Languedoc: Provence's Next-Door Neighbor
On a trip through the Languedoc wine region, in southern France, a writer falls for the culture, the cuisine and the lack of crowds.
By Ralph Martin
Le Jardin des Sens, sitting on an unremarkable street outside Montpellier's center, is a block of a building that opens onto a glass-enclosed pavilion surrounded by an exotic garden, which seemed, even in March, to be in full bloom. The evening got rolling with a "cappuccino" of Jerusalem artichoke, a frothy, tangy extract. I then feasted on asparagus that tasted like the Platonic ideal of a vegetable, albeit one brought to life by a generous amount of emulsified truffle, followed by a fillet of sea bass served with foie gras. By the time roasted pigeon fillet and a Mas de la Barben red wine arrived, I was nearly satiated but was urged on by a note of curry and sautéed pear in this gamey dish. Though I tried to beg off dessert, I was nonetheless tantalized by a "declension of clementine," including a sorbet, a soufflé and a drinkable emulsion. Le Jardin des Sens, I thought, would be better named the Garden of Earthly Delights.
After the restless sleep of an overeater, I drove to the Nice airport, leaving Languedoc and its winds behind. But I knew I'd be back; I am now officially a lifer.
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