Lost bread and burnt cream

I woke up trying to remember what time train we were catching to Bordeaux, and what time we had arranged to meet, but my brain had stopped working. Anyway, I took a guess at eight-something so set off into the fog.

Got to the station in time for the 0855hrs to Bordeaux, but it was running late (happens here too apparently) so we waited on the chilly platform for fifteen minutes before we were on our way. Less than an hour later we stepped off the train at Bordeaux.

We wandered into the centre of town, and found a small café with walls covered in Cubist artworks, for coffee and croissants. Nearby was a flea market around an old church, so we browsed for some time, inspecting knicks and knacks and bric and brac and the occasional fridge. Taking the main pedestrian street into town we arrived at the opera house and went in to get a calendar of the season’s productions. Might get tickets for Tosca next year – nothing like a bit of Puccini to lift the spirits. Inside the opera house (in the foyer areas) there was an exhibition of costumes used in productions, and a whole load of stuff about references to food and drink in operas. That Rossini was a bloody big bugger. We peered through a door that had been left ajar, into the rehearsal room where the ballet dancers were being put through their paces in a blur of tights and tutus.

After that, we walked further still down pretty little streets until we came across a bistro style restaurant which A was keen to revisit. Shall I go into AA Gill/Michael Winner/Fay Maschler mode again? Sod you, I will anyway. Pastis aperitifs to whet the appetite, a starter of warm and velvety black pudding with baked apple and salad accompanied by a rosé from the south of France, a main course of tender grilled pork with creamy potatoes and a delicious jus, and a local white wine which was excellent. A historic crème brulée to finish. We were the first to arrive and the last to leave!

After lunch we sauntered around a few antique places choosing gorgeous little things but buying nothing. We then went to the Musée d’art contemporain de Bordeaux. There was an exhibition on called Hors d’œuvre which was…yeap, all about food. Bit of a theme running through today I think. The first thing we were confronted with was a tin of La Merde d’Artiste no.31 by Manzoni. There was all kinds of stuff on show – photos of insipid looking meals prepared with food of the same colour; video installations including one with a bubbling saucepan of alphabetti-spaghetti where the words ‘I have a headache’ gradually appear spelt out by the pasta letters as it boils away; lots of stuff with chocolate both melted and solid, a section of floor covered with tens of thousands of gold wrapped sweets; giant, mouldering pizzas on the floor; photos of mouths with sweetcorn, beans and things instead of teeth…shall I go on?

Reeling from that, we wandered back to the main street and called in at a florist, as one does. We took refuge in a bar to have a drink or two before catching a taxi back to the station. We boarded a train with only minutes to spare…and then it didn’t leave on time. We had managed to pick a train which stopped at every gate and lamp post, so it took much longer to get back. The train was very full. I don’t know what the matter was with the two women sitting opposite us. One was reading a book on gardening and then she started to cry. The other one was reading some sort of text book then she started to well up. Very emotional people the French.

Back home and tired, I spent the evening writing away until the wee small hours of the morning.