There seems little doubt about it, the older we get the more unreliable our memories become. Almost every place we revisit now results in a debate as to when exactly we had been there before. Séte was no exception, after a lengthy, somewhat circuitous conversation we concluded this was our third visit, the first probably two decades ago because we remembered Laura being small but not a toddler, our second about eight years later, as both Matthew and Sarah were at university we thought, but were under rather than post grads.
Being a tad confused about things does have its upsides, it means we always have something to talk about as we gradually but inexorably morph into our older selves. Now we were confronted by a more immediate and pressing uncertainty. Our plan to catch the waterbus from Mèze to Séte had seemed simple enough. The brochure we picked up in the campsite reception gave the times and the website identified the quay in Séte where we would disembark, neither however had information as to where we might catch the boat in Méze. Luckily Mèze harbour is not a very big and we guessed correctly that the ferry would arrive on the western side. In fact the boat was unmissable, painted bright blue, and anyway a small gaggle had already formed by the gangway well before it chugged into view.
The crossing took about twenty minutes, passing close to kilometres of 'huitre' beds that spread along the eastern shore of the Etang de Thau. The nearby village of Bouzigues claims to be the oyster capital of the world, but then so did the place on the Ile de Ré we once camped beside. Soon it was time to disembark at the quay opposite Sete's impressive railway station.
On our previous visits we had parked by the fishing port on the opposite side of town. Perhaps this accounted for our bewilderment, the spot where we alighted bore no resemblance whatsoever to the town we remembered. Our previous impression of Séte was that it was "characterful,' not exactly run down, but a bit rough around the edges as fishing ports often are. Avenue Victor Hugo which led from the station to the town centre was broad and shaded by plane trees, stylish Belle Epoque buildings lined each side, it felt quite Parisian.
We had come with no particular plan except to find somewhere interesting for lunch. We seemed to recall from our previous visit that the place had a reputation for North African food, we wondered if we might find some authentic cous cous. We didn't.
Finally we happened upon a big square that seemed vaguely familiar. There were a number of kiosk type cafés, they all had lunch menus the length of your arm, the wider the choice, the more mediocre they'll be, we concluded. Gill consulted Google and planet Zog came up with a positively reviewed boulangerie about 200m away. It was busy, always a good sign, but after perusing the quiches behind the counter we decided they may have been delicious a couple of hours ago, but not now.
A few metres further along we stumbled across a jolly looking place selling tartes and Croques, the menu looked interesting and inexpensive (always a winning combo) and there was an outside table going spare. This will do we decided.
Torrefaction Noailles turned out to be an inspired choice. Gill's leek, walnut and gorgonzola tart was excellent, however my 'Croque', somewhat oddly dubbed a 'Rita Hayworth', proved sensational. I love it when a skilled cook takes something everyday and transforms it into a gastronomic tour-de-force.
One forkful of the squidgy, slightly caramelised topping and pleasure seeking synapses buried deep in my brain's more reptillian quarters went 'Kapow'! There is definitely something libidinal about deliciousness.
The most surprising thing about Cadbury's infamous survey published in 2008 that reported 52% of the female participants prefered chocolate to sex is that the proportion is so low. Personally I blame the quality of the chocolate. Had the researchers used the lemon and ginger variety in Lindt's 'Excellence' range then the pro-choc contingent might well have edged up towards 70%; indeed they might have made inroads into the small minority of males (13%) who chose the chocolate option, or maybe not ...
Anyway, all this nonsense might explain why the the cook at Torrefaction Noailles named the scrumptious Croque after Rita Hayworth, it's all about explosive taste. Hayworth's sultry performances in a string of otherwise forgettable Hollywood films in the early forties resulted in her becoming the GIs favourite pin-up. They nicknamed her the 'love-bomb'. This is where the story takes a somewhat surreal turn. The first six atomic bombs exploded by the American military carried a portrait of Hayworth on the nose cone. When she found out unsurprisingly she was outraged and threatened to take up the matter personally with the State Department. However she was warned off raising the the issue publicly as her dissent was deemed 'unpatriotic'. I am sure she would have been much happier with the prospect of being memorialised in the form of a wholly delicious French lunchtime snack. Who wouldn't?
We loved this small unpretentious cafe with its chic decor in shades of sepia and cerise, the easygoing familiarity between the regulars and staff and the fact that the waitress nipped out in quieter moments to take a fag break. It pulled off the apparently impossible trick of seeming simultaneously in the moment yet old fashioned and that gave it an alluring timelessness.
It dawned on us after we finished lunch that we really had no idea why we were here in Séte other than there was a handy boat there from Mèze. We decided to head back across the Etang on the next sailing. It's quite easy to get lost in the town as it is crisscrossed by canals. The local tourist board attempted to promote it as the 'Venice of the Languedoc', a bit of a stretch I think, even if it has some impressive Belle Epoque and Art Nouveau canal side buildings.
Our trip to Séte completely changed my view of the place, now it will be forever associated in my mind with a brush with a Hollywood goddess who appeared before me in the shape of a toasted sandwich.
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