Le Petit Gris

La Petit Gris

It was Sunday lunch. There were only a few tables left when we arrived at Le Petit Gris, a country restaurant just outside Tautavel. Cars were still coming into the small parking lot across the highway, most of them with local plates. Good thing we had come early. There was a buzz in the air, somewhat like the uplifted tension before the first pitch of a crucial late-season baseball game.

It wasn’t noisy. Don’t mean that. Not that pitch of near-hysteria that sometimes happens in a trendy California restaurant. It was a string quartet warming up before a Handel recital. Cole Porter running scales on the piano just before he wrote “Let’s Misbehave.”

It was, in fact, about 60 or 70 French men, women and children anticipating a very good lunch, a wink and a small joke from Nathalie Quilliet, who moves through the front of the house like an impish angel. Eric, her husband, always seems able to spare a minute from the huge grill, fired by vine cuttings that dominates one end of the restaurant, to say hello, maybe take a quick swallow of wine with an old customer who has become a friend.

The restaurant is pleasant and comfortable but no one spent $500,000 designing it. It is country French, bare bones but pleasant and comfortable with good light from windows all around and breath-taking views of the Corbieres range. Here and there tables are pushed together to accommodate a family of six or eight or a group of old friends. A crusty old grandfather who probably doesn’t smile from one Sunday to the next is beaming at his granddaughter, who is chewing on a duck leg. Up front, near the warmth of the grill, an older couple, thick with years and maybe sorrows, smile shyly across the table like teenagers and raise a glass of bright rosé wine to salute decades of love.

And as the food begins to come out, the tingle of anticipation gave way to a quite purr of satisfaction. There is plate after plate of snails a la plancha (petit gris, naturally) each tucked into a shell in a brew of garlic, wine and parsley. washed down with chilled local Muscat. (According to the menu there are 30 snails to a serving and Nathalie asks, deadpan, if you want to count them before you start eating.) There is a steady stream of huge bowls of garigue salad---a confit of duck gizzards and mixed greens topped with foie gras; plate after plate of superb grilled rabbit with aioli. By this time Nathalie has brought you a bottle of red wine, a local Grenache most likely. If you are in luck Eric will have found a local hunter who is willing to sell him a fresh-shot sanglier or wild boar, typically served in a stew of its own blood and red wine. Oh, and the cassoulet, if you are really hungry. Purists will insist that one is outside cassoulet country here. Well, let them insist while you enjoy a superb Catalan version of the Toulouse classic. The crèma catalan is a must at the end of the meal, with a glass or three of the Maury vin doux natural, a sweet red wine that ages beautifully, a cousin to Madeira. Many other dishes---duck, chicken, fish--- come from the grill and the small kitchen behind it. The crowd settles into a contented hum of happy eaters.

Over our years of roaming Catalan Country, we have probably eaten more often at Le Petit Gris than any other restaurant.
Yet, it was hardly love at first sight when Nathalie and Ann met. We were house hunting, driving madly from village to village, from one house to the next, none quite right. It was time for lunch and someone had mentioned Petit Gris. We were running late (of course) and arrived a few minutes past 1:30, which is when Nathalie closes the doors. Not yet being fully aware of the strict dining hours of rural France (being more accustomed to of Spanish Catalonia where the clocks don’t run the same) we didn’t pay much attention to the time.

Ann sent me as an advance scout to check out the menu. When I walked in, Nat pointed to her watch and shook her head. When I reported, Ann was incredulous.

“What does she mean, it’s too late for lunch,” she said, popping out of the car and storming the entrance of Le Petit Gris. I hung back, preferring to admire the view of the mountains.

The encounter between two powerful women was brief and forceful, leading to an armed and watchful truce. Nathalie. putting best foot forward for France for this “crazy California woman” graciously waved us in for a late seating. By the end of lunch, the truce had been extended and turned into a mutual admiration pact.

On a personal level, Eric and Nathalie are intellectually curious and interested in people Both have a playful sense of humor. Over many dinners that went on past midnight, in various combinations of French, English and Spanish, we’ve talked food, politics, art, music, wine, dogs, cats and children, shared fears, hopes and dreams and done our bit to keep the local population of petit gris in check and help maintain the proper balance of supply and demand in the local vineyards.

So it was with mixed feelings that we learned Eric and Nathalie have sold Le Petit Gris and are preparing for the next adventure. Maybe Argentina? Maybe California? Back to Portugal? India calling? They are gypsies at heart, eager for new experience, new friends.

We will miss them in Catalonia but they promise that Le Petit Gris is in good hands. The new owners are training with them now and will take over in May. In the meantime, we plan to spend Easter with Nathalie, Eric and their daughters, Alex and Rosalie.

We will soon file a report on the new owners and their plans for our favorite Catalan country restaurant.

Only Connect:

The snail known as petit gris is Helix aspersa and differs slightly from the Burgundy snail Helix pomatia. Although only another snail can tell the difference at a glance

“Whales do it, snails do it,
Even fluffy little quails do it,
Let’s do it, let’s fall in love.”
(Sorry, Cole.)

Le Petit Gris is just outside the town of Tautavel on the road toward Estagel. Telephone: 04 68 29 42 42.

---Larry Walker