One More Croissant for the Road

by Felicity Cloake

  After so long on my own, give or take a few brief encounters of the parental variety, it takes me a while to get used to the volume, too, and I find myself perplexed by the rapid back and forth across my bows: what is this novel thing called conversation, and how do I do it?

  The deluge of chatter is still flowing freely as we disembark in Chalon to meet the bike hire man, who allows me to use his stand pump to jolly up the tyre I so laboriously changed in Hyères, now looking ominously flabby. After a few false starts, and an impromptu raid on a startled-looking halal butcher for sweets and nuts and God knows what else, we finally make it, in wobbly convoy, onto the canal towpath. A sedate pace is enforced, along with regular stops to consume more of our booty; a monstrous pink praline bun the colour of Mr Greedy appears from Ali’s basket this time, and Bea produces some ham and truffle madeleines, which we all decide are an abomination, as we finish the packet.

  Peeling off from the water, the route to Beaune takes us into the vineyards, where we pedal through famous names like Puligny-Montrachet, Volnay and, thrillingly, Meursault, home of my favourite wine on earth, a rich, buttery Chardonnay with a racy hint of steel. We’re too late to do any tasting, but I’m tempted to cram a handful of sacred soil into my jersey pocket, before someone points out that I’ll have to carry this romantic mud around for another fortnight.

  Ali, who in deference to her delicate condition has hired an electric bike, is more concerned with whether we’re going to go up any more hills like the one in Chassagne-Montrachet. ‘I forgot it was electric,’ she tells me happily as we cruise through the well-heeled suburbs of Beaune, ‘so for a bit I just thought I was much fitter than the rest of you. It was amazing.’

  Ned, Lucy, Martha and I are sharing another little apartment in the rafters tonight, while high-rollers Ali and Bea are sprawling out in the comfort of a provincial hotel. We regroup for dinner, and immediately I curse my stupidity in not booking anywhere. Being a party of one has made me complacent: even on a Tuesday night, there’s not much room at the inn for six in busy little Beaune.

  We try four or five places with increasing desperation, eventually splitting up in order to comb the town’s cobbled streets more efficiently. A series of panicky texts criss-cross the evening air until at last someone finds succour at the Brasserie le Carnot, a place with a laminated English-language menu and the impatient service that tends to behove a French professional reduced to waiting on barbarians, all of which pales into insignificance beside the fact that there’s a table free at the front of the restaurant. We celebrate with a splurge: a bottle of Meursault to start, the ripe peach fruit barely held in by its corset of Burgundian minerality … and if you think that’s florid, you should have been there. Relief begets some very enthusiastic wine tasting, it turns out.

  As we’re in Burgundy, I chase up the Meursault with six plump snails in their obligatory warm bath of garlic butter (the snails, as usual, are quite beside the point, but these are at least tender, which is about all you can expect of them) and my first helping of boeuf bourguignon, which arrives with the kind of oily top that suggests repeated reheating. The meat is dry and the sauce as rich and sticky as beefy treacle – the kind of thing you’d be delighted to pull out of the fridge the day after a boozy dinner party, but surely not the best that Burgundy has to offer. I actually find myself wondering whether the microwave meal Matt hoofed down on the ferry all those weeks ago might have been superior. As we troop out, the previously taciturn waiter nudges Ned, gestures at the rest of us and winks. Some things, apparently, are universal.

  We reconvene nearby for breakfast; I’ve never seen a crowd of locusts in action, but I imagine it would look much like us lot in a bakery. Lucy empties them of mille-feuilles, Martha steals the last croissant from under an old man’s angry nose, and all of us crowd round, cooing at the snail butter gougères on the counter (‘Snail butter, not snail flavour,’ Madame says firmly, trying to hurry us along). I decide, on a whim, to buy a Paris–Brest pastry, simply because, oozing cream and caramelised nuts, it looks so outrageously decadent.

  PAUSE-CAFÉ – Confession Time

  Until recently I laboured under the terrible misapprehension that I didn’t like French patisserie. I’ve always been a fan of their desserts – creme brûlée and tarte Tatin in particular – but, possibly due to an overdose of soggy profiteroles at a formative school Speech Day, for a long time their pastries didn’t really appeal.

