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un après-midi au petit bar
Every time I write a post about going back to the original Le Petit Village, the same thing goes through my head, “I’m takin’ it back to the old school ‘Cause I’m an old fool who’s so cool“. I’m such a dork. (gold star to anyone who can tell me what song that line is from).
So yeah, a couple of Saturdays ago The Husband and I decided to meet our favorite honey farmers for an apéro and lunch in Le Petit Bar. Big Man was serving Aioli (Aioli is a traditional Provençal dish of boiled vegetables, salt cod, and homemade garlic mayonnaise).
And not only were we meeting Honey Jr. and Honey’s Honey, but Honey Jr’s rarely seen older brother, Honey B was meeting us (Honey B lives in Avignon and does not work in the family business).
Nothing says summer in Provence like pastis and a rickshaw (actually, that’s the first time I’ve ever seen a rickshaw here, it was parked outside l’épicerie and I have no idea what it was doing there, but I do know that I want it).
I learned something new on that Saturday, there is a special type of pastis called, rosé pastis that’s served in big goblets with ‘piscine‘ written across them (piscine is the French word for swimming pool). I thought for sure that I would love it, so I ordered one, took a sip and decided that rosé pastis is definitely not for me. Since we operate under the ‘waste not, want not’ philosophy, The Husband decided to finish it, and not wanting The Husband too feel weird drinking a big goblet of rosé pastis on his own (it’s not the manliest of drinks), Honey Jr. ordered one as well (now that’s friendship).
After the Aioli and some nougat ice cream for dessert (we skipped the cheese course… hold up, I just saw a pig fly by my window), Big Man set two bottles and some small glasses down on our table and walked away.
Lunch isn’t lunch in France without a digestif. And a trip to Le Petit Bar isn’t a trip to Le Petit Bar without a round of babyfoot (apologies, you are going to be seeing A LOT of these babyfoot photos).
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the latest
++ The last time I was in the old Le Petit Village, I noticed this Corsican flag waving in the wind… Child Bride’s parents hung it from the top of their apartment building. They aren’t from Corsica by the way, they’re from Marseille, but as every south of France dweller knows, there are some people here who are obsessed with Corsica. Take Papa and his wife for instance; they go there every year on holiday (and then The Husband and I have to sit through what pretty much looks like the same photo slide show each time), have a Corsican sticker on their car, and have even changed their license plate registration number to Corsica (yet they still need a GPS to navigate around the island). And then there’s Brother-in-Law, who has had a large image of a Corsican rebel tattooed across his back (seriously… it’s ridiculous). I don’t get it. I just don’t get it. The whole Corsican thing goes right over my head. Moving on.++ Want to know what I did for the 4th? Nothing. A big fat nothing. Well nothing patriotic anyway. See this is what happens… when you live outside of the US, the 4th just kind of creeps up on you because there are no 4th of July decorations at the grocery store, no friends inviting you to BBQs or firework displays at the park, so it just kind of happens. You wake up on the 3rd and go, “uh oh, tomorrow is the 4th and once again I forgot about it.” So when I woke up on the 4th I decided that in celebration, we’d take advantage of pizza night (pizza nights are Thursdays these days… or so we thought), order from our local pizza man van, have some beers and watch The Sopranos (in honor of the late, great James Gandolfini, we’ve been watching The Sopranos from the beginning). Except there was no pizza man, he decided that he’s working Mondays now, not Thursdays… AARRGGHH… why can’t anyone stick to the mothertrucking program around here?!?!?!++ But you know what? I don’t need no stinkin’ pizza van! I’ve been on a pizza making kick lately (OK, I made two pizzas one night so maybe not a kick per se) and I have to say, making pizza dough with 00 flour instead of regular old flour really makes a difference. The dough is much tastier, much more pizzeria like. 00 flour is the way to go. You heard it here first kids.++ The derelict building across the street from us (it’s a very thin street, about eight feet wide) is being turned into a hotel. Construction began on the 1st of July and is scheduled to continue for the next two years, which we all know will probably be closer to three. So yeah, that’s fun.++ This has nothing to do with anything that is happening in The LPV at the moment but something reminded me of this and I felt like sharing it with you… back in March a woman in Avignon sent her three year old son to school with a t-shirt that had, ‘je suis une bombe‘ written across the front (I am a bomb) and on the back, the kid’s name was written on it, ‘Jihad’, (seriously, I’m not making this up, she named her kid, Jihad) and ‘né le 11 septembre‘ under his name (born September 11th). So this woman had a son born on September 11th, decided to name him Jihad, and then put a t-shirt on him advertising this and sent him to school. Here’s the link to the article [click here], it’s in French. This is one of those things that leaves me completely dumbfounded. Talk amongst yourselves.
