Our wine scribe Jim Walker had long wanted to visit the fortified hilltop town of Carcassonne in the southwest of France. Little did he know that a special treat was in store for him – cassoulet. The consequences were, well, explosive.

Hélène and I had spent a pleasant early fall afternoon with Caryl and Jan Panmann and their charming dogs at their enchanted Château Rives-Blanches winery in the foothills of the French Pyrénées. After fond farewells and a number of pats we headed due north to Carcassonne where we planned to stay the night and sample the local fare. More precisely, our destination was the old town, the citadel known as the Cité de Carcassonne, a medieval fortress dating back to the Gallo-Roman period. It was restored by the archeaologist and architect Eugène Viollet-le-Duc in 1853, one of whose first major projects was rebuilding Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris in 1845.

We had booked a room at the Hôtel Le Donjon in the middle of the old town. The folks there told us to park our rental car outside the fortress walls and proceed on foot to the hotel using the map they sent us as a guide. They would direct us to their private parking lot after we checked in.

The trek to Hôtel Le Donjon was quite the adventure. First we had to penetrate the two imposing sets of perimeter walls and then navigate the labyrinth of ancient cobblestone walkways to our destination, all the way feeling very much like troubadors of old. The  hotel’s directions were spot on and after checking in and securing the car and our luggage, our thoughts naturally turned to dinner. All that winery visiting, driving and hotel hunting had left us a tad peckish.

So off we trotted to the epicentre of the town where we spotted a likely looking eatery to grace with our starving selves. the Auberge de Dame Carcas was a small, inviting place that offered up heavenly aromas. We had our choice of tables and selected one of three against the wall across from the deserted bar. We discovered that the menu consisted of four prix fixe selections, each featuring something alien to me – cassoulet. The only differences were the appetisers. Hélène explained that cassoulet was composed of a sausage and duck leg drowned in a sea of baked pork and beans. That sounded pretty darn good to me. I chose the one with a langoustine starter, Hélène selected hers with foie gras. To wash everything down I ordered a  litre (not only had the day’s events made us hungry, but thirsty as well) of house red. It was a very servicable local libation.

Our first courses arrived – six fully intact  langoustines (I do wish they would behead and clean them) slathered in garlic butter for me and Hélène’s fois gras, lots of fois gras. Despite the mess, mine were delicious. The foie gras was equally yummy and, apart from a taste for me, Hélène valiantly devoured it all. Then the main courses arrived – two very large steaming bowls of cassoulet magnificence with the duck confit front and centre. The aroma was magical.

As we dove into our mains, the restaurant owner and a well-dressed local businessman, a banker or lawyer perhaps, sat down at the table beside us. As if by magic, plates laden with langoustines appeared before them. They dove into them with great gusto. As they slurped and munched the glistening crustaceons with glee they struck up an animated conversation in which they vigorously debated the best way to prepare langoustines. Their mothers’ recipes, their grandmothers’ recipes, three star Michelin restaurant recipes, Mediterranean peasant recipes and many others were seriously examined and found wanting. This went on for at least three-quarters of an hour. No verdict was reached.

In the meantime, I had laid waste to my cassoulet. It was splendid. Hélène, having gorged on the foie gras could manage but half of hers. What was I to do but finish hers, of course. Then, after the requisite glasses of Calvados and settling the most reasonable bill, we waddled our way back to our hotel and settled in for the night.

It began around three o’clock in the morning. First a mild rumble and then searing pain. I thought I was going to explode! I leapt from the bed to the bathroom and … best I leave this to your imagination. Let’s just say it was like Mount Vesuvius on steroids.

After breakfast the next day, with me somewhat worse for wear, we enjoyed an excellent guided tour of the fortress and then took a last minute stroll around the town. We came across a pottery shop with cassoulet bowls artfully displayed in the window. Being in a masochistic mood I ventured inside and was transfixed by a particularly handsome specimen, a real work of art. The shopkeeper told us that it was crafted by the last cassoulet maker in existance. I had to have it. To this day I can’t believe we schlepped the blessed thing all the way back to Canada. Even more incredible, we have never put it to use.                             

While doing a bit of research for this screed I ran across a delightful article by Cynthia David in a special to The Globe and Mail titled ‘Cassoulet craze: How French chefs balance authenticity with increasing demand for an ancient dish.’ It seems that the noble concoction has had a renaissance of sorts. There are now many ceramic bowl manufacturers. And, it seems that the vrai cassoulet cannot be assembled over here – we simply don’t have access to the authentic ingredients.

There you have my tale of Carcassonne and the cassoulet. This is going to be my last contribution to Gentleman’s Portion for a little while. I want to focus all of my scribbling energies completing a book on which I am toiling with the working title of My Wild, Wacky and Wonderful World of Wine. Once my tome is completed, I’ll see if I can dredge up some more stories vaguely related to things vinous. Till then, astonishing luck and may you enjoy many an enjoyable glass of wine (should that be your predilection).

Cheers! Jim

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This is Jim’s 86th blog on Gentleman’s Portion. The SEARCH function at the top works really well if you want to look back and see some of his previous stories.