Albi

Right, so I posted the photo of Albi and never got to relate the story that went with it.

A friend of mine from London came down for a weekend visit, earlier this month. I decided to made a steak tartar Friday night for all three of us. I got the beef from a trusted butcher, and I saw the machine it was minced in. It looked shiny and clean, and the beef came out smooth as butter. At our supermarket -- called Intermarché, a small one by comparison, with only 12 aisles rather than the 40-60 at Carrefour, Le Clercq or Auchan which tempt you to buy more than you should -- we bought the eggs, cornichons (mini piquant pickles), capers, yellow onion, parsley, Worcestershire sauce, Tabasco sauce and other sauces to mix into the steak tartar. I mixed the chopped cornichons, onion, parsley and capers into the steak tartar, then shaped them like a doughnut on each plate and sat an egg yolk in the middle of each. We ate all 600 g of the steak, which was an impressive amount in my opinion.

The next morning, I became violently ill and had to buy some Immodium. But my friend and my Hubbie were fine. So I ask, could it have been the beef? My friend said people's stomachs react differently to different foods. Okay, that makes sense. But to this extent? Everyone had their own egg yolk, so that was the one distinguishing factor amongst our individual plates. So I am convinced I had a bad egg. I usually have a stomach of iron (c'mon, you're talking to a sushi-loving Japanese here), so there must have been something terribly wrong with that egg.

Anyway, we drove to Albi that morning and I made it without having to stop for a toilet break. When we got there, the sun was shining. We found the historic centre and parked in a lot that looked out onto the Tarn river. We were surrounded by brick and timber buildings, some of which looked ready to fall down. To a native Californian who never knew buildings older than 40 years old existed, it was a beautiful sight.

We walked up the steep path toward the massive cathedral and spent an hour in the Musée Toulouse-Lautrec, just next door. I found Toulouse-Lautrec's posters of can-can girls and circus acts comforting somehow, like they were old friends. Then it occurred to me it's because it's this style that is used on the walls and matchboxes of Café Lalo in New York, where I spent many happy hours eating obscenely large desserts with good friends.

Then we wandered around and found the town's market, which was by far the cleanest one I've ever seen. There was stainless steel everywhere, and metal grates on the floor. I felt like I was in a Carrefour-pretending-to-be-a-market market. Nevertheless, you had your butchers, bakers, cheese-makers, green grocers and Chinese food stall all there, side by side. Amidst the hustle and bustle of town regulars and tourists, shouting kids and vendors, it still had its rustic appeal.

Around the tabacs, posters advertised Albi's bid to be deemed a Unesco World Heritage site. Old Frenchmen lounged nearby, smoking pipes and drinking their aperitifs, and I imagined (as I don't understand French very well,) that they were proud of their town and discussing their chances. Judging by the views, the ambience and the glorious crumbling buildings around town, I would give it my vote, even if it lacks public toilets...