++ Remember Brother-in-Law’s new car, the French Love Bug? Well it’s no more. Last weekend it was totalled in an accident with a holidaying camper van. Thank heavens he, Child Bride and La Petite are all OK. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said about French Love Bug. RIP French Love Bug.
++ Like French Love Bug, Google Reader has been laid to rest and it did not in fact turn into Blogging Apocalypse which I’m sure many of us thought it would. We’re all here, our blogs are still here, you guys are all here. It’s like December 21st all over again.++ And that is the perfect segue for my question… if you were a Google Reader before, how do you stay up to date now? Me, I’ve gone the Bloglovin route. I like it. -
France
A list of some places here in France that I’ve mentioned in posts (and where I can be spotted wandering around looking confused)…Aix-en-Provence – without a doubt one of my favorite cities in the world. It’s beautiful, charming, with great shopping and restaurants, and it’s main thoroughfare, Cours Mirabeau is considered the Champs-Elysees of Provence. It’s known as the ‘city of a thousand fountains’ although I have yet to count them all.
Apt – old market town that has had a weekly market for over 900 years. The market takes place on Saturday mornings, is jam packed during summertime, and is my favorite hands down.
Arles – a small sultry city where you can stand in the same spot where Van Gogh painted some of his most famous works, visit the ruins of the Théâtre Antique, and watch bullfights in a Roman Coliseum.
Avignon – beautiful ancient walled city. Home to Palais des Papes and down the road from Châteauneuf-du-Pape. But more importantly, home to The Cousin and Baby Cousin.
Banon – small village with a large bookstore that has two shelves of books in English. Bonus. Also home to it’s namesake goats cheese. It’s mmm mmm good, but careful, it’s also unpasteurized. Can be a little tricky for delicate American tummys. Learned that one the hard way.
Cassis – lovely and quaint port village that has stole my heart. It’s like St Tropez on valium; totally chilled out. If you go, be sure to check out Restaurant Le Bonaparte for fresh, perfectly presented seafood.
Châteauneuf-du-Pape – aka Mecca is the luscious wine region a little north of Avignon. It is also my future home should I win the euromillions. Hours upon hours upon hours can be spent in one of the many wine degustation locations. Just be sure to bring someone to drive you home. In my case, The Husband. Bless him.
Clermont-Ferrand – home of Michelin tires, ASM Clermont rugby, and my belle-mere, French Maman. It’s pretty much smack dab in the middle of France in the Auvergne region.
Forcalquier – home of the largest market in the Alpes-de-Haute-Provence making it completely impossible to drive through or find parking on Mondays between June and August.
L’Isle sur la Sorgue – fantastic and quaint village located on the Sorgee river. It’s the perfect place to stop for lunch (only 20km outside Avignon and 60km outside Aix) and buckets of Rosé. Grab a table in the sun and laze out.
Manosque – small city where I had the worst Chinese meal I have ever eaten. Ever. Seriously. I thought I was being punished for something. But, also home of the L’occitane factory outlet. Big bonus.
Marseille – the big bad of Provence, famous for bouillabaisse and The French Connection. Basilique Notre Dame de la Garde and Château d’If are must sees. It should also be noted that the closest Starbucks to Le Petit Village is here.
Toulon – port city on the Côte d’Azur but not as glam as Nice or Cannes. Home to the French navy and Heineken Cup’s 2013 champion rugby team, RC Toulon.
