Philippe Rochet, a Paris-based Personal Sommelier, welcomed us at Charles de Gaulle. He is very good friends with Philippe Blanck, who is, and would blush at being called, one of the very most respected winemakers in France generally and Alsace specifically. We met Philippe B when he came to Veritas to taste us on his wine. We tasted, and immediately fell in love with, both his spirit and his wine.

Philippe R was representin’ the Boys when he met us at the airport. No joke!

Assigned by Philippe B to accompany us to Alsace and to act as our Personal Guide, Philippe R was perfect. Disarmingly funny, hysterically goofy and a lover of food and wine, we quickly developed an easy rapport. We three arrived in Colmar mid-afternoon. While we waited for Philippe B to pick us up, I ordered local Munster with local Caraway seeds on the side for sprinklin’ and a local Kronenbourg for sippin’. Caraway, a northern European spice with a sweet, warm flavor that is somewhat ‘black licoricey’, is often found in Alsatian cuisine:

Philippe B showed up not long after. He suggested we go to the mountains to visit a few farms. “Ok!”

While we slowly toured the beautiful Alsatian Farm Country we listened to the equally beautiful music made by Philippe B’s son Guillaume, a Reggae Singer and Producer who has worked around the world, including in Jamaica with Jamaican artists.

The first farm we visited is owned by Philippe B’s friend, Mr. Wurtz, who was tending raspberries when we arrived. The name of the farm is La Ferme du Kalblin. Here, he grew many different fruits, vegetables and spices which he, with the benefit of generations of experience as his prevailing wind, skillfully transformed into various spices, jams and flavors of eau de vie. He is the Alsatian Tom Spicer – Wurtz translates as Spice.

The difficulty of his life’s work was evidenced by his perspiring brow, his gnarled hands and his shredded boots:

***

The setting idyllic, the weather perfect, the company amiable and, as a result, our collective spirits could not have been higher. And it was at this point that Mr. Wurtz asked us if we would like to see his eau de vie production facility. Yessir!

Here are a few of Mr. Wurtz’s products at a local store:

***

At the same store, we decided we needed to shoot capfuls of Mr. Wurtz’s amazing eau de vie. Bradley and Philippe R look as if they both just dropped a double:

This product produced by Mr. Wurtz may or may not have made its way back to Dallas. I can’t really remember and it’s hard for me to tell. Please, nobody mention that you saw this if there are any federal officials close by. I SWEAR I didn’t know it was in the double secret compartment in my backpack. Ignorance is a defense to the law, right?

Anybody up for some Blanck Grand Cru Riesling, a little Alsatian Munster and some seeds ‘imported’ from France?

After our delightful visit with Mr. Wurtz, we departed for the farm of Hubert Pierrevelcin, a maker of Munster, Tomme and blanc salé. As evidenced by this sign hanging in the local farmer’s market, Mr. Pierrevelcin is locally well-known and, fortunately for us, known by Philippe B:

Located in a postcard of an Alsatian dell, Mr. Pierrevelcin was as eager to show us his very tiny production facility as Mr. Wurtz was to show us his.

The view simply forces you to stop and stare. If you fail to do so, then you’re more than just kinda missing the point:

The results of Mr. Pierrevelcin’s artistry (Pa, that link is for you!) follow.

Munster:

Raw, drained whey:

Fresh Munster:

Here, we choose the Munster that we will eat for the next few days. Note my ignorance regarding what aging does to Munster . . .

Young Tomme:

The aging room for the Tomme. ‘Rustic’ would seem to be an apt description:

Old Tomme:

At this point, Philippe B decreed what we were going to do next:  take the griotte eau de vie (griotte is the sour, dark red Morello cherry) from Mr. Wurtz and the blanc salé from Mr. Pierrevelcin; sit on a terrace at Les Alisiers, one of his favorite Alsatian inns; pour the griotte eau de vie over the blanc salé; top off with sugar and . . . wow! Nowhere else in the world is it possible to do this as the blanc salé can be no more than a few hours old when eaten in this manner. The milkiness and firm but yet creamy texture of the blanc salé softened the alcoholic sharpness of the 96 proof griotte eau de viex, and the sweetness of the sugar rounded out everything perfectly. We each had a 1-pound block of the blanc salé, several ounces of the griotte and a 20 oz. Coke’s worth of sugar. Here is the proof!:

***

***

***

Really, this wasn’t for the faint of heart. Experienced gluttons only:

*I would have below inserted a picture of Bradley, but he was so freaking full from his ‘snack’ that I couldn’t fit his entire person into the viewfinder without getting up and walking back a few feet, and I was so freaking full from my ‘snack’ that I couldn’t get out of the chair to do so. Philippe B looks totally unfazed by the experience. In fact, I think he was snickering inside at our visible – and audible – distress! Clearly not his first rodeo:

After this most unexpectedly delicious ‘snack detour’, we went to La Ferme des Embestchtés where we met the owner, a very young, modern, tennis-playing farmer. We paired local bread with Mr. Wurtz’s jam and eau de vie, we had a few more ‘nibbles’ of Mr. Pierrevelcin’s Munster and Tomme and we ate some of the Embestchés smoked bacon and herbed goat cheese.

