Apart from vide greniers, there's not much to do in the way of shopping in our part of France on Sundays. Granted, you can pick up your crusty bread, tarte au citron, roast chicken or newspaper--and even a handful of supermarkets throw open their doors--but, soon after noon, everything shuts tight. Simple reason. Sunday lunch is one of the, if not the, most important meal of the week. Boulangerie and patisserie queues are common, everyone departing with baguettes under their arm or swinging a small square tarte-holding box from the hand. The butcher is usually sold out of rotisserie chicken by noon. Then, silence falls as families gather at maman or grandmaman's house and everyone sits down around the table.
Last Sunday, we thought we'd go out to lunch. Not a full-on three courses because temperatures have been in the mid to high thirties all this week. All we wanted was something light in the shade of a parasol at one of the new-ish restaurants we wanted to try in Mirepoix.
The yellow-ish cast to these food photos comes from the parasol. Excellent pizzas here with a crust as thin as a supermodel. Tomatoes, aubergines, asparagus, peppers and just enough cheese. Delish.
One of the salades composées on the menu. This one was loaded with chunks of Roquefort and walnuts. Too hot for wine so we drank eau de robinet (tap water).