Fronton; terrible "eating-out" options but lovely wine...

Montauban, South-West France, Monday morning. The sun shines, the sky is blue, it’s still, it’s mild and there are cars everywhere but no people whatsoever. Feels odd, a bit like a scene from I Am Legend, the film set in New York where the only people left are Will Smith and some killer, nocturnal zombies. Except I’m not Will Smith, I’m just a slightly hungover Scotsman heading home after a weekend of lovely food and wine with my friends who live in the region. This is true wine country, Cahors to the north, Gaillac to the east and Fronton to the south. A lovely red wine triangle. Wines from South-West France are great. Not always subtle but full of colour and character, like the region. Richie was kindly driving me to Toulouse airport but with time to kill we decided to do the equivalent of a village pub crawl from here to the airport. So, first stop was Montauban, not much there except a lovely red square which would probably be rather pleasant in summer. Nice river too, the Tarn I believe. And thankfully no killer zombies.

            Then to some other "deux cheval" town which apparently had an interesting engineering phenomenon based around a canal lock. We eventually found it. It seemed to be two trains that pulled boats, upstream, as it were, thus saving time by eliminating the need to fill the lock. No longer in use it felt a little bit sad, a lonely place, like all those planes parked in the Arizona desert. An engineering graveyard surrounded by trees blowing in the wind.

            So, we headed to Fronton, 40 km north of Toulouse. This was exciting. I like wines from Fronton. Passing through the vines on either side of the road, the excitement and anticipation soon evaporated. The town itself was non-descript, the French equivalent of Kidderminster (well, perhaps not that bad, let’s say Droitwich) but pretty dull, with no references to the surrounding appellation at all, which seemed a shame as they’re lovely wines. Unusual. Made from a grape called Negrette (min. 50 % of the blend, rest is Syrah or Malbec etc.) it gives them an interesting quality, that’s hard to define. Liquorice and spice but with plenty of dark fruits and big round tannins, though the weight on the palate and intensity can vary.

Lunch was an issue.  One particularly unwelcoming brasserie and a kebab shop were the only options. One last town on the route after this, one last shot before Toulouse but it was risky. France isn’t always the gourmet paradise one expects. We were heading into the unknown. Driving through pretty farmland we arrived at a nice town, on the river but again, nothing much happening. Plenty of cars. No people. Where are they? Thankfully there was a restaurant but only one. Lack of competition can breed complaisancy. The menu was limited but hunger and the strong desire to avoid airport food swayed us. Passing through a dark, slightly foreboding interior, past a couple of friendly French drunkards at the bar, the restaurant itself possessed a bright 80’s nightclub vibe without the music or the stupid haircuts. A couple of plump French workers having lunch was the only evidence that food was available.

 Lunch was goats cheese salad (always a winner) followed by entrecote steak (rarely a winner). As is usual for me in France, my entrecote was more gristle than meat but I knew the risks in advance. And I had a glass of red wine. I rarely do this at lunch but given my location and my imminent return to London I went for it. It was lovely. Soft and enticing.  Drinking wine in the region in which it’s made, is perhaps my favourite wine experience. It just feels right.  Just a small glass and it cost less than the Perrier water. That’s the way to do it.

Get yourself a bottle of Fronton, you’ll find it, if you look. And I hope your steak is better quality than mine was.  Richie assured me that his prawn risotto was excellent. Having lunch in this odd little place, in the middle of no-where, with my Buddy felt a privilege. Oh and did I mention the crè

me brulé…