  Believe it or not, I didn’t even like croissants until 2 April 2011, when I bought one for a friend I was surprising with breakfast, and one for myself just to keep her company, and there, at her kitchen table, the fog cleared, angels sang and I suddenly realised that everything I thought I knew about them was wrong. (I remember the date so precisely because that evening we went to a party and I snogged her housemate, so all in all, it was a pretty good day.)

  Anyway, all this is to explain why, up until now, I’ve never had a Paris–Brest, one of the high priests of the patisserie pantheon, yet having read on the train that they have a cycling connection, this suddenly feels like a dereliction of duty. According to Graham Robb, these plump little choux-pastry rings, sandwiched with swirls of praline cream and topped with a sprinkle of crunchy almonds, were created to celebrate a 1,200km endurance race between the two cities, with a calorie count appropriate to 50-odd hours in the saddle.

  Early competitors in the Paris–Brest–Paris race fuelled themselves on snuff and champagne, however: the winner of the inaugural 1891 event, Charles Terront, who made it back to the capital in 71 hours, 37 minutes, then ate four meals, slept for 26 hours, got up and attended 18 consecutive banquets in his own honour. What a hero. The event is still run every four years, but not, in theory at least, as a race. The Paris–Brest, however, lives on.

  Needless to say, though I only intended to take a delicate bite of the commemorative pastry after my croissant (8/10, very crisp and buttery, but a touch dry) to confirm my worst suspicions, I end up begging Martha to take it off me: it’s utterly delicious, the pastry crunchy on top, damp and soft within, the cream rich and sweet – and well worth the queasiness I feel, having wrested it back from her and polished off the lot. Oblivious to the fact that we’ve already angered the entire shop, Martha takes one bite of my Brest and goes in to get her own, and Lucy follows.

  As we scoff, I impart the glad tidings that we have a mere 44.4km to ride into Dijon; this time I’ve deliberately kept the distances short after repeatedly reassuring my companions that no previous cycling experience was necessary. Ali, however, has decided to take the train instead, not, it seems, because of the blistering pace we’ve set, but because the lure of a day on her own has proved too strong for someone with two small children and a full-time job, and frankly, I don’t blame her; the peloton never stops talking.

  We set off in a cloud of crumbs, leaving Ali basking contentedly on a wall. The morning sun is strong as we pass triumphantly under Beaune’s 18th-century stone Porte Saint-Nicolas, marvelling at the jaunty roofs in shades of mustard and Pinot Noir we missed in last night’s panic, and through the flat and surprisingly unremarkable countryside to the north-east of town, the viticultural valuable high ground always on the horizon. It’s not too long before a sign for Nuits-Saint-Georges thrills my half-pickled heart; if white Burgundy is my favourite wine of all time, elegant Pinot Noir is certainly up there among my favourite grapes. Tom Kevill-Davies, a Brit who, after cycling from New York to Rio, moved to Burgundy, where he runs a cycle holiday business and wine export gig, is too busy with clients today to join us for lunch, but has recommended somewhere here as a likely spot for a decent boeuf bourguignon.

  The Café du Centre is accurately named, but on a Wednesday lunchtime, the almost-deserted pedestrian street at the throbbing heart of one of the world’s best-known wine regions feels more like Hitchin, the quietly pleasant Home Counties town that got lucky in the twinning department. Of course, we can sit wherever
we like, Madame smiles. Quite honestly, as I settle into the welcoming shade of a parasol and down a refreshing beer (not even the location can persuade me to start with red wine), the last thing I want is stew – it must be at least 30°C – but needs must.

  To my relief, the beef is excellent, with a lighter, more savoury gravy that knocks the socks off last night’s version, studded with generous hunks of carrot, and thanks to a laughably good-value €14.70 menu du jour, I can at least sandwich it with a salade composée and a biscuity little raspberry tart, though Bea’s dessert of icy-cold curd served with a side of crème fraîche – because nothing goes better with high-fat dairy than more of the same – has me more than a little envious.

