IBM Computer, Laptops and Servers

Laptop Battery The physical characteristics of the region have shaped the personality of its inhabitants, who are known for being a tough, self-reliant people, less social than other Burgundians. They have also shaped local eating habits: This is the domain of pork—sausages of every kind, famous hams, bits of preserved pork that flavor almost everything—and of wild mushrooms, snails, and honey. It is the place to eat big, hearty, winter-beating dishes like coq au vin (see recipe), bœuf à la bourguignonne, salpiquet (ham in a spicy cream sauce), and the epic meat pie called tourte morvandelle. Sauces are rich and meaty; even freshwater fish is cooked in red wine. But the Morvan also claims two of the great restaurants of France: Bernard Loiseau’s Hôtel de Côte d’Or in Saulieu, and Marc Meneau’s L’Espérance in St-Père-sous-Vézelay. Loiseau is a modern culinary master, thoughtful and innovative, with his feet firmly planted in Burgundian soil. Meneau—an intense, deep-voiced man who looks a bit like Yves Montand—is more of a romantic, a philosopher, even a bit of a showman, and his cooking, for all its sophistication, betrays a basic earthiness that connects him not just with Burgundy but specifically with the wild, self-reliant Morvan. When Jim Harrison, the author and gourmand (a term which is high compliment in these parts) learns that we are going to Burgundy, he directs us to his friend Gérard Oberlé—a rare-book dealer specializing in (what else?) food and wine, and himself a gourmand on a heroic scale. Oberlé invites us to lunch at his house in Montigny-sur-Canne, a hamlet near Château-Chinon, the Morvan’s main town. It will be an informal meal, he promises—just us, his business partner, Giles Brezol, and a “colleague”.

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Thinkpad We pull up in the courtyard of his 18th-century country house. Out the front door comes a kind of overgrown, profane cherub of a man with a shiny pate and a round, generously beaming face. He wears a long white apron and a napkin knotted at his neck and looks more like a genial pork butcher than a specialist in rare books. “Welcome!” he exclaims. Behind him, the “colleague” appears, in jeans and a sweater; it is none other than Marc Meneau. The two have collaborated on our meal.

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Microsoft We sip champagne before a gigantic fireplace in Oberlé’s book-crammed, art-crowded living room, then move into a sunny dining room. Our host has asked in advance if we have any “culinary phobias”; just bad food, we reply. We learn why he asked when the first course arrives: It is a veritable culinary monument, a gastronomic indulgence of the kind that virtually defines the cooking of Burgundy at its best—but that Americans might well be expected not to like. It is a small, round, high tourte, the pastry impeccably flaky and golden brown, enclosing alternating layers of sweet, moist shreds of pork and slices of smooth, waxy potato. Meneau slices the tourte into generous wedges and serves us; Oberlé spoons warm red-wine vinaigrette around each slice. The meat turns out to be groins de porc—pigs’ snouts—well marbled with heat-softened fat and cartilage, and vividly flavorful. Each mouthful of pork, potato, and buttery pastry, accented by the bite of vinegar, is a wonderment. If you do not like this dish, it occurs to me, you will probably never understand the essence of Burgundian cuisine: its fundamental richness, its uncompromising earthiness, its confident disregard for imagined boundaries between high and low.

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Laptop Computers But this, remember, is just our appetizer. For the main course, we are offered the definitive coq au vin. This is not the usual French restaurant cliché of

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Laptop Computer chicken stewed in mediocre red wine. First, coq isn’t chicken, it’s rooster, which has firmer, tastier meat—meat that must be tricked into revealing its virtues by marinating and long cooking. “And this is a real coq,” Oberlé assures us. “One that has crowed and screwed and had children and grandchildren!” The bird has been soaked for a day in a good bourgogne rouge, then cooked the previous night with minuscule onions and tiny lardons of bacon. This morning, it has slowly simmered for hours, and the silky, deeply flavorful sauce is perfectly balanced—a textbook creation. When Oberlé appears with a copper pan of sautéed cèpes to accompany it, we are in gastronomic heaven.

