Welcome to Périgord month!  I’ve chosen the Périgord for December because it is where to find some of France’s most decadent treats.  Foie gras, black truffles, and chestnuts are cultivated in the Périgord, and they are indispensable for end-of-the-year holiday celebrations.  It wouldn’t be Christmas in France without a slab of foie gras or chestnuts roasted with a turkey or goose.  And you can’t go into a shop in Paris in December without finding marrons glacés, those delicious candied chestnuts.

It is also time once again for Chez Loulou’s Fête du Fromage.  (Be sure to check out the international roundup on the 15th.)  One of Périgord’s most famous cheeses is the tiny Rocamadour.  This raw-milk goat’s cheese is no bigger than two inches in diameter – a perfect serving size for one person.  It is sold either fresh and soft or firm and dry.  This time, I picked a couple of lusciously gooey-looking specimens, with thin, silky rinds and insides like spreadable cream.  The first smell that hit my nose upon unwrapping them was one of grassy fields, which quickly faded away.  On the palate they were ultra smooth, with a rich, creamy flavor, mild goaty tang, and a hint of pepper on the finish.  Robust reds from the neighboring appellations of Cahors and Bergerac (as in Cyrano) would pair well.

Originally published on Croque-Camille.

Looking for Better and Other Stuff

Utah muskie habitat — photo

Rethink Happiness — video

Colored rains in India partially revealed

Vancouver perigord nursery strikes gold

Belgian economic theory focuses on USA and China

What is a corporate poison pill?

– video

Cold-foot redneck techniques explained

– Nunitak prefers dry places (Sierra Madre &c), but most gold hunters like water. Bring a yellow lab for good luck.

Lost Treasure Story from down under

The Return of the Lost Labrador

Sniffer dogs good for 1 PPM (parts per million)

Canine Truffle Detectors

Prison cell phones forbidden in MD, VA

Bizarre Creatures – photo gallery

Keeping up to snuff on krill oil pros and cons

Rat Terrier

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Detroit

– Fascinating long history, checkered with many ups and downs, including both simultaneously. Belonged to French, British, Americans. Doubled in population in only 10 years from 1910 to 1920, ending with about 1 million, now less. Great instability throughout arising from faulty religious and public education, a problem which remains today. Often the ‘murder capital’ of the USA, always having a high crime statistic. Bottomed out following a long economic and social downturn recently. Now entering a new phase of possible growth, that will sort out with finding new niches in the main activities of the 21st century, and hopefully, some stability at last. Current public education about 1/4th to 1/2 as effective as most other USA locales. Needs $75 trashing fine urgently, one of the messiest places you will see in the USA. Persistent ethical problems now under assault by some new political leaders.

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1960’s in Some Places

Iran 1960

East Germany 1960

Greece 1960

USA 1960’s

Great Lakes Toxic Waste

– The Minnesota part goes down the Mississippi

Canada 1960

China 1960

Russia 1960

U.K. 1960

Chile 1960

France 1960

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Primero Cuatro Caballos Prize: Infected Mushroom

Present Interruptions Presents

Infected Mushroom – Becoming Insane

– about Infected Mushroom, the PsyTrance Masters

Tickle Tickle

World in Cartoons

It seems that the famed Périgord truffles — once only grown in France — are being cultivated right here in the good ol’ US of A. An enterprising plant pathologist is producing Périgords of astonishing quality in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Tennessee. GQ has the scoop.

GQ: “Hillbilly Truffle” by Alan Richman

Yes, that's Davy Crockett with a Périgord truffle.

Fala pessoal,

Dessa vez quero falar de um ingrediente que não se acha o ano inteiro, mas quando chega a época, apesar do custo altissimo, vira febre no mundo todo. Estou falando das Trufas, mas não são as de chocolate e sim as trufas funghi.

Existem vários tipos de trufas, mas as mais procuradas são : as brancas de Alba, da região de Piemonte, na Itália e as pretas de Perigord na França. Essas  são consideradas as melhores do mundo por chefs e gourmets. As Trufas brancas mais conhecidas são as de Alba, pequena cidade entre Milão e Turim.

