Avignon: Would you like a glass with that?

Crème brulee appears on every single menu in all of France.  If you think I’m joking, I challenge you to bring me a menu without one on it.  They’re like donuts.  They’re everywhere.  Not that I’m complaining of course.

Well alright, maybe a tiny bit.  But it’s only because I blame the curse of the crème brulee for almost single-handedly being responsible for my French Rolls.  Sure, the Nutella crepes wouldn’t have helped (but I only ate those twice).  Or the evening wine.  Or the daily three course dinners.  But I still blame the endless crème brulee.  Surely a kilo of castor sugar in every spoonful can’t be good for the waistline?

Lunch at 83.Vernet, Avignon

Every photo I have of myself in Avignon I am either eating or drinking or both.  Take a look.  I might have only been there two days but aside from a bit of sightseeing, that’s really all that I did.  It’s also the place I bought the contraband fois gras and French rosé that I accidentally smuggled back into the country so it will be forever etched in my mind.  And the scene of an accidental upgrade to one of the largest hotel rooms that to date I have ever had in Europe.

The Hôtel de L’Horloge describes itself as having “66 enjoyable rooms highlighted with warm colours of the region”.  I’m not sure what “warm colours of the region” refers to because much like Richie Benaud’s* signature jackets, my room was really mostly cream, off-white, ivory and beige.  Rather than emphasize the significance of its old, 19^th century building and prime location in the centre of the old town and leave it at that, the website also feels the need to boast that it has plenty of “tourist informations” (yes, with the ‘s’) and “telephones in the bedroom”.  Which in itself is kind of a bit 19^th century if you think about it because if a hotel room these days does not contain a phone then it is really something else altogether.  That, my friends, is what you’d call a Youth Hostel.      

I’m not sure who the translator for the Hôtel de L’Horloge was but I’m guessing a uni student working on reception for the summer got roped into giving the translation a whack.  Not a bad job – after all, we know what they’re getting at – but quaintly humorous all the same. 

The manager tells me the only available room is the Tradition Room which will cost €99 and is the size of a kitchen table.  Similar to a caravan, only smaller.  But hold on, a Privilege Room is also available which is of course about eight times larger with a better view, a thousand windows and lots of natural light which sounds great except for the fact it is nearly twice the price. 

Mistake number 1 was offering me the key so I could take a look at the Tradition Room for myself.  As good luck would have it, when I returned the manager had busily disappeared with other guests and the young rookie left in charge turned out to be a very obliging young lady.  Would I prefer to have the twice-the-price, eight-times-as-large Privilege Room for the same price as the caravan room?  €99. 

I hadn’t even asked for it.  Not even hinted.  Sure, maybe my facial expression had shown slight disapproval at the compact size of the room, and possibly I might have asked something along the lines of is there anything bigger?  You know, that you can actually fit your luggage in with you at the same time?  But that was all.

As Apple knows all too uncomfortably well, hotel bargains in Europe are few and far between.  If it’s a bargain, chances are it’s not going to quite live up to the glossy advertising, the gushing adjectives or the artfully photographed online images of the smartly decorated reception area.  Apple experienced this first-hand in a handful of places but none more memorable than the Infamous Outhouse of St Tropez.  Apple’s pre-booked advance internet accommodation purchase of three-nights-for-the-price-of-two proved so far removed from the high resolution website images of the promised land that it prompted a swift and immediate online visit to TripAdvisor to post the most detailed and scathing of reviews.  While the reception area was indeed the very same as the one in the website images, the room provided was not.  Tellingly, it wasn’t even in the same complex. 

Apple is not a backpacker.  He does not travel light and he does not travel cheaply.  No matter how sincere his budgeting attempts, there will be a $1200 leather jacket blowout in Paris or a $1400 Louis Vuitton bag purchase in Cannes.  He won’t even use hotel soap or shampoo for his face, body or hair (do you? he asks indignantly) for fear the mediocrity of the products will spoil his well-cared for skin and beautifully treated hair.  At any given opportunity he will travel business class (well, who wouldn’t?), with luxury luggage (usually), Louis Vuitton and Prada bags, thirty seven pairs of designer jeans and even a wardrobe of sunglasses to flatter every outfit and suit every occasion.  As Apple emphatically declares, sunglasses are the same as any other fashion accessory.  Not every pair will go with every outfit.  Alex Perry would be proud.

Out the back, past the pool, up an alley, around a corner, through a paddock, past the cows, into the chicken coop.  Thus began Apple’s nightmare in St Tropez.  Ok, you’re right, I made that last bit up – there were no cows (we’re in St Tropez after all) but by all accounts Apple’s accommodation was as filthy as a chicken coop and probably just as smelly.  If it looks like a chicken coop and smells like a chicken coop, it is a chicken coop. 

Like me, Apple knows lots of people.  And like me, Apple isn’t shy about crowing your virtues and fabulousness from the rooftops, from his facebook status updates to all of his selectively chosen 268 facebook friends (Apple is not a Random Adder) or equally, telling every last person he knows (and those he doesn’t know) to steer well clear if something has rightfully pissed him off.  Henceforth you would do well to be nice to Apple.  He’s an influential man.

