Peonies, Chicken and Cheese
A rest day, how to rescue a chicken, and the best smell to wake up to
An officially declared rest day. Sleep till we wake kind of thing. Normally a recipe for a wide-awake-at-6am situation and that unanswered question of why does this never happen on a work day. Except today both of us came to around 8 naturally. A holiday miracle, except it’s not Christmas and there is no sign of Jude Law. The filter coffee does its thing puttering away, whilst we open the appartement doors to let the freshness of the day in. There are signs of it raining overnight but we didn’t hear it.
We read for a little bit and then I write for a little bit, over that second coffee the machine affords. The boys have the ability to sleep a little longer as young adults are prone to do and all is good in the world.
The plan this morning is to hit the Sunday market, a walk along the river until we reach it. A few provisions maybe. It’s around 11 at this point and as we turn the corner onto the main river walk it’s in full swing, with joggers, cyclists and walkers, folk with their baskets full, some carrying bread. There’s a huge river boat, with folk leaving their luggage to be boarded. I’ve seen huge seafaring cruise ships before and marvelled at their height and size. Here, though, on the banks of a city river, the scale is more accentuated. I’m fascinated by the journey these boats take, how it actually got past the bridges. Several floors high, 20 apartments long, a restaurant just above eye level and another below. White tablecloths and wine glasses all good to go. I make a mental note to look up its destination — Viking Cruises, as it turns out.
We hit the market barely 10 minutes into our stride, disappointed it wasn’t longer, but excited at the prospect of it being on our doorstep.
The first thing that hits us is the peony stall, and I’m surprised the table isn’t buckling under the weight of how many he’s got there. I’ve got my new video camera out, a tiny handheld affair with a gimbal head that I’m still struggling to figure out, sometimes pointing at the sky, trying to avoid filming people who wouldn’t appreciate it, at the same time trying to catch that little bit of France and the excitement that a food market can bring. Oh my, look at the cherries, the peaches... oh and the cheeses.
OK, let’s not go crazy. What do we actually need, how many meals, what’s the plan? Whilst we pause a second, I clock the guy just boning chickens, there and then as folk need them. He just sells fresh organic chicken; with a tinge of yellow skin the legs look amazing, and by my reckoning I could cook them the same way I cooked the tuna steaks. A bang-in-the-oven affair with the rest of the potatoes and there’s a meal for four. Dinner sorted.
Then there’s lunch and ancillary items, not to overdo it, which I’m prone to in the excitement.
We head to the veg stall. They’re friendly, it’s the kind of stall where you point at what you want, wiggle your head, trying one’s best to get the pronunciation right, and the best part: they let me. All the stalls seemed to let me, and it was appreciated. We come away with a few peaches, a bag of apricots, cherries, a couple of onions, some mushrooms.
The cheese stall presented the hardest temptation to avoid, and unlike other markets we’ve been to they sold small pieces, so we could get a few. A Tomme and a goats’ cheese. Somewhere along the way we also picked up charcuterie and a jar of fig jam.
At the bread stall I took the opportunity to offload the shrapnel my wallet had managed to build up, counting it out exactly in loose change beforehand. She doesn’t even bother counting it, but friendly. I love this market.
Lunch back at the appartement, we really didn’t need to know about fig jam and cheese! And we’re all set for an afternoon exploring the old streets of Bordeaux.
Market Day and Bordeaux Meander (1 minute)1
We come back hungry, and I’ve got these chicken legs to get through. Perhaps not the best idea on reflection. I throw them in the casserole dish and cook them for the same amount of time I would at home, and they still don’t look done. The pressure is mounting as the boys start to chew on their elbows. The pre-dinner snacks long since finished. I need five more minutes at least. In the end, I go for it. The chicken, although cooked (I think), is tough and not what I imagined organic oven-cooked chicken to be. Folk seem happy at the table, but there is lots of meat left on the bone, pushed to the sides of their respective plates. More bread is consumed and I’m a bit disappointed, to be honest.
Rather than be defeated, I keep the bones, place them back in the casserole dish, cover with tin foil, put the oven on low. Which I know it does as deep down I don’t think the temperature was right on the original cooking. I leave the chicken pieces to stew overnight. We wake to a glorious smell and on peeling back the tinfoil I feel relieved to have this amazing stock and enough meat to pull something together akin to a chicken pottage.
That’s for another post!, the pottage can wait. Monday…Day 4 has other plans, a train, a village and the house of wine…until next time. Thanks for joining me on my week in Bordeaux.
Music from Uppbeat - https://uppbeat.io/music/tracks/albert-behar/la-vita-bella
I've never been to Bordeaux, so thanks for taking us along. I could imagine your disappointment about the chicken, but what a save, eh?
The market looks fantastic. And glad the chicken worked well in the end.