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Desktop Computer Oberlé is Burgundian by adoption, we later learn. He was born in Alsace, became a Greek and Latin teacher (“giving les-sons to dentists’ sons,” he says), then one day answered a newspaper ad for an assistant in the rare-book trade. He took to the business, and began to specialize in gastronomy; today he is the recognized authority on food and wine titles for the Hôtel-Druout (the official Parisian auction house) and the author of several important works of gastronomic bibliography. “I’m one of the few men in France who cooks for himself every day with only fresh products,” Oberlé tells us, with what we come to realize is characteristic immodesty (and probably not great exaggeration). “In my house I have not a single industrial food product. I don’t like food that’s been chewed before I get it. And I make only a cuisine of the season. I don’t eat strawberries at Christmas. It’s not a philosophical decision—it’s purely animal, hedonistic. I know personally all the people who make the products I consume. I’m my own chef and my own gastronome. But for me, cuisine is not one of the beaux-arts. A chef is just someone who makes soup. I ask only that the soup be good.” The next night we find ourselves at Meneau’s own “house”, his three-star L’Espérance in St-Père-sous-Vézelay, sitting in the restaurant’s handsome lounge as Meneau takes us on a short tour of traditional Burgundian cooking through a succession of appetizers. We start with a lightly creamy green walnut soup that we later agree is one of the best things we taste on our entire trip. Then come two local staples: escargots and fried frogs’ legs, both irresistibly glistening with garlic-and-parsley butter. Finally, tiny packets of shredded pigs’ feet arrive, wrapped in caul fat and garnished with black truffle slices—sheer indulgence.

Notebooks We are more than satisfied at this point—but we are now led into the dining room for the full Meneau treatment. Our first course is a virtuoso construction: a warm terrine of freshwater crayfish, bound with a forcemeat of sole and moistened with a lemony butter sauce. Then comes a gastronomic set piece: a large tray inset with silver-domed vessels, opened one by one to reveal a piece of beef fillet, hunks of melting oxtail, thin beef sausages, steamed potatoes and carrots, and cabbage; separately, we are served bowls of intense beef broth garnished with marrow. This is Meneau’s filet de bœuf en hochepot, a veritable hymn to meat—and a dish that expresses the savory abundance of true Burgundian cuisine. Miraculously, we nearly finish it. For further study of Burgundian cuisine, Meneau sends us down to the little town of Planchez, in the southwestern reaches of the Morvan, for lunch at La Petite Auberge—which everyone calls Chez Millette, for its owner, Millette Coquillon. Coquillon is considered “la reine de la grapiau”, the queen of the Burgundian crêpe, but she also makes a landmark bœuf à la bourguignonne and a famous coq au vin, thickened with the bird’s blood. As we sample her specialties, four uniformed gendarmes come in on their lunch break. When we leave, we find them around a table crowded with ashtrays and wineglasses, happily digging into their own coq au vin—not exactly doughnuts in the squad car.

Lenovo And there is coq au vin yet again, the next day, when we are invited to lunch in Avallon—at the home of Marcelle Gueneau, grandmother of an old neighbor of mine in California, and once co-owner (with her late husband) of a brewery here. We sit in a cozy dining room with two of her friends and eat gougères and little rounds of blood sausage in pastry, then avocado and hearts of palm cloaked in an opulent vinaigrette. When we learn that the main course is to be coq au vin, we exchange looks. We’ve had the dish prepared by Marc Meneau and Gérard Oberlé, and by Millette Coquillon, and we’re frankly not sure how this one can compete. Then it arrives, and it is impeccable—not just fully as good as the others, but nearly indistinguishable from them. It is as we soak up every drop of sauce with our bread, I think, that we realize something else very important about the food of Burgundy: That it is still—if perhaps just barely—a shared heritage, and that grandmothers and young chefs and winemakers and former Alsatians alike can understand its principles, and know how to execute (or fashion variations on) its classic dishes as an expression of a common culinary philosophy. We realize, that is, that the food of Burgundy isn’t just what Burgundians eat; it’s what they are.

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