Tucked away in the 12th Century fortified village of Rivesaltes at 11 Rue Armand Barbès and just beneath the imposing church and bell tower is a wonderful little hotel/restaurant appropriately named “La Tour de l’Horloge” owned and operated by Monsieur et Madame Bercie a delightful couple who pride themselves on their hospitality and especially their cuisine which is both “authentique et régionale.” It was all that and so much more as I soon found out. But first let me set the scene.I was on a business trip heading from Barcelona to Montpellier, a trip that takes a little over three hours by car as one dodges the super-sized camions and the usual crazy drivers whizzing past in their sleek high-priced engines at a conservative 160-180 km/hr. All I saw was the blurr and all I heard were the sound of repeated horns being leaned on in a massive display of European exasperation.
Thinking ahead, I had leased a nice Peugeot equipped with more bells and whistles than I ever knew what to do with and more importantly a GPS as I am famous for getting lost even in my own bedroom. The idea was a good one, but in practice I soon found the voice of the electronic British marm drilling incessantly into my head more than just annoying and I was soon ready to bash the system and her electronic voice to bits. Cruel and unjust you say? Her directions were poor in many instances, “in two hundred meters, at the next roundabout, take the 4th exit then proceed for two hundred meters and take the first left.” There would be a pause then “at the next opportunity make a U turn then proceed three hundred meters.” When you’re counting roundabout exits and listening to someone who has NO business speaking French while dodging the camions and crazy traffic, I need something I can count on. She clearly had failed me and failed me repeatedly. I won’t even go into where she led me but on the plus side I did get to see some interesting parts of town. I later complained vociferously to the rental agency in Barcelona. They nodded and agreed to take her off my bill for ever. Another crazy American!
Following a quick stay in Montpellier and an unremarkable dinner except for the wine, my next stop was to be in the town of Perpignan proper but as luck would have it, the powers at be had me going somewhere outside of the city in one of those French brand name hotels that are efficient and streamlined and completely and utterly void of warmth and charm and a good French meal. As I said, they are efficient and economical and market research must show that for French families on the move especially for their never ending holidays, this is just what Papa et Maman desire. I want to go on record as stating that they are simply the worst and should be banned from this earth for all times. I actually did spend one night at this same brand name hotel in another part of the world but at a their supposedly higher-end hotels. They did have a small cocktail lounge -their only saving grace. My room was so efficiently laid out there was no room to even change my mind. Awful I say, simply awful. Have I made my point?
The fortified village of Rivesaltes is deep in the heart of the vineyards of the Roussillon, famous for its Muscat-sec and close to the rivy Agly and and just 10 klicks from the Mediterranean Sea (Port Barcares). Now some of you may be interested in knowing that the town of Rivesaltes is also the birthplace of General Joffre, a famous World War I French hero (remember Papa Joffre?) His name is also attached to an internment camp which has a sordid and painful history during the Second World War. I drove past the remains of the camp and that was enough for me. The only other internment camp I have ever seen or visited was Camp Brindonk which is just outside of Antwerp.
On this lovely late afternoon in June, the town was very quiet. The only things moving were kids with their soccer balls and a few wandering tourists. Walking the narrow streets, I marveled at the history of this place and quite sure that little had changed in so many years. On rare exceptions I had to move on to the sidewalk to avoid being run over by a car determined to speed by yet barely fitting on the narrow road. I discovered, quite by accident, the center of town marked by the only cafe in town and of course one bakery. Let’s remember where we are! I found myself quite clearly at the very epicenter of the village. A few old men were gathered at a table enjoying the shade of an equally old tree, while other customers like myself, who were not so lucky, felt the heat of the Mediterranean sun despite the cover afforded by a pale green stripped awning. With the help of a few cold “Pression’s” (beer on tap), I suffered through as the sun slowly faded behind the church tower.
Wondering if a restaurant existed I turned to the inevitable source of all information, Madame la Propriétaire who was inside busily meticulously wiping and re-wiping her zinc counter. We chatted for a moment about the weather, tourists, and business and then I asked her about a place to eat. This is a question that’s most important to the French. Recommendations are not just given lightly, “take a left Bud and there’s your sandwich joint.” No, pas du-tout mon ami, Madame pondered the question carefully for a minute then told me there were only two restaurants she could really suggest. The Clock Tower Hotel noted for its Catalan food and Allantoine. She started with the directions then stopped and said “come with me I will show you myself.” Off we went down one street and another finally she pointed “one more block then make your right Monsieur.”
I made a command decision and headed off in the direction of the Clock Tower Hotel which I had passed during my wanderings. What drew me to this restaurant was the promise of good Catalan cooking something that I am very fond of and difficult to find. Just what is Catalan cooking you may well ask? It brings Spain and the Basque together with the Languedoc-Rousillon region. It leans heavily on fresh vegetables especially tomatoes, eggplant, and garlic and olive oil, beans and mushrooms, ham, tuna, anchovies and incredible cheeses. It is a little bit of heaven. The owner, who I later found out was also the chef, sat me down in a little courtyard area with palm trees set against massive rock walls. He suggested that I try the local Muscat-sec while I perused the menu. I am not a particular fan of Muscat and find it’s never quite sec (dry) enough – at least for me. I tasted and thanked him and promptly ordered a nice bottle of local Languedoc red. I was much happier. Don’t play with me when it comes to such serious matters.
For starters, I have to tell you, I was torn between havingmoules (mussels) in aioli or soupe de poisson (fish soup.) I opted for the latter and it arrived a table in a hefty tureen with a large dollop the size of an iceberg of aioli floating on top; a side of crispy garlic toasts complemented the soup quite well. Was it good? It was incredible, no I mean really incredible where you lick your lips with every taste, and find yourself mopping up every last bit of soup with crunchy bread “du pays.” I could have stopped there. But with another glass of red, it was time to really get serious. I asked the owner, and by now we were best friends, for his suggestions which he gladly volunteered. He paused, as if preparing to offer a very serious recommendation, since I was going Catalan, he stated, I should have the Boles de Picoulat (spécialité Catalane) at least it was so stated on the menu. The dish is an interesting and delightful mixture of medium size pork and beef meatballs in a thick in very rich red sauce on top of a cream base. Soon you find yourself knee-deep in this rich, spicy creamy heavenly mélange.
After a few more glasses of wine (who’s counting anyway) and some strong black coffee, I found I had room for absolutely nothing more except maybe a little desert. Not too much mind you, just a little something. There was one and only thing that caught my eye, the Crème Catalane. No arms need be twisted and I volunteered to take one for the team. This little desert takes the Crème Caramel, we all know and love, to a whole other level. We are talking doctoral studies ladies and gentlemen. Yes that kind of level. It was perfectly done, the burnt caramel done just right and each spoonful of that rich, sweet, eggy mixture was bringing me closer to a state of perpetual bliss.
It’s hard to forget culinary experiences like that especially with such charming hosts. I thoroughly enjoyed myself and cannot wait to plan for my return. In the meantime I get to look forward to making my way back to Barcelona airport and my GPS ride from Hell.