The town of Mêcon and the Hôtel Bellevue et Lamartine was our next stop. Again it was no “light lunch” that M. Champagne, the owner, served us. Chateaubriand grillé, taken from those cream-colored Charolais cattle we had seen grazing all along our trip, was preceded by cbarcuterie, hors-d'ouvre, and friture de goujons. When was it, I wondered, that I had last eaten real goujons, those tiny fish caught in the rivers of central France and fried in deep fat to a crisp, golden brown? Our plates were piled high with them, and Monsieur warned us that a real connoisseur eats every morsel, including heads and tails. Artichoke bottoms, tomatoes. pommes frites served with the meat, were also part of lunch, as well as salad, a tray of locally made cheeses, fruit. and biscuits à la cuiller. The biscuits in Macon are always served still warm from the oven. They look different. too, from the usual ladyfingers;they are not only a little longer, but about two or three times as wide as the American variety and have an attractive puffiness. Tin's is how they are made:
Biscuits à la Cuiller Mode de Mácon
Beat 1 cup sugar and 8 egg yolks Until the mixture is thick and almost white in color. Add ½ tablespoon orange-flower water or vanilla. Sift ¾ tup Hour over the surface, a little at a time, and fold it in lightly and carefully. Fold in 8 stiffly beaten egg whites. Put the batter in a pastry bag with a medium-sized plain tube. Place a piece of heavy white paper on a baking sheet and on it press out the batter into cakes about 3 inches long and 1 1/ 2 inches wide. Sprinkle the cakes very lightly with confectioners' sugar and bake in a slow oven (300° F.) until they are pale gold. Remove the little cakes from the paper, lifting them up lightly with a thin spatula to cake raeks to cool.
From Macon to Moulins we passed through rolling countryside, valleys white and fragrant with blossoming fruit trees, and hilltops neatly tiered with grape vines. Moulins meant visiting the Mnison Calondre, where many, many years ago I had served my apprenticeship. Today, two lads work with their pastry bags at the very same table 1 had worked at more than fifty years ago.
In Moulins you get the feeling of a small French city, a city where food shops are particularly fine, a city where you can while away the hours walking through an old cathedral or an interesting museum, and count the time by the carillons of la tour Jacquemarr which sound hourly.
At Vichy, where we stayed several days. I had an opportunity to visit Montnarault, my major goal on this visit, aow only a few miles away. We found my little old tante Pauline on her knees, working in her garden, scarcely a gray hair on her head, her eyes sparkling, her humor as keen as it had ever been. She brewed us the IK-SI cup of coffee we had during the entire trip. and she served us a favorite dish of my family, one which I had almost forgotten. a quiche bourbonnaise. She gave me the recipe to bring back, and I pass it on to you.
Quiche Bourbonnaise
Line an 8-inch pie plate with rich dough. On the bottom arrange 4 thin slices of cooked ham and sprinkle the ham with ¼ cup grated dry Swiss cheese. Beat 3 eggs and I yolk and stir in 1 cup heavy cream and ½ teaspoon salt. Pour the mixture into the pie shell and bake in a moderate oven (375° F.) for 30 to 35 minutes, or until the custard is set and the top is brown. Serve warm.
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