Please give this video a few minutes – funniest bacon skit ever.

Here is the Embestchtés bacon in all of its cured glory:

The Holy Trinity (or, at least, one of the Holy Trinities) – Pork, bread, herbed goat cheese:

Here is a picture of the Elderflower Jam produced by Mr. Wurtz. I guess this is the Holy Quadnity – can’t tell you how tasty it was all together. Elderflower is a flavor I am determined to get to know better – wow:

 *I was so entranced by this otherworldly experience, which is to say my digestive tract was, at the expense of my brain, so full of blood, and the blood remaining in my brain so full of alcohol, that I did not notice when a large, white farm dog sauntered up to me and urinated on my shoe. The rascal makes an appearance in this video:

Dog Pee!:

We upset a few goats:

We watched pigs slop in shit. Promise, no coprophilia here:

We literally went directly from the farm to Restaurant du Faudé. Faudé is a local riff on Faux Dieu, or False God:

Faudé is, of course, owned by friends of Philippe B. Here are Chantal (sommelier) and Thierry (chef), the wife/husband owners of Faudé:

After a joyous greeting, we descended into the amazing cellar to see if we could find anything worth drinking. Nothing ‘false’ here:

***

After we selected a few cellar-cold bottles, we were asked “Vous êtes prêts à manger?” Here, we proffered the only blasphemous falsity of the evening as we both responded ‘Bien sûr’ while we mentally thought ‘Mais non!’

Fearful? Yeah, I mean, who wouldn’t be? Just look at Bradley’s visage. And he’s a seasoned vet:

Fear be damned. Wines:

***

***

***

***

***

This 1983 Muscat had notes of spearmint that were impossible to miss. One of the most unique wines I have ever had the pleasure of tasting:

Here is Chantal being blinded . . . what a beautiful voice. Note Bradley’s face throughout. It does not take a DWI Taskforce Officer to ascertain that he has had many too many. All I can say is ‘Thank God’ the camera wasn’t pointed at me. Cross-eyed, wobbly and slurry-tongued.

“Where is mine? Which is yours? I’m as confused as hell!”

For appetizers, we shared a couple of dishes.

Escargots in butter. Yeah, I ate the food before I took the picture. Happens sometimes. But isn’t the serving dish beautiful?:

Tarte a l’oignon. What an awful picture and it’s the only one I took – where the hell is The Brad when you need him? I guess I should just be thankful that I’m still, at this point, coherent enough to actually be using the camera. We are all GALLONS of wine and eau de vie into it at this point.

For my main course, I had sandre, a type of freshwater pike (or perch, depending on which translating site you go to), with cream sauce and sauerkraut studded with pieces of smoked salmon. The combination of rich, fatty, creaminess and acidic, tart crunchiness was spectacular:

Philippe B had truite (trout), a local specialty:

This cheese was produced from the milk of the screaming goats you heard just a few scrolls above:

Cut off a slice of Munster. Place on one’s plate. Top with eau de vie. Light on fire. Blow out. Eat. Sigh with satiated pleasure:

Here, I think Bradley is dreaming of . . . sleep mode:

The last pic of the nite:

Wow, what a first day!! How in the hell could any part of the rest of the 2 week trip match that?!?

DAY 2

I don’t know what was a more painful shock – the klaxon call of the alarm clock on my ears or the effects of 10,000 calories on my system. Ouch OUch OUCh OUCH!

Must: Find Faucet and Guzzle Cold Water; Find Faucet and Guzzle Cold Water; Find Faucet and Guzzle Cold Water; Shower; Find Faucet and Guzzle Cold Water; Drink Hot Coffee; Find Faucet and Guzzle Cold Water; Lock Self in Bathroom for 10 Unproductive Minutes; Dream Longingly of Fiber; Find Faucet and Guzzle Cold Water; Slap Self in Face 10 Times Like a Boxer Preparing to do Battle; Think Happy Thoughts; and, finally, Take a Tour of La Maison du Keintzheim.

