Even better, tonight’s hotel is on a pedestrianised street and up a vertiginously steep flight of stairs. I abandon Eddy round the corner, and dash through the downpour, hauling my soaking panniers up to a rather grand salon, where several policemen are sitting on plump sofas drinking coffee with a man I assume to be the owner. They look round in surprise as I drop my worldly belongings on the carpet and brandish my passport – I’ll be honest, the whole place feels a bit strange, but given the weather, I’d happily sit down with them for a cuppa, if only I didn’t have an hour to get to the chocolate museum before it closes.
PAUSE-CAFÉ – Chocolat
One might assume that the French chocolate industry was centred around the chic boutiques of Paris, or perhaps somewhere slightly closer to Belgium, but it’s Bayonne’s location on the opposite side and end of the country, barely 30km from the Spanish border, that led to its historic status as the national capital of cocoa.
The Spanish, who first brought cacao beans to Europe, guarded the secrets of chocolate production jealously, and though a port like Bayonne would have received shipments of the precious cargo, it was Portugal, a country which did a spot of South American marauding of its own, which inadvertently exported the craft across the Pyrenees along with its Jews. By 1687 Bayonne’s nascent chocolate industry seems to have been in the hands of these religious refugees, based in their ghetto of Saint-Esprit, across the river from Bayonne proper.
Municipal authorities were initially suspicious of the novel substance, but locals were quick to see its financial potential and, having learnt the process, attempted to wrest control from the very people who’d taught it to them by banning them from the industry.
For all this ugly business, trade thrived – Bayonne exported chocolate nationwide, though nowhere was it more popular than in the city itself. By 1830, more people were employed in chocolate-making there than in the whole of Switzerland, and today, though somewhat smaller, its producers still specialise in what they claim is a Spanish style of chocolate, more bitter, less sweet, with notes of cinnamon and other warm spices, and the city is stuffed with aromatic boutiques.
I wish I could tell you I learnt all of this from the Atelier du Chocolat museum, but, somewhat inevitably, having dodged barriers and pneumatic drills, hauled my bike over a pedestrian bridge, done several turns of a large and busy roundabout and eventually found the place in a scrubby backstreet, they won’t let me in – ‘Too late, Madame! You can come back tomorrow afternoon.’
Naturally, the museum shop is still open for business, so much as I dearly wish to burst into tears in a soggy heap on the floor, I decide to take solace in sugar – my misery is clearly embarrassingly obvious, because as I stare balefully at the selection, sniffing loudly, the lady from reception taps me on the shoulder and holds out some samples. It’s small consolation, frankly, but I’m not proud: I take two.
After a glum selfie outside with my purchase, a slab of 70 per cent cocoa flavoured with vivid stripes of piment d’Espelette, I head for the more welcoming embrace of Chocolat Cazenave, tucked away in the arcades underneath the old town’s huddle of half-timbered townhouses. This glittery Art Nouveau tearoom has played host to everyone from the Duchess of Windsor to Roland Barthes, and now, desperately trying not to drip on the immaculate mosaic tiling, me.
A lady perched on a stool behind a till appears to be in charge of both restaurant and shop, alternately placing orders on a large spike and weighing purchases on a huge silver scale. Everything is displayed beneath glass cloches or in the kind of wooden cabinets more usually seen in Victorian museums, the bars of chocolate in their colourful paper wrappings arranged in rainbow order from Number 1 (milk chocolate, pale blue) to 12 (dark chocolate and almonds, leaf green), and the whole effect is more like an old-fashioned apothecary than a temple to pleasure.
Eventually, I’m led to a seat next to a fantastically old couple both glaring at the Pekinese winding itself around the table leg opposite as its buxom owner gathers up her many scarves for departure. Though the menu lists teas and coffee, beer and ice cream, everyone’s really here for one thing: the famous Cazenave hot chocolate, served rich and frothy in the traditional fashion. The usual accompaniment, I learn, is ‘toasts’, but I decide to buck the trend and try a gâteau Basque, a shortcrust tart filled with almond frangipane or black cherry jam, while I’m here. Non, Madame, not possible, the white-aproned waitress says, without further explanation. Perhaps the toasts? As I don’t seem to have a choice in this matter, I nod meekly and await what she deigns to bring me.
