I went to Bordeaux and this is what I ate: A Culinary Travel Diary

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a pretty street in bordeaux

a pretty street in bordeaux

In case you missed it, you can read Part 1 of our European vacation including all of the sights and flavors from Paris here.

Wednesday, November 27th: 
As our train sped through the French countryside toward Bordeaux, we felt our muscles unwind and our brains begin to take a much needed little rest. Paris, in all of it’s hustle and bustle, was beautiful but it had wiped us out a bit. All I could think about was the cat nap that was awaiting me when I arrived to our Bordeaux AirBnb. I had done far less-intensive planning when it came to our time in Bordeaux. Food and Wine Magazine published an article a couple months before our trip entitled “The Bordeaux Bistro Revolution”, I have a friend who studied abroad in Bordeaux in college, and my cousin had spent a couple days in the city a month before our trip so my restaurant research consisted of simply compiling all of their recommendations onto one piece of paper. Already, Bordeaux was feeling a little more relaxed than the Paris metropolis. 

We were completely wiped out upon our arrival at our AirBnB, but having only consumed butter and sugar (remember our Cedric Grolet Opera croissants from earlier in the morning), our stomachs were begging for a little something. We took a quick stroll around the block to the corner store where we picked up a saucisson, a wedge of creamy brie, a 6 euro bottle of grocery store wine, and a crusty baguette. The afternoon was spent snacking and napping and it was wonderful. 

When the sky began to darken, we mustered the energy to head out for dinner. We were looking for something low-key and delicious (which we later learned is pretty much the theme of the entire city) and there was a wine bar on my list of recommendations that was a ten-minute walk from our lodging. We arrived on the darkened alley-way to a shuttered door and no sign of life coming from the restaurant. I quickly racked my brain for any other wine bar or bistro I could remember from our list and we ended up around the corner at Soif. It must have been divine providence that our original destination was closed because Soif was easily one of our favorite meals of the trip. It was a small wine bar and when we entered, the only other patrons were seated at the bar. We huddled together at a tiny table near the window where we could watch the passersby as we ate. We drank glasses of wine, deep yellow and buttery glasses and bright citrusy pours, all from within miles of the city. Plump, meaty sardines, fresh from the sea were piled atop thin, buckwheat pancakes, smeared with cream. Mismatched plates of chanterelles and goat cheese sat alongside toad-in-a-hole style brioche filled with local saucisson. Bread was brought in a hand-knitted basket, thin, pungent slices of brie were paired with bright yuzu marmalade and as we made our way home through the slick cobblestone streets, we marveled about how much we were already smitten with the city.

Thursday, November 28th: 

Our entire itinerary for Thursday was “explore Bordeaux”. That was it. I had jotted down some landmarks and markets that we didn’t want to miss, but it was so freeing to be able to stroll the city, completely plan-less. We stopped by Oven Heaven for cappuccinos and our second favorite croissants of the trip and meandered through Marche de Capucins, an large covered market with everything from fresh produce to sneakers. We strolled through what seemed like a neighborhood garage sale in a square in front of a cathedral and tucked into alleyways, losing ourselves in Bordeaux’s small-town charm. 

