There is a restaurant in the South of France that’s worth a detour. Truth be told, it’s worth the entire journey.
Château Saint-Martin Trencavel, a diminutive castle boasting a 12thcentury tower, stands only a few minutes’ drive from the walled fortress of Carcassonne in a garden filled with flowers and ancient stone fountains. In the winter, its old- fashioned dining room feels cozy and warm, but in the summer, a moment on the shaded terrace near the century-old wisteria brings to mind a Merchant Ivory set.
The meal starts with an innocent-looking puff pastry twist coiled around hints of olive and thyme flowers, an equal blend of buttery innocence and strong, salty kick. By the time you come back to reality, you have devoured most of them and your partner is staring at you with eyes that growl, “We have a whole meal coming and you’ve downed all the bread.” Best to sip the local bubbly Blanquette de Limoux and call it a day.
The hardest decision of that day is, without doubt, whether to order a cassoulet or not. After all, the magical mythical stew is a winter dish, but how can you arrive at the source of all things cassoulet and not order it? The chef, Jean-Claude Rodriguez, is the founder of the Universal Academy of Cassoulet, a group of chefs, restaurateurs, vintners and food lovers dedicated to saving the authentic cassoulet. Rodriguez has spent most of his life perfecting the right ratio of beans to garlic to onions to duck confit to sausage to bouquet garni. And that’s without even mentioning the fresh herbs he picks at a location he won’t divulge, somewhere in the Montagne Noire.
For once though (yes, I have visited this inn many times), I took the road less traveled and ordered the $40 three-course menu. And because the Southwest of France is the land of ducks, I chose to start with an appetizer of duck magret served with pickled onions and a celery root puree. Magret is just a fancy word for duck breast and is best savored medium rare, just like a steak. The chef gets his ducks from a farmer in the Ariège valley who, in perfect southern mode, takes his time. The animals are fed, simply, the farm cereals. A generous portion of meaty sliced duck yielded tender and juicy meat we savored, slowly.
“When I saw that Joel Robuchon started using brik dough in his dishes,” said Rodriguez as we pondered which entrée to pick, “I thought, isn’t there enough dough in the French repertoire for Heaven’s Sake?”
For his own version, he came up with a simple, ethereal crêpe dough, the typical thin pancake from Brittany. He added more salt and fragrant, minced parsley.
As an unequivocal carnivore, I had chosen Lamb Shoulder Confit with Thyme, picturing a bone-in slab of lamb but that crepe hid a combination of shallots and mushrooms weaved into lamb stuffing and a spoon-tender slice of shoulder meat. Crisped up for a minute in the oven but dabbed with syrupy lamb demi-glace, the delicious pouch felt like an emblem of classic French cuisine reimagined by a genial chef.
Green and yellow zucchini, carrots, turnip—each bursting with singular taste identity—completed the plate. A glass of dark red Raymond Miquel Minervois told a story of extreme climate, ancient vines and stony, local terroir.
Had the strawberries on the small tart been infused in some deep strawberry essence? No, they had just been picked that morning and never seen a fridge. Not a fan of vanilla ice-cream, I didn’t touch the white blob on my plate until my partner nudged me.
“Not vanilla,” he whispered.
“Why are you whispering?” I asked.
But then I licked my spoon and discovered it was rosemary sorbet. The most refreshing, unusual minty flavor I had ever tried— the perfect balance to the sweetness of the tart and the essence of the South of France.
“Fabulous,” I whispered as the chef approached our table.
