5) Cafe lunch

Continued from our stop at the spectacular hillside town of Bruniquel....

Another view of Bruniquel

Just outside the village we noticed a ramshackle series of buildings that seemed to incorporate a garage, a breaker’s yard, a bar, a cafe, and a restaurant.  This was all in stark contrast to the beauty of the stone built citadel nearby, and it was difficult to imagine how each could have been constructed by the same species, let alone descendants of each other.  It did, however, hold out the prospect of lunch, so we suppressed out aesthetic sensibilities and went inside.

Bastard's cafe outside Bruniquel

We have come to realise in France that often it is the most scruffy restaurants, and those with the worst possible taste in decor, that will offer the most delicious lunch – and this was no exception.  For 12.50 euros a head we had a delicious rich brown beef and vegetable soup, an entree of smoked fish salad, a main course of lamb chop with frites ,and then plum ice cream with prunes soaked in Armagnac topped with squirty cream (they don’t really seem to do cream, unless it is part of the cooking process itself), followed by coffee.  To accompany this we had half a litre of red wine which set us back just 3.50 euros. 

French restaurants certainly can be very pricey, but it is still possible to get amazing value for money, especially at lunch time.  Not only was the food good, but the patronne (who was just like the one in the cafe in allo, allo) was most welcoming and friendly.  You wonder how on earth they can offer such good value for money, but I think the answer is they don’t have any paid staff.  All members of the family get press ganged into service, and presumably they might get their board and lodging, plus a little pocket money for their work.  It was clear to us that, although Madame clearly saw welcoming guests to the cafe as her metier, the rather overly-large and somewhat grumpy son did not.  Charm school had clearly passed him by, and you could tell by his reluctant demeanour that what he really wanted to be was a test pilot, a pop star, or perhaps a prop forward in the French rugby team.  I am convinced that what he really wanted to be was famous, and being a waiter, playing second fiddle to his mother in a cafe on the edge of a village where all the inhabitants had died, was not in his life plan.

Before we left, I made a special effort to say how much we’d enjoyed our meal, and not only did we get sort of grunt, but I am sure I saw the beginnings of a smile.  Total satisfaction.