Last spring I found myself in Amiens, in the north of France for a few days. The Silent One had a business meeting there, so I tagged along. During the day, I took a long self-guided walking tour of the city, went to see where Jules Vernes lived most of his adult life, and of course spent many hours in the cathedral, the largest and one of the very finest in th
e world, built mostly in the 13th century, and with an intriguing labyrinth set into the floor.
Frankly, I think in my memory, I had confused Amiens with some other northern city I’d passed through in the 60′s when I’d moved from Paris to Brussels for a few months. I expected it to be gray and depressing, most of the old part of town had either been torn down in the 70′s or bombed to pieces during wartime. Northern cities are sometimes poo-pooh’d as backwaters populated by inbred hicks on welfare since the coal mines closed a while back. My expectations were not high, but since I’ve enjoyed so many places that get lukewarm reviews, I was confident that I’d manage to find something interesting in whatever dismal setting I’d find.
And quelle surprise! Plenty of the ancient houses remain, many of which have been restored to their former…modesty. Little narrow houses, 3 tiny stories tall, shutters painted to indicate the trade being exercised within. Tanners, millers, weavers and dyers all color-coded for ease of reference. The little back alleys and neighborhoods are so unselfconscious, so real, I was perfectly transported to a delightful world of times gone by…and in a good way! Most of the the new parts of the city center are in keeping with the old bits, which creates a fairly harmonious backdrop to a lively city on the move.
Amiens has a complicated web of canals and rivers, and an island of a whole big vegetable farm only a couple feet above the waterline. Which I visited by tourist boat, along with another couple and a hapless guide who showed us around the byways for 90 minutes under a relentless downpour, as I peeked from under my not-quite-large-enough umbrella. After which the sun promptly re-appeared for its afternoon session of bright illumination, suitable for much stained glass window gazing despite my soggy jeans.
I’d researched, of course, where we should eat, and by and large we did pretty well. Since there are a lot of university students in Amiens, we found lots of ethnic restaurants we don’t have near where we live, so that was nice to get a proper curry dinner. On the last day of the business meetings, my significant other was to meet me for lunch on one of the river quai’s, sitting outside with a lovely view of the cathedral and the colorful riverside houses. As I showed him the postcards I’d bought that day, he looked closely at one of them, and said, we are sitting exactly on the spot from which this shot was taken. And he was right! How bizarre! Only the flowers in the planter boxes had changed.
We ordered the local specialty of Ficelle Picarde, which translated literally means String of Picardy. Apparently, it was only invented in the 70′s when a chef had to make a meal for his staff from the leftovers of a large businessman’s lunch. It’s a crepe made from white flour wrapped around a whole lot of sauteed sliced mushrooms and chopped ham, bound with a little well-seasoned bechamel, then the rolled crepe is placed in its own little oval casserole dish and covered with shredded gruyere cheese and broiled to a fare thee well. That particular combination of bosky mushrooms, smoky ham and gooey mountain cheese… heavenly! The soft crepe…browned cheese…it was one of those dishes I’ll never forget, the pleasure of every bite is unforgettable.
Some months later, we made plans with friends visiting from California to spend a few days together in the north, and I started looking forward to that ficelle picarde many weeks in advance. We met their train in Arras, checked into our creaky chateau digs, and had a couple days visiting the region before we got to Amiens. Come the day…. the restaurant of my dreams was closed! Day off! Nooooooooo! Reluctantly, we moved on and soon spotted another place, slightly more trendy looking, bigger menu, another flower-decked terrace on the other side of the narrow river. We snagged one of the last tables and to my delight, the local specialties included…ficelle picarde! Reader, I am happy to announce that it was at least as good if not better than the earlier one that had fed my culinary fantasties all those months!
Honesly, sitting in comfy chairs on the sunny banks of a river with close and familiar friends, surrounded by colorful pots of flowers and assorted happy eaters, with cold white wine and steaming melted cheese before you, is there anything better than this?