Refreshed, sparkling and ready to ultimately shorten our lifespans once again, we set off to tour several Alsatian Grand Cru vineyards. It is the opinion of Veritas that Alsatian white wines are not nearly often enough included in the discussion of the world’s great white wines. Acidic, complex, incredibly versatile with food and amazingly long-lived, my cellar is now stocked with the various Blanck Grand Cru whites.

The genesis of our relationship with Philippe Blanck was his first to Veritas to taste us on his product. At the time of this first visit, I knew nothing of Philippe nor did I know much about Alsatian wines other than having tasted a few while studying them in a book.

His family has lived continuously in Alsace since 1610, when his great/great/great (however many ‘great’) . . . great grandfather Hans Blanck purchased an estate and vineyards. As such, Philippe’s family has played an important role in Alsace’s wine history, and that includes Philippe B having been elected the President of the Union of Independent Winemakers of Alsace, of which there are over 1000.

As soon as I tasted the 2005 Blanck Schlossberg Grand Cru Riesling, I was sold. The depth and complexity were fabulous! I immediately purchased multiple bottles of multiple wines. Philippe simply smiled, thanked me for my interest and we continued our fabulous conversation for quite some time longer. What an eloquent, interesting and driven citizen of the world.

That landmark tasting many months ago led us directly to the morning of Day 2. We toured the following Grand Cru Vineyards:

Wineck-Schlossberg;

Sommerberg; and

Furstentum.

Each has a different orientation to the sun, a different soil composition, a different prevailing breeze. These microclimate differences result in different grapes thriving in different parts of the various vineyards, and the same grapes from the various vineyards exhibiting noticeably different characteristics:

***

Here, Bradley is contemplating the intricacies of Traffic Ticket Law:

***

For lunch, we headed to Caveau Morakopf in the very tiny Alsatian village of Niedermorschwihr. I have absolutely no idea how to pronounce ‘Niedermorschwihr’, which just might be the unlikeliest combination of letters, in any language, ever.

I believe it was on our way to lunch when Philippe B asked me what I was going to do with my free week after Bradley left Paris for Dallas. This was the one part of the trip where I didn’t know anybody, where I didn’t have any knowledgeable ‘on the ground’ guidance regarding what is worthwhile and what is a Venus Flytrap where tourists are trapped and die a slow, expensive death. I had no clue where I was going to stay and what I was going to do, other than eat cassoulet at some as yet undetermined restaurants. It was the only part of the trip that made me a little bit nervous.

I told Philippe I was headed to Toulouse. And then immediately and without hesitation, and in perfect Deus ex Machina form, he said ‘I will now call my cousin Jean-Luc Broly. He love to host, to eat, to drink. He will enjoy to host you for your visit to Toulouse.’

So he calls Jean-Luc. They talk. He handed me the phone and Jean-Luc asked for my email address. Jean-Luc takes it and then immediately sends me an email asking me for the details of my trip. I won’t see it for several hours. Jean-Luc says, in very broken English, ‘I enjoy to meet you in Toulouse.’ I said, ‘See you soon.’ I responded to the email when I received it and, just like that, my trip to Toulouse was planned. Basically, his email said ‘I am going to show you a good time. Stay at this hotel. I will pick you up when you arrive.’

Back to Alsace.

According to Philippe B, Morakopf, the name of the restaurant, relates back to the Moor soldiers who came to fight in Alsace hundreds of years ago and who stayed in the region. Knowing then what I know now, I woulda volunteered to head north and I woulda stayed.

According to Philippe B, this is among the finest of the traditional Alsatian restaurants:

You can clearly see Philippe R’s disgust at being forced by Philippe B to drink wine other than Blanck. Note the Josmeyer Sylvaner on the table:

We ordered a variety of plates.

Salade vignerone. In this picture and in several others, you will note a beautiful red radish. These are everywhere in Alsace. Luckily for Bradley and myself, we find cold, raw, crunchy radishes to be nothing short of delectable:

Feuillate de Munster. This phyllo-wrapped Munster was particularly simple, particularly good and more than particularly filling:

Here, my notes fail me. It’s a bit of a recurring theme. I think this is Alsatian Veal Headcheese, but I can’t be certain. Whatever it was, we ate every gelatinous bite. Eating every bite is also a recurring theme:

For no other reason than Jon Alexis, one of my favorite dudes and owner of TJ’s Seafood Market, has publicly and sarcastically expressed his concerns that I don’t eat enough tripe (on Facebook after a meal at First Chinese where I just happened to consume what must have been several pounds of delectable tripe), I decided to order the Tripe Au Riesling.