A few weeks before our trip I texted my cousins (who had just gotten back from a trip to Bordeaux and northern Spain) asking where I should eat in Bordeaux. The response was “you have to go to Le Poulailler d'Augustin Volailler Rôtisseur, it was the best meal we ate all trip”. So it was settled, we needed to eat here. The website for the rotisserie said that they only seat 23 people for lunch, no dinner service, I wasn’t able to get through when I called to try and make a reservation, so I figured we should try to arrive at the restaurant as close to 12 p.m. (when they started serving lunch) as possible. We arrived in the area a few minutes before noon and spent a little while strolling around the park across the street, killing time until it was socially acceptable to try and eat lunch. Martin still makes fun of me because I was very nervous about not being able to secure a seat and when we walked in, the restaurant was completely empty. We sat at the end of a long table near the kitchen, the entire restaurant to ourselves. Le Poulailler d’Augustin reminded me a little of Boston Market (with much much better food). There was a giant rotisserie behind the counter, where are sorts of locally sourced meats, spun slowly on racks you could see from the windows as you walked by. Behind the glass wall of the counter, there were platters of vegetables, salads, and pastas and quite a few people came into the restaurant to take containers of sides and rotisserie chickens home with them in large paper bags. There were no menus, none were needed, and it felt like dining in someone’s home—comfortable, unfussy, and delicious. A bottle of wine perched between us, we ate fresh pork pate and cornichons off of flowered plates that looked those in the china cabinet at my great grandmother’s house. Mounds of roasted vegetables sat under the juiciest meats (we had chicken and duck), and we finished the meal with best creme brûlée I’ve ever had. It was simple and perfect. 

After lunch, we returned to our stroll of the city, stumbled upon another, bigger, tented flea market. We also climbed the spiral wine staircase at L’Intendant Grands Vins de Bordeaux, an attraction in itself, and tucked into a few more shops and boutiques. That evening, still a little full from our lunch feast, we threw all caution to the wind and walked to a pizza place down the road for more of a dinner snack. We also spent the rest of the evening doing laundry. Our AirBnB had a washer, but not a dryer so we had a party hanging our clothes from the loft bedroom. 

Friday, November 29th: 

We woke up to the sun for the first time since we arrived in France! My body and spirit fully acclimated to the European way of life, I was ready for another cappuccino so we stopped by Black List, a small cafe near the train stop. We sat side by side in a wooden booth that ran along the narrow wall of the restaurant, sipping another cappuccino (or two) and shared a slice of caramel almond cake for breakfast. (This is another thing we need more of in America—breakfast cake.) The woman at the counter told us it was a cake traditional to the area, a nutty, almond filled loaf cake with a sticky caramel coating on the top and I can’t wait to try and recreate a version at home. 

We didn’t go to the Louvre in Paris. Or the Gaudi Museum in Barcelona. But give me a museum about wine and you can bet your bottom dollar I’ll be there. (side note: I would have loved to spend an entire afternoon in those museums too, but we just didn’t have the time!) The Cite du Vin opened in 2016 and it’s the first wine museum in the world of it’s kind. The sleek, shiny, steel building looks like an abstract art sculpture peering out over the Garrone River and inside, you will find exhibit upon exhibit exploring the agricultural, cultural, and historical significance of wine. Since we didn’t have time to make the full day trip to the world-renown vineyards outside the city, we figured the museum would be a good substitute and we weren’t disappointed. Admission to the museum includes all of the exhibits, as well as a complimentary glass of wine enjoyed in what’s called “The Belvedere”; a glass-walled room on the 8th floor of the museum where you can enjoy panoramic views of the city of Bordeaux. It was a dream come true and I would go back in a heartbeat. 

On our last night in the city, we were looking for something specific. A small wine bar, tucked away, with really great wines and a relaxed atmosphere. A place where we didn’t have to get really dressed up or spend a ton a of money, but that felt special and worthy of our last night in France. I remembered a storefront we walked past the night before (rather quickly because we were almost back to the AirBnB and I really had to use the bathroom) where the words “natural wine bar” jumped out at me. It wasn’t on my lists, but we thought, what the heck? And went to check it out. Tchin Tchin Wine Bar was everything we wanted and more. Both owners were fluent English-speakers, making it easy to chat about their extensive wine list, all natural and all from Bordeaux. The wines were fresh and funky, and we sat in spherical chairs bound with bungee cords. We shared a platter of homemade naan, with a supporting cast of dips—eggplant, yogurt, and multiple hummuses (hummusi?). The walls were stacked with wine boxes and house plants and quirky pencil drawings adorned the empty spaces. About halfway into our second glasses, two guys with instruments walked in a took a seat on the couches in the corner next to us. They began to strum a little on their guitars, and slowly, one-by-one, more and more musicians joined the party. Every instrument from a flute to a banjo was huddled in a circle next to us as the jam session morphed into an impromptu concert. Unexpected and charming, a little bit weird, but in a comfortable and exciting way, it was like the city of Bordeaux itself manifested itself in a folky rock band to end our time in the city and we were 100% there for it. 