A trufa branca é colhida durante os meses de outubro e novembro em uma profundidade de 20 a 40 centimetros, próximo as raízes de carvalhos e castanheiras. A colheita é feita com a ajuda de cães adestrados. Antigamente usavam porcos, que achavam as trufas com mais facilidade, mas infelizmente acabavam consumindo algumas, resultando em prejuízo. A trufa de Alba, por ser considerada a melhor, pode chegar a 6 mil dólares o kilo.

A trufa negra de Perigord é considerada a melhor da espécie. Ela é inferior e mais barata que a branca por exalar menos aroma que a branca e, por ser menos rara, a trufa negra pode ser encontrada  também na Espanha e na Itália. O kilo da trufa negra sai entre 127 a 400 dólares.

Uma opção para quem não quer desembolsar esses valores é o oléo de trufa, que na verdade é azeite de oliva com aroma de trufa branca ou preta. Nos Mercados  encontramos óleos de trufas de boa qualidade com pedaços de trufas dentro, mas a maioria hoje em dia é aromatizado sinteticamente, o que engana o consumidor que não conhece o produto.

Como estamos na época de trufas, especialmente as brancas, você pode degustar elas nos melhores restaurantes do Rio de Janeiro e São Paulo. Mas vá preparado porque esta iguaria amada pelos gourmets não é barata.

Bjs e abraços,

Thomas Troisgros

Much as I’m hankering to be back in a city and resume my search (I almost wrote ‘cherche’; thinking in French, translating into English) for la femme de ma vie, I’m at least conscience that for many Americans (and even some French city denizens) the idea of a guy living in a medieval stone house in the south of France surrounded by green pastures, 100 yards from a river, and looking up at magnificent limestone cliffs dotted with pre-historic caves trying to get out of there might seem a bit *fou.* And I hate not living in the present. So, where I can, I try to take advantage of what’s unique and and typique in my experience, be it that of living in the country, living in the country in France, living among (to a degree) paysans, living in duck country, or other unique aspects of this milieu. (Never been much on pre-history, so that I’m writing you 300 yards from the first cro-mag discoveries, made back in 1860 when they were building the railroad bridge that crosses the river, is wasted on me.)

Saturday night, it was the hunting. Not me hunting — I cringe even hearing the rifle fire resound off the cliffs, or, worse, seeing a hunter toting a rifle over his shoulders in my backyard — but the booty of my pal Stephan’s hunting. The crisp autumnal day was already heading towards perfect. I’d been bugging Bernard to bring his electric saw over and cut up the long branch I’d extracted from the petit woods in the ‘yard.’ (More than a yard, really a field, and which used to house a roof tile factory, ergo the terra cotta fragments that encrust the soil, and the name of my ‘hood, le Tuilerie, not to be confused with one of my favorite endroits in Paris, le jardin des Tuileries.) Of course, being Bernard, after he’d swiftly disposed of the branch on the terrace, he insisted we tramp down to the woods and cut up some more wood. After Bernard had reduced about a dozen branches into logs, he commanded me, “Now clear them out!” In the process, I spotted what looked like a sort of lever peering out of the ground. Removing some of the dirt around it, I found a small semi-oval steering wheel. When I yanked at the lever, they separated. Feeling around the ground, I discerned what seemed like the rusted carcass of some sort of metal apparatus — perhaps a mill for grinding up corn? It turned out to be what looked like a child’s car, complete with pedals and engine.

“Vient voir!” I urged Mr. Marty, the retired farmer who lives across the path. “I think I found Bernard’s first car!” He was impressed. “C’est un vraie antiquité! Tu peut le vendre!” I couldn’t wait to show Bernard, who’d said he’d return in the evening to see how I’d progressed on the wood. I was lying around listening to “Our Miss Brooks” when he drove up at around 7 with Stephan. “I have a surprise for you!” I announced. “I found your first car.” “Mais oui, c’est ca,” he confirmed, but all it provoked was a smile, no marvel, and he was not interested in taking it with him; he only laughed when I proposed he show it to his daughter Mathilde. Bernard and Stephan had other business; they’d brought over deer liver and heart from a deer Stephan had shot that morning.

I hadn’t had venison since we lived in the country in Northern California in the late ’60s, and the taste lingered still; I was salivating already. Mr. Marty rushed over to see Stephan, whose matrimonial future he continues to worry over. (“Mais, quand est-ce que il vas se marrier?!”)

