Yesterday we drove north, past Périgueux and up to the small village of Sorges, to see the seasonal truffle market, which turned out to be a small tent with about seven or eight people with very small baskets of a handful of truffles for sale. Say, 800 euros for a truffle smaller than a tennis ball. Yes, I wanted one, badly. But not that badly.
The microclimates in this part of France are quite dramatic -- it's not the first time we've driven just a bit farther north and been shocked by how much colder it is. So the image I had of the four of us gaily roaming around Sorges and enjoying the market was replaced by the four of us whining about the cold and wanting something hot to eat, preferably by a fire. We wandered around Vergt but found nothing open, and ended up in Pont St. Mamet, a very small village whose boulangerie we know quite well, since it's right on the way to Bergerac and apparently we tend to reach it at the very moment a desperate need for a croissant aux amandes presents itself.
Le Petit Jardin had several fires going, lots of glittery pillows to lean against, and a friendly propriétaire whose ponytail Nellie admired. Plat du jour, 12 euros. First course, a wonderful potage, the tiniest bit creamy, with lots of mushrooms chopped finely enough that Nellie happily ate a bowlful of the detested fungi. Second course, boeuf bourguignon and a big heap of creamy scalloped potatoes. Both spectacular.
Julian ran off the rails at some point during the second course, despite having a Coke and despite our strong suspicion that at school he relishes boeuf bourguignon. My pichet of red wine made this a little easier to ignore. And the profiteroles that came for dessert, with both a custard and a chocolate sauce, focused his attention on food again, much to the amusement of the propriétaire.
So no truffles for us, at least not yet. But I can settle for those scalloped potatoes any day.