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guest post: How to Make France Your Home Away From Home
Relocating to a new area is always a challenge. From the expenses incurred during the actual move, to the emotions that come with leaving family and friends behind, a major relocation presents a number of obstacles that few people can handle or are willing to undertake. Move to an entirely different country, and you’ve upped the ante. Whether you‚Äôre in France to study, taking a gap year, or relocated for love, no matter how much research you’ve done, nothing can prepare you for the new region where you’ll be living. You may have even purchased a travel guide or investigated the area using online resources. Though you may feel prepared for your new life and adventure abroad, you won’t fully know the lay of the land until you’ve arrived.Whether you’ve lived in different countries or have never left your homeland, you’re bound to be anxious and uncomfortable in your new surroundings. By becoming familiar with your new neighborhood and city or town, you’ll ease many of your initial fears. Once you get settled into your accommodations, spend a few days getting to know your space. Walk the town, check out shops and restaurants, and locate where the hospitals, emergency services, and libraries are. Still don’t know where to begin? Here are a few tips to help you get adjusted to your new setting.
Meet and GreetThe best way to get accustomed to a new place is to talk to those who already have an intimate knowledge of the neighborhood and city. Chat up your neighbors, especially those within your age group, and ask them the essentials about your location: where the grocery stores and markets are, where you can do laundry, where the closets public transportation stops are, and any safety tips they may have. You may also want to gather extra ideas for getting around, find out where some of their favorite local restaurants, coffee spots, bars, and shops are, and what activities or events are popular in the the town. Connecting with your neighbors is key to maximizing your experience living abroad. Fortunately, there are numerous ways to get in contact with other expats in a number of popular cities and countries.
Take Your New Hood by Foot
Taking a jaunt around your community is a wonderful way to adapt to your new environment. Map out a route, and allocate a couple of days to walk throughout the city and its accompanying areas. Bring a pen and pad to write down any valuable information—cool shops, troublesome areas, affordable places to dine, and solid watering holes. Walking about the city can also lead you to come across some amazing gems, like a funky cafe, a nice spot to watch the sun set, or a shop that sells clothing similar to items you’d fine at any M&S.
Indulge in the Environment
The most significant part of your experience abroad will be getting to know and learning how to feel at home in your new town. Take in all the action: try local foods, engage in activities you couldn’t do back at home, watch popular, local sporting events, and take part in anything free that’s offered to you. Remember to take pleasure in as much of this new and exciting journey at every twist and bend. -
the birthday boy's weekend
When I asked The Husband what he wanted to do for his birthday this year, he said, “relax“, that’s all he wanted. No BBQ or big party like years gone past, just a quiet weekend chilling out, preferably with a pool if I could swing it. Luckily I knew just the place… we could hang out at Mr & Mrs. London’s house while they were away on holiday. Mommy London was house sitting and I knew (re: hoped) she and Napoleon with love the company.A couple of quiet days hanging out on the Côte d’Azur isn’t too shabby at all. Especially when you can sip your very own pitcher of Pimms while watching trash TV and get spoiled with presents.
There are two things that The Husband loves, like really, really loves (besides me and Fifty of course); ASM Clermont rugby and West Ham United football (soccer to my American friends). And whereas last year, Honey Jr and Honey’s Honey got The Husband a Clermont shirt and Clermont undies, this year it was all about West Ham thanks to Mommy London.
That’s a card, beach towel, chocolate bar and lollipop. What can I say, when The Husband isn’t bleeding blue and yellow, it’s claret and blue. And besides all of the West Ham loot, he got a super moon too. Thanks universe.
Oh, and he got a onesie. We can’t forget about the onesie.But basically, he got to chill out and relax, which is exactly what he wanted.And it turns out it’s exactly what Fifty wanted too.
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book giveaway: Franklin's Spy
I’m going to tell you guys about something that I think is pretty cool and that I’m really proud of… my mother, EE Bracken, has written and published two books… not one, but TWO! I know there are some people out there that think writing a book is a piece of cake, but I’m here to tell you, it’s not. It’s not at all. I’ve been keeping this blog going for over three years, writing a few times a week, and I still don’t have the tenacity to sit down and write a book, so sometimes we have to give props where props are due… writing a book is a big deal. Way to go Eilo (that’s my mom).