“Got garlic?!” asked Bernard.

“Mais oui!”

“Chop it up and let it cook first before you add the meat.”

“I have even better!,” I said, pulling out the grater.

“Pepper?!”

“Bien sur!”

If you’ve seen the kitchen/dining room, most of which is taken up by a mahogany picnic table and benches, the rest by a large armoire set on cinder blocks (to protect its contents from the annual flood), a long counter, an over-stuffed easy chair, a range, a bicycle, and half of a huge two-piece late ’50s era rose and off-white formica cabinet-armoire (40 Euros at the Emaus ((or Salvation Army)) in Perigueux, later spotted in the identical model for 400 Euros at a Menilmontant brocante), you’d know that adding four people to this space, running excitedly around, two cooking, two commenting on the cooking, makes for a bit of an obstacle course, but to me it felt festive).

After the liver had started already started cooking, Bernard, taking in the dozens of apples strewn over the picnic table (more local booty, along with the walnuts strewn in even more quantity) and the 1/2 of the ’50s cabinet suddenly said, “Ah, I should have said, add apples!”

“I’ll add them now!”

“And if you have panaché…” Bernard said hopefully, referring to the beer lemonade which is the only liquor he can drink… Unfortunately I’d drunk up my last bottles. “Mais…offer Stephan something!” I offered wine all around but none of the (French) men were into it.

Usually, the French undercook (by my standards) meat. In the case of the liver, though, whenever I’d ask Stephan if it was time to take it out, he answered, “Pas encore. Laisse!”

Finally, when the meat — and, as important, the garlic and the apples — was nice and crispy and dark brown, it was ready, and Bernard, Stephan, and Mr. Marty stood around watching me eat. (None wanted to join me.) It was succulent — perfect. And it was as much the apples taking in the juice of the liver that made it as opposed to the other way around. (Of course, I had to ask if they’d mind if I added ketchup, and Bernard grimaced.) A perfect cap to a perfect day.

Before Mr. Marty left, I’d wrassled him into accepting that I’d do the vendange Monday. I’ve been pestering him about this for weeks, always with the proviso that I’d do the work, he’d just need to direct me. Mr. Marty — as is his right; he is, after all, retired — has sort of let the vines in back of and next to his house go. While he did clear out the sarmantine — dead branches — from last year, he only half cleared the weeds. But as this is a once in a lifetime opportunity for me — yes I know, there’s supposedly a vineyard in the Belleville neighborhood of somewhere, but I’ve never found it, nor that in Montmartre — I’ve permitted myself to insist. (I also think it will make me feel less guilty when I ask for a third bottle of his famous eau de vie, made from previous harvests, this winter.)

The moment finally arrived Tuesday afternoon. Mr. Marty found four barrels, and his sharp clipper, and I set to working my way through the seven rows, clipping the grapes and tossing them into a red plastic basket. It was harder going that I’d anticipated. Because the branches were lower than me, with many bunches of the fruit close to the ground, I did a lot of bending and, then, sitting, and I wasn’t starting out with a back in full form. I’d also assumed — remembering a previous experience with sour new wine — that I should pick only the sweet grapes, so I did a lot of taste-testing. After four hours without pause (and without getting stung; my desire to make wine in the Bordeaux region tromped even my phobia of bees) (contrary to what you may have heard, the bees are not disappearing, they’ve all become grape tasters in the southwest of France), I’d amassed close to three (medium) barrels full, in each of which swarmed about half a dozen bees. Physically tired as I was, I was ready to continue to get it all done in one coupe (I had three rows left), but Mr. Marty appeared at the base of the fields and said, “Time to stop for today Paul.” As tired as my dogs were, the physical work had also left me exhilarated, so, rather than turn in chez moi, and taking courage from Boo-bah, the Belgium shepherd — collie followiing me, I decided to walk to the railroad bridge, stopping to collect walnuts from Bernard’s trees. The stark grey autumn evening sky and the magnificent setting of the valley surrounding me, the crisp air made for another perfect ending to another perfect day. Until the night anxiety of the solitaire set in, anyway.

