26 July 2015

Thursday was our 48th anniversary. In those early, heady days we would leave our Birmingham flat at 10 p.m. and head out to the smoky Elbow Room where we'd dance to Wilson Pickett 'In the Midnight Hour'. But that was '67, a lifetime ago, and this was France. Despite this being the land of le bien manger, lately we haven't had much success.  First there was the drunken waiter at Brousse. Then there was the vegetarian restaurant La faim des haricots in Toulouse. Unfortunately they've moved their premises to the opposite building and said we must now eat downstairs, where it was damp and impossible to balance our food on frequent trips up and down the stairs. Albi fared no better. Our favourite Le Tournesol was inexplicably shut the day we arrived, and at Le Vigan brasserie - well - we walked out. Enough said.  So where?  We ended up in the place that we feel the most comfortable, not a French place at all really, the Buffalo Grill in Le Sequestre. It never lets us down. The most wonderful oven-baked jacket potatoes and desserts anywhere.  Sittin' on the dock of a bay? No, but it suited us.  Cheers.