I went to Paris and this is what I ate: A Culinary Travel Diary

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eiffeltower.jpg

Sunday, November 24th:

After an hour and a half delay leaving Orlando, our plane touched down at Charles De-Gaulle around 11:30 a.m. By the time we de-planed, waited in line to pass through customs, and figured out how to work the French metro system, we arrived to our AirBnB, bags clanking along the cobblestone paths around 1:30 p.m. local time. We splashed cold tap water on our faces, brushed our teeth and set out for a little afternoon exploration. I’d spent the last two months up to my eyeballs in lists in the name of what I’ve been calling “restaurant research”. I had compiled a fairly comprehensive chart of 45 patisseries, bistros, brasseries, and cafes to use as our gastronomic guide during our two and half days in the city of lights. Lucky for me, one of the patisseries towards the top of my list was only a street or two away from our AirBnB. First Parisian croissant, check. The pain-au-chocolat from Stohrer was exactly what my jet-lagged, but still very excited to be walking the streets of Paris, body wanted. It was buttery, and flaky and the perfect afternoon strolling snack.

We ventured up to the Montmarte district and quickly found ourselves looking up at the behemoth cathedral Sacre-Coure. We took a few selfies and traipsed up what seemed like a never-ending amount of stairs, but the view from the top was breathtaking. We continued to stroll somewhat aimlessly around Montmarte, stopping to see the Je’taime wall, strolling through a square filled with painters, each of their stations displaying watercolored images of Paris. We snagged a photo of Moulin Rouge and peered into Dali’s Place, all the while soaking in the magic of Paris.

Around 5:30 p.m., the sky turned dark and the strings of lights dangling along restaurant awnings began to flicker on, signaling to us that it was time to find another snack or at least a glass of wine. We stopped in a small charcuterie shop serving wine by the glass and sipped glasses of Syrah while watching the bustle of city streets.

I was counting my blessings when we were able to snag a last-minute reservation at Poulette. When compiling my self-made Parisian restaurant guide, Martin kept advising me to mark the restaurants or bakeries that I really wanted to make an effort to get to so that I wouldn’t be sad when I inevitably did not make it to all 45 establishments. Poulette was one that was at the to of my list. Since most Parisians don’t dine until 8-9 in the evening, we were able to get a table during the earlier seating. The small restaurant consists of about 8 tables and a few bar seats and the focal point of the restaurant is a stately and ornate bar. The edges of the counters are rimmed with crown molding and the tiling and art lining the walls is reminiscent of renaissance work. On either sides of the restaurant are large paintings of goddesses “Saint Biere” and “Saint Cafe”. The lights are turned way down low and the entire restaurant is overtaken by the romantic glow of the tabletop candles. The wine list was interesting and accessible and we ended up with a Gamay and a Cote-du-Rhone that were half-shared between the two of us. In an effort to end-cap my first afternoon in Paris the most traditional way that I knew how, I had the hangar steak and homemade fries (the fancy restaurant way of saying “steak frites”). Perfectly seasoned and cooked a happy medium rare, the steak was tender and flavorful with that outer coat of crisp. There were French fries piled high stretched over half of the plate and big torn leaves of butter lettuce were drizzled in oil and lemon juice and sprinkled with salt. Martin’s baby clams were swimming in a curry broth with lots of cilantro and servers kept bringing us bowl after bowl filled with hunks of torn sourdough for sopping up all of the briny broth.

