Thanks to the Kevin Smith – Southwest Airlines imbroglio, I can sum up everything that is wrong with the world by invoking the name of one “civil rights organisation”: National Association to Advance Fat Acceptance.

Here’s a deal: I’ll “accept your fatness”—whatever that means—when you accept that being double-wide means you need to pay double for two seats.

What’s really sad is that I think modern airlines suck and I rarely believe that they’re in the right . . . But I’ll support them whenever they see fit to throw fatties off the plane to make the non-morbidly obese’s journey pleasanter.

Although the culinary year that began September 2008 and ends in less than eight hours didn’t feature my favourite meal so far (that honour goes to May 2003’s meal at Moulin de Lourmarin before Edouard Loubet moved to Bastide de Capelongue in nearby Bonnieux), it did feature so many extraordinary tastes and drinks and dining experiences that I thought a reminiscence was due.

In September 2008, The Wife and I travelled to Paris for our first extended holiday there together. Fifteen months later, a few specific meals and one crazy night at Bar Hemingway still stand out.

I don’t know what it was about Olympe Versini’s cocotte de pintade aux épices at her namesake restaurant (Casa Olympe) that almost brought me to tears . . . was it that rich, chewy fowl flavour (that’s completely missing from the yanqui table) or the warming spices in that creamy jus? I do know, however, that pintade was comfort food at its most comforting. Movies may not move me to tears (they typically have me reaching for a novel to counteract the brain bludgeoning), but a perfectly cooked guinea hen from Challans with a seductive and silky jus? I’ll weep like a little girl every time.

Speaking of fowl, chef Thierry Breton’s poitrine de grouse farcie aux girolles et foie gras still conjures contented sighs of gastronomic bliss, the gamey bird wrapped in bacon and stuffed with foie gras and girolles and served with a blueberry jus . . . but the baked-in-house bread at Chez Michel (with its thick, rustic crust almost charred in a few places to add a touch of bitterness to its dense, chewy crumb) served with France’s best butter (from Jean-Yves Bordier in Saint-Malo) may have been the scene stealer. Either that or The Wife’s marvelous Paris-Brest, considered by many to be Paris’ best.

When it comes to the best in Paris, Pierre Gagnaire’s name will always be championed and after our seven-course menu d’Automne 01 (not including les amuses, les fromages, or les desserts), I know why. And I know which course I want to eat over and over again: Gelée de poule au porto blanc: jambon cru de Saint Yriex, pistes, supions, encornets et chair de tourteau. Glace d’artichaut réglissée. A gelée of chicken and white port consommé (which slowly melted into a soup as I ate) covering a triangular slice of raw ham; on top of the gelée a small scoop of artichoke and liquorice ice cream (which tied everything together with its slightly sweet, refreshing anisic bite) craftily concealed by tender pieces of warm octopus, squid, and crab. Different textures, temperatures; contrasting flavours. Playful, soulful. Gagnaire!

A trip to Paris seems incomplete without steak frites, and though Le Severo is highly rated for its beef (my faux-filet—the côte de bœuf wasn’t available that evening—was some of the best beef I’ve had: perfectly cooked, saignant, and boasting the most mouth-watering char), the frites were definitely the best I’ve eaten. (I wasn’t absolutely sure at the time; I am now.) Hand-cut, crisp-edged, and oh so addictive in the way that only potatoey potatoes can be. I can’t imagine a trip to Paris without steak frites at William Bernet’s Le Severo. (Even if I’ve eaten at Robert et Louise the night before!)

And what better way to cap off a night in Paris than at Bar Hemingway, in the hands of master mixologist Colin Field. May I suggest a Ponsenby followed by a Horses Neck followed by Lutteur III followed by a Mach 2? Don’t thank me. Thank Colin.

From the beauty of Paris to the seemingly endless neighborhoods of Los Angeles, most appearing far more rundown than they actually are, spangled in-between by a few beautiful quarters, and amongst them all some real culinary jewels.

Like steak frites upon mention of Paris, the taco comes to mind first when I think of Los Angeles. And there are some brilliant tacos to be found in this often-seeming suburb of Mexico.