While Apple was trying desperately to rise above the chicken coop smells and ignore the soles of his shoes sticking to the soiled floor every time he walked around his pre-paid room; in Avignon I had quickly snapped up the half price, eight-times-as-large Privilege Room before the rookie had a chance to change her mind.  Or worse, the manager returned and vetoed the whole thing. 

While Apple was anxiously praying his sporadic WiFi connection wouldn't drop out mid-upload of his scathing TripAdvisor warning, I was busily enjoying all the extra square footage and additional natural light afforded by the plethora of windows surrounding my corner aspect.  If only my room in Paris had been this size.

Lavender fields, Provence.
[Image courtesy vintageholidays.co.uk]

Avignon is one of those typically picturesque little towns in south eastern France surrounded by rolling hills perpetually covered in lavender.  You can buy lavender everywhere.  Lavender in little bags.  Lavender-flavoured nougat.  Lavender tea.  Lavender wine.  Lavender-scented chocolate.  Lavender oil.  Lavender lolly pops.  Lavender and Vegemite croissants (just seeing if you’re paying attention).  And let’s not forget, lavender crème brulee.  Of course.  On every menu.

The fortified walls surrounding Avignon’s well-preserved Old Town make for great views of the surrounding region and the adjoining Rhône river flowing past its left bank.  For those avid cyclists and fans of the Tour de France, the enormous behemoth that is Mont Ventoux rises majestically nearby as part of the Alps and is easily accessible from Avignon.  So if you’re a bit of a nutter like Online Trainer and you fancy modelling yourself on Lance Armstrong or pretending you are that cheating Spaniard Alberto Contador or any other member of one of the competitive professional cycling teams and you’d like to have a crack at riding to its summit (probably at the end of a nice quick 200km stage), you can happily make Provence your base.  Dubbed ‘The Bald Mountain’ for good reason, nothing can grow when it is shredded by wind speeds of up to 320km/hour (Wikipedia understates its actual severity by simply stating “it can get windy at the summit”).

Because all I did was eat I can tell you that Avignon features wonderful local Provencal cooking (or better still, 'gastronomy' as the French like to call it) that will keep you well fed and fuel your French Rolls nicely.  During my brief sojourn I managed to dine at a number of places but my two favourites I share with you here.  Both served contemporary Provencal cuisine within the walls of the old town. 

If you are searching for a gorgeous little lunch venue, particularly if it’s a sunny day, make sure you seek out 83.Vernet.  An amazing little find in a 15^th century Benedictine cloister redesigned by French-Algerian designer and creater of sassy, modern spaces, Imaad Rhamouni manages to meld together contemporary fabulousness without losing any of the integrity of the building’s 15th century charm.  Inside its walls is a serene courtyard with what looks like a small lap pool running through its centre.  If you’ve ever wanted to dine at three-Michelin-star Jardin des Sens in Montpellier but perhaps couldn’t afford mortgaging the house to do it, Laurent and Jacques Pourcel, the chefs behind Jardin des Sens, have now opened this bistro and bar so that their elegant but pricey cuisine is more accessible to a younger (and probably more hip) crowd.

The French love to decant their wine.  Everywhere I dined, the wine was expertly decanted and allowed to breathe and rest and settle and whatever else wine does once it is poured from one bottle of glass into another.  Online Trainer, with his years’ worth of wine instruction and education as a member of the University Wine Society (I still can’t write that without laughing at him) would of course be able to bore you senseless with hours of information on the wonders of decanting wine and would probably tell you it helps to coax out the subtle flavours and perfumes and nose, separate the sediment, allow the wine to aerate and to smooth out any harsher aspects. 

All I know, not having been a Wine Society member myself, is that in France, when they decant the wine they often pour it into what looks like one enormous, gargantuan wine glass.  It’s really the size of a small bucket.  A size well-suited to a few of my nameless "there's still room in that glass" cousins (you know who you are).  They're on my mother's side of the family.  Shhh.

L'Essentiel: gargantuan decanter

Of all the decanting establishments in France, L'Essentiel in Avignon was my favourite for the gargantuan wine glass mini bucket.  So huge was it that an entire bottle of wine could fit within it (which, before Online Trainer sends me an email, I know a decanter ought to do).  Had I been there with any one of my nameless cousins I have no doubt that with enough egging on, one of them would have attempted to drink the entire bottle from the gargantuan wine glass mini bucket decanter.  Without sharing. 

Never let it be said that when there is a dare on the table a cousin of mine won’t take the challenge.  In the words of cousin Wilma: it is game on, mole.

Again, I stuffed in the obligatory three course gastronomic fodder (when in Rome, as the saying goes) all of which I can safely recommend as gastronomy heaven.  A memorable meal (and if I could remember exactly what I ate, I’d tell you) made all the more memorable by that enormous, gargantuan wine glass mini bucket decanter.

And a lavender creme brulee, just for good measure.


* Richie Benaud: an Australian cricketer who played 63 test matches for his country and subsequently became a cricket commentator with a penchant for cream jackets. So distinctive was his appearance and voice that he was parodied in comedy sketches recorded by The Twelfth Man, all of which became best sellers in Australia.