7th Day - Armagnac

Without setting an alarm-clock to wake us, with an inevitable melancholy that could only be described as french, in french, that this was the last recreational day of our vacation, we desultorily rose and attended the cozy petite dejeuner . . . we were served by the mother of our hoteliesse, in her housedress, which I found rather droll, but Mrs demurred, said it was homey . . . we could smell the coffee and croissants baking in our room upstairs, which was a yummy apertif . . . we were willing to overlook the use of tinned preservatives instead of home-made, like we'd had at the chateaus . . . c'est la vie . . .

We ambled over to the titular raison d'etre of our vacation, the musee' Armaganac . . . it is small but interesting . . . there's a grape press the size of a fire-truck . . . collections of tools for cultivating, harvesting, and distilling armagnac grapes . . . collections of antique stills . . . and displays of antique ways of enjoying armagnac, like crystal decanters and small glasses and snifters . . . but perhaps most important . . . the proper dressage: a blue velvet vest with little metal grape clusters on it . . . this picture kinda turned out Dali-like from my reflection in the glass . . . but I am resolved to make this my next purchase of custom tailoring, not so ornamented, perhaps, and with golf motifs, instead of grape clusters, since I am a better bad golfer than armagnac sommellier, if you see what I mean . . .



They had a short video to watch in a small theatre, with a choice of 4 languages. I chose English for intelligibility over French for authenticity. It was only a PR flick, but was enthralling to such a afficionado as I -- I'd forgotten: I'd asked our sommellier at LaFontan what the french equivalent for afficionado was . . . she came up with Amateur! Ouch! . . . 8^D . . . but I think I'd heard that before, so, ok . . . like a black belt just means you are a serious student instead of a dilletantte. The film did manage to convey the information that Armagnac was first distilled in the 1280s, and it is the oldest distilled product in France. I always wonder about those types of First Pioneers . . . how do they come up with these ideas? Did Spacemen tell them? Did they have a bad mushroom? Were they just incredibly bored on winter eves?

Outside the theatre was this Poem about Armagnac distillation. I'm still working on the translation, but I share the joie de vie in the magical process celebrated by the poet.

because as the still embers buffetted
lightens a vapor that gradually mounted
the summit the hat and moist, unable
to sweat smelling her go farther
grazes gently, then a drop falls a drop
clear as crystal, in glass drips
the more subtle humor that floats in the sea
is the scope of the sun rays in the air

After the museum, where there was no tasting . . . incroyable! . . . we wandered the old-town section of Condom looking for a place for lunch . . . we disdained the St. Pierre for no other reason than fine as it was, we wanted a difference . . . we finally wound up at a table in the street outside a pizzeria. The street is blocked off as a pedestrian zone, but that pedestrian traffic is very heavy . . . the hikers and bikers are constant, not to mention the locals breaking for lunch . . .



We didn't really expect a gourmet feast from a pizzeria, but it was such a charming location, half in sun and shade, we had to pick it.



We waved away the menus and gave our standard order, fumbling such that we wound up with vin blanc instead of vin rose -- there's some secret to ordering vin rose in france I have not mastered -- only after re-persuading the waitress that we wanted wine in addition to eau minerale naturelle.

But Mrs loves the salades in France, that come in so many colours and seem to always have bits of melon and avocado . . . this one also had little yellow tomatos that must have a name of their own, but we don't know it . . . Mrs suggests Baby Golden Heirloom Tomatos . . .



The main course I just call FishKabobs . . . I forgot what the restaurant called it . . .saumon en brochette or something . . . it was succulent beyond belief . . . there were bits of bacon included, too, which I applaud, if somewhat ruefully, but Mrs puritanically disdains.

When the waitress returned, she asked "dessert ou glace'?"
So we said "Oui!"
She repeated, "dessert ou glace?"
and we said "Oui!"
this went on for enough iterations to draw irritable & pitying glances at other tables, till the waitress retreated in confusion, and dispatched her colleague, who was able to convey the concept that "ou" = "or".
I found this rather funny as a demonstration of my linguistic shortcomings . . .



goes into the category of "I will never learn" I guess . . .

was a nummy caramelized pavlova set into custard, an excellent complement to my espresso.

After lunch we expanded our circumambulation to the periphery of old-town. We found a grocer -- I don't think it was a Lidl, but I don't remember -- Mrs enjoys seeing different grocers, and taking stock, if you see how I mean, but she also made valuable purchases . . . plastic tableware to go into our picnic basket with our plastic plates and paper napkins -- essential we tho't for our trip back to Prague.

We also ran across this shop specializing in English Articles . . . The cashier greeted us in English, and chatted to us while we perused . . . we didn't really want any marmite, but bought a used paperback, Kinflicks, and some crackers. When we left, I said, "Cheerio!" which made her smile.