The shrimp taco at Tacos Baja Ensenada in East LA is as fine a taco as you’re likely to find in the Southland megalopolis. The shrimp are encased in a light batter, almost airy, and are served with crema, shredded cabbage, and tomatoes. I’ve never eaten a fresher-tasting taco. The shrimp pop, the batter seems almost cloud-like, and the crema and tomatoes meld into a sloppy sauce that runs down your arms as you try to inhale as many of these tacos as is humanly possible while still leaving room for . . .

The carnitas gordita at Gorditas Lupita’s taco truck on Eagle Rock Blvd. in Highland Park. Few are the taco trucks that make their own corn tortillas, but Gorditas Lupita’s does and its namesake gordita, scorching hot and stuffed with porky, crunchy carnitas is proof that more should. Unfortunately, if you succumb to eating a second gordita you are setting yourself up to miss . . .

The pastor huarache at El Huarache Azteca #1, not five minutes away on York Blvd. Sandal-shaped fried masa topped with a perfectly seasoned mix of crunchy and chewy pastor, drizzled with crema, and strewn with cotija cheese crumbles, slivers of red onions, and chopped cilantro leaves. Add some of the wonderfully smoky salsa roja that’s spicy without being hot (Angelenos ain’t much for heat) and a squeeze of lime and you’ve constructed a perfect bite.

Sticking to perfect bites and pastor, the pastor taco with salsa roja (and the requisite squeeze of lime) at El Taquito Mexicano taco truck on Fair Oaks in Pasadena is the most warming taco I’ve tasted in the Southland. No other taco warms me like El Taquito’s . . . there’s a nice heat to the salsa roja but there’s also a real, soul-warming umami to their pastor that’s not always present elsewhere.

For something a little different, I highly recommend the carnitas taco at Los 5 Puntos in East LA. Here, the freshly-made tortilla is the star (and, yes, that means starting with field corn and boiling the corn in slaked lime and washing the corn to make nixtamal . . . and then grinding the corn on a large metate y mano to make the masa which is then hand-formed and cooked on the griddle). Yes. That kind of homemade. Add some nopales and guacamole and salsa roja and you’ve as authentic a taste of Mexico as you’re likely to find el norte.

But that shouldn’t stop you from racing across LA to La Oaxaqueña taco truck on Lincoln Blvd. in Venice for a hubcab-size taste of Oaxaca: tlayuda. OK, think Oaxacan pizza: a thin tortilla smeared with pasta frijoles negros (black bean paste), aciento (unrefined pork lard), cabbage, avocado, and Oaxacan string cheese. I always add cecina to mine, a pounded thin sheet of semi-dried pork seasoned with chile molido. Tlayuda’s a meal in itself and the one served at La Oaxaqueña is hands-down the best in the Southland.

As is the birria at El Parian on Pico Blvd., which LA Weekly food critic Jonathan Gold describes as a “chile-rubbed, fire-roasted goat dampened at the last second with a clear, concentrated broth flavored with cloves, tomatoes and a dozen other things.” Gold “once called [El Parian’s birria] the single best Mexican dish in L.A.” and claims that the “strong, goaty essence, a barnyard smack that could as well have come from the Jalisco mountains instead of from a restaurant a few blocks from the convention center [still] tasted of Guadalajara.” I agree.

And before I switch cuisines, I’d like to thank Gold for his recommendation of Cemitas Poblanas Elvirita in East LA for the namesake sandwich. The cemita poblana is one of the world’s great sandwiches, a sesame-seed egg bun stuffed with your choice of meat (though beef milanesa is the classic), string cheese, onions, avocado, and whole chipotle peppers smeared on the bottom bun. Few sandwiches offer a more beguiling blend of textures than the cemita poblana.

The greatest of all Italian sandwiches (nice transition, eh?) is filled neither with salume nor meatballs but with porchetta, a boneless pork roast typically flavoured with garlic, rosemary, and fennel, the meat fatty and moist, the skin shatteringly crisp. In LA, Mozza2Go (the takeout arm of Pizzeria Mozza) on Melrose Avenue offers an expensive ($15) yet delicious version that’s only been bested in my book by San Francisco’s RoliRoti which appears to be an unbelievable deal at only $8.50 for a gut-busting sandwich of such juicy, crispy, porky lusciousness that even bacon loses its lustre for weeks after you’ve tasted RoliRoti’s porchetta.

