We rose late to a day of warm sunshine and high, wispy clouds. 

The kitchen window, we discovered, gave us a view of the countryside to the left, and of the shady avenue leading toward to the village center to the right. Straight ahead, we looked down on a road branching off to a bridge over the Verdouble near its confluence with the Torgan, and a big old house on the corner surrounded by magnificent plane trees. The ground floor of the house seemed to be jammed with all kinds of wrought-iron goods, leading us to infer, correctly, that it was a blacksmith’s workshop.

At breakfast we had ripe, locally-grown nectarines, a special crop of the region.

Our plan for the day was a Catalane-accented lunch at the tourist-oriented hilltop village of Castelnou.

The steeply sloping, stone-paved street leading up from Castelnou’s Parking was lined with flowers blazing in the midday light and heat. We saw that many of the old stone buildings along the way had been renovated, some converted into smart shops. Near the highest point of the village we caught sight of the colorful umbrellas of the terrace of:

Castelnou (04 68 53 45 42)

Though the shade of umbrellas had seemed inviting, we opted for the still more inviting interior dining area, a large rectangular room with exposed ceiling beams, a large fireplace and rustic furnishings. The tables were covered with paper rather than cloth, a note of economy, but the table was large enough and the seating comfortable. A large window afforded a splendid view of the garrigue, the undulating, semi-arid heath of Catalan.

We had hoped to partake of the grilled-snail feast, cargolade, the dish most characteristic of the region, but a pleasant young waitress told us the cargolade was only to be had upon a day’s notice. So we went back to the menu and made a selection biased towards items of listed withregional provenance as suggested by the word catalane, suggesting a regional provenance.

Pitchers of regional red and rosé wines were included with the meal.

Charcuterie et crudités: An ample serving of tomatoes, radishes and other crudités with saucisson, air-dried sausage, and a moderately hard and flavorful jambon cru, cured ham.

Poulet à la Catalane, pomme de terre: A solid-textured and good-flavored chicken breast with wing attached, served with a sauce flavored with peppers and tomatoes. The peppers provided a mild warmth on the palate, especially satisfying after we squeezed the lemon wedge included with this dish to adjust the sauce’s acidity. The potato came in the form of fries, in this case cooked hot enough to seal in the delicate flavor of potato and to form enough crust to offer a slight resistance to the teeth. Another deep-fried item, a chunk of zucchini in batter tempura style, was equally notable.

Escargot Catalane: About twenty snails of the local petit gris variety, served in a tasty broth of peppers and tomatoes.

Omelette aux cèpes: The egg of this omelet was nothing more than a thin wrap for the parcel of mushrooms.

Boles de Picoulat aux haricots blancs: I don’t know the meaning of Picoulat, but the flavor and consistency of these 5 cm-diameter meat balls were exactly the same as those of a dish my mother made with scraps of left-over roast mutton, finely ground with onions and thyme and moistened with ketchup.

With undistinguished desserts and a 1.25-liter bottle of St-Yorre water, the total at l’Hostal was F344.

We ordered cargolade for the following day.

***

On the way back to Padern we stopped at a roadside fruit stand—just a pickup truck loaded with fruit, with two middle-aged women lounging on folding chairs—where we bought some peaches and nectarines. The peaches were especially fine, with a deep yellow flesh and intense aroma, and the sellers selected fruit with a range of ripeness so we could eat them on successive days. One of them told us her grandson had recently returned from America after working for a year as a waiter in Boston. Both were concerned about unemployment in France.

In the evening we had fruit and couscous with squash and carrots.