Les Favets looks pretty. The village itself nestles into a crook at the top of the D526 before it plunges ominously into the Defile de Maupas. We also are about to plunge, deep into the Valley of Gastronomic Despond.
Sixteen of us present ourselves at table, a long narrow plastic-covered plank, otherwise bare in all respects—no cutlery, flowers, glasses, water, or condiments. Ominous indeed. Our moustachioed host, sports a floral dress and an appalling black rug, his wife a garish pink mat, slightly askew.
A girl with bunny ears graces the bar. So too do fifteen thirsty cyclists after a big day in the saddle. Throats are wetted, stomachs rumble.
Wig slipping, our host deposits three desultory platters of cold meats before us, followed by salads, strange globs of shredded carrot, something that could be diced beets, some savagely sliced cucumbers, and hacked up tomatoes. Yesterday’s bread gets a second chance.
As a vegetarian I am presented with ten cigarellos of seafood extender on a small plate. They’re as slippery as butchers’ cocks and about as appealing. The meat and salad platters are emptied rapidly but not enthusiastically.
The duelling accordians start up a racket, the loudspeaker blocking the toilet door at the end of our table drowning out all social intercourse. We sit glumly, a bunch of famished Olivers, hoping for more, while the local villagers take to the boards for some slow dancing.
When it becomes obvious that dinner is over, our party either drowns its sorrows at the bar or slinks outside so the murmurs of discontent don’t spoil the music for the locals.
A bottle of Evian costs four times a round of reds for those not prostrate on the road outside hoping that passing motorists might take pity and deliver them elsewhere, while fifty metres up the hill a spigot belches gallons of free fresh spring water into a horse-trough. We should be so lucky.
Even with half of us outdoors, the place is chockers. As the English say: “There’s nowt as strange as folk.”
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