But my favourite sandwich of the past year (and a bit) comes courtesy of LudoBites, a “guerilla-style pop-up restaurant event created by Chef Ludo Lefebvre.” His Foie Gras Black Croque-Monsieur, Ham, Cherry, Amaretto was actually one of my favourite bites of the year (and a bit), a playful yet deadly serious take on the classic croque monsieur. Using squid ink to turn his housemade brioche black is the first visual signal that Ludo’s croque monsieur is unlike any other you’ve ordered. And then you taste that combination of warm melting foie gras against the brioche’s crunch, and the needed acidic sweetness of the cherry preserves and the surprising warm note of amaretto which ties all the elements together. Yet as brilliant as his croque monsieur was, I remain more enamoured by his deliciously cold soup for a warm LA evening: Chorizo, Cantaloupe, Cornichon. The colour of a bowl of Tex-Mex queso, this cold creamy soup delighted the palate with the traditional combination of smoky Spanish chorizo, canteloupe, and cornichons delivered in a unique way: a velvety soup of chorizo that lost none of the pork sausage’s smoky paprika kick, complemented by cold cubes of canteloupe at the bottom of the bowl and a granita of cornichon floating atop. A simple deconstruction that was far more than the sum of its three parts.

But when the temperatures drop (as they did when we recently travelled back to San Francisco), a soup like Commis’ Chowder of Charred Kale with gigande beans and fava leaves, red pepper paste is what you crave. The deepest green of the darkest envy, James Syhabout’s kale soup (the “charred” flavour coming from long-cooked onions) was as warming as it was deceptively light. And Commis, located in a non-descript neighborhood in Oakland, is nothing if not deceptive. A minimalist white interior that looks cold and impersonal offset by as warm and congenial a staff as I’ve encountered this past year (and a bit). We enjoyed two wonderful evenings in a row at Commis this past weekend and I’m excited for James and his staff. Commis’ star will only continue to rise. Of all the courses we ate, three in particular stand out: the amuse bouche of a hard-cooked (albeit custardy) egg yolk floating on an onion soup purée floating on a date purée with toasted steel-cut oats and chives. Sweet and savoury with the creaminess of the purées tempered by the oat crunch. Our main plate the second night: Poached then seared young corn fed chicken, crushed potatoes with yellow chanterelles, sage brown butter. What made this comforting dish even more comforting on a deeply personal level, however, was the addition of a confit’d and deep-friend guinea hen wing, an extra no one else received in the restaurant, a nod to our discussion the previous night about my love for guinea hen (see Casa Olympe above). My dessert both nights: Kabocha squash custard, licorice cream, root beer reduction, pumpkin seed streusel. As memorable as Edouard Loubet’s soufflé scented with cedar from the Luberon hills, clove ice cream, crispy glazed nuts.

Which, of course, brings me back to France and Provence this time. I could wax poetic about my love of Provence and its food but, seeing as I have a meal to prepare for my darling wife tonight, I point you to my recap of our culinary journey to Provence this past September: All about food.

There are so many other wonderful dishes I’ve yet to touch on, but with time (and the year) slipping away, I offer this final round-up of new-found favourites and “old” standbys:

Most surprising meal of the year: Good Evening Thursday at Bruno’s in San Francisco. The best rillette I’ve tasted outside France.

The worth-every-damned-penny meal: The French Laundry, 19 June 2009. The Cauliflower “Panna Cotta” with Island Creek Oyster Glaze and California Sturgeon Caviar was the perfect start to as close to a perfect dining experience as I can remember having.

The best fries in the Southland (that make me miss Le Severo not quite so much): The Belgian fries at Oinkster.

Oodles of noodles: The housemade soba at Tei An in Dallas, easily one of Big D’s finest restaurants. Friday night ramen at Shin-Sen-Gumi in Fountain Valley (perhaps not the finest ramen in the Southland, but the first we tasted upon our move). The plethora of fantastic phở in Orange County . . . and while I’m discussing OC Vietnamese: the nem nuong cuon at Brodard and the bánh mì at Bánh Mì Che Cali.