I resumed the vendange yesterday. This time what threatened to do me in was the taste-testing. I must have tasted from at least one bunch of every little grape tree, and as about half seemed to be sour, I was starting to get nauseous. After close to three hours, I’d pushed it to three barrels and was, I thought, finished. But when I checked in with Mr. Marty an hour later, he indicated the heights of the rows and said, “There are still grapes to pick.” I explained that all those that were left were sour. “Mais, c’est rien! C’est l’eau!” (It had been raining more or less constantly since the previous night.) Just to be sure, I picked a bunch with some sour grapes, and asked him to taste one to verify. “Mais c’est bon!” In effect, I could pick all. Now that I also know that I don’t need to taste them, I’m all right with this.

On Tuesday, Mr. Marty had offered me some of his eggs after I finished working. These are farm eggs, of course, and are the yellowist eggs you’ve ever seen and fluffiest I’ve ever tasted. Yesterday, and for the first time in the two years we’ve been neighbors, after he’d straightened me out on the grapes he proposed, with a glint in his eyes, “Un petit Ricard?” “Avec plaisir!” said I. Later, when I noted that one of the things I liked about pastis was that, “It’s natural,” he reposted, without missing a beat, and indicating the bottle of cold water, “Except for the water!”

L’altre dia, mentre cercava una citació de Magris, vaig trobar-me amb un retall d’entrevista on Mercedes Monmany i l’autor triestí intercanviaven aquestes impressions:

Però sense esgotar aquest discurs i la vostra paciència, no podria deixar d’esmentar dos paradisos on jo hi he albirat alguna cosa propera a la felicitat, a la meva idea de benestar, al pressentiment d’una vida plena i persuadida. L’un és la península d’Ístria, amb el seus estilitzats ports venecians, les seves illes que esquitxen l’Adriàtic, les seves aigües maragda i els fluxos i refluxos de moltes presències antigues i venerables. L’altre és el Perigòrd i el Llemosí, la terra dels castells trobadorescos llepats pel riu Dordonha, de les viles de pedra i fusta i dels quimèrics dracs de ferro forjat, dels boscs de nogueres negres: les meves pàtries d’elecció.

Le Périgord est l’ancienne région française qui, depuis l’instauration des Départements, est identifié comme celui de la Dordogne…

LIRE LA SUITE : GUIDE DU PERIGORD COMPLET ET GRATUIT AVEC PHOTOS

Le département de la Dordogne, dénommé ainsi grace à la rivière du même nom, correspond à peu près à l’ancienne région Périgord…

LIRE LA SUITE : GUIDE DE LA DORDOGNE

Rocamadour possède un pèlerinage très ancien à la Vierge Marie sous l’apparence d’une Vierge noire dont le corps était autrefois couvert de plaques d’argent, puis d’un manteau, comme Notre Dame du Puy ou Notre Dame de la Daurade à Toulouse. Cette statue est dans l’une des chapelles dans les sanctuaires à pic, sur les gorges de l’Alzou.

De dimension européenne comme l’atteste le Livre des miracles du XIIe siècle, il perdit en notoriété après le passage iconoclaste de mercenaires protestants en 1562. Une nouvelle fois pillé sous la Révolution, les sanctuaires de Rocamadour furent entièrement restaurés au XIXe siècle, ce qui leur évita une ruine complète.

L’épreuve finale de ce pèlerinage consistait à gravir à genoux les 216 marches conduisant à la cité religieuse (qui comprend 7 églises, et 12 autres que les restaurations du XIXe siècle n’ont pu relever). Enfin parvenus à l’intérieur des sanctuaires après cette ascension, les pèlerins laissaient en ex-voto divers objets. Les plus connus restent les fers de condamnés libérés de leurs chaînes, les bateaux de marins sauvés et reconnaissants, ou les plaques de marbre gravées et accrochées au mur de la chapelle aux XIXe siècle et XXe siècle.

LIRE LA SUITE : GUIDE DE VOYAGE ROCAMADOUR

Attention, il faut réserver longtemps à l’avance pour visiter Lascaux2.

La grotte de Lascaux est l’une des plus importantes grottes ornées paléolithiques par le nombre et la qualité esthétique de ses œuvres.

Les peintures et les gravures qu’elle renferme n’ont pas pu faire l’objet de datations directes précises : leur âge est estimé entre environ 18 000 et 15 000 ans avant le présent à partir de datations et d’études réalisées sur les objets découverts dans la grotte.

