Definition of Gourmand: a person who loves to eat and drink.

The french experience provides the opportunity to wallow in the epicurean delights of fine cuisine, delicious, fragrant meals and savour the dégustation of various delectable delights on sale in patisseries everywhere. I have had the good fortune of dining in Peter Gordon's "Dine," where I proudly announce that my son, an accomplished chef, has gifted an unforgettable meal to myself, my husband and my mother. It was here, for the first time in my life, that I was introduced to a whole new world of eating. In the ambience of fine dining, the word "eating" gets substituted with "dining". The art form of the gourmand became a new vocabulary for me. 

However, the earthly realms of feeding myself 3 to 4 times a day,here in France, has its feet firmly planted in reality. I can't help but continue to view food as a way to fuel myself for effective mechanical function. And so, alas, I am not motivated to splurge on the fine dining that is a possibility while I stay in France.

Having said that, I am now about to share with you some foodie thoughts, experiences and observations whilst I enjoyed a two week séjour in Nice.

Below is a photo of the most delicious, tasty and artfully presented Salade Niçoise that was prepared for me by my divine hostess, I. She greeted me with this work of art, oeuvre, on my first evening in her Parisian-styled waterside apartment.

                                      

Here is another version of the same salad. I ordered this salade nicoise for lunch at a café in Nice. I was blown away, by it's magnificence. It tasted every bit as good as it's appearance.

                                   

Here is a blackboard menu of all the meals that are typical from this southern region. What a bummer that the words are incredibly illegible. 

The meals that are typical from this region are almost entirely made up of vegetables.

Dining at a nearby café for lunch every day became a very enjoyable experience. Bread and water are always served with meals. Meals are eaten as many courses. This is unlike the way we eat meals in NZ where vegetables and meat are mixed together on the same plate. In France the main meal of the day is lunch. Most shops and businesses close for two hours at 12 midday. Dinner is us usually very, very light and late. Cheese is always served as a course. The french are cheese gourmands. They love all sorts of fresh soft, untreated cheeses. Often when there is an unpleasant odour in someone's house or kitchen, it is due to the presence of cheese. I have stunk my fridge out a couple of times with the pungent, maturing fromage. 

All meals are ALWAYS prefixed with "bon appetit!" It is a very contagious politesse.

Clinking glasses for "cheers," in french, is "Santé!" Every single person's glass is chinked with much hearty goodwill.

                           

At the end of the week, the language school students were invited to partake in a meal that enabled us to taste all the food that is typical of this region. I can't begin to find words to express how disappointed I was. The food was cold, flaccid, bland and embarrassingly indigestable. With good manners and fine etiquette, I managed to swallow the food without gagging. When asked if I liked it, I smiled and said, "It's delicious, thank you." I wonder if anyone else thought about the food the same as I did? No-one gave any indication that they were struggling.  "Beurk!" is a French onomatopoeic word for "Yuck!" The presentation lacked any sense of aesthetics.

                                              

When I stayed with a friend in her fantastic country home in the mountains, I was offered a wine. A selection of green bottles were plonked on the table. I had absolutely no idea what any of them tasted like. So we proceeded to have a small amount from each of the bottles. Er ..... none of them tasted nice, although I didn't say so aloud. I think that maybe they were all homemade. I have discovered that it is very, very common to make your own wine, spirits, liqueurs and aperitifs.

                                                       

Staying with my adorable french hostess was a highlight of my stay in Nice. Meals were not provided in the price of the accommodation. I was allowed to use the facilities in the kitchen. However, I took this as an opportunity to eat lunches, but really skimp on dinners. One evening, I was completely blown away when I. presented me with a tray of homemade vegetable soup, omelette, salad and bread. I thanked I. profusely and was deeply touched with her kindness. It is with shame that I confess that I really didn't feel like eating. I was coming down with a terrible cold and my appetite was zero. It's at times like this, that politesse is imperative and I managed to eat most of this wonderful meal.

                                       

This is a poor photo of a world famous ice cream vendor. There must have been at least 50 different flavours to choose from. Tourists gleefully treat themselves from the magnificent selection. It is possible to purchase mega-multi combinations. I guess it's a bit like the Pokeno ice-cream phenomenon. Unfortunately, again, my appetite was zero, so I gained a great deal of pleasure through watching others eat their ice creams.

