I Finally Understand Julia Child
Despite the fact that we left the Santa Fe plaza without any antique coins or Chuck Jones art work, Matt and I returned to our room reasonably satisfied with what the city had to offer so far. We hit the hay as early as we could, flipping in between marathons of 1000 Ways to Die on Spike, and Unwrapped on The Food Network (we don't have cable anymore, so television is practically brand new to us again).
Waking up extra early, we drove out to the Santa Fe Farmers Market. While it wasn't the massive markets I've been to in the past (growing up in Utah the suckers are practically on every corner, in every parking lot and at every park early Saturday mornings), the Santa Fe farmers market was small and quaint. Local vendors sold handsoap made from goats milk and lavender, BBQ sauces made from raspberries and at least three different apple cider stations. One small station sold fresh brown eggs at nearly 5 dollars a carton! On his sign it read, "Hen - $20". Something tells me there's a bargain in there for someone who has the ability to house a hen.
Matt: We should just get a bunch of hens and a rooster and then they'd have sex all the time.
Me: . . . ?
Matt: That's how eggs works right?
Me: . . . . I'm not sure.
Buying eggs at the grocery is how eggs works to me. When I was a child I did naturally assume that chickens always laid eggs. Like non-stop. I didn't even find out that a rooster was a male chicken until I was at least ten years old, and even then I somehow couldn't connect the two despite knowing where human babies came from.
We didn't buy anything at the farmers market, and for good reason . . . our attention was taken up by the Flea market across the train tracks. Dubbed "The Flea", the Santa Fe Flea Market was exactly what I thought the farmers market was going to be. Except instead of selling fresh produce they sold weird paintings, cowboy hats, used boots, and homemade pocket knives. Somewhere in the middle of the market, a flamboyant gay man continuously proclaimed, "The party's over here!" from a small stand that sold scarves.
But we weren't there to buy any of those things. We were there for the honey.
A small stand just as you entered the door, held rows and rows of fresh jarred, local honey. Bee Chama Honey. The man running the stand was more than nice, and he really loved his product. Eagerly offering free samples, you could taste anything from mountain wild flower, to strawberry and even cactus honey! The best thing was the fact that the honey has not been tampered with. It comes straight from the beekeepers. Nothing is added to it, and yet, you can taste the different flavors!
Matt immediately purchased a jar of their melon honey, a strong sweet flavor. We continued to taste test and while carrot honey left a nasty taste in our mouths, as did the cactus, the orange blossom honey melted to perfection on our tongues. The last pick was my choice and I picked mountain gamble oak, a honey that was so rare they could only harvest it every seven years. Also, it did not come from pollen like most honeys, but from the sweet sap of oak trees. I fell in love.
A few more items here and there including a lemon infused moisturizer sold by a lady that insisted on rubbing my shoulders with something she claimed helped take away pain naturally (think natural Icy Hot) and we were on our way.
A two minute walk from where we were staying, we took notice of a small french bakery. Never having had french food before, we decided that was where we were going for breakfast. And oh, how it changed the world as we knew it.
Let me just say this about Clafoutis, French Bakery and Restaurant . . . . had we the brains to try this place the very second we arrived in Santa Fe, we would not have had the ability to see anything else on our vacation. We also may never have left. We would be the homeless couple sitting on the side of the street begging for money. Our sign would say "Will Work for Croissants".
Despite not having more than three parking spaces in front of the restaurant, the place was beyond packed. A tiny little bakery, smaller than a small house had people pouring out the front door. We squished ourselves inside and added our names to a waiting list at least twenty-five minutes long. After the first twenty minutes, we excused ourselves to go outside and wait because the front area was so cramped, Matt was getting hit with the door anytime people entered.
When our names were finally called, we excitedly went to our table and sat down. The funny thing about waiting in line for over a half hour for brunch seemed to be that no one there was upset about the wait. It was cramped, hot and should have been frustrating. People who'd never been there before had their names crossed off the list due to the wait, while regular customers laughed and said, "They've obviously never been here before." We took a leap and stuck it out. We wanted french food.
The owner, Ann-Laurie, a sweet french woman that stood behind a large shelve hosting dozens of beautiful pastries and breads called out, "Bonjour!" as people were seated. The atmosphere was simply delightful. Despite having changed over from breakfast to lunch, we were assured that since we had been waiting so long, we could have our choice of either. Torn over the menu, we ordered our drinks and I fell in love with a french sparkling lemonade that came in the bottle.
When our waitress, Charlotte, the owners daughter, brought a basket of break, she set down a small plate with a pad of hard butter on it. "That'll never spread." I mumbled and instead folded the butter into the piece of bread like a filling and we both took a bite. Eyes wide, I turned to Matt and he exhaled, "It's almost like cheese." I agreed. The best most amazing cheese you've ever tasted! We devoured the bread and immediately asked for more.
I ordered an omelet with herbs de Provence, tomatoes, olives, mushrooms and cheese. It came topped with sprouts, shredded carrots and a tomato. And it was pure heaven.
Matt had been browsing over the menu, thinking about getting a simple sandwich when the waitress said, "Our special today is duck." And that sealed the deal. Never having properly cooked duck before, it's been on the top of Matt's list of things to eat. When they brought the plate, the smell filled the whole room. A duck leg and thigh were cooked in a sauce made from tomatoes, herbs de Provence, and olives.
One bite in and something happened to my husband. He looked at me and said, "Oh my gosh, it's so good I could cry." He then immediately gave me a bite as I rolled my eyes at him but no sooner than I put the freshly cooked duck, sauce and an olive in my mouth, I was overcome with flavor and I looked at him, wide eyed. Yes, dear readers, there is food amazing enough it can bring you to tears. And it's at Clafoutis in Santa Fe.
The portions were perfect too. Despite being able to easily put away three to four dishes at any buffet, the smaller portions (which were VERY reasonably priced) filled us perfectly. It was in fact, just enough. However, our filled stomachs didn't stop us from tackling the pastry counter like ravenous predators. All out of loaves of bread, we bought a bag of day old brioche, two croissants and a raspberry tart. All of which were gone by the next morning, covered in freshly bought honey.
More vacation updates coming soon . . .