La grotte est située dans le Périgord noir, sur la commune de Montignac (Dordogne), à une quarantaine de kilomètres au sud-est de Périgueux.

Elle s’ouvre sur la rive gauche de la Vézère, dans une colline calcaire au sein de l’étage coniacien (Crétacé supérieur).

HISTOIRE

La grotte est découverte le 8 septembre 1940 par quatre adolescents à la recherche du chien de l’un d’entre-eux disparu dans un trou étroit révélé par la chute d’un pin foudroyé. Ils souhaitaient au départ garder pour eux le secret de cette découverte. Mais quatre jours plus tard, le 12 septembre 1940, ils reviennent sur les lieux et avertissent rapidement leur ancien instituteur.

LIRE LA SUITE : GUIDE DE VOYAGE GROTTE DE LASCAUX

 Périgord noir, Département de la Dordogne, Région Aquitaine.

L’architecture de Sarlat en fait le site touristique le plus fréquenté de Dordogne et le quatorzième en France avec quelque 1 500 000 visiteurs chaque année. Cette petite ville de 10 000 habitants est néanmoins réputée pour avoir la plus forte densité de monuments historiques classés ou inscrits au monde.

Sarlat est une cité médiévale qui s’est développée autour d’une grande abbaye bénédictine d’origine carolingienne. Seigneurie monastique, elle atteignit son apogée au XIIIe siècle. L’origine de l’abbaye se perd dans les légendes. Elle existe au IXe siècle et fut reconstruite à l’époque romane entre 1125 et 1160. L’église abbatiale devint la cathédrale du diocèse de Sarlat. Les évêques, remplaçant les abbés, commencèrent sa transformation architecturale qui fut achevée seulement à la fin du XVIIe siècle.

LIRE LA SUITE : GUIDE DE VOYAGE SARLAT-LA-CANEDA

La capitale de la Dordogne compte environ 30 000 habitants et elle est établie autour d’un vaste méandre de la rivière l’Isle. La cité romaine Vesunna est créée (temples, bains, arènes, forum) puis entourée de remparts à la fin du IIIe siècle. En 1240, deux cités rivales s’unissent finalement (Vésone et Puy-Saint-Front) afin de fonder Périgueux.

En 1669, l’évêché a été transféré en 1669 de l’ex-cathédrale Saint-Étienne, détruite par les huguenots, (dans le quartier de la Cité) à la cathédrale Saint-Front, une ancienne église.

Sur les berges de l’Isle, une « voie verte » de 15km permet de se promener ou de se déplacer de manière sympathique.

La ville dispose de quatre musées :

musée d’Art et d’Archéologie du Périgord

Le musée gallo-romain Vesunna (bâti par l’architecte Jean Nouvel) www.vesunna.fr

- Le musée Militaire du Périgord.

• – Le musée atelier du trompe-l’œil.

FETES ET EVENEMENTS (entre autres) :

• Les grandes fêtes de Saint-Georges :

LIRE LA SUITE : GUIDE DE VOYAGE PERIGUEUX

• On sait que le caca de cochons, devenu lisier, provoque de belles marées vertes sur les plages bretonnes, marées vertes qui peuvent tuer : parlez-en à mon cheval, celui qui est mort d’avoir trop bien respiré l’air de la mer. Idée, donc, un peu nouvelle, pour cesser d’épandre ces déjections sordides : en faire du courant. De l’énergie dans la fiente d’animaux : l’idée a germé en Dordogne (Sud-Ouest).
• Les tarifs d’EDF ont grimpé, parait-il de 2%. Pour les abonnés qui font tout pour économiser de l’énergie, avec contrats adaptés et cheminée qui ronfle tout l’hiver, la hausse peut atteindre 8% (selon un calcul réalisés par nos soins, en partant des dernières factures et en se basant sur une conso stable par rapport à l’an dernier). La Dépêche, qui se préoccupe beaucoup du panier de la ménagère, se penche sur le sujet : tarifs d’EDF, on n’y comprend plus rien.
• La bière, c’est pas pour les hommes (risque accru de cancer), c’est pour les femmes (ça solidifie les os). Faut que je m’y mette, vous croyez ? Une bière par jour, c’est trop … ou pas ? (20 minutes).