Oh. My. God. The smell, the texture, the subtle flavor. This may be the finest tripe preparation I have ever tasted, and coming from a tripe lover like me (a small fraternity, to be sure), that says something! It was dramatically tasty, as in among one of the very tastiest things I have ever masticated. Rich, chewy, tender, sweet, savory – just amazing:

***

My brother ordered the Choucroute Tradition, among the most traditional of the Alsatian dishes. Put simply, it is various pork products dropped onto a pile of sauerkraut. The sour, acidic crunch of the fermented cabbage provided the perfect foil to the sweet, fatty, juicy richness of the pork:

Philippe R ordered Veal Kidneys in a Mustard Sauce:

Rhubarb Pie:

Here is Kougelhopf Glacé. Unfortunately, this is another instance where my notes, and memory, fail me. I uploaded the photo into iPhoto the same day it was taken, and this is a copy and paste of my iPhoto caption:  ”This will be the best dessert of the trip. Kougelhopf Glacé.” I believe it was Gewurztraminer Sorbet or some such. So simple:

After lunch, Philippe B suggested we head to his offices and to the winery’s cellar, all located in Kientzheim, the very small and very beautiful village where we were staying. Here, we chose wine to take to M. Blanck’s house for dinner:

***

***

After we selected a few wines, we set off to the Blanck production facility where Philippe B gave us a wonderfully and hysterically informative tour:

Next stop, the Blanck home for dinner. Another postcard setting:

We met the family, and the gentleman with the plaid shirt is Philippe B’s son Guillaume, the amazingly talented musician we all listened to earlier:

Philippe’s lovely wife:

We ate brilliant, bright red radishes:

We ate Flammekeuche:

***

We ate cheese, with Reblochon on the left and our old friend Munster on the right:

We ate cheesecake with strawberries:

***

And yes, we drank wine:

And more glorious, acidic, minerally, weighty Alsatian White Wine. This is the VERY SAME wine that we are serving at $11 per glass at Veritas. Only difference is ‘Born On’ Date!:

And now, we move to the Reds:

***

***

Dessert wine time:

The following style of wine is rarely drunk, and so rarely drunk, in fact, that no tasting note exists for this vintage on cellartracker.com. Selection de Grains Nobles (properly Sélection de Grains Nobles) refers to wine made from grapes affected by Noble Rot. The result is a luxurious sweetness buoyed by acidity and terroir. There is no better way to end a meal:

 *It is difficult, nay impossible, to put into words the facility of generosity with which Philippe B and his family showered upon Bradley, Philippe R and myself. This supernatural munificence was truly the highlight of the day, and what a day of highlights.

Having surfeited ourselves once again with the wonders of beautiful Alsace, we three (Bradley, Philippe R and myself) gladly returned home, glowing with this great life experience, and slumbered heavily.

DAY 3

This next statement is going to be as surprising to those who know me as it was to me when it happened. After a second consecutive 10,000 calorie day, I awoke before the cursed alarm rang, looked at Bradley a-snorin’ away, and, instead of returning to a glorious slumber and then outsleeping Bradley by at least one hour, I enjoyed a solitary walk around Kientzheim. This is what I saw:

***

***

***

***

***

***

***

These brave men, some of them Texans, did even more for France than T.V. Munson, the ‘Texan’ that is widely credited with saving the French Wine Industry:

And just before I arrived back home, I chanced upon this. It bronzed the feeling that it was all meant to be:

I returned home and we three set off to Vieux-Ferrette to have lunch with Bernard Anthony. Philippe B. was not with us as he had set off for Dallas. That is not a typo. Both of our trips had been planned for months. It is, after all, an exceedingly small world.

This lunch had been planned the day before by Philippe B. He called M. Anthony, told him wine-loving friends of Alsace were in town and asked him to give us a Level 2 Tour of the World of Cheese. Philippe smiled, hung up the phone and told us we were all set.

We listened to great music while we drove to our Cheese Lunch in Vieux Ferrette, in the very south of Alsace.

I sure had big plans for what I was gonna do with all the music I recorded us listening to as we travelled around Alsace. That was before I had any clue how long this blog was gonna take to write!!

***

M. Antony is the most famous affineur in France and, not surprisingly, also a friend of Philippe B. ‘What is an affineur?’ you may ask. In the words of M. Antony, ”To put it at its most basic, the cheesemaker makes the cheese, while the affineur gives it taste.” I stole that from somewhere, but I’m not sure where. Hopefully nobody accuses me of plagiarism.