You know what’s another big deal, free stuff. And in honor of big deals, I’m giving away a copy of my mother’s latest book, Franklin’s Spy.
Franklin’s Spy is a YA book (like Harry Potter and the Hunger Games) about a gifted boy named Michael whose genius defies logic and who excels at everything he does, so much so that the CIA decide they want him. The problem, the CIA aren’t the only ones and soon Michael is hiding away at an elite prep school with a student body made up of the whose who of the global-elites’ children. It doesn’t take long for Michael to discover the school is actually a hotbed of international intrigue and before he knows it, he’s globetrotting between Europe and The Middle East where he finds himself smack-dab in the middle of a treacherous terrorist plot that threatens to destroy America. The universe needs a hero and this one is Michael.
And check this out, Franklin’s Spy is actually the second in a series of books about Michael, and the first, No Place Like Loam, is being thrown in as a bonus prize. So if you win the giveaway, not only do you win a copy of Franklin’s Spy, but you’ll get a copy of No Place Like Loam as well. Two for the price of one, and the price is free, so there you go. All you have to do for a chance to win, is enter below.
Contest is open to international readersand runs until Friday July 19th. -
behind the photos
Since moving to Le Petit Village I’ve been snap happy. Not as much as I should have be of course, there are plenty of moments I’ve missed out capturing because I was too busy living with my normal head, and not with my blogging head (bloggers, you know what I’m talking about). But still, I’m rarely without my camera and everyone knows it (Mrs. London even said that she’s happy I’ve been recording all of this so that later on when she’s in the old folks home, she can look back at my blog and remember who she was and what she got up to… you’re welcome Mrs. London). So since I’ve taken approximately 73628494 photos (total guesstimate of course) in the last three and a half years, I’ve decided to share some of my favorites. A couple of things to note; 1. this will be a series and 2. some of these may be new to you, some may not be.
Disclaimer: the following photos were actually taken when I came to Le Petit Village on holiday almost exactly four years ago from today. My how time flies.
When I visited Le Petit Village on holiday, we went to one of Gregory’s cousin’s weddings outside of Saint-Rémy-de-Provence. I like this photo because of little Rico Suave in the sunglasses behind the bride. That kid is like eight and he’s already got his swerve on. I will never be as cool as that kid. Fact.
What’s one of the first words you think of when you think of Provence? Lavender, right? Where there you go.
This was the day after I met Ruby. I liked him so much that Gregory asked Papa if we could take him for a walk. Ruby wasn’t used to being ‘walked’ because Ruby has always walked himself. Even though he kept looking at me like I was a crazy lady for attaching this long rope to him, we loved each other pretty much immediately and he’s still my top dog today (shhh… not counting Fifty). I worry about Ruby, he’s knocking on thirteen now which is old for a Porcelaine and he looks it. He has arthritis and and has grown quite ornery in his old age, but he still lovingly bays at me whenever I go to see him.
The view from Le Petit Village when the lavender is in full bloom… this is my ‘pinch me I’m dreaming’ photo.
This was Gregory’s little house and then my first home in Le Petit Village. It had a screen door which is rare here, it’s the only one I’ve seen around these parts. Also, those flowers died about five minutes after I returned to Dublin.
Gregory and Baby Cousin in Baby Cousin’s shop in Avignon. I love this photo because Baby Cousin had opened up his shop only a few months before at the young age of 25, and four years later, the shop is thriving. Plus, how cool is the shop’s ‘sneaker room’? I want a sneaker room, or better yet a shoe room. No, scratch that, make it a Louboutin room.
I took this photo the very first time I saw Le Palais des Papes. I remember walking through a small street and then into a large courtyard, looking up and seeing it looming over me. I was stunned. Absolutely stunned. I immediately phoned my father in Massachusetts to tell him where I was standing. Him being a Reverend, Theologian, and Historian, I knew he would appreciate the call and be excited for me even if it was dumb o’clock in the morning his time. It breaks my heart that he didn’t live long enough to come and visit me and see the Pope’s Palace for himself. Oh well, next life I guess.
