L’Isle-sur-la- Sorgue
From the big cities to the country, we relocated to southern France.
After driving several hours to the rental cottage we were ready to swim and explore. Even though the day was close to an end.
When we considered Provence as a location to spend a large portion of the trip, we had a hard time picking one village to confine ourselves too. Instead, we decide to station ourselves in a central location but explore all the other fascinating towns we hoped to see.
Each morning we had breakfast at the house before venturing to a neighboring town. In the afternoon, we retired to the cottage for the remainder of the day around lunch to swim and eat.
The first night, before we had the kitchen stocked, we quickly tried to find food for our famished crew. Zachary made the most beautiful night for our entire family with his executive decision to go to Les Mas des Grès.
In haste, I left the camera behind but it was meant to be. It was a night forever etched in my memory and I saw it in realtime, not behind my lens. I can only partially express what was felt from our first enchanting evening in Provence. But I’m convinced even my confessions will not do it justice.
Live music in the courtyard lured us to our unreserved table— an oblong antique feasting table. Along the gravel path leading to the side yard was a pool hedged in by boxwoods. On the other side was a seven foot cylindrical birdcage which caught the girls attention. They observed a half dozen parakeets in assorted colors perched in the top. Hidden on the dirt floor beneath a fort of wood nearly half dozen little tortoise.
Our table was probably the largest in the yard and closest to the musical duo. A male-female band that flip-flopped between French and American oldies like Georgia and Que reste-t-il de nos amours?. The couple entertained their attentive audience for the entire evening.
The jovial tattooed lady on the microphone was a pleasant alto. The gentleman strummed a guitar while operating the electric acoustics was her backup baritone. Our little girls danced the night away between bites of poulet, potatos, and le glacé topped with chocolate sauce.
As the sun set the tea lights strung over the dozen outdoor tables through an enormous Plane tree glowed resiliently. We sipped wine and fell in deep adoration of this magical place and time.
Where I was truly spellbound was with the kitchen and preparation of our meal.
A single, middle age woman prepared all the food for the night in a makeshift, outdoor kitchen. Sauces simmered on the edge of her cast-iron fire pit while in the center she grilled duck, pork chops, or sirloin. A charcoal grill on the opposite end was exclusively for roasting sides of vegetables or chicken strip for children. Between her fiery ovens were two oak barrels supporting a plank of wood that served as her table. Mostly used for plating and the servers to retreive and transport meals throughout the yard. She moved with determination and calm experience. Occasionally swaying her hips to the music or moving her lips in sync with the tunes.
Behind the chef was a fridge from which she extracted prepped ingredients. The fridge hidden from sight beside a large food cart which served as an outdoor bar. There a kid, who hardly looked old enough to enjoy the beverages he prepared, mixed and shook cocktails and dispesened foamy bières. The navy coating of the cart faded into the backdrop of the night but the antique lanterns created a soft glow that revealed braided garlic, preserved flowers and sunhat accessories dangling from its exterior. An interior light exposed a well stock bar and fridge with syrups and mixers.
The inn owner and her elementary age daughter swayed to the music in a lengthy hug. I tried to imagine what it would be like if every evening was as sweet as theirs— guests in the home, celebrating strangers and feeding them too.
The whole night was magical. With stars in our eyes we made the short journey to our cottage amazed by every moment the evening unfolded. What would tomorrow bring?
The next day, Sur la Sorgue held their open-air, farmers market. We rose early to visit with plans to stock the pantry for the week.
The town had all the antique stores a vintage hunter would adore. As much as I appreciate a heartfelt heirloom, I’m not much of the type unless its vinyl. We skipped most of the antique stores and went in for—you guessed, food!
Our haul from les brocantes was not only picture perfect; it was delicious. During the week we all ate straight from the fruit and vegetable bowls. Sliced tomato with nothing but a crack of pepper and sprinkle of flour de sel for lunch or a farmer’s cheese plate with whole chunks of baguette, grapes with seeds in the center and sparkling water when hunger struck after hours in the pool.
The children sampled new fresh flavors and were deeply involved in selecting attractive produce or artisan charcuterie that appealed to them.
The week in the countryside was off to an unbelievable beginning.