Skip to main content


Since we visited a town litterally on the edge of the ocean we only found it fitting to end this excursion with some sea food.

I have been enjoying the ability to buy dinners are three course meals for not that much money. This was my first course. Shrimp.

I have never been served shrimp with even the head still attached, but the French are as the French do. Personally I do like the fact that more often than not I can see a dead animal for what it is and not a guise of something ground up and red.

Second course was mussels and steak fries. Delicious and almost too much. I never did find the bottom of the bowl of mussels.

Then third course we took to go as our train was going to be leaving soon and we still had to catch a bus to the tran station and buy the train tickets. With many of us not having functioning credit cards and not having a way to pay for the ticket in cash, we were in quite the dilema, but all was solved and I ate the third course on the train as the night air cooled us off from the open window ahead of us on the train. The dessert was something called Fer Bretage, which I chose for the name being local and wanting to continue eating local delicacies. It was a sponge-y kind of cake with portions of melted chocolate.

And of course with all of this we got some cider, or as the French put it; cidre. Delicious as always.

Labels

Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

New Birth.

Hey. C'est moi.  It has been a few years. Since I last discussed into the void here I attended grad school for architecture at the University of Washington, finished the Master's program by the skin of my teeth, graduated into a global pandemic (I would not recommend this), gave away most of my worldly possessions, and am now flâneur-ing around Europe on the slim budget of my life savings. Allow me to reintroduce myself : I am the artist, Gaston. My interests include ; architecture, sustainability, art, vintage fashions, antiques, and flâneries. All while consuming massive quantities of tea. “I know where I'm from, but I don't know where I'm going.” I recently heard this line at a video playing at the Tate Museum in Liverpool, and it rang strong in me. In the film Casablanca, when Rick is questioned on his nationality he responds that his is a “drunkard,” insinuating that he has renounced his American nationality for that of someone who owns and runs a bar. From ...
1 comment
Read more

Windy Coffee. [part 1]

Fulya was looking at my sketchbook the other day and remarked that she liked the random sketch that I had made of some girl that I saw walking along with a little plastic cup of coffee during the wind storm a few weeks past. As I still have some small pieces of very good watercolor paper [that I had sized to be used for some small frames I had collected but did not have anything to put in them yet], I thought that perhaps I could transfer a little sketch to a little piece of paper to play with techniques. Namely the layering of water colors. Something that I know I have been working on a lot, but practice makes perfect. I also wanted to see how using my new mechanical pencil filled with blue graphite would work in hiding my lines as I initially worked. I forgot to take a picture of the transition between not having the girl inked at all to inking her and starting the background. I was having a hell of a time trying to figure out a setting in which to put her. At first I was th...
Post a Comment
Read more
French underworld tattoos at the turn of the century. The man sports a tattooed mustache intended to foil the prohibition of facial hair in the Foreign Legion. The World of Tattoo by Maarten Hesselt van Dinter. I can only dream of being anywhere near that combination of badass and crazy. Though at that point the Foreign Legion was probably still the best place for criminals to get their record cleaned so perhaps he is as well quite legitimately scary upon all of that. I find myself flipping back to this page time and time again to romanticize the French underground from around 1900. Give him an accordion, a beret, and some braces. Prostitutes who could easily kill you if you ever come up short and tattoo the names of their ‘actual’ lovers between their breasts, close to their heart. Tattoo ‘Je mother fucking t’aime’ in a tattoo cursive along my collar bones.
Post a Comment
Read more