hard hit when the steel world collapsed,  but I regret the loss of the domestic community. Mont Saint Martin was evidently a thriving little town. I walked past large villas in the high street with their many gables, massive wooden shutters and elaborate brick work. I almost expected to go round the corner and see the sea. There is a small terrace on the corner where I imagine a café once put out its tables and chairs to catch the sun and to watch the world go by. A shop now up for sale used to promise books, gifts and flowers, presumably once successful because of its proximity to the hospital. I yearn for the boulangerie, epicerie and charcuterie. But they are gone, all centralised in the plastic fantastic world of international supermarkets, their former presence now only evident in the faded paint on lintel beams.

 I found the bus stop, and waited another half hour for a bus. An elderly gentleman clutching a large white envelope nodded at me, we exchanged bonjours and he inspected the timetable. I moved along the seat and he joined me. He told me his story, starting with the fact that he had an “infiltration” for screening, had been on the “scannaire” and was feeling pretty ropey. I expressed the hope that he would be able to rest that afternoon, and he assured me that his wife had been warned. Did he live locally? Yes, in a nearby suburb.  He is 80 years old, you know. His son lives in Luxembourg, his other son is handicapped and his daughter is 52. He has 8 grandchildren I am sure I have had this conversation on the bus from

Broad Lane

in Coventry. And on the train to London. And probably on a dolmush in Turkey.

When the bus came, it set off, completely ignoring the turning towards the supermarket. It is a circular bus route and I was on the wrong side. Too proud to get off at the next stop and cross over, I sat tight, went the full circle and went past the original bus stop I had failed at an hour earlier. But I enjoyed the tour of the towns with the lilac and flowering cherry in bloom and urban gardens bursting with this years’ bright orange tulips.

A peculiar anomaly this year is the swirling of pollen. We all thought we were seeing spots before our eyes, or imagining a fuzzy horizon. Too many Cremants perhaps.  Bu this year, it is exceptional. The cars are covered in the yellow dust and the house is full of seed heads, which irritatingly enough, have gathered in little webby pockets giving the lie to my premise that I am constantly dusting and polishing.

Dish of the week: Asparagus is now in and, encouraged by a meal in a brasserie in Belgium last week, I consulted Mrs David again. She was not very encouraging, and somewhat dismissive of white asparagus, of which there is a lot in the supermarkets at the moment. Undeterred, I boiled the fat white stems for a half an hour, and served it with home made mayonnaise and wrapped in Lorraine ham. Verdict: quite nice. Wait, as Mrs David suggests, for the tender green stems.

Highs and Lows

“Oh good,” said D, when I brandished my trekking pole. “You can fight off the wild boar”.

It wasn’t quite what I was expecting when three ladies from church invited me to join them for a Saturday morning walk. But then  nor did I expect to be sitting on the top  of a double decker train speeding past sparkling streams, craggy rocks and downy hills studded with broadleaf forests and charming farmsteads, let alone sightings of storks and working horses the size of Suffolk Punches. And, please note, I exceeded  12,000 steps on my pedometer.

We set quite a pace on this walk, a section of the Sentier du Nord which stretches 65 km from Weiswampach to Diekirch, and completed the 9 km stretch from Drauffelt to Clervaux in about two and a half hours. Consequently, I am sorry to say, I did not have time to fumble in my backpack amongst spare socks and unneeded waterproofs for my camera. When we did stop, it was because I was rather red in the face and breathless at the top of a number of steep hills and far too exhausted to even think of taking photos. But hills make for splendid views and shaded leafy valleys. And luckily, no wild boar.

I shall return to this part of the world to show dearly beloved who manfully stayed at home battling with flat pack wardrobes. And I shall ensure that we take loads of photos to show you all.  I am told that one of the towns, Wiltz, has an annual festival that is well worth making the train trip for, so watch this space.

