Le Moulin de Mougins: Like God in France

Roger Vergé's obituary was in this morning's paper.   He was an early celebrity chef at a perfect restaurant in a tiny town in the hills above the French Riviera.  Back in the day, we spent an idyllic afternoon having lunch at Le Moulin de Mougins, a memorable meal that made one feel, well, like God in France.  It is impossible to feel better than that.
We had a reservation by mail, and on a sunny August day, we drove the rental car up, up, up into the hills until we finally arrived in Mougins, a tiny somnolent town.  We followed a sign to the restaurant.  I was all dolled up in a dress that came from France,  Rodier of Paris, a dress still hanging in my closet, a dress that went to the main event at Burning Man Festival and was last worn to a banquet at the New England Crime Bake.

After the Burn and swigging champagne from a bottle.  Weird outfit which fit right in.

 We walked through a breathtakingly lovely restaurant with a big hearth that just screamed, "Provence," into an incredible garden.  I told myself I absolutely must come back in late fall someday when the indoor room would have a roaring fire in the hearth and hot soup and hearty fare would be served.

Seated in the garden, reeling from where I was, an honest-to-god three star French restaurant, we began to peruse the menu.  Many pages, and overwhelming choices.  Que faire?  The waiter took pity and suggested the table d'hote  selection of (can you believe this?) seventeen items.  OMG!   I read the selections and wasn't sure I liked the sound of the curried fish  (I like fish prepared as plain as possible in a sauté pan.)  The main entree, "duck cooked in its own blood" sounded gross.   Again que faire?  We said fine, we'll have the table d'hote.

The amuse bouche arrived followed by one incredibly delicious item after another.  The fish was scrumptious.  How could I have doubted it?   A small dish of potatoes arrived, so tasty I wanted to tell the waiter, "never mind the rest of the meal.  Just bring a big plate of those potatoes."

More food, but no rush between courses.  The duck was served, with no trace of blood but plenty of mouth-watering flavor.  And more courses.  And wine, delicious wine.  We probably drank a bottle.  Oh God!  It had to be sinful to eat like this.

Between courses I looked around the garden.  Interesting clientele.  Hans, who faced another direction, remarked on how many men seemed to be having lunch with their daughters.  Yeah, sure.  I saw a table of Arabs, the women svelt in summer dresses, and everyone smoking and drinking to beat the band. Next to us was a table, we guessed of three families of Alsatians.  With four or so kids.  The children were served big honking pieces of filet, which they picked at.  No matter what, you just can't ask strangers to give you their leftovers.  The children were seen and not heard and sat quietly at the table as good French children do.  When the adults had finished, dusty bottles of Cognac were brought for the table's inspection.  More cobwebby bottles.  Glasses poured,  everyone sipped. 

In the meantime we were sated with food and wine and feeling more and more like God in France.  It could not get any better than this.  Except for maybe a nap, but we had a half-hour journey back to our hotel.  No cognac for us.  Somehow, in spite of the heady wine, we arrived at our lodgings.  Everything had been perfect, and how often can you say that?  Roger Vergés kitchen had outdone itself, and tonight I will raise a glass to his memory.

The Garden at Le Moulin de Mougins

Roger Verge, chef extraordinaire

Lost in one's own novel

My latest novel, In Flight hit 72,ooo words this week, and of course the book is in my head, but as you can imagine, it's fairly hard to keep all those words in your head.

Last night, I created a calendar, keeping track of the major plot points of the book in a time line, which was a good thing, because then I could mention Father's Day and the 4th of July is coming soon and I think my characters just might want to mosey off the beaten track and do something kookie. Anyway, they will have to observe the day like everyone else.

I'm trying to figure out roughly how many words I need, and of course I can't quite estimate that. Four more big plot points, coming fairly close together. Bam. bam. bam.

So today I printed all 270 pages of the manuscript. Found a bunch of bad sentences. Have to make a major change to the beginning of the book. Was going to wait until I had a draft, but methinks I'll do it now. Nothing difficult, but adding a big dramatic scene. And then I find stuff I thought I had changed but I didn't. What's that all about?

Just managing one of these manuscripts takes some doing. I used to keep all the chapters/scenes in separate docs, but now I use one doc, and it sure does make it easier to find and fix problems.