                                         

The Saturday morning markets in Nice, provided a visual symphony of epicurean delights. Here is a stall of dried fruits. Wow! What a selection!

                                     

The strawberries, already packed into cute, little white punnets, looked gorgeous. The bright red colour belied the bland flavour. How disappointing. Nothing can ever beat the taste of tasting a freshly -picked strawberry  from a home garden.

                             

The selection of fresh fruits seduced me with their bright colours. Kiwifruit is grown throughout France, Spain and Italy. They are always rock hard, bland and quite disgusting to eat. Why anyone buys them, I don't know.

                                   

                                  

In my experience, the french people talk about food ALL THE TIME. Kids talk about food, teenagers talk about food, adults talk about food .... I have even overheard army boys talking about their mother's cooking, sharing food preparation ideas, and talking about ingredients of restaurant meals. 

Fresh food is an imperative in the french vocabulary. 

There is very, very little salt added to anything. 

Nougat is a divine sweet treat, that costs a fortune to buy.

The french are definitely connoisseurs when it comes to chocolate. There must be thousands upon thousands of different varieties of chocolate available for sale. Many connoisseurs turn up their noses to the inferiority of milk chocolate.

At the end of my stay in Nice, I decided to splurge out and order a "plat du jour". The simple dish of chicken cooked in a mushroom sauce, was an unforgettable, taste-bud explosion of creamy perfection. I sat outside in the sun: the seagulls screeching overhead; the Corsica ferry's horn booming across the port; the bleat of Vespa's screaming around the corner; an animated french conversation between a group of  lunchtime diners; all enhancing the flavour of my mediterranean meal.

                                   

"Bon appetit!"

Joy

The door to the 6th floor, two bedroomed apartment opened with a welcoming yawn. First impressions informed me that I had just transported myself back into 1970s Paris. The exquisite view from the balcony doors reminded me that I was in Nice. I had to button my lips to stop myself squealing with delight. The anticipation and then the relief of snavelling a wonderful accommodation and a gorgeous hostess reduced me to child-like joy.

I was immediately introduced to my sweet little bedroom. Drawers, shelves and cupboards had been cleared. The exercycle remained. Quality clean towels and a warm ambience welcomed me with a smile. The little divan was then extended to show off its flexibility. I was then left to gather my wits and relax for a bit. ( I found out later, that I. wanted to watch the rest of the documentary she was watching.)

I took the opportunity to snap a picture of the view from my balcony. Notice I didn't risk anything by leaning over too far. The large french windows were enclosed with traditional shutters that reluctantly squeaked shut at night. (One night I experimented by leaving them open. I deeply regretted it due to noise and light. )

The apartment was charming, small and adorable. I. was a singer with a band in the 60s, she had owned her own beauty salon and now she is retired. I. had walked straight out of a book that I had read before coming to France: Madame Chic. Her kind, brusque, matter-of-fact manner made her instantly likeable. She had prepared a fabulous fresh salad Nicoise for me, despite the information forwarded to me that meals were not provided. I felt instantly bonded with I. (She kept saying that she liked my hair.) I. wouldn't let me take a photo of her!

The picture below is a bit of an interesting phenomenon. As soon as I saw the corner of this room, I recognised it from a reoccurring dream that I had, kind of déjà vu. The dream involved my grandmother. There is no real point to the dream, but I definitely remember a secret doorway exactly where the sliding mirror doors are placed. My eyes widened with surprise when I found out that a studio apartment was connected to this one. Then to end the story, when I took this photo, the camera seemed to register a very different kind of "eerie" light .... very different to the other photos of the same room.

Stupid

Lugging my small box-like suitcase on wheels, a backpack crammed with clothes to cater for every possible scenario and my ridiculously stuffed handbag my knees were ready to buckle with the strain. Disembarking the train at Nice was a massive contrast to the gentle rhythmic rocking that had been the norm over the last 5 hours. (Even though Nice is only a small geographic distance from Gap, the logistics of travelling between these destinations is a matter of 5 hours on the train or bus. It involves navigating around gorges, mountain passes and rivers). 