Inspired by my walking endeavours, we set out the next day to try out part of a similar network of French footpaths, our immediate section being “Sentiers de randonnee de trios frontieres” It’s those frontiers again! We headed towards Villers-La Chevre, about a ten minute drive away, intending to find the Sentier du Bois du Pays Bayard, a walk of about 6.5 km. It was at this stage that we realised and missed the excellence of the Ordnance Survey maps of the UK in which you can pinpoint a small mole hill. We had evidently driven too far along the way looking to park, although it seemed to correspond with the map. We could not find the start of this particular walk, which, we were assured, would be marked clearly en route.

We parked and walked, and walked a little further peering into the forest for signs. Eventually we found a board displaying information about the Sentier de Minieres, which, for want of any other direction, we followed. This path takes the route of the mining works that took place a few hundred years ago. Good iron ore is, apparently, rare in the Lorraine regions, but this particular seam at “St Pancre” produced a rich malleable iron. The miners worked in deep “ruelles” or lanes, and the path was set out along the crumbling banks of these steep deep ditches.  The trees have all grown over now, and the rocky clefts are covered in moss. Some of the works had been further exploited as quarries for the lovely yellow sandstone that I have mentioned before. Boards along the way described the miners, their lives, the geological nature of the area and how it was formed, as well as describing the flora and fauna of the land. I grasped my wild boar stick tightly.

The way was marked quite clearly with little white signs tacked to trees. This worked well generally apart from the fact that only the previous week, in the first spell of sunny dry weather, the foresters had been out and thinned a lot of winter damaged trees. Friday evening had evidently fallen before they had the opportunity to move said trees which stretched their lengths across the Sentier des Minieres. I am sure the miners would not have been fazed but we were a trifle disconcerted. Ralph’s binoculars proved useful in spotting signs further along the way, and we traversed along and up and down various ruelles and ditches to find our way back to the track.  It was worth persevering. A break in the trees at the side of the forest gave us a glimpse of the distant Lorraine countryside: a small hamlet tucked into the folds of the fields and hills, wood smoke drifting and a church bell sounding the end of Mass. It was good to be in the open air.

Later in the week, L, one of the ladies I had walked with earlier suggested a walk in Ernster in Luxembourg, again following one of the set walks. All we had to do was to find the start and follow the “three trees” logo for a brisk 5km stroll. Some work men mending the road after the winter’s ravages, directed us with confidence away from the village and we thought they might know what they were talking about. However, the three trees failed to present themselves and we found ourselves on one of the cycling tracks. But as a circular walk, it would never have worked as that circle continued for about 12 miles. Excellent cycling track, though, and if I still had the knees and the puff for it, I’d be there, despite the hills.

Ernster is a pretty village built in the traditional Lorraine style. A number of small farm houses or “fermettes” are clustered together, with thick rendered painted walls, deep window sills and, dearly beloved’s passion, huge barns under one half the house. I am not sure if I can take dearly beloved there, however, in case he insists that the local residents move out to make room for our ambitions to live in such lovely surroundings. They are very attractive solid looking houses, much sought after. Sadly, they can no longer to be picked up for a song as they used to be a couple of decades ago when the first Eurobods came over to work for the Commission and the Parliament...

We have continued our zeal for walking this weekend with our temporary house guest, Jack. Jack is always very keen to walk although his habit of sticking his cold wet nose up one’s trouser leg or running off with a shoe to encourage us on a trip out would not endear him to everybody.  He took us on a fantastic walk only minutes from Le Chateau at the weekend, through a small village and into the hills behind and on through to Belgium. We seemed always to be walking up hill however, and while Jack’s little legs would have been happy for the walk all over again, we spent the afternoon in a stupor, with a fine Belgian beer, slumped in front of the rugby.

Dish of the week: Coq au Vin. Mrs David let us down a bit here. We tried her instruction to warm through a glass of cognac and set light to it. Pouring it, still alight, over the coq proved to be incredibly exciting.  It flamed magnificently in the saucepan and set light to the extractor fan over the cooker.  And we were not that happy with the sauce…perhaps less flambee would have been the answer.

A bientot.

A Walk in the Parc

Last week I hinted that I might tell you about our mini break abroad when we covered four countries in our two hour drive to Germany. I still marvel at our position on the frontier here; I shall probably keep mentioning it.

