Last night we went out to eat with the Welshman and the Evil SIL. I’d told Mr. W about the ferme auberge where I’d done my stage back in the days of the ole CCTAR and he seemed more than a little interested in munching on some duck. I’d tried to get us in for last weekend, but the owner, a very nice lady by the name of Marie-Line, informed me there was (very literally) no room at the inn. She offered us a table last night, though, and as I was starting to have a hankering for some duck, I jumped all on it. Mmmmm Duck!

We got there early enough to take Muppet on a tour of the animal farm. They keep a few trophy ducks in a little pond, and have a few miniature goats, a couple of sheep, rabbits, chickens, and two pigs so the kids have something interesting to look at. Honestly Muppet would have been happy with just the tractors, but it was cute seeing him yell at the pigs.

We went in and I popped into the kitchen to say hi to all the folks I know. The plates were all lined up and ready to go, the smells were all as yummy as before, but I have to say it was a bit odd after that, going and sitting down in the dining room. While I’d eaten there several times, it was always as part of the staff, hidden away in the kitchen or some place out of view. This was my first time as a paying customer.

And boy, the food is just so much better on the customer’s side of the door! We had the old standard menus—Marc and Mr. W with the magret and Véro and I with the cuisse confit—this, of course, after the entrée of foie gras, rillettes, terrine, and smoked sliced duck breast served with salad and edible flowers and stuff—more than a meal in itself. After, a big fat platter of cheese was massacred at our table. My husband and SIL are very good at massacring cheese, and the Welsh dude is getting better every day. And then, as I’m friends with the chef and all, we had the honor of testing their new line of desserts—home made ice-cream. Marc is always willing to sacrifice himself for these types of causes. You need volunteers, Marc’s there! We got to taste the sorbet made with cherries—yummy!—the ice-cream made with mirabelles—yummy too—and the home-made coffee ice-cream that made Véro (who never really likes coffee anything) think about asking for seconds. Then on to coffee (except for Véro who had tea) and la goût!

The odd thing about last night was the other clientele. Droyes is pretty much lost in the country—granted, it is near the Lac du Der, but it’s still in the middle of nowhere. The distinguished older gentleman at the next table kept making eyes at Christine and when he picked up his napkin and started playing peek-a-boo I knew. I told Marc, no one says peek-a-boo like that unless they’re American. But this is Droyes, a place not quite on the American Tourist’s Map of France. So I didn’t quite believe it possible. Sure enough, he is American—from New Mexico. He and his wife live in the Ardennes region-right next door basically. They’ve recently moved to France (or back to, in the wife’s case) and were enjoying a bit of a holiday on the lake.

I guess the world keeps getting smaller. My belly, on the other hand, not so much. MMMMM Duck!