  The heat and the bottle of basic Côte de Nuits we’ve put away makes us slow to get going afterwards … I wander into the Tourist Office to find out about vineyards to visit between here and Dijon (‘All of them,’ the woman behind the desk says unhelpfully) and come out with a Meursault fridge magnet filled with dubious neon yellow liquid as a souvenir of last night’s aperitif.

  Eventually wagons roll, albeit at the pace of a particularly indolent snail – laziness I pay dearly for when we end up on the kind of Google Maps Special Itinerary familiar to me from the first week of the trip: a road that turns into a farmer’s track, and then peters out altogether in the middle of some very scenic vineyards. The view proves of scant comfort when the land suddenly drops off a terrace.

  By the time we finally make it to Morey-Saint-Denis, no communication is necessary. As one, we fling our bikes outside the Cave des Vignerons and march in, moaning appreciatively as the air-conditioning hits us. Unfortunately, this little shop, run by the local winemaker’s co-operative, is both small and already overfilled with expensively dressed Australians in the middle of a tasting. They give our pink and sweaty faces a look of fleeting alarm, while Madame, to my surprise, excuses herself and comes over – and instead of quietly telling us to leave immediately before we scare off the serious customers, pours us all a large glass of something cold and white ‘while we wait’.

  After 15 minutes of milling awkwardly around in the limited space, we realise that we may have come as light relief. The Australians, not satisfied with living somewhere that produces excellent Chardonnay and Pinot Noir, are it seems buying up the entire Burgundian stock, too, and arranging shipping with agonising slowness. At one point I hear one of them say in a world-weary tone, ‘I’m just worried I’ve got too much of the ’04, you know?’ as he sends Madame off on yet another stock check.

  The troops, hot and cross, having dispensed with the wine in short order, are beginning to look mutinous when the big spenders finally depart and we’re handed more glasses, Gevrey-Chambertin, Aligoté … I’m beginning to wonder whether they’ve driven Madame crazy, such are the measures. When the freebies finally stop arriving, I ask her to recommend something light, and perhaps a little fruity, suitable for an aperitif this evening. ‘This evening! But it’s so hot!’ she says. ‘White, you must have a white.’

  I sadly explain we have nowhere to chill it, being on bikes. ‘You’re on bikes?’ she says. ‘Stopping at every village? Oh la la!’ I swear she does actually utter these words, whatever anyone claims about no French person ever saying that in real life. In the end, I buy a bottle of something light and red, and Martha does too, and then Ned and Lucy buy some crème de cassis as gifts, and then everyone wants Madame to refill their bidons, and just as she’s losing patience with us as well, an enormous Chinese group come in, and we make a swift exit.

  The road to Dijon is thronged with viticultural traffic. All along the Côte de Nuits workers are busy driving huge pieces of machinery through the vineyards, every lay-by dotted with the obligatory white vans, men in caps bent double, pruning with the delicacy of a florist putting the final touches to a wedding bouquet. It’s a beautiful sight, the serried ranks of vines, the solid stone walls bearing the name of the plot, the occasional shiny Mercedes parked up to inspect the fruits of their labour – though it feels a long way from the slightly scruffier wine scene down in the Languedoc. I can’t see any of these guys pooing on their vines.

  It’s still so hot that, even this late in the afternoon, I spot someone driving a tractor with one hand and holding a stripy beach parasol over his head with the other, and we arrive in Dijon sleepy with sun and wine. Thank goodness, this time I’ve booked ahead for dinner, so by the time we scoop up a relaxed-looking Ali and roll into little Chez Léon, two bottles of wine and a fair few snail butter gougères down after some very civilised pre-loading at the apartment, I’m more chilled than a glass of Chablis.

  Powerless in the face of hot garlic butter, I start with yet more snails, and then, inevitably, another boeuf bourguignon. Let no one ever say I don’t suffer for my art. Not that my third beef stew in almost as many meals is too traumatic. Indeed, happily this proves the best of the three, with a richly-savoury sauce and great hunks of gelatinous meat, served with not one, but two types of heavily garlicked carbs – a sourdough crouton, and a dish of pommes purée. Throw in an outrageously boozy rum baba to finish, and I couldn’t feel more French if you stuck a beret on me and a Gauloises in me – though, truth be told, with the amount of alcohol we’ve consumed, this may well constitute a fire hazard.

