Thursday 15 August 2024

There are only about 10 houses in our little village here in Brittany and the Java Bleue Restaurant has 120 seating capacity and is usually booked out. God only knows where the patrons come from but they were there in force last night. We started with a couple of coupes of Champagne, then ordered a decent house Chardonnay to accompany the rabbit terrene entree. A Rhone red was acquired to match the steak – a Scotch Fillet for Flashy and a rib eye skewered steak for Lady P.

After enquiring twice that we actually wanted it ‘medium’ – ‘Are you English? Na, we’re Australian but we do speak English. Just checking, it is French medium,” he says. Rare of course.

So how to describe the meal. A vegan would call it ‘disgusting’. A meat eater, ‘too much!” and a lover of beef, ‘spot on.’ The steak was bloody huge. Too much for Flashy. He should have ordered bread and two bottles of red. It, the wine, was very good and the whole wine list very reasonably priced. 

We got talked into dessert. Some sort of crème brulee for Lady P and something called Paris Breasts for Flashy. The kind waitress gave him another glass of red to help wash down the dessert as the lone bottle was empty. We staggered home and crashed. An interesting experience. A phenomenon really. Lots of young staff and a crazy atmosphere.

On the subject of food, the French are good at many culinary things, excellent at others, but they can’t make chips (frites) for love nor money. They are soft and soggy and only half warm and 10 per cent of them are small burnt ends. They also look terrible.  Talk about flaccid fries! Yet they persist in putting them next to excellent beef, mussels and burgers. French fries should be called French turds!  Gary Mehigan and Gordon Ramsay are urgently needed here to do masterclasses.

On the road early today and off to Lorient for the 53^rd Interceltic Festival. Brittany of course, is one of the eight remaining ‘Celtic nations’ and the sound of bagpipes, drums and whistles fill the town, the street parade and the stadium over the week. Today is the street parade at 10.00 am and we need to drive two hours to get there. The town is full. The parking is full. The Celts are not yet full (it’s only 9.30 am). However we find a lonesome park spot and Lady P backs in – in one go again and without her coffee! And off we walk into the main square, through fairly serious security, to join thousands of people, some in kilts, others in costumes, waiting for the parade to start.

We stand next to a chap in a green corduroy shirt and sure enough he’s Mick from Ireland. His little mate is Tom from Ireland. The pipes, whistles and drums procession features Celts from Ireland, Isle of Man, Scotland, Galicia, Brittany, Cornwall, Wales and Austurias.

This is thirsty work, so on Mick’s advice, we head off to find the West Port Hotel, as it is serving pints of Guinness. The strange thing is though, all these Celtic people are speaking mainly French. It’s a bit weird seeing a bloke in a kilt speaking French.

Next we strolled down to the Port, where all manner of food, music and other stalls were set up - and we resisted buying any of the produce. Back to the pub, which was now packed and some of the earlier patrons were still in their same seats. Must be slow drinkers. Our Fish and French Turds was pretty good – at least the fish. A nice cold Rose was also appreciated.

Lorient, we decided, was a nice city and worth a revisit in the off-season.

The big boy. There was nothing smaller on the menu. Sensibly, no chips but nice new potatoes. It's so big it's sitting on a  bread board!

That's all I could eat. Note, no spuds left.

Paris Breasts, apparently.

Creme brulee

Brittany houses have no window shutters, unlike the rest of France. Note the open front yard and nice brick window treatment. Could be Ireland or Surrey