It was time, we felt, after months of living apart and all holidays having been focussed on the moving and saying goodbye, (and it did take a long time, didn’t it?) that we had a proper break and time together. We particularly focussed on finding a Center Parcs not too far away. In the past, we have much enjoyed the accommodation and Aqua Sana, our routine being to walk all morning (well alright, for an hour or so after a late breakfast) and then to recuperate with fluffy towels, robes and books in the sybaritic delights provided. We found the Parc Eifel, which boasted a sauna and spa near Gunderath, set in the heart of Volcanic Eifel, a region about which we knew nothing. I speak German, but it was learned a long time ago, when there was a still a German O-level. I can pretty much order a newspaper, request a room with a shower and state that the weather is inclement.

We were lucky setting off, after such a long grey winter, to have a beautiful day, crisp, and sunny. We saw exciting signs telling us that we were now in Vulcan Eifel. One imagined great Mulciber raining down fire and forging great swords. In reality, the country side is similar to anywhere in Northern Europe, with its mixture of broadleaf and evergreen trees on rolling heaths and downs. Indeed, it could have been Ashdown Forest.

I must say now that there was absolutely nothing wrong with anything. The staff were pleasant, pleasant friendly and helpful. Everywhere was clean and the chalet had everything we needed, with a pretty view over fields and hillside. You can sense a “but” coming? Yes, it lay with us. We have been so spoiled over the years by the CPs in the UK, which are apparently, all “5 Bird” parcs. This was a “3 Bird” parc and had only recently been taken under the corporate wing; it all looked a bit tired and it was very small. The walk around the parc and its amenities took barely half an hour. We found the spa at the far end of the swimming pool. There was a suspicious sign on the door stating that it was textile free zone.  I despatched my beloved to find help; a jolly young life guard explained that one took one’s costume off before going into the spa area, but you could wear robes and sit on towels, especially necessary in the sauna area. “Right”, said dearly beloved, “Get your kit off.”

To cut short a long and excruciating story, I hastened in, quickly donning one of the robes hanging on the hooks. There were no towels, and no water fountains. The young life guard called us into the sauna, adding aromatic herbal essences to the water she was pouring onto the coals, flapping her towel at us to create more heat; she chatted jauntily about her long held wish to visit Scotland with all its mountains and castles. She could afford to be jaunty – she had her costume on. In fact, I wanted to be in Scotland – nobody ever takes all their clothes off in Scotland. Thankful for my beach towel, I scurried into the cold shower, and then wrapped myself in the robe; at which point a man loomed, very naked, out of the mists of the steam room and said that it was his wife’s robe. Unrobing, I crept, ashamed, into the comparative modesty of the Jacuzzi. Not long after, we were in the bar, with very large strong beers.

But in the night, I woke with steel bands, studded with carpet tacks, tightening around my head. I do not believe I have ever had such a bad headache. Dearly beloved, discovering that for the first time in written history he had not brought a medicine cabinet, went through the frosty night to the 24 hour shop to forage for pain relief, or perhaps a guillotine. In Germany, neither is sold except in the appropriately licensed shops. We would have to wait for paracetamol until we found a pharmacy. I drank copious amounts of rooibos tea, and slowly re-hydrated. In the morning, I felt well enough for a gentle trip out as long as no-one expected me to nod my head, or open my eyes.

So we set off for the healing properties of Wallenborn which promised a sight of mainland Europe’s only geyser. The sat nav took us to a small quiet field within a small quiet village. Railings and an attractive display of rocks were arranged in a circle around a small, quiet pool of water. Disappointed, we turned away just as the water offered up a few bubbles. And then with a rush and a strong smell of sulphur, a column of water gushed high in the air above us. It lasted for a couple of minutes before subsiding and retreating. Truly magnificient. The information boards stated that it was powered only by CO2 and that some considerably deep engineering works had taken place to concentrate the underground springs towards the one in question.

We walked around for a while, admiring a bold chaffinch hopping within six inches of our feet, while we waited again for the geyser to appear. It seemed to spout every quarter of an hour. But it did not have the curative effect I was hoping for and we went in search of lunch and an Apotheke for drugs.