F.Lacour au travail, c’est :

- Des chroniques Sport,
- L’équipe France Bleu Périgord.

• Ce blog étant actuellement très branché sur l’Italie, continuons dans le même esprit : Tout ce que j’ai toujours voulu savoir sur l’Italie (blog Andiamo, hébergé par Libé).
• Les Taïwanais en vacances : 10 jours pour une virée en France, dont 55 minutes pour la vallée de la Dordogne. Du nerf, que diable, on n’a pas que ça à faire ! Sud-Ouest présente l’affaire dans un article bien ficelé : 2000 ans d’histoire au pas de course et au fil de l’eau.
• Si ni l’Italie ni le Périgord ne vous tentent, il faut quand même faire le choix des vacances avant la fin de l’été : dessin pour vous aider dans L’actu en patates.

No puc ser imparcial, ni asèptic, quan parlo de Brantôme. És una ciutat que m’agrada. Amb la que hi ha química. En la que ens hi sentim bé. No és una vila especialment bonica, ni especialment turística. De fet no està mencionada com un destí important en cap guia. Malgrat tot em perd la passió per Brantôme. Potser serà pel seu riu, la Dronne, que travessa tota la ciutat, que la rodeja, que s’hi infiltra. La Dronne és una corrent d’aigua mansa, tranquila, suau, encisadora. Potser serà perquè en aquesta multitud de petits canals i derivats del riu, s’hi enmirallen ponts, jardins i cases fins formar un quadre deliciòs, serè, pacífic. Serà per això que li diuen la Venecia de França. M’és ben bé igual. Jo se que a nosaltres, als meus fills, els encanta llogar un caiac i navegar per les ribes encantadores del riu. I donar la volta en barca a tot el poble medieval de Brantôme. I passar sota els seus ponts. I, després, quan cau la nit, seure en un dels parcs, de gespa fresca i flors, a veure passar la corrent, i tirar-hi fulles. O passejar pels carrers plens de llums, quan el sol encara no s’ha post del tot, a admirar les mansions, els palaus, les façanes. I jugar a fet i amagar amb els ponts i els trossos del riu, que ara hi són, ara no hi són. És veritat que Brantôme també te una abadia clàssica, i l’esglèsia de Sant Pere, (a la foto), molt bonica. Però mai no hi hem anat per a veure l’abadia, ni l’esglèsia. El que ens perd de Brantôme és la pau de les hores calmes perdudes a la vora, o dins, del seu riu. Per dormir us recomanem l’acollidor hotel Chabrol de Les freres Charbonnel. Un lloc tan deliciós com el propi poble, amb una taula exquisida, situat al cor de Brantôme, a tocar del riu. Si voleu un sopar romàntic, en un lloc senzill, aneu al restaurant “Au fil de l’eau“. Terrassa a tocar de la Dronne. També te Brantôme un bonic càmping. Des de Brantôme teniu tot el Perigord, una regió magnífica de França, al vostre abast. Des de la seva capital, Perigueux, fins els seus petits i bonics poblets medievals, a tocar dels rius, amb els seus castells com Bourdeillles, molt a prop de Brantôme mateix.

