It was a rather anxious drive back, but at least we knew
where we were going, and it was a relatively easy trip,
and we got back before dark and in fact got back to
Forges in plenty of time for supper.

Ian has a couple proteges with a restaurant right in the
Place Gambetta in downtown Argentat; it's an unpretentious
spot called Brasserie de la Dordogne. As nobody felt like
cooking, and most places are closed on Sunday night, we
were along with bunches of others funneled into this place.

It's an easy 10-minute ride in the Ianmobile - would have
been 7 or so, but he's recently gotten some speeding tickets
thanks in part to the reduction of the speed limits by 10 kph
and the installation of tons of cameras. He left us invalids
off and went in search of a parking spot, which ended up being
at the back door of the restaurant, so in fact we walked farther
than we would have if we'd stayed in the car.

You go past the bar, cozy and friendly, and into the back room,
which has been decorated in an uneasy mixture of old farmhouse
and would-be sleek modern and seems somehow a little less
welcoming. Not a big thing, all I had to do was take my glasses
off, which I had to do to read the menu chalkboard anyway.

The proprietress took special care with our table - she hovered
rather a bit too eagerly, I thought, and it seemed that she did
so even when there were other patrons to deal with (we showed up
at 7:30; by 8:30 the place ended up being totally jampacked).

We had a rather ordinaire white for a rather ordinaire price:
Coteaux du Lyonnais "Arrosee par les Fleuves," your standard
cheap unoaked Chardonnay; it was fine. Lilli had some red of
course, which I didn't try.

Jacquie wanted lieu au beurre blanc - pollock loin in vinegar
butter, which was sort of over the hill fish a little overcooked
but in a rather nice but acidy sauce. A disappointment.

Ian and I had been talking about offal, and how it was a shame
that it's so hard to get; so when we saw veal sweetbreads on
the carte, we both jumped at it. It came in a rich mushroom
cream sauce also hiding potatoes and carrots. Decent, but I
thought the sweetbreads were substantially overcooked.

A filet steak with fries suited Lilli fine, but she was still
under the weather, so she ate only half her actually pretty
big chunk of meat and left all the frites, which Ian gobbled
down, saying that tomorrow would be a diet day. We split the
rest of the beef, which turned out to be medium-rare (ordered
rare, of course) and a center-cut rump or shell sirloin, sort
of like a baseball steak at the Keg - not bad, tastier than a
real filet, but not as advertised. It was deemed not a kind
thing to quibble.

The chef came out to pay his respects as soon as the crush was
over. It's odd - the kitchen is upstairs, and there's no dumbwaiter,
so one of these two middle-aged people has to carry down every dish.
I'm figuring that some sort of system should be in their future
before they get too doddery (they are probably in their 50s but look
in their 60s - running a restaurant is hard work).

Ian mildly warned us against dessert, noting that even though the
chocolate mousse and creme brulee were made in house, they weren't
worth the calories. I'd bought a white-flesh pineapple, anyway,
which was back at the house. When we got back, a couple snootfuls
of brandy and even that was forgotten, so I didn't get to taste it
at all.
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