Le Plat Du Jour

Dining in France is like playing musical chairs. You have between the hours of 12 and two o’clock to sit your bum in a chair before the chance to eat is rudely ripped out from under you.

We encountered more than one abrupt maître d' who told us, “The kitchen is closed.” It was a rude awakening, of course, but we soon learned. France’s restaurants run on a strict schedule. Missing lunch meant we would be doomed to snacking until 7:30 in the evening when restaurant doors would reopen for dinner.

But today we have a reservation. Today we will meet Pascal, the yachting manager, whose job it is to commission our new boat. We will meet at his favorite local restaurant in Canet-en-Roussillon, known to locals as Canet. Pascal has invited us to dine at Le Bouchon Catalan on Avenue de la Méditerranée with the terra cotta colored awning,

Canet is a small, friendly seaside town on the border of Spain where the Pyrenees mountains meet southwestern coastal France. Once ruled by the kings of Mallorca, the area is affectionately known as Catalan country. Red and yellow striped banners heralding its Spanish heritage are everywhere.

Touristy shops, a surfeit of restaurants, market stalls, and a fortress of modern pastel apartment blocks line the beachfront boardwalk. Canet is an easy place to navigate on foot once you survive the spaghetti-loop maze of interconnected highways to get there. A sandy band of beach stretches across the horizon for ten miles or more. Interspersed along the creamy strand are numerous basic beach clubs offering white canvas umbrellas or palm leaf palapas. Its visitors are mainly the local French, Spaniards, and a few Brits. It is the kind of place to visit when you simply want to lie in the sun, swim in the sea, and forget about life for a while.

But, for us, Canet is not a holiday.

On the south side of the beaches, a protected canal way is flanked by several serious boatyards. We’ve arrived in Canet because the yacht we ordered in January 2017 has only just been shipped from the Jeanneau factory in Les Herbiers. Wrapped in plastic, she was trucked across the country and plopped on a cradle in the boatyard at Sailing Atlantic Services for commissioning. There, her undercarriage will be painted with a protective layer of copper coat. Then she will be lowered into the canal where she will have her mast fitted. In a few weeks time, she will be officially ours. The air is pregnant with the expectancy of our new arrival. There’s a reason it’s called a delivery.

But today is not that day. Our baby is not yet ready.

Today is Friday.

Poisson, Pascal says. Friday is fish.

Pascal has a stocky build, a round face and dark, bulgy eyes. He looks to be in his fifties. He keeps his black hair cropped close and wears a blue work uniform, shirt untucked. If people resemble their dogs, I imagine he owns a Pug or French Bulldog or maybe a disheveled cross between the two. After he orders, he pumps his thumbs up in the air as if to guarantee the plat du jour will be very good.

“Catalonian specialties,” he says in broken English.

Outside the restaurant, most of the foot traffic along the otherwise busy boulevard has already disappeared. By half past twelve, the French know better than to be caught without a seat at lunchtime.

After Pascal ordered a plat du jour for each of us, he conversed with a work colleague, Kevin and I lean toward each other across the table and heaved a collective sigh. We smiled at one another in a shared sense of arrival. We had driven over 3,500 kilometers in two weeks — chasing a boat, following a dream. Today, it felt as though we had arrived at last.

Our journey through France had been varied and dense— almost too much to process in such a short time. From the verdant landscapes and rugged coastline of Britany, to the wide-open farmlands of Normandy, to the breathtaking white cliffs at Etretat and the four-day jaunt through Parenty together with the Opal Coast. We threw in a quick stop at Giverny to spend a few hours in Monet’s gardens and a quicker stop in Rouen. We sped down L’Occitaine, the inland route from Paris to Toulouse and traveled further south before reaching the coast at Canet. Twelve days in total. All of this for a new boat. All of this to ensure she had arrived in tact from the factory.

When a curly-haired waiter set lunch on the table, I gasped. Before me was a plate I wanted to linger over. I was awestruck by the simple artistry of its presentation. The pan-fried fillet of soft pink Salmon sat on a runway of earthy-scented, golden olive oil. It arrived slightly crisp and sprinkled with confetti squares of red and yellow bell pepper. Surrounding the main attraction were spheres of sautéed courgette and Japanese eggplant dotted with whispers of sautéed garlic and finely chopped shallots. A lone quartered waxy baby potato punctuated the periphery. The lone potato reclined alone, but happy, in a salty orb of blond oil. I had a sense that a caring hand had taken the time to arrange the plate for both visual and edible pleasure. In the words of Julia Child, “you know someone’s fingers have been all over it.”

At the end of the day, what was in front of me was really just a hunk of cooked fish with a few vegies. It wasn’t the dish itself I found sublime. It was the meaning it represented. Behind the meal, I saw all the someones who cared All the faceless people, who put their hearts and efforts into laying out a welcoming table. It was the theatre of hospitality playing out in a place far from home.

A well-prepared meal represents the human connection I craved when we travel. The table is an essential place of belonging. Someone else’s kitchen becomes my home away from home.

I wanted to capture the moment in a photograph so I could admire the dish and remember the moment again and again. But as much as I wanted to whip out my iPhone and take a photo of my plate, I felt too embarrassed. Since arriving in France, even the most casual restaurants, I noticed a certain gentility still existed. I noticed an absence of caps being worn indoors.I also observed an absence of mobile phone usage in restaurants, as if the use of social media is sacrilege and the ultimate insult to the chef.

The France of today still appeared to be a place where people take their food and their relationships seriously. Here, belly and heart are one. I watched genuine conversations take place at the table. People talked and laughed.

In France, it became clear that the daily plate is more than just a meal. It is a slow, joyful celebration of everyday life. It is the reason you want to arrive at table between 12 and two 0’clock.