Our main meal was at noon this day, as there was to be a concert
later. We invited Kate, who accepted with alacrity, and Sebastien,
who declined.

I made red-cooked pork rind, truly one of my favorite dishes,
accompanied by lard-fried snow peas. Kate and I were the only ones
to appreciate the pork rind, so we ate a good quarter-to-half
pound each. The snow peas were more universally admired, as the
lard had been very pure, and I didn't announce its presence.

Also pan-roasted magret from the Super U finished with onions
and balsamic, a dish hard to ruin if you use enough heat. A
delicious plate, and the four of us polished off a pound of duck
no problem.

Also eggplant sauteed in butter, a simple, foolproof, and perfect
dish. And Chinese-style eggplant in garlic sauce, of which you can
find the recipe anywhere on the Internet (stewed in soy with plenty
of garlic and maybe ginger, but there wasn't any fresh, so I didn't
use it), also a simple, almost foolproof, and perfect dish.

Bread from a mediocre French bakery was the starch. Not surprisingly,
mediocre French bread in France is better than the best French bread
anyplace else. Vie de france, you know where you can stick it.

After lunch, hanging around with female musicians before a concert,
which means endless rounds of is my hair okay, is my dress okay,
is my jewelry okay, fat chance I can help with that. I had, to
give me credit, helped with (sonic) balances earlier.

The concert was fairly well attended and was quite a success; it
didn't hurt that the thunderstorms had exhausted themselves shortly
before performance time. Afterward there was a little reception
offering carrot, parsnip, and beet chips with Kir. During this the
skies opened a bit, and we moved the operation into the barn - the
facility is arranged main house (former priory), barn, gite (former
home of senior clergy I think), big church. There were also
cloisters for postulants and rank-and-file monks, but these are in
ruins and used for dog training and such, see future post.

After a concert, typically the performers are famished. Kate and
Sebastien know of a place a few miles down the road called Le Petit
Creux (the little hole-in-the-tummy), which they characterized as
French fast food. Would that we could have such fast food.

We got assorted salade perigourdines, all but one the half-size
appetizer portion, which would have been enough for a light meal,
but how can you pass up tender stewed (here pressure-cooked) giblets
over fresh butter lettuce and a nice chunk of foie gras (here just a
terrine - this was fast food, after all) on top?

A couple steaks frites, done as requested, medium-rare and rare;
for me andouillette de Troyes in its somewhat tamed barnyard glory;
and for Kate the saucisse boutifarra, which was milder and of finer
grind than the sausages I was familiar with under the name. A carafe
of vin rouge assez ordinaire and some remarkably good frites, almost
good enough to eat, accompanied. I had a Heineken and off home to bed.
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