I must concede, perhaps she was right. For someone brought up on Cadbury’s drinking powder, this hot chocolate is barely recognisable as the same drink. Intensely bittersweet, rich but not creamy, with a handsome mousse of cocoa bubbles rising out of the rose-patterned Limoges porcelain like a crown, it’s exactly what I need today, and the comfort of the accompanying thickly sliced, generously buttered brioche toast feels like a big, warm hug. Cake would, I see now, have been entirely de trop.
That said, I slightly regret having declined the customary accompaniment of whipped cream as a waste of calories as I see the scowls of my pensioner companions relax into grins of sheer childish joy as they stir the towering mounds into their cups. Emboldened by this change, I venture to ask, ever so politely, if they’re regulars here. Oh no, the lady says. She looks at me closely and then helpfully tells me that too much chocolate makes you fat. Her husband adds firmly, ‘Once a week. That’s all.’ To be fair, they’re both birdlike, albeit of the angry variety.
Hot Chocolate and Buttered Brioche (in the style of Maison Cazenave)
Perhaps the ultimate afternoon tea on a cold, wet day, the original relies on a special long-handled wooden tool called a moussoir, but you can replicate it fairly satisfactorily at home with a whisk.
Makes 2
100g 70% cocoa chocolate
200ml whole milk
A dash of vanilla extract
2 thick slices of brioche
Salted butter, to spread
Grate the chocolate or cut into small pieces. Meanwhile, heat the milk in a medium pan over a medium heat until steaming, then take off the heat and add the chocolate. Leave for 2 minutes, then stir until melted.
Add a dash of vanilla extract, then put on a very low heat and beat for about 15 minutes by hand, or rather less if using electric beaters, until very light and moussy.
Scoop the foam into two small cups, then pour the hot chocolate on top. Lightly toast the brioche, spread with the butter, and serve the two together.
As I wait for Madame at the desk to tot up my bill, I ask how they make the hot chocolate – is it possible to buy the ingredients here or look into the kitchen? As she smilingly shakes her head I suddenly realise that I’ve left my wallet sitting on my bike for the last 30 minutes and dash off in a panic, flinging my phone at her as security (London habits die hard). When I come back, damp with relief, I give up any attempt at cross-examination and buy a bar of Number 12 for the road instead. I’m rewarded by hearing, as she hands over the phone, that I have a very pretty dog. I do, I think proudly, looking at Wilf’s furry tummy on the lock screen, though he feels a very long way away right now, sunning himself in the Home Counties while I’m shivering in the South of France.
With hot chocolate warming me from the inside out, and the rain slowed to an exhausted drizzle, I make a pilgrimage to the cathedral and then enjoy a pleasant squelch around the little nooks and crannies of Bayonne, some of the lanes between the houses so narrow I have to flatten myself against one wall if I meet someone coming from the other direction. I pass shops selling Basque berets and colourful tinned fish and duck into a boutique offering the one local speciality I can happily invest in: the kanouga, a delicious squidgy chocolate caramel created in 1905, apparently inspired by the wealthy Russian visitors who flocked to the nearby seaside resort of Biarritz. (The name is claimed to be a bastardisatio
n of the Russian city of Kaluga, south-west of Moscow.)
Still licking the sugar from my lips, I stumble upon a ham museum, attracted by the pair of cartoon pigs outside through which some British children are happily poking their faces as their mother takes a photograph. ‘Museum’s closed,’ her husband reports, coming out of the shop. The kids wail, I sigh and, as the charcuterie in front still looks open (quelle surprise), decide to go in anyway to buy some jambon de Bayonne for tomorrow’s lunch. The lights still seem to be on out back, so I ask Madame behind the till whether I can have a very quick look before paying. ‘Of course!’ she says, taking my ham from me. ‘Take as long as you like!’
