The week of the terrible heatwave I was holidaying in the deep south west of France. It was hot. Fearsome hot. Around 40 degrees and probably more. The sun would reach full blast just about lunchtime, and so eating out became more of an ordeal than a pleasure. It was all I could do to lift a lettuce leaf to my parched lips, and made frequent visits to the supermarket just to hang around the chilled food section. Ideal conditions, you would think, to lose a bit of weight. But despite profuse "glowing", not an ounce of lard melted from my body.
My technical adviser and I flew down to Toulouse and spent a night there before following the canal south. The place to go in Toulouse is the Place du Capitole, where the magnificent Capitole palace, seat of the regional Prefecture, dominates a vast square bordered with arcades, where cafés and restaurants abound, many of them quite fancy. Instead of patio heaters they had vaporisers, which pumped out a fine water vapour every minute or so to cool down the punters. It was so hot I didn't even care about my hair frizzing, and hoped to be mistaken for a retired Black Panther with a melanin deficiency. Pizza Marzano, for those of you who don't know, is the continental name of Pizza Express. And Pizza Express, for those of you who don't know, make the best pizzas in the UK. Our waiter was a most agreeable young man who turned out to be English, not that you'd know when he spoke faultless French. I knew this part of France was overrun by Brits, but was not expecting to be served food by one. Oliver (for it was he) had mastered that very French trick of being efficient and still finding time to chat. Our pizzas were delicious, especially washed down with two bottles of rosé (well it was a hot night). Probably not the cheapest pizza in France, but a very pleasant evening nonetheless.
The cassoulet is the typical dish of the southwest. Like every other dish in France, ownership of the "genuine" cassoulet is jealously fought over by neighbouring towns. Toulouse, Carcassonne and Castelnaudary dispute the recipe, but Castelnaudary has won the right to call itself "world capital of cassoulet". The dish informs the whole social calendar, and Castelnaudary's annual cassoulet festival was being held that same week, including such events as bean-throwing, and probably a cassoulet-eating contest, organised by the Confrérie du Cassoulet, who dress up in robes and silly hats for their official dinners, and have long confabulations about what constitutes a genuine Castelnaudary "lingot", or haricot bean, which is the only type allowed to be used in a Castelnaudary cassoulet. There is even a syndicate of bean growers, comprising about 40 local growers, to defend the provenance of the legume. They certainly have their finger on the pulse.
The Grand Master of the Confrérie du Cassoulet de Castelnaudary
French provincial food festivals are nutty affairs, as readers of Peter Mayle will know, usually involving the Mayor, funny hats, a number of dogs on the loose going potty, and - always - a brass band. In Castel they had a mini marathon, and at 9 p.m., with the temperature still at 30+ degrees, we watched the runners come gliding in, not a bead of sweat on them. The townspeople cheered each runner, and gave especially big cheers for those who ran in groups, like the firemen or the policemen. We sat at a nearby bar, next to a giant tattooed man who looked like an escaped murderer. It turned out he had done 16 years in the French Foreign Legion, so my first guess might not have been far from the truth. I couldn't understand a word he said. He couldn't understand a word I said. My technical advisor had to interpret. The man had a beautiful Golden Labrador who smiled encouragingly at all the runners, and seemed to be on the lookout for Peter Mayle. The scary man told us how he'd rescued him from abusive owners, and that the dog even slept with him. Nice to see that even a hard case like that can be redeemed by the love of a good Labrador.
The Mayor and a couple of other official looking types stood in a row and dished out the prizes, while a bloke with a microphone kept up a nonstop stream of overexcited patter. The main events would be taking place at the weekend, after our departure, and I made a mental note to return the next year to see the parade of the Confrérie in their robes, throw some beans, and cop some free grub.
However, there was one thing that remained to be done. Someone had to try a cassoulet. In Carcassonne, where it was nudging 40 degrees at lunchtime, we steered clear of the tempting shady terraces under the enormous fig trees trees between the inner and outer walls of the citadel, and headed for "La Divine Comédie" on boulevard Jean Jaurès, technically a pizzeria but we had inside information that the chef made the best cassoulet in town. The genial Didier emerged sweating from his kitchen to greet us. I just could not face a cassoulet, and ordered the salade méridionale, but my technical advisor made the ultimate sacrifice.
La Divine Comédie, Carcassonne
It looked easily enough for two people, with a duck leg perched on top of a big terracotta bowl of haricot beans, duck and a gigantic Toulouse sausage. My salad on the other hand looked like a summer dress, with big slices of Cavaillon melon, mozzarella balls and slices of duck magret sitting atop a mound of fresh salad. "Good luck old chap," I saluted him, as he looked slightly warily at the giant steaming dish of cowboy food. But he set to it, taking his cue from Mo Farah - slowly at first, spooning a little onto his plate at a time, chugging steadily through it, and picking up speed at the end, to show a clean plate. As he crossed the line, he raised his spoon and fork in the air triumphantly and was awarded the gold medal for cassoulet eating in very hot weather.
My salad had been an elegant sufficiency for me, but I still ordered an ice cream, just to cool me down, you understand.
Of course on my return to Brussels, where the weather was less than half the temperature - 15 degrees and drizzling - the urge for a cassoulet overcame me, and I had to research where to find one. There appear to be five recommended restaurants specializing in the cuisine of south-west France. I cannot vouch for the provenance of the beans, but here goes:
Au Coin des Artistes
5 rue du Couloir
1050 Bruxelles
Near Flagey
Tel: 02.647.34.32
La Grenouille Bleue
97,
rue des Alexiens
1000 Bruxelles
1000 Bruxelles
Tél
: +32 (0)2 514 00 05
Le
Saint-Boniface
Rue
Saint-Boniface 9
1050
Ixelles
Tel: 02 511 5366
Domaine
de Lintillac
Rue
de Flandre 25
1000
Brussels
Tel: 02 511 5123
Closed
Mondays
Le
Domaine de Chavagnac
Place
du Beguinage 6
1000
Brussels
Tel:
02 223 3340
And if you're ever in Toulouse or Carca:
Pizza Marzano
Place du Capitole
Toulouse
La Divine Comedie
Boulevard Jean Jaures
Carcassonne
Tel: +33 (0)4 68 72 30 36
Closed Sunday
Pizza Marzano
Place du Capitole
Toulouse
La Divine Comedie
Boulevard Jean Jaures
Carcassonne
Tel: +33 (0)4 68 72 30 36
Closed Sunday