When the need for something spicy strikes in heat-phobic Los Angeles: Kyochon’s Korean fried chicken with hot sauce (the Memorial Day weekend edition at the West 6th location) or Chung King’s fried chicken with hot peppers and beef in small pot or any number of dishes off Jitlada’s special southern Thai food menu.

Something cold too cool off: Ice cream from Scoops or gelato from Bulgarini Gelato.

Oh . . . there’s so much more . . . still . . . perhaps you think I go on too much, anyway . . .

But life’s not easy . . . pleasure not always easy to find. To live we must eat. Why not make eating one of your greatest pleasures?

And with that, I bid you a good night and a good year.

Tony Perrottet in the New York Times takes a 200-year-old tour of gastronomic Paris, stopping off at two of our locals on Rue Montorgueil, right around the corner from where we stay:

I did track down the oldest remaining pâtisserie of Paris, Stohrer, whose 1730 shop a few blocks from the Palais Royal is an irresistible palace of sweet delicacies, with original lead mirrors reflecting a multicolored array of pastries and glazed fruits. . . .

I was delighted to find Au Rocher de Cancale still going strong as a lively lunchtime bistro. The florid exterior was unmistakably of the period, although a plaque noted that the establishment had moved from one side of the street to the other in 1846. No matter! It was lunchtime, I was famished, and the fixed-price menu was a decent 20 euros. In the upstairs dining room, I instantly spied a series of unique frescoes salvaged from the 1846 restaurant and preserved under plexiglass like archaeological finds from Pompeii. They had been discovered, the waitress told me, when the room was renovated in the 1980s.

Stohrer’s baba au rhum is the one by which all others are measured. Not too sweet (which is the usual problem) but still moist with rum. The Wife wasn’t too sure about this dessert, but one bite convinced her . . . and convinced her only to try it from Stohrer. Everything we’ve eaten from Stohrer, actually, has been fantastic, be it sweet or savoury.

And though we never ate at Au Rocher De Cancale, every late afternoon you could find us sitting outside, sipping wine, and people watching.

I can’t wait to get back to Paris next May.

I used to be a firm believer that those who have the means to travel should go forth and discover the world.

Now I’m not so sure.

I can only imagine how much more pleasant the cities and towns and villages and markets and restaurants and cafés and bars would be without the incessant buzz of voices étranges—in particular those belonging to The Loud Crass Yanqui. (And, yes, I’ve criticised before in these pages The British Yob who goes overseas to hole up in British pubs and drink till he’s as pissed as a newt. Both trans-Atlantic sub-cultures are equally offensive.)

For those, however, whose mouths water in anticipation not only of all those delicious bites awaiting them but also the wonderfully quiet and lengthy meals during which myriad delectable memories will be implanted, I offer you my brief (city-by-city) guide to some of my favourite places for food in Provence, informed by my most recent trip, a fourth gustatory journey to the land of olives, rosé, and pastis:

Aix-en-Provence

There’s more to gastronomic travelling than cramming in as many Michelin-starred meals as one can stomach.

Take Aix, for example, one of my favourite cities in the world—somewhere I could easily live out my years. Sure, there are lots of great restaurants in the city of 140,000, but to me a trip to Aix isn’t complete without a portion of bolognaise at Pizza Capri, just off Cours Mirabeau and next to Les Deux Garçons (where I’ll enjoy a pastis or two while people watching, but won’t bother eating at again after two less than inspiring meals).

The line of students queuing up during lunch hours should be recommendation enough that the pizza is delicious and cheap—that’s how I discovered the small stand. There are plenty of choices but the bolognaise is the standout. Hell, the sauce is better than most of the bolognaises I’ve tasted in Italian restaurants. Reheated for a couple minutes, the thin (though not crackery) crust takes on a wonderful crunch that complements the slightly cheesy and rich meat sauce. All portions fall between €2 – 3.

Apt

Bistro le France on Place de la Bouquerie is what one should imagine when the word “bistro” is uttered: local fresh ingredients prepared with a minimum of fuss. If you’re planning on lunch following the fantastic Saturday market, make reservations. Most of the tables had “reserved” signs on them when we arrived for our 12:30 lunch; a few lucky (and early) diners were seated without reservations; most were turned away, quite disappointed. I know the feeling from our 2003 trip.

