Villamblard is not a touristy village. A bank, a bakery, a butcher, a little market, a distillery, and the Café de la Place -- that's it for commerce. Last Friday we had run out of groceries and strolled over for dinner. Inside a few men were having beers. I asked the propriétaire if they were open for dinner (well, what I said was "Dîner?") and she nodded, trotted back to speak to the chef, came back out and said something we didn't understand, and showed us to the dining room, turning on the lights on her way.
Pizza for the kids. Chris and I ordered from the prix fixe menu, 15 euros. The first course was a salade aux gébiers. I hesitated about telling Chris what gébiers are, as he has just become adventurous enough to eat olives. And there was that mix-up over the rognons de veau (veal kidneys) many years ago that he hasn't forgotten. But he wanted to know. All right then, they're gizzards. He blanched slightly, but overall was a picture of bon courage.
It was past seven, and we were the only ones in the dining room. Curious. Two little scruffy dogs came over to see if we had anything for them. The room had an air of having looked exactly the same way for thirty or forty years -- there were old bullfighting posters on the walls, some aged curtains, rectangular discolored places where some pictures had hung for a long time and been taken down.
The salade aux gébiers came, and it was surpassingly good. The gébiers were warm, very tasty little nuggets on a heap of lettuce, all sprinkled with a raspberry vinaigrette. For the next course we both had duck breast, mine grilled and Chris's in a green peppercorn sauce. Ohh. Blindingly fantastic. Perfect. Julian began poaching pieces off my plate. A pile of diced zucchini, loaded with olive oil and garlic, perched on one side of the plate, next to a mound of potatoes sauteéd with shallots and mushrooms that may be the best thing I have ever eaten. Ever. Just writing about it now is making me feel faint.
I had a moment of horror -- now that I'm back to being gluten and casein-free, I thought, well of course the potatoes are delicious, they must be drowning in butter! But we inspected them closely. No, it was something else.... duck fat. I am going to be daydreaming about those potatoes for the rest of my life.
I passed my fig tart dripping in cream to Chris, who also had genoise with peaches and pears. Julian and Nellie had chocolate ice cream with little balls of whipped cream on the sides.
Ours was the only dinner the Café de la Place served that night. I weep for the chef. We'll have to do our best to keep him busy.