Well, how does an affineur ‘give’ taste to a cheese? By selecting the best cheese made. If there is a farmer with 5 goats and 2 cows who makes some extraordinarily good cheese, then M. Antony has probably already met him.

An affineur takes into account the season, among other factors, when choosing which cheeses to purchase and age. Some cheeses are better in spring, some in fall, etc.

Once an affineur has actually purchased the cheese, he then stores it properly. Different cheeses require different storage temperatures and humidities. Storage may also require, depending on the style of cheese, that the affineur wash the rind, turn the cheese to evenly distribute the butterfat or otherwise care for the cheese as it ages.

Once the cheese is at the height of its flavor, it is then sold by the affineur to the patron.

M. Antony selects, ages and sells cheese better than anybody else in France. Don’t believe me? Well, believe his list of clients. The four chefs listed here are among the most accomplished in the world and they all source their cheese from M. Antony:  Alain Passard; Pierre Gagnaire; Alain Senderens; and Alain Ducasse. There are others.

Into the shop we walked.

How cool is this? Enter the shop of France’s most celebrated affineur and you see a framed, conspicuous portrait of the very same gentleman with whom you have spent the last few days and who organized your visit to the very shop where the picture hangs!:

M. Antony greeted us as old friends, minus nothing save for the kiss on the cheek. He instructed us to peruse the impossibly thick wine list. Once we selected our first wine, the Selosse Champagne, he popped it open, poured himself a half glass and disappeared. He reappeared not long thereafter, bearing cheeses which be believed to be a perfect match for wine we had selected.

This continued for all 5 bottles of wine we selected:  we choose bottle; he takes first half glass; he disappears; and then reappears bearing slices of cheese. Not a bad gig for either side of the equation.

Our first sip of the afternoon: cold; crispy; yeasty; effervescent. Perfection:

A quick explanation of the Selosse:

(

Comté:

Chaource:

***

All kinds of cheese:

***

Here, Bradley is gettin’ Cheese Level:

Bleu Cheeses:

***

Petite Cocagne (not much good info on this raw sheep’s milk cheese from the Midi-Pyrenees):

Here is a video concerning the consumption of the Petite Cocagne. The humor is awful and I can only imagine completely offensive to ‘normal’ people (whoever the hell they might be). But Ben V, who is not normal, is my favorite Columbian on the planet. Ben V, Veritas loves you!  What is truly funny to me is the pyroclastic flow of steaming merde flowing from Bradley and I, and how, after he took all he could take, Philippe R tries to steer the conversation back to wine. I was having none of it, so I quickly shut down the video! Yup, it is good to be the King! (inside joke for Philippe R):

While eating the Petite Cocagne, we drank this, which was without question one of the great and interesting wines of my life. Rich, honeyed and full of life:

***

And you just had to know this was gonna pop out at some point:

***

The remnants of the final sip:

One of the benefits of owning a little wine shop is the education in cheese one can acquire if they so choose. And we all so chose – Fernando, Bradley, Eddie – everybody. In point of fact, Fernando cuts more cheese every day than even Bernard Antony himself! Ha! At Veritas, we taste new cheeses with Aimee Padden of European Imports, we have had many fortunate opportunities to sample cheese with Texas cheesemakers and we are from time to time sent samples of cheese from various folks. And, having grown up with a cheese-loving French grandmother, my brother and I were exposed to a variety of cheeses on the regular. So, we have some experience with cheese.

And the cheeses served to us by M. Antony were simply splendid. I believe we were offered a total of 17 cheeses, with the collection exhibiting a breath-taking and gut-stuffing array of textures, colors, aromas and flavors. Wow. Just wow. And his ability to pair wines to the cheeses . . . truly one of the most memorable food and wine experiences of my life. Top 10, no doubt.

After our 3.5 hour, 5 bottle and multi-pound cheese lunch, I’m certain that my blood had the consistency of Room Temperature Brie. So delicious, so deadly.

Somehow, Philippe R and Bradley managed to stay awake for a drive into Switzerland. I, much to their chagrin, snored my way through what was told to me to be a beautiful tour.

Immediately upon our return home, we readied ourselves for dinner at Philippe B’s favorite 1-Michelin Star Restaurant, La Table du Gourmet. I could go on about its first Michelin Star in 1996, or the fact that it has retained its Michelin Star for 2011 or all of the other awards it has won and the amazing press it has received. But why? Philippe B said it was his favorite and that’s good enough for me.

The chef/owner, Jean-Luc Brendel, is a friend of Philippe B. No surprise there.