Happy memory photo alert… this was my first bottle of Rosé ever (the first of approximately 39473839). Gregory had taken me to Aix-en-Provence for the day (my first time there too) and we ordered this bottle of pink with lunch. Sitting there on Cours Mirabeau with Gregory in the July sunshine sipping the cool Provencal Rosé, I reached the pinnacle of happiness and knew that this was truly where I wanted to be. Of course I ended up in Le Petit Village and not in Aix, but close enough.
We were driving back to Le Petit Village from Aix and passed these ruins of a castle. Being French and basically immune to stuff like this, Gregory was completely blasé about the whole thing, me on the other hand threw a fit until he stopped the car so I could take a look. I mean there it was, this amazing piece of old architecture just there, in a village, with people milling about barely even noticing. I was blown away and I remember thinking to myself, “holy sh**, I’m in France.” I still think that sometimes. -
happy days
We haven’t spent a Friday night with Honey Jr and Honey’s Honey in ages. Ages I tell you. Between her being in bee school in the Côte d’Azur, him being smack dab in the thick of honey harvesting season, and us being all over the place, the weeks have slipped by without a get together so the Friday night before The Husband’s birthday we decided to change that.
Le Petit Bar is not what it used to be (thank heavens). Where before you could drive by on a Friday night to find the lights off and doors locked, with a frantically scrawled note from The Parisian stating that he had to close because he was simply too tired (this actually happened).
Now Big Man has it packed and swinging. There’s this funky little retro radio blaring out 50s and 60s French rock (if French Fonzie had sauntered in, I wouldn’t have been surprised). The other fun new addition to Le Petit Bar is an old foosball table.
Of course foosball isn’t called foosball in France, it’s called babyfoot, and it took Honey Jr and The Husband all of five minutes before taking it over and turning our fun Friday night into one of extreme competitive competition (babyfoot is very serious stuff).
Honey Jr is like a babyfoot Jedi Master. He’s ridiculously good. Me, not so much. I tried playing for a few minutes but my left hand is about as useless as an appendage could be. I could probably cut it off and be none the wiser. And The Husband, well for him force = skill, so the ball kept being hit so hard it was flying off of the table and bouncing on down to the dining tables. Luckily, most of the diners had finished and left.
It was definitely Honey Jr’s night, but I have a feeling we’ll be spending a lot of summer days at Le Petit Bar in rematch after rematch. Oh happy days.{Fonzie in French!} -
Lyon: one bite at a time
The last time I was in Lyon was over two years ago. The Husband and I had gone to celebrate our first wedding anniversary. Unfortunately when we arrived home from our weekend away, we found out my father was gravely ill. My father’s passing has kind of marred that Lyon trip for me. I remember loving it, but that weekend will always be connected to sadness in my memory so I’ve been anxious to get back to Lyon for a do over.Lyon is the gastronomic capital of France. Think about that for a second… France is already food paradise so Lyon is like the Disneyland of food. We were meeting my friend Sarah (she’s the one who rescued us in London) and her husband for a weekend away. We decided on Lyon because while Sarah and I like food, our husbands like to eat.
After checking into Mama Shelter we made our way to Brasserie Georges, a Lyon institution. Brasserie Georges specializes in Charcuterie which I thought for sure one of us would order but nope; Sarah had fish, The Husband ordered Boudin, I had a steak topped with the largest, most delectable pat of butter there ever was, and Sarah’s husband had the Steak Tartare (he likes raw meat as much as The Husband does).
After lunch we headed straight to Les Halles, Lyon’s indoor food market, in search of dessert and other goodies.Sidenote: I have wanted to go to Les Halles since my first trip to Le Petit Village. Before I flew over, The Husband and I thought we might have time to visit his mother (we didn’t) and figuring I wouldn’t have had a clue where Clermont-Ferrand was, or would had never heard of it, The Husband told me that his mother lived in Lyon (???… yeah I know), so here I was in Dublin, planning my holiday, doing all of this Lyon research and drooling over photos of Les Halles. Little did I know that 1. his mother actually lives over two hours from Lyon, and 2. it would be almost two years later before I would get to go there.