So the delight that I initially felt on arrival, quickly turned into a topsy-turvy washing machine mish-mash of craziness that belonged in a James Bond movie crowd scene. The train station was being renovated; scaffolding trestles, large draped sheets, detours and a cacophony of noise turned my world into confusion. Without giving any thought to obtaining a map of the area at the local tourism office, I ventured out into the busy street.

I caught a glimpse of a tram running; so I headed in that direction. The tram directions, instructions and spaghetti-like map only served to shatter my ideas of catching a tram to my destination. 

So I decided to follow my gut-instinct and start walking down the street, inwardly asking my intuition to lead me to my host's accommodation. I knew she lived near the port ....... but in which direction was the water??????

There sure seemed to be a lot of people around for a Saturday!!!!!!!  Why were there so many people dressed up in fancy clothing, face paint, carrying balloons, streamers and confetti attached to their hair??? 

The noise of my suitcase trundling behind me was drowned by the massive hubbub of city noises. The city bustle always hits me like a sledge hammer after living in the sleepy little town of Gap. As I made down the street I was wondering which person seemed the most friendly to ask for directions ...... but they all seemed totally engrossed in their own lives. So I just kept heading on down the street, hoping that soon it would become clear whether or not I was heading for the waterside. As I progressed, loud booming music started to invade the already noise-laden street. 

Oh My Goodness! I realised that I was so stupid for not cottoning on earlier!!! It's CARNIVAL time in Nice. I soon became hopelessly entangled with pushchairs, candy floss sticky kids, etc, etc. I laughed out loud at the weirdness of my situation. I didn't have a clue which way to turn. I walked down many little streets, trying to sniff my way towards the water. The streets had been blocked with fences to accommodate the floats.

At last, I found my bearings, and I knew that the seaside was nearby. Pausing to mop my sweaty brow I took a photo of the crowds and the massive floats passing by. 

Cymbals, drums, horns and pumping music made the situation one of the most surreal in my life. I knew that this was a marvellous opportunity to experience the carnival in its full magnificent glory, but I felt very vulnerable in the crowd with all my worldly goods ready for the taking.

 I desperately wanted to plop my derrière on top of the suitcase and soak up the happy carnival atmosphere. Unfortunately, the language school office girl had pre-warned my hostess what time the train was going to arrive in order for her to know of the timing of my arrival. I knew that I was already very late, as she would not expect me to walk the luggage-laden three kilometres to her apartment.

Over-heated, excited, de hydrated and with fatiguing muscles I followed the route around the waterfront; armed with confidence knowing that this would ultimately take me to the destination of the port. 

As you can see there was not a cloud in sight, the  scenery was spectacularly magnificent. I plodded along with a steady rhythm, invisible to the Saturday- afternoon -happy crowd. I may well have looked like a tramp. ( It's not the first time I've been thought of as a tramp.)

As the sun was lowering itself towards the expansive horizon, I paused to admire the cliché of this scene. 

The pale, rugged rocks; the azure, deep blue sea; the caress of a gentle sea breeze as it played with a sweat-soaked tendril of hair; a cute little dinghy chugging by; and a sense of eager anticipation as the next two weeks stretched before me ...... a blank canvas, begging to be painted with french panâche.

I eventually found the building that I., my french hostess, lived in. In order to arrive at the building,it involved lumping the bags up at least 20 stairs and a little bit of back tracking. Pushing the buzzer that read, "Madame Brun" opened the chapter of my wonderful stay in Nice.

Bumbling my way through into the foyer, my brain went into overdrive as I tried to recall the instructions and details from a 4-week old phone conversation. 

"I think she said the 6th floor ..... but I can't be sure. " 

So, I did what any stupid person would do. I lugged my weary body and accompanying paraphernalia up every bloody step. ( In Gap, the apartments don't have lifts.)

By the time I arrived at the 6th floor, my lungs were close to collapse, I was sweating like a pig, and I was a mess. I. opened the stairwell door just as I heaved myself onto the landing. You can imagine the sight that she was greeted with. She was incredulous that anyone could be so stupid as to NOT taking the lift. I had to agree. In fluent french, I assured her that I now know better.