6/13/2005. A spring foray in the Pyrenees

Between my trips to Africa for my work there, and Denis' wanderlust for the ends of the earth, I am no stranger to travel. Yet there is nothing I prefer to exploring the diversity of my adopted country. France's regions are so diverse--in terrain, architecture, cuisine, culture, indigenous plants...that in a couple of hours' drive or the briefest flight and you're dans un autre pays--in another country--as locals refer to any spot more than ten miles away from the ground under their feet. I'm not sure I'll live long enough to get to know all the "countries" that make up France, but I never tire of trying.



In this spirit, Denis and I took a 4-day weekend in mid-May to explore the Pyrenees. We caught a 6:30 flight into the city of Pau, and drove directly to Tarbes to catch the region's biggest market day. Tarbes is a place that had loomed in my imagination in almost mythic proportions because it is the home of the Tarbais bean which is used to make the most succulent cassoulet--the classic dish of southwest France.

Indeed, the famous bean was everywhere apparent in the teeming market hall of Tarbes (photo above right) on Thursday morning. In addition, there were mountains of white asparagus, and bunches of the gargantuan green onions that are featured in several tapas of the Catalan regions of France and Spain. These unusual onions are rooted in thrift. Instead of throwing out onions that have sprouted in storage in late winter, Catalan gardeners replant them in the garden. In a couple of months, they sprout into succulent, sweet super-sized scallions that are as big as leeks. You, dear reader, are encouraged to try this at home.



After loading up on fragrant strawberries, crusty bread and a couple of types of sheep's milk cheese for on-route sustenance, we headed south into the mountains. The car nosed steadily upward, and rushing streams--called gaves--carried snowmelt downward all around us. As the road became steeper, I felt the charge of excitement I always experience when I'm in the mountains. Crushing strawberries between my teeth, I reflected on why I always feel super-alive at altitude.



Like most intense feelings, this one is rooted in my childhood. One of my earliest memories is of two goats on an alpine slope in Switzerland. I was perhaps three or four years old, and we were having a picnic. I have no recollection of the occasion, but an intensely technicolor memory of a mountain meadow, with very short, brilliant green grass studded with gray boulders where we had spread a blanket with our lunch. The sun was intense and warm, but the air chilled by patches of snow remaining in the shadows of the rocks. In my memory, I can even smell the sharp scent of the thin air. Two goats--one black, one white--approached us with their eyes on our sandwiches. The ground was very steep, and I remember an excitingly precarious feeling as I looked down. Maybe that's why I'm always exhilarated when the ground under my feet is steeply sloping.



Here in the Pyrenees, we saw more sheep than goats. Like all regions of France, the Pyrenees have their own special breeds. The animals all looked especially robust, with a solidity adapted to the rugged terrain and cold climate of the mountains. They're like animal versions of Pyrenees houses, which have thick walls built of native stone, steeply sloping roofs to shed heavy winter snows, and few windows to minimize infiltration of icy wind.




Our destination for the day was the hamlet of Gavarnie, which is only a few kilometers from the Spanish frontier. When we arrived in early afternoon, the weather was anything but promising. An icy wind was blowing pellets of cold rain that seemed to be on the verge of turning into sleet. The first thing I did was buy a pair of gloves, as we planned to hike up toward the Cirque de Gavarnie.

Shivering, we caught the tail end of the lunch service in a small restaurant with a roaring fireplace. We stoked our stomachs with the most delicious grilled pork chops I've ever eaten--about an inch thick and from an ancient, local breed of pig called le porc noir de Bigorre. Alongside was a dollop of creamy Tarbais beans, and, washed down with some rough red wine, it was a combination that gave us the courage to face the blustery hike ahead.



Several hours, a few false starts, and many wildflowers later (Click here for details), we stood before the austere, semicircular wall that is the Cirque of Gavarnie (photo left). If we had crossed this imposing barrier, we would have been in Spain. But after four hours' hiking--the pork chops only a distant memory--we turned on our heels instead and hiked briskly through the deepening chill back to our hotel.

The next morning, we woke to a brilliantly blue sky. But the cold had been no joke. The cirque as viewed from our breakfast table had a fresh dusting of snow.



Exhilarated by the sunlight, we hit the road early. Lunchtime found us in the village of St. Savin, where we had read there was one of the best restaurants of the region. The sun was warm, and although the sheltered terrace of Le Viscos was not officially open yet, the restaurant graciously accommodated our request to sit there. Over a first course of salad of asparagus points with crisp wafers of noir de Bigorre pork belly (me), egg cocotte with foie gras and morels (Denis), we basked in the sunlight that made yesterday's bitter wind seem a distant memory. And the view (photo left)! In all, a perfect lunch.



That afternoon, we headed south once more to another spectacular site near the Spanish border--the aptly named Pont d'Espagne (Spanish Bridge). On our way, which definitely involved the scenic route, we were stopped by the irresistable tableau of stone house and sign indicating honey for sale (photo below right). Inside a sort of combination apiary and wood workshop, the jovial beekeeper showed us handmade frames dripping with comb honey, and old-fashioned, handwoven beehives. After sampling all the wares, we bought jars of linden and mountain wildflower honey.



Finally we arrived at the famous Pont d'Espagne Here, the Gave de Cauterets falls through a series of seemingly innumerable cascades that make for some of the Pyrenees' most breathtaking scenery. We parked, took a lift to a higher cascade, and then hiked even higher, at times wading through snow fields.







That evening, we returned to Le Viscos for dinner. The chef, Jean-Pierre Saint-Martin, made the rounds of his tables towards the end of the evening, chatting with his guests. When Denis told him I was American, a smile wreathed his face and he told me that he had worked in the States for a while. I was amazed to learn he had been chef of a restaurant in Indianapolis back in the eighties, a period when I was living in Bloomington, about 70 miles to the south. Those oignons doux croustillants (crispy sweet onions) garnishing our foie gras? Inspired by Indiana onion rings!



A charming story, but ultimately, after all, Mr. Saint-Martin had returned to his native region. And, as I worked my way through more variations of foie gras than I had ever consumed in a single meal, I mused about how he had coped with the sort of cooking ingredients available in Indianapolis during the 1980s. If you would like to experience for yourself the cooking--at once rustic and complex--of Chef Saint-Martin's home region, check out the recipe he kindly offered to share with my readers for timbale de truse aux fruits confits (Click here for details.)--a lesson in how thrift and culinary sensibility combine to turn left-over cornmeal dumplings into a sublimely sophisticated dessert.

Le Viscos, 1, rue Lamarque, 65400 Saint-Savin, Hautes-Pyrénées, FRANCE. Tel: +33 (0)5 62 97 02 28; fax +33 (0)5 62 97 04 95. http://www.hotel-leviscos.com

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