You will be pleased to know that drugs had the desired effect. We did not go to the spa again and the parc refunded our booking fees for the remaining four sessions.

The highlight of our trip is probably best described by the pictures attached, showing our walk around the deep volcanic lakes or “Maare”.  Again, beautiful weather made this excursion a real joy, with the sun on our faces, and the wind at our backs. In fact, we just kept walking until we ran out of Maare to walk round. The pictures show only two lakes, but there were also a marshy Maar and a dry Maar; and one of the lakes was in fact two, merged together. So we in fact achieved a walk around 5 Maare, a first in the Birch family.

The next day, dearly beloved expressed a wish to walk by the Rhine, and that he felt Koblenz was the place to do it.   Koblenz was under siege, however, by road works and pedestrianisation schemes, and the river that we walked by, albeit for only five minutes, was the Mosel. Well, we can walk by the Mosel any time we feel like it back home. But later, looking at a map, like we should have done, we saw that we were in the wrong part of Koblenz, and that indeed it is also on the Rhine. But no matter, in recompense, we found Cochem which is all a German town should be, with its steep crooked narrow streets, haphazard roofs and buildings. And a fine hot chocolate in the tea rooms by the river defrosted us and made it a perfect ending.

You will note there are no culinary musings this time. Sadly the best meal we had was at a little delicatessen, selling home cooked ham hock. Man food, and certainly not fine dining!

Auf wiedersehen!

Beating the blues

It took a meal out last Sunday to lift a touch of the blues.

We could not really put our fingers on why we had the blues; perhaps it was because of a spat with the landlords over flowerpots and ceiling tiles; or maybe because for the first time in 26 years, I was not near enough to celebrate Catherine and Oliver’s birthdays; or because our holiday the week before did not quite provide the rest and relaxation we were expecting; or maybe it was because after the first excitement of being abroad and the adrenalin rush of moving in, things have started to become ordinary. Then again, it's February.

We headed south to Metz. But road works sent us out of our way, and, for once the sat-nav could not cope with the diversion. “Just keep driving,” I said “and take the next left.” How fortuitous. Just ten minutes from home we found ourselves in an ancient village, Cons-la-Grandville, complete with Renaissance period chateau, priory, river walk and, of course, a listed 19^th century blast-furnace. Many of the buildings were built in the local butter-yellow sandstone, (pierre de Jaumont) and in the pale sunshine, it was glowed gently. Being Sunday, everywhere was shut, with no evidence of an open restaurant. But it whispered of the promise of future excursions, to walk round the parks and gardens of the castle to faire le picnic, when the weather improves.

Our drive continued through farmland back on to the motorway, happily taking in towns whose names we would have loved to have on our address cards, such as Ugny and Woippy. By the time we got to Metz, we were famished, and so, ignoring signs to the Centre Pompidou de Metz, we headed straight to the centre of town.

I was more than agreeably surprised at its charm.  Imagine a French Oxford, in that same sandstone, with covered walkways round cobbled market squares. We dallied with the opportunity to eat in a couscousserie, and hastily walked past three pizzeria (the pizzeria in this area are, however, generally authentic and pretty good, tending to be independently owned, due to the huge influx of Italians ove the last 100 or so years to work in the steel industry) heading on under the colonnades to Place St Louis. A small restaurant, “La Marmite”, offered a Menu de Decouverts at 24,90 euros which we thought was stunning value, as were its two other set menus at a similar price for three courses, all promising local food (it was a restaurant du terroir).  In the spirit of Winners Dinners, my charming companion chose a biere piquante and I had a white wine flavoured with a sirop de mirabelles (a Lorraine speciality), while we drooled over the menu. After much discussion, we chose from the Menu “La Marmite”. I had a local pate de foie gras with quince jam, to be followed by saumon en champagne, while my charming companion chose potage de coquilles St Jaques and maigret de canard. My dear friend, every mouthful was meltingly heavenly; cooked to perfection and portions were just right, leaving us wishing for just a teency weency little bit more. And the pudding, the “Assiettes de Gourmandes”, included profiteroles filled with ice cream topped with a rich chocolate sauce, a chocolate mousse and a blackcurrant sorbet – the latter was the best I have ever had, fruity without the bitterness. I felt at last that we had found a touch of the real France. The service was friendly yet discreet, the meal was beautifully presented and the atmosphere was that of a roomful of contented diners. It seems daft that a meal should make one feel at home, but there we are. We felt better. And next time I shall consider telling you about our holiday in VulcanEifel which we took the week before.