The man may not have been impressed, but I’m enraptured by this glorious display of photographs of happy black-and-pink pigs captioned by inspirational quotes such as ‘Age doesn’t matter. Unless you’re a ham’. The text underneath explains that the Basque country has a micro-climate ideal for the ageing of hams – slightly unnervingly described as ‘the period in which they develop their personality’ – and that, in 1981, the Basque Kintoa was declared on the path to extinction, thanks to more productive ‘English breeds’, before being saved by, who else but the Brotherhood of Basque Pork. It is now, the boards proudly declare, ‘an ambassador’ for the region. What a build-up! I exit both excited about making the Kintoa’s acquaintance, and strongly considering getting a tattoo of my new favourite proverb, ‘Lou jamboû pertout que hé boû’ in Basque – ‘Ham goes with everything’.
Naturally all the restaurants I’ve earmarked as potential ham providers are closed for their annual holidays, and after wandering around furiously for a bit, huffing to myself, I end up in a cider and tapas place with a promising number of Xs in its name and the atmosphere of a brightly lit Basque Harvester. No sparse carvery here though: in fact, the ham arrives in such quantity that I suspect, indeed hope, that no rare Kintoa pigs have been harmed in its production. I follow it with a slightly chewy salt cod and red pepper stew and a delicate, barely set sheep’s milk junket with piment d’Espelette jam, plus a bottle of acidic local cider that reminds me of the stuff served with such great theatre across the border in San Sebastián.
The moon is rising over the river as I pick my way home through the puddles, and the half-timbered houses on the other side shimmer in its light. I haven’t seen the best of this place, I think. And next time I’m definitely buying a beret.
Km: 16.6
Croissants: 0 (but, to be fair, this stage didn’t include breakfast)
High: Drinking the world’s finest hot chocolate in a tearoom stuck in time
Low: Being turned away from the chocolate museum in the rain
STAGE 9
Bayonne to Pau
Poule au Pot
Though associated with royalty, poule au pot, a stuffed chicken poached in a simple, vegetable-studded broth, is good wholesome fare for princes and peasants alike, and an excellent way to make a decent bird stretch a bit further, too.
It’s started raining again by the time I gingerly unlock my bike from the narrow stairwell of the slumbering hotel and make my way out of Bayonne the next morning, early enough that the lights of the rush-hour traffic shimmer on the wet road, and the broad, sluggish River Adour shines the same grey as the pre-dawn sky. My route follows its banks more or less closely all day, which sounds like it ought to guarantee a fast, flat ride, but, of course, as any GCSE geographer will tell you, rivers descend towards the sea, while I’m travelling inland towards the city of Pau, 120 or so kilometres to the east, on the edge of the Pyrenees. This makes for a completely terrifying gradient profile on my route-planning app, yet, thanks to the river, it climbs so gradually at first that I barely notice it as the main road out of town turns off into autoroutes and dual carriageways. I continue to meander along the river’s increasingly wooded shores, past fishermen in flat-bottomed boats casting nets into the glassy water, shuttered restaurants advertising eels and lampreys and thrillingly Pyrenean-looking farmhouses as I head straight for the hills on the horizon.
At one point a high-speed train shatters the placid peace, but otherwise I see little traffic, only kiwi orchards (having only lately learnt that kiwis grow in Europe, rather than tropical jungles, I’m excited enough by these to stop to take a photo of their trailing vines) and a field of punky-looking goats, who watch with quiet satisfaction as I electrocute myself on the fence trying to get a good shot of their grumpy faces, which remind me fondly of the dog. After yowling at the swift kick of pain, which feels almost as if someone’s flicked an elastic band hard at my heel, I find myself helplessly humming ‘That Don’t Impress Me Much’ over and over as I push on to the town of Peyrehorade before stopping for breakfast. Fortunately, I’m already close enough that Shania doesn’t quite succeed in sending me over the edge.
Pedalling into the centre, I’m annoyed to find the way blocked by an all-too-familiar yellow route barrée sign before realising, having slid discreetly past it, that the road is closed for market day – an event I’m only too happy to dismount for. Like many of the best markets, this isn’t the most scenic of affairs, sprawling scruffily out of a long narrow place that clearly functions as a car park for the rest of the week, but it’s full of stuff to look at. There’s a donkey-milk soap stall, and a donkey salami stall (the two face each other, but it’s not immediately clear if they’re the same operation, or sworn enemies), piles of greyish tripe and strings of fresh garlic, as mild and milky as a spring onion.