Monday, November 25th

Our second day in Paris we did all of the touristy things. We slept longer than we anticipated, which was okay since Paris doesn’t start really waking up until around ten, and took a quick stroll around the block to Frenchie FTG where we shared a hefty slice of quiche and sipped on cappuccinos. Rested and sustained, we began our explorations at the Louvre. Knowing we wouldn’t have time to see all of the art inside, we settled for admiring the building which is a work of art itself and taking selfies. We took a stroll through Tuillarie Gardens, which led us straight to the famed Champs-Elysse. Window-shopping down the Christmas-light strung streets felt a little like being in Times-Square and when we stumbled upon a L’Occitane with a Pierre Herme counter inside, we felt like it would be wrong not to go in. We left with strawberry-matcha and Mogador macaroons tucked into the cutest little box and made it out to the sidewalk before huddling to the side of the walkway and polishing them off.

The next sights were the Arc-Du-Triomphe and the Grand Palais and by this time, my stomach was starting to inquire about lunch. I had grand plans of squeezing shoulder to shoulder at a crowded countertop to enjoy “the best sandwich in Paris” according to David Lebovitz at Le Petit Vendome, but the when we arrived, it seemed like everyone else also shared my same idea. With quite a bit more to do and see, we didn’t have the time to wait (or the chutzpah needed to shove my way into the bar) and we decided to reevaluate our lunch plans. Slightly dejected, we stumbled into a Christmas market set up in a park nearby and spent 10E on a ham and cheese baguette and vin chaud. We took our little picnic with us and found a bench along the Seine where we fended off pigeons and soaked in the Paris skyline, feeling the magic of the city and crossing “picnic along the Seine” off of my bucket list.

I discovered that my carefully planned itinerary was a little off when it came to estimated times and we had quite a chunk of time to kill before heading towards the Eiffel Tower, since we wanted to catch it at night in all of it’s shimmering glory. So instead of immediately beeline-ing towards the tower, we meandered through the 7th arrondissement, stopping to snap photographs of little green spaces plopped in the middle of street squares and craning our necks to see the ornate architectural details of some of the most beautiful buildings in Paris. The streets in the 7th arrondissement were much quieter and we found ourselves lost in the residential alleyways for a few hours. When we finally laid eyes on the Eiffel Tower, peering through the fall foliage like a magazine super-model, it was late afternoon and dusk was just around the corner. We snapped a few daytime photos, climbing the stairs of Trocadero Gardens to get the best selfie, and then decided to pop into a cafe for a cappuccino while we waited for the sun to slip behind the clouds. We ended up at Cafe Merci Jerome, where we shared pain au raisins, a tiny little pain au chocolate and sipped on more cappucinos. The pastries weren’t the best of our trip, but the cafe was warm and cozy and provided a much needed rest and rejuvenation before heading back into the wind. Sufficiently warmed, we made our way back down the street to see the Eiffel Tower just as the the last of the daylight escaped. The Eiffel Tower at night is a breathtaking experience. She stands proudly against the Parisian skyline, her lights flickering and twinkling in the night sky, her reflection dancing in the glossy waters of the Seine, and we kept glancing over our shoulder to catch just one more glimpse of her as we strolled along the river.