I started with the foie gras mi-cuit, buttering the sliced baguette with the unctuous yellow fat before topping it with thick slabs of foie gras and then seasoning it with a little gray sea salt. If that doesn’t sound good, you might as well stop reading now. If it does, there’s no point in describing how it tastes. You know.

For my main plate, I had the pintade du Luberon rôtie: half a local guinea fowl roasted and served with a green courgette stew. After last year’s cocotte de pintade aux épices at Casa Olympe in Paris, I’ve been craving pintade and Bistro le France’s didn’t disappoint. A perfectly roasted bird, the guinea fowl’s dark meat was moist and flavourful in ways that yanqui fowl can only dream to attain.

To finish, I had a wonderfully refreshing melon sorbet liberally doused with Beaumes de Venise. A perfect end to a simple and delicious lunch under sunny blue skies.

All the other dishes (artichoke barigoule; melon with jambon cru and Beaumes de Venise; steak tartare; magret de canard; gratin de noix de saint jacques et lotte; fig crumble; grapefruit sorbet) were relished with equal pleasure.

Classic bistro fare. €107 for two (including apéritifs; entrées; plats principaux; desserts; a bottle of 2008 Bastide du Claux rosé; and cafés).

Ansouis

Why La Closerie hasn’t made the pages of Pudlo . . . well, perhaps that’s a good thing. Perhaps I shouldn’t even mention La Closerie . . . let it remain the secret of locals and savvy travellers. That doesn’t seem fair, however. Not to the husband-and-wife team who continue to please discerning palates with (mostly) local and fresh ingredients given a subtle yet innovative twist. (If you go during springtime, order the asparagus soup. It’s been different every year, although I’m especially fond of the version served with mousse de volaille.)

While my profiteroles filled with braised pork, canette with figs and girolles, and dessert of poached figs with fig sorbet were all wonderful, The Wife’s entrée of lobster risotto and plat principal of roasted pigeon with cassis were the day’s best dishes. What was I thinking not ordering the pigeon? The cassis sauce had the right amount of sweetness and acidity to balance the perfectly roasted rare pigeon’s gaminess.

The service is always extremely friendly, and since our first visit in 2005, the wife (who runs the front of house) has become fluent in English. (Still, that’s no reason not to be polite and speak French, even if yours is terribly rusty.)

Reservations are recommended; if the weather is cooperating, ask for a table en terrasse at lunchtime and enjoy the view.

The wine list is dominated by local wines. I typically order a Château la Dorgonne from nearby Tour d’Aigues.

A wonderful gem that always leaves us smiling. €100 for two (including apéritifs; entrées; plats principaux; one dessert; a bottle of Château la Dorgonne; and cafés).

Bonnieux

Le Bastide de Capelongue. The home of Édouard Loubet, perhaps my favourite chef. And a man who knows his herbs and flowers, familiar and exotic: sage, lovage, wormwood, sunflower, burnet, lavender, verbena, hyssop, wild thyme, poppy, catnip, marjoram, mint, borage, eucalyptus, rue . . .

I could probably write a treatise on Loubet, owner of two deserved Michelin stars. My first Loubet meal was at the two-star Moulin de Lourmarin in 2003 and it remains to this day the best I’ve eaten. Not that I’ve ever been disappointed by Loubet. Something always takes my breath away (this time it was the Boudin de Congre Poché et Rôti, Un Jus Mousseux à la Verveine de mon Potager, Petits Légumes Poêlés—boudin of conger eel with verbena “soup” and poached baby vegetables) . . . and even if I return to an old comforting favourite—Carré d’Agneau au Serpolet des Claparèdes, Légèrement Fumé et Infusé en Cocotte de Fonte, Gratin de ma Grand-mère (rack of lamb smoked with wild thyme and my grandmother’s gratin)—I’m left with a deep appreciation for Loubet’s practised artistry.