Thinking already of lunch, I buy the smallest, heaviest melon I can find, a stick of almost black rye bread that looks promisingly fibrous and, more importantly, is half the size of everything else on the stall, and a croissant (7/10: bit soft on top, but excellent flavour) and retire to the Bayonne Bar for a café crème and a spot of idle gawping – one of the lesser-sung pleasures of such slow travel.
PAUSE-CAFÉ – French Bread: A Bluffer’s Guide
First, choose your bakery. To be honest, you probably won’t have much choice, and the French appetite for fresh bread means they’re rarely terrible, but look for the blue-and-yellow sign of a baker putting a loaf into the oven under the words ‘Artisan Boulangère’, which indicates the bread is made on the premises (a ‘dépôt de pain’ means they sell someone else’s bread, which is harder to judge).
The baker’s name on the sign is often a good omen: if they’re proud enough to boast, they’re probably doing something right (and if the acronym MOF, or Meilleurs Ouvriers de France, ‘best craftsmen of France’, appears after their name, even better). As part of the national drive to promote the work of skilled artisans, France is home to any number of regional and national baking competitions, so indications of success may be listed on the window.
Once inside, quietly greet the queue and, as anywhere, if it’s busy, try to work out what you want before getting to the front. Feel free to ask for it ‘bien cuit’ (well cooked) if you like it crusty, or ‘pas trop cuit’ if you prefer it soft and fluffy, and even to ask for just a half or ‘demi’ baguette (though they may have smaller bâtard available, too).
Baguette tradition/à l’ancienne must, by law, be made using just flour, water, salt and sourdough levain (or sometimes yeast) and then hand-formed. They’re usually the ones with the pointy ends.
Baguette ordinaire/classique/normal is usually cheaper, fluffier (so lasts a bit longer) and made with yeast. They have round ends.
A flûte is a slightly thicker baguette, which is ideal for sandwiches.
A ficelle, literally string, is a very skinny baguette, which is very crunchy and completely useless for sandwiches, but find a cheese or lardon one and they make a very decent lunch on their own.
Pain de campagne is a round sourdough loaf, usually made with a proportion of wholemeal flour.
Pain de mie is a soft white tin loaf, rather like a British sandwich loaf, but generally slightly sweeter and thus, in my opinion, to be avoided unless making
bread and butter pudding.
Pain complet is a brown loaf.
Pain aux céréales is a multigrain loaf: seigle is rye, avoine oat, blé noir or sarrasin buckwheat and orge barley.
Pain cuit au feu de bois means it’s been baked in a wood oven, and au levain is sourdough.
Fougasse is a Provençal shaped loaf that is found in bakeries all over the country, usually stuffed or flavoured with something. Because it’s both crusty and rich in olive oil, it keeps relatively well, and is a good thing to buy with your morning croissant just in case you don’t find any lunch.
I’m always astounded by the feast of humanity that populates the average French market, even on a Wednesday morning, and as I wobble back down to the main road, having stashed the melon awkwardly on top of a pannier and buried the bread deep in anticipation of further rain, I can’t help wondering, does no one round here have a job to go to? (A 21st-century job, I mean: there’s a woman plaiting a chair next to a display of wicker baskets, a man sharpening knives and, underneath a concrete shelter, various old men selling chickens and rabbits from cages, including one particularly magnificent cockerel that I regret I just don’t have room for today.) Though looking it up later, I discover that France currently has one of the highest unemployment rates in Western Europe, at 9 per cent; in fact, I suspect many of these people are small farmers for whom this is part of the weekly routine. Certainly, there’s an air of happy purpose about both shoppers and stallholders as they chit-chat their way through the morning, poking fruit and squinting at nylon housecoats like they’re the new season’s collection from Paris.
One More Croissant for the Road Page 13