Our dinner spot for the night was Bouillon Chartier, a Paris institution. Opened in the same location, an old train station concourse, where it currently stands in 1896, Bouillon Chartier is classified as a historical monument and we felt like it deserved a place in our plans for no other reason than to experience a slice of old Paris. There was a line to get in the restaurant that wove through a lobby area like a Disney ride queue and we happily jumped into it. The line guided us past countertops with engraved aprons, coffee mugs, and magazine articles that could be purchased as souvenirs and the bar was selling little plastic cups of vin chaud for 2 euros. When we reached the front of the line, a server in a long, white apron ushered us quickly into a bustling dining room and we squeezed into our seats, a shared table with another couple. The room still had imprints of its train station past, luggage racks perched above the tables held jackets and purses and bright lights glistened in the giant mirrors stretching the lengths of the walls. Stepping into the dining room at Bouillon Chartier felt like taking a step back in time to the old Paris you see in the movies. We ordered a bottle of the “vin du moment”, an 11.50 euro Beaujolais Nouveau while we read the menu. Chartier is somewhat like a diner of French classics, all of the things you feel like you’re supposed to eat when in France like escargot and foie gras, but served on ceramic white plates for exceptionally affordable prices. We ordered foie gras, escargot (listed simply on the menu as “6 snails”) and ouefs (hard-boiled eggs) with aioli to start. Our server rushed back to our table apologetically and informed us that the kitchen was out of eggs, so he brought us prawns with mayonnaise instead and they were surprisingly one of my favorite parts of the meal. For entrees, Martin ordered a roasted chicken with frites and I decided on the duck confit which came piled high with green beans. When I was researching Bouillon Chartier I read from my all-knowing guide and restaurant guru David Lebovitz, that the food at Bouillon Chartier “wasn’t exceptional”, and it was spot on. The duck was dry and the potatoes under-seasoned, but the fact that our order was scribbled on the tablecloth and we were surrounded by the hustle and bustle of a Paris institution more than made up for whatever the food was lacking. I ordered a creme caramel for dessert that was slightly overcooked, but the real excitement of the meal came in Martin’s rum cake. The sponge was drenched in multiple shots of straight rum, taking Martin by surprise and leaving him coughing a bit after his first bite. It was just enough to make us forget how sore our feet were and keep us giggling on the walk home.

Tuesday, November 26th:

Martin and I had a little deal when it came to divvying up our time in Paris. Monday was what we were calling “Classic Paris”, where we did all of the touristy things like seeing the Eiffel Tower and stopping in cafes to sample croissants even if they weren’t places that made it on my carefully vetted food guide. Tuesday, which we dubbed “Swanky Paris Day”, was my day. This was the day where we went out of our way for cookies that I had read about in Saveur magazine and peeked in places that were a bit more “new Paris”, like natural wine bars and falafel joints.

We kicked off “Swanky Paris Day” with a quick mile and half walk in the cold rain for a cinnamon twist from a bakery I had been following on Instagram for the last year. Circus Bakery is tucked behind the cutest wooden door frame, just over the water in the 6th arrondissement, only a few steps from Notre Dame. They opened in 2018 and use 100% sourdough for their baguettes, loaves, and cult favorite cinnamon rolls. Walking in from the rain, we were greeted by a countertop, piled with breads and covered in sheet pans of cinnamon and cardamom buns making their way straight from the oven to the counter. Everything was labeled by a long strip of masking tape that ran the length of the counter. There was a large open workspace and as we sipped our cappuccinos, we watched the baker fold, divide, and shape doughs on his monstrous work bench. I was in heaven. And an added bonus, the cinnamon rolls lived up to their social media hype. Perfect little twists filled with cinnamon and sugar and brushed with a simple syrup warm from the oven, they are at the top of my list of things I need to recreate at home.

We spent the rest of the morning strolling around Southern Paris, stopping by Luxembourg Gardens and the Pantheon and poking into bookstores and boutiques. We crossed up into the Marais district just before lunch with hopes of snagging a table, or at least a to-go pita, at L’as Du Falafel. Tucked in an alleyway in the 3rd arrondissement, we found some of the best falafel. We happily hopped into the line that ran alongside the front of the restaurant before a server came and asked if we would like to sit inside, so we followed him through a narrow, packed dining room, all the way to a small table squeezed along the back wall. We drank Israeli beers and ate pitas filled with kefta, falafel, crunchy slaws, and slathered with yogurt sauce. Our bellies full, we decided to make the hike out past the Place of the Bastille to a little restaurant/bakery/wine bar called Mokonuts. I first read about the husband/wife team that runs Mokonuts in last year’s Global Baking Issue from Saveur Magazine. The small cafe is only open from 9 a.m.-3 p.m., when the owners’ children are in school, and I knew it was going to be a little tricky to get over there for a meal. So I set my mind on the more reasonably attainable goal: to make it before they closed so that I could sample a few of Moko’s highly-acclaimed cookies. It took a little power-walking, but we made it and left with a small paper bag filled with cookies for our journey back. We stopped off in a park where we found a bench to enjoy our spoils. We sampled a clementine, chestnut, and almond cookie, a tahini sugar cookie, and a cookie filled with peanut butter and milk chocolate. All were delicious, but the citrusy oranges and nutty chestnuts married so well it was easy to choose a clear favorite. Having achieved my cookie goal, we spent the rest of the afternoon strolling through the Marais district, stopping to ogle at the produce stands in the Marche des Enfants Rouges, one of the oldest covered markets in Paris. I fell in love with the winding streets and historical significance of the Marais and could have spent a few days getting lost in its charm.