So: now I have to read the damn thing, with my red pen poised. It's amazing how often you can go over these manuscripts and how often you find writing that can be improved. Work. Work. Work.

A peasant soup from the south of France for dinner--meatless, and quite tasty. Well, all that garlic. . . . We probably reek. Bon soir.

Grapeshot

When Life Imitates Fiction

My first long-ago never-to-see-the-light-of-day mystery began with a crime in a parking garage. I used the area where I worked, naturally, and parked in that garage day and night without much thought to safety. After all, it was a hop, skip and a jump from the office, well-lighted, yada, yada. Imagine my surprise, nay, horror, when a real crime hit the garage, and someone actually tried to kidnap a woman in broad daylight. It gave me pause.

My next book, The Shadow Warriors, dealth with an info war which has only broken out in minor skirmishes in real life, but that seems destined to happen. Maybe the book will take off when it does, but I really wouldn't hope for such an event, book sales or no.

Wisconsin book, Promiscuous Mode, has not sold, but there have been several mass murders in that neck of the woods. Gives one pause.

Burning Man Book, Festival Madness. So far no murders connected to festivals, at least to my knowledge. Whew!

Current book: In Flight. I picked a physical heroine out of my daily life--someone I knew but not well. Took her profession, too. The real person of course was nothing like my heroine who had had genuinely awful things in her life. Until yesterday, when the model told me of a huge tragedy which had befallen her. I felt almost guily. The issue has been building for years, long before the book was a gleam in my eye, but still . . . One charmed life, no longer.

Fiction and life are in a deadly embrace. That's why it's so tempting to fictionalize a memoir. Don't.

Another post soon. I just put chocolate panna cotta in the fridge to gel, and now I'm off to make the port wine ice cream. Yowza! Like God in France.

Grapeshot

Drinks around the world

Sometimes on a nice evening, we sit on our little deck overlooking the slough, quaffing a glass of wine or even a "Sea Breeze," and one of us will utter the phrase, "wie Gott im Frankreich," translated from the German "Like God in France." In other words, it can't get much better than this.

The other evening we were reminiscing about the most interesting drinks ever, which started many years ago at the George V in Paris. This was obviously at a time when the dollar went far. It was August and hot, and we were still in American mode for some reason and ordered gin and tonics.

How the George V served a gin and tonic: a glass full of gin and ice was served with a little bottle of Schweppes tonic on the side. Now think about this. A whole glass of gin, (yowsa!) and one had to keep drinking the gin and adding tonic until, by the time one was pretty well sloshed, one was finally drinking a gin and tonic. Somehow, through the oceans of gin, we remember this occasion.

This happened so long long ago that Frank Sinatra was alive and in Paris and was being a bad boy, according to the George V gossip. He and his chums were tossing lighted fire crackers around, apparently inside the hotel. They were not amused, and we were embarrassed (in a tipsy, gin-soaked way) by our fellow countryman.

The next historic drink was a Bellini at Harry's Bar in Venice. I believe it was a then godawful six dollars, maybe eight. We were having lunch, and I have to tell you that while the Bellini was refreshing and very fine, the appetizer, which was pasta with a cheese sauce was to die for. The best pasta and sauce ever. Ever. The stuff of memories.

Some ladies of a certain age, maybe schoolmarms from the midwest came in and wilted as they perused the menu. Harry's was never, like, a cheap place to grab a bite. They asked for club sandwiches, which bamboozled the waiter, but sure enough, a little later, club sandwiches were served. I'll bet those were $15.00 club sandwiches.

The last historic drink was in the Writer's Bar at Raffles in Singapore. And of course at Raffles in Singapore, whatever would you order but a Singapore Sling? This set us back (15 years ago) $12.00 each, the most expensive drink I had ever ordered. It was pretty good, although I am not a gin person (in spite of the George V), but sitting at the Writer's Bar (I had just started writing) was such a dizzying experience. The history. The glamour. The je ne sais quoi. The writer's bar at Raffles.

A book came out of the trip to Singapore, but only memories of the George V and Harry's Bar. Good places all. Did you notice I did not use the verb "imbibe" even once?

Grapeshot

What historic drinks did you have?