Elizabeth David Dish of the Week: Saumon poele au vin blanc. On a Friday evening after a hefty week, fry  seasoned salmon steaks on both sides briefly in butter over a high heat, add a wine glass full of Muscadet, simmer for seven minutes only; serve with potatoes au choix and the rest of the bottle of Muscadet. Relax on the sofa in front of the fire with a dvd. Do not rise on Saturday morning until at least ten o'clock.

Keep on Troc'ing

Keep on Troc’ing

Probably an unoriginal pun, I am sure, amongst local expats, but it serves to introduce a shopping experience without equal.

“Un Troc”, by its dictionary definition, is a barter, exchange or swap. The chain of shops of this name, supplies, apparently throughout Europe, a vast assortment of household goods no longer wanted by their original owners. And when I say vast, I mean overwhelming.  There are a number of stores near us, and like any second hand store, the quality of goods supplied is very much dependent on the wealth of the immediate neighbourhoods. So the smaller stores on the borders in Belgium and France seem to stock more tat than those on the Duchy itself.

Imagine, if you will, all the furniture you ever used on your gite holidays: the massive dark wood, ornately carved sideboards and dressers; refectory style tables and chairs that only Hagrid would ever find comfortable; the wardrobes with their creaky, ill fitting doors and mysterious stains; the array of cooking utensils and foot spas; all found their way to the gites along with sets of coloured wine glasses and salad spinners; hundreds of the hard leather sofas beloved by the dentists of my youth. They have all come home to roost in the Troc. We imagine that across Europe, scores of great grandmothers have died leaving their estates to their many children and grandchildren, now living in their sleek apartments with no room for furniture that is larger than a child’s bedroom. Where else to send it, in the hopes of making some cash, but Le Troc? Who would buy such monsters? If we were setting up in our own chateau and were keen to fill echoing spaces, then, bien sur, these would be useful et charmant - but not for us at the moment.

Then there are the real treasures: a pair of red leather chairs shaped like stiletto shoes; “lits de bateau” (or sleigh beds), intricately carved or smoothly polished, all deposited when 1.6 metre beds became more fashionable than the usual 1.4m; an adorable high chair, dating from the 50’s – varnished wood and decorated with delightful scenes of children playing; model sailing boats, fully rigged. And of course the tank sized yello ochre model of a French Bulldog. But we resisted.

Our quest was for a sideboard or dresser. Although we got rid of so much “stuff”, we still needed a place to put glass and china. We also wanted a pretty piece of furniture (not flat packed) as a memento of our time on The Frontier. In the Troc in Esch-sur-Alzette, Luxembourg’s second largest town, was the perfect piece. Made entirely in oak, and not a splinter of mdf or chipboard in sight, it sat in the window as part of a smart salon set, and we loved it.  There is a little damage, apparently caused by the men removing it from the owner’s home, which caused much chagrin, but did not lessen the price. Could they deliver? Of course, they could bring it on Wednesday.  Much excitement, some hasty calculations and it was ours, at apparently a tenth of the original price. Bargain.

We went to lunch to celebrate, a rather nice little Italian place where the menu of the day included a cheese and ham parmentier (basically a triangular cheese pasty) and braised beef so tender, you could eat it with a teaspoon, produced by a spherical jolly chef. And then we went back to the Troc to buy four oak dining chairs for 20 Euros – and some webbing to ensure we do not disappear through the sagging seats. A successful day followed up by two very polite young men delivering the sideboard  on the Wednesday as promised.  All glass and crockery now installed, it is just perfect, and a little polish seems to be treating the damage splendidly.

No Troc’ing for a while now. But watch this space.

A bientot.