No puedo ser imparcial, ni aséptico, cuando hablo de Brantôme. Es una ciudad que me gusta. Con la que hay química. En la que nos sentimos bien. No es una ciudad especialmente bonita, ni especialmente turística. De hecho no está mencionada como un destino importante en ninguna guía. A pesar de todo, me pierde la pasión por Brantôme. Quizá sea por su río, la Dronne, que atraviesa toda la ciudad, que la rodea, que se infiltra dentro. La Dronne es una corriente de agua mansa, tranquila, suave, encantadora. Quizás será porque en esa multitud de pequeños canales y derivados del río, se  asoman puentes, jardines y casas hasta formar un cuadro delicioso, sereno, pacífico. Será por eso que le llaman la Venecia de Francia. Me da igual. Yo se que a nosotros, a mis hijos, les encanta alquilar un kayak y navegar por las orillas encantadoras del río. Y dar la vuelta en barco a todo el pueblo medieval de Brantôme. Y pasar bajo sus puentes. Y, después, cuando cae la noche, sentarse en uno de los parques, de hierba fresca y flores, a ver pasar la corriente, y tirar en ella hojas. O pasear por calles llenas de luces, cuando el sol aún no se ha ido del todo, a admirar las mansiones, los palacios, las fachadas. Y jugar al gato y el ratón con los puentes y los trozos del río, que ahora están, ahora no están. Es verdad que en Brantôme también hay una abadía clásica, y la iglesia de Sant Pedro, (en la foto), muy bonitas. Pero nunca hemos ido para ver la abadía, ni la iglesia. Lo que nos pierde de Brantôme es la paz de las horas calmas perdidas al borde, o dentro, de su río. Para dormir os recomendamos el acogedor hotel Chabrol de Les Freres Charbonnel. Un lugar tan delicioso como el propio pueblo, con una mesa exquisita, situado en el corazón de Brantôme, junto al río. Si desea una cena romántica, en un lugar sencillo, hay que ir al restaurante “Au fil de l’eau”. Terraza abierta junto a la Dronne. También hay en el pueblo un bonito camping. Desde Brantôme tiene todo el Perigord, una región magnífica de Francia, a su alcance. Desde su capital, Perigueux, hasta sus pequeños y bonitos pueblos medievales, cerca de los ríos, con sus castillos como Bourdeillles, muy cerca de Brantôme mismo.

Confortable, pratique, écologique (chauffage par aérothermie), venez découvrir ce nouveau gîte entièrement rénové dans le plus pur style des maisons périgordines. Situé dans un corps de ferme, nous vous proposons quelques activités annexes : connaitre les activités de la ferme, faire un baptême de l’air avec le chef du clan (Lucien Gareyte), participer à l’élaboration et la cuisson du pain de campagne, c’est chez nous que ça se passe!

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Truffle Burger

Truffle Burger, Lark Creek Steak, SF

Burgers are prime candidates for creative culinary additions: cheeses, pickles, tomatoes, relish, aioli, sauce, condiments, and bacon (of course). Truffles are inherently additives to dishes, due to their seasonal availability, a continual scarcity that makes them cost-prohibitive as anything but a topping. 

But if you love the taste of truffles, you’ll love this truffled steakburger from Lark Creek Steak. It’s got truffled brie cheese, frisee, truffle vinaigrette, and house-made onion marmalade atop the LCS standard steakburger, my favorite burger on the West Coast. It’s not a truffle flavor overkill like some truffle-inspired dishes, but a good balance of that earthy, sexy flavor that will satisfy your truffle urges without piercing your bank account. (Well, it’s a small piercing, like a nose ring.) Another excellent burger from Chef John Ledbetter and company at Lark Creek Steak. 

Described on the menu: Perigord black truffle steakburger – 8oz - truffled brie cheese, frisee, truffle vinaigrette, caramelized onion marmalade

The Grade: Excellent

The Damage: $24.95

The Skinny: Lark Creek Steak

Westfield® San Francisco Centre
845 Market Street, 4th Floor, Ste 402
San Francisco, CA 94103

Phone: (415) 593-4100

Reservations: http://www.larkcreek.com/larkcreek_steak/index.html

Lunch:
Mon.-Fri. 11:30 am – 2:00 pm
Sat. & Sun. 12:00 pm – 2:30 pm

Dinner:
Mon.-Thurs. 5:30 pm – 9 pm
Fri. 5:30 pm – 9:30 pm
Sat. 5:00 pm – 9:30 pm
Sun. 5:00 pm – 9 pm

Tejados franceses, Sarlat-la-Canéda, Francia

Olympus 8mm, 1/500sec, f/3, ISO 50

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Hoy inauguro esta nueva sección en la que pondré fotos que no son de Burgos. En parte porque se acercan los exámenes y tengo menos tiempo para ir con la cámara, y porque así doy salida a estas fotos.

La foto de hoy es de Sarlat-la-Canéda, en el Perigord Negro, departamento de Dordoña, Francia. Es una villa medieval, cuyo centro urbano peatonal está lleno de casonas y torres de la época restauradas. Es un lugar de visita obligada si se está por la zona, a mi personalmente me encantó, y el viaje que hice por el Perigord fue uno de los mejores que he hecho: castillos, pueblos medievales, más castillos y foie.

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