Our last dinner in Paris was one we will not soon forget. Earlier in the day, we made an online reservation at Vivant, a fairly new restaurant that was high up on my “places I need to eat in Paris” list. The narrow restaurant consisted of a bar and one or two small tables tucked into alcoves. Behind the marble countertop, there were four men- a bartender/server, a dishwasher, and two chefs who spent the evening cranking out culinary masterpieces from a kitchen the size of a dining room table. The lights were low, our spot at the bar illuminated by a large ivory candelabra, dripping with wax like something from a haunted mansion. We started with a slightly effervescent, mineral-driven orange wine while we perused the menu. The amuse bouche was a ravioli frit, a wonton wrapper filled with a meaty ragu sauce and fried until crispy and bubbled. The scallops were hefty and fresh, served raw with mocha-colored earthy mushrooms and large, torn basil leaves. We shared a block of skate fish that peeked out from it’s blanket of shimmery neon salmon roe, seasoned with sumac partnered with dark, leafy greens. Our entree was an elevated, French-inspired equivalent of a pot roast. Beef, slow-cooked until it reached the tenderness of softened butter and could be sliced with a spoon, swam in a fragrant auburn-colored pool of caramelized onions and ginger broth. We huddled together, drinking a bottle of Village du Rhone wine, savoring it all. The bartender/server/manager controlled the music from a small tablet tucked under the bar and we were serenaded by a playlist of American rock and roll, making the evening feel so familiar, yet so new and exciting. Being a pastry chef, I’m drawn to dessert menus for experimentation and inspiration, and Vivant’s desserts were some of the best I have seen. We ordered a saffron flan, served with shredded apples that had been tossed in a buttery, nutty sauce and a poached butternut squash, paired with a large dollop of creme fraiche and topped with a thin, crispy tuille. They were unique and surprising, perfectly executed and exactly how I always thought my last night in Paris should end.

Wednesday, November 27th:

Two days before we landed in Paris, Cedric Grolet opened his newest bakery Cedric Grolet Opera a few blocks away from our AirBnB. It was fate. Our last morning in the city, I was determined to make it to Opera before our train left for Bordeaux. We woke up early, hastily packed our bags, and power-walked through the streets of the 2nd arrondissement in order to make it before the bakery opened. When we arrived, there was a pretty short (maybe 30 person) line that we hopped in with 15 minutes to spare before the doors to the bakery opened. The plan was simple—get in, load up on croissants, and race back to the AirBnB with just enough time to grab our bags and call an Uber. Very simple. As more and more people joined the line, it began to snake around the block and I was thankful for our early arrival. After nervously checking our watches for 40 minutes, we were finally welcomed in to the brightly lit, counter service area. Sheet pans of golden, flaky pastries lined wide open countertops as workers bustled around, taking orders and packaging croissants. I have studied, made, and eaten my fair share of laminated doughs, but none have compared to the layers achieved by Cedric Grolet and his team. Like little works of art, each pastry boasted layer after layer of expertly crafted, butter-stamped dough. Finally boarded on our train to Bordeaux, we bit into kouign-amman’s, sugar and crumbs cascading down our coats, watching the city of Paris disappear in our windows.