Whether pairing heart of sunflower with summer truffle, coffee and pastis in a hollandaise, wild sea bass in a salt crust (a childhood memory of the Corsican coast) with sage and crispy orange rind, langoustines with liquorice, cedar soufflé with clove ice cream, or chocolate with summer truffle (to bring us full circle), Loubet’s flavours are always innovative yet harmonious . . . which isn’t always the case with daring chefs.

Oh, and do start with the house cocktail—truffled champagne . . . it’s the perfect match for the crudités, the world’s finest anchoïade, and the stunning view of the southern Luberon.

Reservations are a must and it’s rightly expensive. We always go for lunch and sit en terrasse, me in shorts (how bloody wonderful) to properly enjoy the four-to-five hour meal.

Lourmarin

My favourite Provençal village, despite its being on every tourist’s list of must-stops. (Before moving to Bonnieux and Capelongue, Loubet was chef of Le Moulin de Lourmarin. That’s certainly a reason to hold this charming village so near and dear to my heart.)

For Sunday dinners, I recommend La Récréation—in particular La Récrée’s seven-hour slow-cooked organic lamb. You may not even need reservations (we didn’t this year).

Simple Provençal cuisine. €64 for two (including apéritifs; entrées; plats principaux; a bottle of wine; and cafés).

I’ve only eaten once at the one-star Michelin Auberge La Fenière, way back in 2003, but Reine Sammut (twice voted Best Woman Chef in France) deserves a mention for one of the best entrées I’ve eaten: carpaccio of St Pierre (John Dory) drizzled with Cucuron olive oil flavoured with vanilla pod seeds, and finished with sea salt. Over six years later and I’m still dreaming about that one. It’s a shame we haven’t returned; perhaps next time. As I remember, Johnny’s pork and Tia’s pigeon were also stellar. OK, no perhaps . . .

Marseilles

This charming yet rough-appearing port city always brings to mind one thing: bouillabaisse. Make that bouillabaisse Chez Fonfon.

Tucked away in a cove a couple klicks from the Vieux-Port, Fonfon presents the perfect end to a holiday in Provence. The rust-coloured soup is a deep and complex celebration of the sea without the slightest hint of fishiness; the accompanying fish (served after you’ve supped the first of endless bowls of soup) offer different textures and flavours of the Mediterranean, but the broth’s the absolute star. It’s impossible not to fill up on croutons slathered with rouille and aïoli and then softened in the broth, so don’t bother trying. Eat and slurp till you’re bursting.

At €45 per person, Fonfon’s bouillabaisse is one of the most expensive in Marseilles. Bouillabaisse, however, is one of the world’s great soups, and Fonfon’s is so unearthly good, I’ll never eat bouillabaisse anywhere else.

Reservations are an absolute must.

Nice

Grand Café de Turin for raw oysters and moules frites . . . hell, for all the fruits de mer. The atmosphere is not your typical sedate Provençal . . . it’s as energetic as the oyster shucker.

Chez Thérésa for socca. Either at her restaurant or at the Cours Saleya market. I’ve driven the 211 kilometres from Grambois to Nice solely for her smoky and sublime chickpea crêpe. Enough said?

Oui. Enough said . . . for now. This list’ll give you a damned fine start on your culinary tour of Provence.

Je vous en prie.

And let’s be quiet out there.

Or, to be more accurate, no update. Enjoying my holiday too much. Will continue and recap upon my return to Laguna Beach.

Arrived at the farmhouse at 3 pm.

Drank. Pastis. Rosé.

Ate. Duck rillettes. Lonzu. Banon. Baguette. Strawberries. Figs freshly plucked from trees around the farmhouse.

Slept.

Less than two weeks away from Provence and pétanque and pastis:

It is the quintessential French pastime uniting millions around dusty courts and bottles of aniseed liqueur. Now la pétanque—boules—has been elevated to a higher plane by a Buddhist master, who has been hailed across France for his theory that the activity is a helpful tool for meditation.

I think a little meditation’s just what the doctor would order for our frazzled nerves—especially if it came in a pill form and he could charge an arm and a leg for it.

Isn’t it nice that the best medicine only costs an aeroplane ticket—or a train ticket, a bus ticket, a full tank of petrol in your own car—and comes with none of the usual side effects?