Wait an effing second. Philippe B and Jean-Luc Brendel are really good friends? Uh oh . . . here we go again. We had finished our cheese extravaganza only a few hours before . . .

This meal was the first true riot of culinary excellence we experienced on the trip – so many courses, so many textures, so many ingredients, so many colors, so many aromas. Riotous, indeed!

Here, Bradley is doing a good job of looking cool, calm, collected and all GQ and stuff. Just give it a couple of scrolls . . .

Don’t see much of this in the 75206:

***

As you turn off the street to walk into the restaurant, you first pass through a very tiny courtyard. The very modern and even more brightly lit kitchen is immediately to the right:

The interior color is rich, warm and interesting. Bradley is trying to think of anything but food as he scans the ceiling for an escape hatch:

Where did the cool, calm, collected GQ sheen go? Why has it been replaced by a look of dread? Bradley, what’s wrong?:

Well, it’s not that anything was wrong. It’s just that some 10 courses were on the way . . . Here we go:

***

***

***

The wine in the bottle was in much, much better shape than the 18 year old label:

 *A little piece of fish is shrouded inside the red mass resting in the spoon. The explanation was in French and I didn’t want to ruin Philippe R’s dinner by asking him questions about every bite of food. In retrospect, maybe I should have!:

Truffle Butter in the back; Herbed Butter in the front. Buttergasm:

Another amuse bouche. The description was, again, such fast French that I to this day have no clue what I slurped so lovingly. Certainly a 1 Michelin Star beginning to the dinner:

And here it is, the first absolutely stunning ‘chef presentation’ of the trip. This asparagus consomme is dotted with floating explosions of flavor. While both the broth and every bite of culinary genius floating in it are absolutely stellar, I am not so certain that the level excellence in this dish soars any higher than the pheasant consomme executed by Bruno Davaillon at The Mansion on Turtle Creek. If you don’t believe me, all you have to do is call 214.443.4747 to compare Bruno’s pheasant consomme with anything you have ever eaten.

This particular pic depicts soft tofu floating in the consomme. On it rests a jet black dollop of mashed black olive. Yeah, this was good. Real good. Tofu, soft and silky. Olive, rich and fruity. Consomme, hot and salty. Oh yeah!:

This is an all-time type of bite. Fatty, meaty, tender duck floating the hot, salty, umami-filled consomme. All I could utter as I ate it were grunts and groans . . . :

So simple. So amazing. A perfectly cooked scallop resting on a bed of what seemed to be very simple cabbage, surrounded by an explosively delicious truffle foam. Yup:

***

***

Crispy Fried Frog Legs. Incredibly light and crunchy, tender and succulent. The batter was made of almonds – incredible nuttiness to the dish that blended perfectly with the immediately above White Burgundy. Don’t understand why we don’t eat more Frog Legs in the US.

Oh, the bones are edible. Kinda concerned both Bradley and I might have Mad Frog Disease:

This is Salt-Crusted Turbot topped with Lemon Caviar. The Lemon Caviar did exactly what you would imagine, but just slightly different and new – pop and then fill your mouth with incredible flavors of slightly salty ocean that were at the same type sharply and interestingly citric. I ate each egg separately:

These are Szechuan Peppercorns. They contain hydroxy-alpha-sanshool, which is the bioactive component of the pepper that causes one’s mouth to experience paresthesia when it is chewed or otherwise comes into contact with the tissues in the mouth. The Japanese call the pepper sansho.

Don’t ask, cause I can’t tell. No clue what is on that. But it sure looks perty!:

Now I know exactly what this is – Lobster 3 Ways! Here is the overview of the plate, which was worth the price of admission all by its lonesome. The most intensely lobstery several bites of food I have ever had:

This is a close-up of the Lobster Powder. It tasted like lobster infused with lobster and then fried in lobster. I had never heard of such a thing until it was placed on our table. If you ever need to know how to make it, please call Matt McCallister . . . I think he’s working on a recipe right now!:

Butter was involved in the preparation of this . . . :

*If this picture were scratch and sniff, this bisque would reach out of the computer screen and pinch your nose with its lobster claws. I dislike hyperbole, but this was, without question, the most lobstery Lobster Bisque I have ever tasted. I’m weeping as I type this, and, I swear to God, my tears taste like lobster . . . :

 *I tasted this and considered getting up, throwing my money on the table and storming out in a gluttonous, orgasmic daze. Once you’ve reached the pinnacle, why stick around? But, as I soon discovered, I was mistaken and ended up being very pleased I stuck around for the remainder of the feast. We three just sat in an awed silence after mixing the bisque into the powder:

The following is Foie Gras from a local Alsatian producer and a Gel flavored with Cedar (yes, the wood) and Spices. We all lumberjacked this dish into a quick submission! The salt crystals on top just melted into the fat of the Foie as they were chewed (well, as much as you ‘chew’ perfect foie) together:

The first time Bradley and I had the great fortune of eating at a Michelin Starred Restaurant (Le Moulin de Mougins on the 27th of June, 1993), we were with Ma and we ate Pigeon – Suprêmes de Pigeonneau de la Ferme. The menu from that meal is framed and hangs in my dining room. I am staring at it as I type this. When Roger Vergé, the superstar chef/owner, walked into the room Ma squealed like a 14 year old seeing Justin Bieber in the flesh. 18 fortunate years later, those memories flooded back to both Bradley and me as we dug into this, a Breast of Pigeon with a Black Truffle Sauce, Asparagus and some smoked Pink Fir Apple (a South American potato much-loved for its excellent flavor):

The 3 days in Alsace were such a whirlwind that we didn’t really have much time to think of Ma, or Veritas, or really anything else other than just trying to keep up with the two Philippes. Here is another picture of the Pigeon that made me think of Ma and our family’s month-long trip to France in June of 1993. That is the best kind of food travel at its finest:

This was a Mezze of Spring. No clue other than it being acidic and palate-cleansing:

Multiple Desserts:

***

***

 *I think this was some sort of Nougat, but I can’t remember. The menu did not list the desserts and I was not in any kind of a note-taking mood!:

Desserts all together:

Here is a shot of Bradley and Philippe R as they sit and enjoy Fabienne’s company. Her husband, Jean-Luc Brendel, is the Chef. She is the Sommelier. What an amazing experience. We sat and chatted with her until 1 am, which means the meal lasted right at 5 hours. I could intuitively sense that I was about to develop deep-vein thrombosis, which is why I was on the outside looking in. It was either get and up and walk a bit or expire on the spot:

***

Bradley’s only post for the blog he wrote about Alsace:

Seriously, that is a text he sent to our mother. 3 days of binging down and 9 days to go. I seriously wasn’t sure how I was going to do it. As we rolled back to our car, I took a final parting shot.

***

*I remember Philippe R driving us home and me wondering how the hell I was going to wake up the next day for our trip back to Paris. And the next thing I remember is the klaxon call of the alarm clock.

It wasn’t until the next day’s train ride that I was able to relax a bit, go back over all of the pictures and videos and have enough blood in my brain as opposed to my belly to actually take in all of the experiences and discuss the experiences with Bradley. So, with that, I will offer you my final thoughts on Philippe B, Philippe R and all of our wonderful experiences together as we set off for Paris in the next installment.

But I will say this. I have never eaten that much in a 3 day period, ever. Consumption as Sport.

Until the next post, which I hope to have done as soon as is practicable . . .

“À table! À table. Le diner est pres. Come on everybody, I said à table!”

Growing up, nothing was more eagerly anticipated than ma grandmère, in her beautiful French accent, summoning the extended family to the table for a meal. We all immediately obeyed, not out of obeisance, but from our collective gluttonous anticipation. Her accent and her stories of the past combined with the softly steaming aromas and flavors of whatever French delicacy she was cooking were the very reasons why my brother and I loved spending time with my grandparents on Stillwater Avenue in Kensington, Maryland.

And enjoy the smells and flavors and experiences of grandmère’s kitchen we did, so much so that my brother and I have done everything possible over the last 15 years to make food, wine and La Bonne Vie the Petrol for our Engine of Life.

Sometimes, if we were lucky, the smell radiating from her kitchen was cassoulet.

A Family Classic, cassoulet was much anticipated. It would make an appearance only once or twice a year, and, in some years, much to our chagrin, not at all. Due to the labor-intensive requirements of its proper preparation, we were only able to enjoy it for special occasions.

***

Matriculating under the culinary tutelage of grandmère, whom I branded ‘Ma’ at the age of 3, afforded my brother and me numerous food-related opportunities not at all normal for middle-class kids residing in Los Rios, East Plano, Texas during the 1980s and 1990s. Due to age-related declining health, our food experiences with her slowly came to a depressing halt in the mid-1990s, just as our interest in flavors beyond our familial French began to burgeon.