After wandering around looking at all of the delectable goodies, we finally settled on dessert, a plate of fresh oysters and a glass of chilled Chablis. (I did however pick up an assortment of macarons for Honey Jr and Honey’s Honey as a thank you for watching Fifty. The flavors were too fun to pass up.)
On the way out we picked up a bottle of Rosé, brought it back to the hotel and kept it chilled in the sink. This wasn’t any bottle of Rosé, this was a bottle of Miravel, Brangelina’s new Rosé. At €18 it’s quite pricey. (I’m talking Provence prices. I know that in other parts of the world you have to break the bank to get a decent bottle of Rosé, but here, you can get a good bottle for €8 and that’s a GOOD bottle, I usually spend about €5.) It was also kind of MEH. It wasn’t bad, it was just MEH… in short, I’ve had better. Sorry Brad & Angie.For dinner we ate at the Mama Shelter restaurant (just like we did in Marseille). There was a cheese platter on the appetizer menu. (Do you know that in France appetizers are called entrées? It’s very confusing). Now that may not seem weird to you, but in France, cheese always comes after the meal, not before, but that still didn’t stop us from ordering it. (My mother was having a dinner party back in Dublin when The Husband and I still lived there, and she had a cheese plate with grapes and crackers set up as an hors d’oeuvre, this basically made The Husband’s head explode… and so did the crackers).
We had a basket of tasty tempura calamari and eggplant too, which I pretty much hogged, which was good, because I ordered the hot dog for dinner (it seemed kitschy and weirdly, I was in the mood for a hot dog) and it was gross. It had obviously been left under the heat lamp too long… the bun was warm but the hot dog had gone cold. But even if it hadn’t had gone cold, it was yucky. I think it was a chicken hot dog or something. BLECH. So in summation, don’t order the hot dog at Mama Shelter.
Because we obviously hadn’t gotten our fill of food over the weekend, on the way home we stopped at The Gypsy’s for a barbecue (he’s currently between Lyon and Avignon). While we were there I made friends with this little guy whose going to be trained to hunt truffles as soon as he’s old enough. And as soon as he graduates from truffle school, I’m think he should come for a visit and teach Fifty the truffle trade. It’s about time that guy got a job.Bisou! -
are we there yet?
This post is the result of three overtired ‘adults’ in a car on a road trip from Devon to London and our attempts at entertaining ourselves. The ‘adults’ in question are; Mrs. London, one of Mr. London’s little brothers (I don’t have a name for him yet) and me. Mommy London was doing the driving and The Husband and Mr. London were driving in another car along side of us (when they weren’t being bumders and speeding on ahead).
\\We found a wee stuffed animal and named him Horatio. I think Horatio is a mole but I’m not 100% sure, either way he looks pretty darn distinguished in his makeshift monocle. Don’t tell me you’ve never seen a mole in a monocle before! Horatio kept us entertained for most of the way, he even read gossip magazines with us.
That particular article Horatio is enjoying is about a woman who weighs 742lbs and how apparently she makes over $75,000 a year because of it. (I weigh a fifth of what she does… if anyone wants to pay me $15,000 a year, that would be great, thanks.)
After awhile Horatio got bored with the gossip rags and hopped over onto Mr. London’s little brother to listen to him play the tambourine. Don’t tell me you’ve never played the tambourine in a car before!We pulled up alongside Mr. London and The Husband and I guess they were trying to entertain themselves as well, because Mr. London was pretending his McDonald’s cup was a telephone (clearly, we’re all a little nuts).
And when we weren’t playing with monocle sporting moles, tambourines and trash from McDonald’s, we stared outside at the scenery, which was a good thing, because if we hadn’t have been, we just might have missed this…
Bisou!
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It's Me, Sara Louise 