There are things one can do to keep busy while eating alone and one of them is eavesdrop. I settled into my seat at La Fourchette, ordered a glass of rosé and tuned in. The young Japanese couple next to me ordered coffee with their meal and the waitress was certain that she had not understood. Her young French brain simply could not process the idea of drinking coffee with a meal. “Deux coffee.” “Café??” “Oui, coffee.” “Café?!” “Coffee.” “O.K. Beeg one? American?” “Oui, coffee.”
Poor girl, she really didn’t have time for that. La Fourchette was busy, as I suspect it always is. Regulars, business people and a few tourists filled the sunny room, and everyone seemed to be ordering fish, which she would bring out to display on a heavy platter and then take aside to filet and plate. She and the other serveuses ran around, a little harried, but the chaos was controlled and happy.
The walls are covered with bric-a-brac including, in a nod to the restaurant’s name, forks of all shapes and sizes. There is a collection of brightly painted ceramic cigales, and the quilted table linens are the color of fresh cream. And yet for all of these country touches, La Fourchette manages to feel modern, no small feat for a restaurant that has been around for 30 years.
I started with a salad of shaved raw artichokes and parmesan over leafy lettuce, lively, fresh and not overdressed. Not in the mood for fish, I followed with a traditional daube de boeuf, served with a little cast iron pot of macaroni and washed down with a red wine from up the road in Chateauneuf de Pape. The meat was tender and the rich stew was studded with black olives, a delicious reminder that I was far south of Paris.
As I ate, the desserts started pouring out of the kitchen. There were profiteroles filled with strawberry ice cream, a towering slice of meringue freckled with praline, and an appealing panna cotta served in a glass and topped with a mound of fresh cherries, which I ultimately chose. More cherries followed: Every diner received a little dish of cherry granité and and a handful of fresh cherries, still on the stem, piled over crushed ice. As a kid I remember breaking into my grandmother’s stash of frozen cherries, ruining whatever plans she had for them later in the year. The best desserts always remind us of childhood.
La Fourchette, 17 Rue Racine, Avignon. +33 (0)4 90 85 20 93. Closed Saturday and Sunday. Reservations essential.
My mouth is now watering for oh-so delicious cherries. Alas, it is winter in Ohio.