In today’s status-driven ‘foodie’ world, of which I am undoubtedly Exhibit 1A, agneau, baguettes, boeuf bourguignon (properly spelled ‘bœuf’, but I can’t insert the French ligature ‘Œ’ into the hyperlink), bouillabaisse, cassoulet, caviar, coq_au_vin dragee (dragée), escargot, huitres (huîtres) et ratatouille are all simply platitudinous.

But back in 1989, when Patrick Bateman was happily packing Yves Saint Laurent bags and expounding upon his love for Huey Lewis & The News’s album Sports, those foods so loved by Ma and served to our family on a regular basis were relatively unknown across the great swath of our beloved America.

Our early introduction by Ma to these foods in many ways explains my current existence, and that is something for which I will forever be grateful to her.

(As an aside, if you have any interest in how these and other ‘gourmet’ foods surged to the forefront during America’s ‘gourmet revolution’, check out The United States of Arugula:  How We Became a Gourmet Nation. Excellent read.)

***

Earlier this year, we moved Ma and Pa into Monticello West, an assisted-living center just across Central Expressway from Veritas Wine Room. Respectively 90 and 91, we really had no choice as in-home care was just not working.

In mid-March, my mother, brother and myself went to their house in Richardson, where they moved to from Washington, D.C. in 1988, to begin the overwhelmingly bittersweet process of clearing out their personal items that was intermittently interrupted by interludes of joyous recollection.

A lifetime lover of not just reading, but of also the actual books themselves, I headed straightaway to the enormous pile of them in my grandparents’ garage.

Some were thrown in the trash, some were handed to my mother, some were handed to my brother and I kept some for myself. And then I chanced upon it, a never-before-seen-by-my-eyes circular-bound Times Life Books publication titled “Recipes:  The Cooking of Provincial France”.

More of a ‘cookpamphlet’ than an actual ‘cookbook’, I flipped it open and the pages reflexively came to rest at Page 61.

What met my hungry gaze goosebumped my arms and teared my eyes. It was Ma’s recette for cassoulet. Scribbled over both in blue ink and in pencil, it had flipped open to that page for one reason and one reason only – as a family classic, my grandmother had gone back to it time and time again, her different-colored modifications reflecting those numerous visits to Page 61.

I called my mother and brother over and we all stared quietly, smelling and savoring our intertwined memories of the woman who introduced us to so much by feeding us so well.

My mother broke the silence with “Here is a little family history you might not know. Since we didn’t have any money, Ma and Pa ended up hosting our rehearsal dinner at home. Ma asked me what I wanted as the main course and I told her cassoulet. So that’s what she made.’ I flipped to the cover page; the cookpamphlet was published in 1968. My parents were married in 1972.

I asked, ‘Do you know if she made it from this recipe?’

My mother could barely manage a whisper. ‘Maybe so.’

***

I distinctly remember having just left Lakewood Cleaners when my phone rang. It was Alexa, my brother’s wife. When she calls, it is usually for something important. I answered and she immediately asked ‘Can we talk?’

Uh-oh.  I had no clue what was coming. ‘Of course.’

‘I don’t want to go to France. I have given it a lot of thought and I am not sure that I want to be away from the boys for that long. It also just makes me nervous thinking about both Bradley and me being away together. What if something happened to both of us?’

She continued on a bit and then dropped the bomb – “I want you to go with your brother. He really wants to go, I want him to go and I can’t bear the thought of being the reason why he doesn’t go. Please go with him.’

I told Alexa that as soon as she and I hung up I would call Bradley and start planning our periple to France.

And that’s exactly what I did.

The end result?  My brother and I would spend 3 days together in Alsace and 3 days together in Paris.  He would then leave for Dallas, his sole mission to generate just enough money at the law firm so I could enjoy another 6 days, all alone, to do as I pleased. I suspect he is the only person that read that last sentence without cracking a smile!

And what I pleased to do was decided in my grandparents’ garage while holding that Time Life Books Cookpamphlet.

I was going to take the train to Toulouse, the 4^th largest city in France, and eat cassoulet, the very famous Southwestern French Peasant classic that had, over the years, become a beloved chapter of my family’s history.

Toulouse, Carcassonne, and Castelnaudary each lay claim to the greatest version of cassoulet. While there are as many recipes as there are cooks who cook it, the similarities reign supreme. Local white beans are the basis (sometimes tarbais and sometimes haricots lingots du Lauragais). A varying combination of pork, sausage (often saucisse de Toulouse and/or saucisse de couenne), lamb, mutton, goose and duck provides the fatty, savory richness. Garlic, mirepoix and black pepper are required. Crusty bread on the side for mopping. A bottle of fruity red wine to keep the whole thing moving.

Time to board the plane!

***