  Happily, unsteadily, after bidding an emotional farewell to Bea and Ali, who are leaving early the next morning, we wend our way back in the shadow of the great cathedral, and then, determined to test their friendship to the absolute limits, I force Lucy, Ned and Martha to sit round the table in our little flat and help me drink my wine so that I’m not obliged to carry it to Strasbourg tomorrow. In fact, we drink so much that I feel quite teary at the idea of having to say goodbye to them all. After all, I’ve only just got used to the noise.

  Boeuf Bourguignon

  The fruits of my stew marathon: ridiculously rich, with just a hint of sweet spice. Try to get the cheeks and oxtail if possible; they’ll make the results far stickier and more delicious than ordinary stewing beef. The garlicky croutons are optional but delicious.

  Serves 6

  1 bottle of fruity, relatively light dry red wine

  1 onion, peeled and quartered

  1 large carrot, scrubbed and cut into 2cm chunks

  2 garlic cloves, peeled and squashed with the back of a knife

  A small bunch of parsley, plus a handful for garnish

  2 sprigs of thyme

  1 bay leaf

  1 tsp ground nutmeg

  1 tsp ground ginger

  2 cloves

  5 peppercorns

  2 tbsp olive oil

  35g butter

  200g unsmoked bacon lardons, or a thick piece of unsmoked bacon cut into 2cm cubes

  18 baby carrots

  200g button mushrooms

  24 pearl onions, or 12 small shallots, peeled

  2 tbsp flour

  1kg beef cheeks, cut into 3cm chunks

  400g oxtail

  60ml brandy

  300ml good beef stock

  For the toasts

  ½ a thin baguette

  1 garlic clove

  Olive oil, to drizzle

  Put the wine into a pan with the onion, carrot, garlic, herbs and spices and bring to the boil. Simmer for 30 minutes, until reduced by about half. Preheat the oven to 170°C/150°C fan/gas 3.

  Heat the oil and butter in a large ovenproof casserole dish over a medium-high heat, and when the foam has died down, add the bacon. Fry until golden, then scoop out with a slotted spoon and set aside.

  Add the baby carrots and mushrooms to the casserole dish and sauté until lightly golden, then scoop into a fresh bowl. Add the pearl onions or shallots, turn down the heat slightly, and fry until just beginning to brown.

  Meanwhile, put the flour on a plate, season, then roll the chunks of cheek and pieces of oxtail in it. Tip the pearl onions or shal
lots in with the other vegetables and turn up the heat slightly in the pan.

  Fry the beef in batches until crusted and deeply browned, being careful not to overcrowd the pan or it will boil in its own juices (add a little more oil if it feels like it’s burning rather than browning). Scoop out and set aside in a bowl. Turn up the heat.

  Add the brandy to the pan and scrape to dislodge any caramelised bits on the bottom. Strain in the reduced wine (discarding the vegetables), followed by the stock. Return the cheeks and oxtail to the pan and bring to a simmer.

  Cover and bake for 2½ hours, then tip in the pearl onions or shallots, mushrooms and carrots and bake for another half an hour. Meanwhile, make the toasts by cutting the bread very thinly, toasting it under the grill, then rubbing with cut garlic and drizzling with oil. (If you don’t have a separate grill, do this once the stew is out of the oven.)

  Scoop out the oxtail and strip the meat from the bones, fishing out the original herbs if you can find them. Stir back into the pan with the lardons and season to taste. Chop and add the remaining parsley, scatter the toasts on top, and serve with mashed potatoes and steamed greens.

  Km: 84.2

  Croissants: 1 (8/10); beef stews: 3

  High: Falling in love with the Paris–Brest

  Low: The disbanding of the merry men

  STAGE 16

  Strasbourg to Meistratzheim

  Choucroute Garnie

  Choucroute garnie, better known outside France by its German name, sauerkraut, is a dish of warm fermented cabbage with a light ‘garnish’ of pork and boiled potatoes. It’s heavy, Teutonic comfort food, utterly delicious on a cold day with a glass of Riesling or a pint of golden Pilsner.