Bordeaux, Week 9: Books and Coffee

Books & Coffee, 26 rue St James.

Four times last week, I packed up my laptop and took it to this café on rue St James. Three very gracious and attentive youngsters in the twenties work their butts off to offer coffee, tea, modest pastries, and a limited lunch menu for reasonable prices. I ordered tea most days, but I saw other customers order coffee in all forms, from an espresso to the bulbous glass beakers that look like they’re do equally well for cooking crack.

The wood floors and metal shelving, the leather sofa and seats, and the tables of the interior gives the place a soothing library feel. A counter runs along a big side window and has books, children’s books, and toys to keep children occupied while their foot-weary parents recharge their batteries. I’ve had lunch there twice: a very good, custardy quiche and small salad the first time and a chicken-burger with bacon the second time. Unpretentious, tasty, and satisfying.

IMG_0084I’ve noticed that tea shops and cafés all over Bordeaux and in Biarritz carry two brands of ironware teapots made in Japan. The better quality brand, Oigen, does not seem to be widely available in the States. The design of these pots is beautifully simple. A cast iron Oigen teapot weighs around three pounds and is glazed on the interior. The ones I’ve seen here (and the one I bought at left) are priced around 98.50euros. On US sites, if you can find them, the pots run about $150. They eliminate the need for a tea cozy, because they retain the heat.

Iwachu teapots are less expensive, noticeably lighter, and the varieties of designs less appealing — to my eye, anyway. Far more examples of this brand show up on Amazon.

 

Bordeaux, Week 8: Be the Wine

DSC02523When walking toward the city center, I pass a little wine shop down the street from me on rue Leyteire that also claims to be a wine club, although I’ve never been by or gone in when anyone else is there except the owner or an employee. That probably has more to do with the hours I keep than with the business they handle. At first, I was disappointed that the young woman who works there during the week speaks English, but she is so nice and helpful that I try and make that the store where I get my wine. The wines they carry are not exclusively from Bordeaux and I’ve liked every one of them. Their prices are affordable. In fact, on the recommendation of the woman, I bought a delicious white wine that has semillon blended in it for 5.90e. Not bad. It’s a cave that’s all heart and dedication to wine. I hope they get more business, because they’re a wonderful part of the neighborhood. Very convenient for the Marché des Capucins, too. Not sure I want to “be the wine” I want to see in the world, in the Gandhian sense, but I’m willing to drink it.

Apparently, they have only a Facebook page here.

85 rue Leyteire

Bordeaux, of course

Bordeaux, Week 4: Sundays Are My Weakness

In my self-imposed exile in a city of complete strangers, I have only two situations in which I can count on speaking to any one at all, never mind in French. During the week, there are the archivists and librarians, my guinea pigs, who listen patiently as I attempt to explain just what the hell I’m trying to accomplish in Bordeaux. Because so few people here have heard about the subject of my work, Edmond Dédé, I get a lot of practice running through the highlights of his biography.

Over the weekend, I talk to the market people. On Saturday, at the Marché des Capucins, the level of French I speak now consists less often of, “how much was that again?” and more of “I could have sworn the Spanish cheese stall was on this side of the market. It’s over there? I’m completely lost.” Finding the stalls I prefer in the Capucins, especially on Saturday when whole families and their dogs jam the aisles, takes a little leg work.

Last Sunday morning, I walked a mile to the Chartrons district on the downriver side of town to an open-air market on the embankment. The best bread I’ve found in all of Bordeaux is here (can’t tell you the company’s name because they don’t post a sign. All I can tell you is that it’s the boulangerie stall furthest downriver on the river side). From a charcuterie stall, I bought a few slices of bone-in ham, cut off a big ham right there, and a small dried chorizo.

CrevettesIt’s the take-away food that I succumb to. Last week, even though it wasn’t even 11 am, I stopped for a cornet (paper cone) of griddle-seared crevettes sprinkled with an herb mixture. As the man slapped the shrimp around on the grill like a plasterer with a trowel, his wife asked me where I was from. “Oh, my niece lives in America!” I asked where. Pause. She couldn’t remember the name of the place. She turned to her husband, “What’s the name of that place where she lives?” “New York,” he said. It’s nice to be reminded that the Big Apple isn’t the center of everyone’s world. I wished them a bonne journée and walked off munching the shrimp.

DSC02350On my way home through the place des Quinquonces, a large ceremonial space with a monument to the Girondists, I witnessed a duel and its aftermath. Whatever.

This week at the Chartrons market, I skipped the crevettes and considered oysters with a small glass of wine — at 11 am. My first Sunday in Bordeaux I enacted a great 19th-century French idiom, tuer le ver. I killed the worm, which is to say, I hade a glass of something alcoholic for breakfast.

But this Sunday I decided to try something different: escargots. Not, mind you, the escargot that are the delightful excuse to deliver garlic, parsley, and olive oil into my system. Instead, I stopped at a stall where an idle, pleasant-looking man stood next to a big cauldron of escargot in a bacon-tomato-shallot-white wine sauce with a warm aftertaste of chile-pepper. He clearly belonged to the School of “Bacon Makes Everything Taste Better.” Not cheap, at 8.50 euros a small container. But very tasty. I learned his aunt lives in Carmel, California where [something unintelligible] lives. It took me 30 seconds to understand that he was saying “Clint Eastwood.” He loves California.

Escargot BxMy only other purchases today were a small roast chicken (7 euros), slices of grilled eggplant (5 euros), and a bottle of local hard cider (4 euros). I’m well stocked for a few days of intense writing. I have to finish a draft chapter for next Saturday, when I’ll be off to Biarritz for a little bit of vacation.