One More Croissant for the Road

The next morning brings two excitements. Firstly, it’s Matt’s last day, a terrifying fact that I’m trying to avoid staring full in the face, and secondly, this comes just as he’s proved himself indispensable with the information that there’s a drive-through boulangerie round the corner. A DRIVE-THROUGH boulangerie. I literally could not be more thrilled if he’d added they were giving out free croissants.

The reality is even more perfect than I’d imagined: as a former petrol station repurposed to dispense human fuel, it even looks the part. Obviously I make Matt hang back to take a photo as I pedal up to the window. The girl serving seems amused to see me pop up in front of her: ‘No, we don’t get very many bikes!’ she says cheerfully, handing over the goods for me to clutch awkwardly in one hand while steering with the other. Matt and I reconvene on the forecourt as a huge dog in the car behind actually attempts to climb over its owner and through the hatch: my croissant is a bit burnt, but I have absolutely no regrets – 10/10 for both novelty and practicality (and 7/10 for the actual goods).

That said, Matt’s imminent departure seems a fair excuse for a second crack at a final breakfast, especially when we pass a boulangerie whose window proudly displays golden laurels for baking the second-best baguette tradition (see here (#litres_trial_promo), Pause-Café – French Bread: A Bluffer’s Guide) in all of Brittany. Their croissant isn’t bad either (7.5, well flavoured, let down by a slight sponginess in the middle), but it’s overshadowed by my impulse purchase: a golden kouign-amann apiece, sporting a jaunty Breton flag, which I immediately stick on my handlebars.

If I think too hard about the 30-odd years of my life spent in ignorance of these unassuming-looking pastries, I start to feel a bit sad; like a sweeter, crunchier version of the best croissant you’ve ever eaten, soaked in buttery syrup and baked until crisp, they’re incredibly rich and stupidly delicious, and I can’t in all conscience let Matt leave Brittany without trying one. Even I struggle after two croissants, however, and the second half of the little cake ends up in the bag on my handlebars for later – something that will happen so often in the weeks to come I’m surprised I don’t have a fully-formed bread-and-butter pudding in there by the time I get to Paris.

On the way out of Dol, wobbling through pretty but uncomfortably cobbled streets, we pass a huge cathedral with a tower that looks like it’s been abruptly snapped off. Actually, as I discover from the information boards with which Dol is well furnished, it was never finished, due to ‘insufficient funds’ (or the devil throwing an enormous menhir in the works, depending on whose version you believe). The unexpected grandeur of the church is explained by the fact that, until drainage work took place in the 11th century, the sea reached as far as Dol-de-Bretagne, making this morning’s route a ghostly seabed.

Having undergone serious adjustment at the hands of the hostel receptionist, who refuses to check us out until he’s politely pooh-poohed my plans, this meanders towards the modern coast by way of Mont Dol, which, at 65 metres tall, counts as a significant peak in this part of the world. Indeed, once upon a time it was an island, just like Mont-Saint-Michel. Apparently, St Michael, patron saint of France as well as sensible knitwear, fought a duel with Satan at the top, but Matt doesn’t show much enthusiasm for climbing it to see the ‘certain curious marks’ the battle left in the rock, so we leave it be and head for the sea instead.

The D155 is one of those glorious roads that spools out in front of your wheel, allowing you to see exactly where you’re heading for miles before you get there, lined on one side with squat granite houses staring out across the marshes and clusters of corrugated sheds advertising ‘creuses de Cancale: vente au detail’ (creuses, or hollow oysters, being the French name for what we call rock oysters).

The air is heavy with the iodine reek of shellfish, whetting my appetite for what I hope lies ahead of us in Cancale, known across France as the oyster capital of Brittany – though first we have to contend with one of Google Maps’ helpful cycle routes, which takes us up a road at first stony, and then muddy, and finally all but impassable on a delicate beast like Eddy, whose mudguards quickly fill up with the stuff. Eventually I have to get off and push before I’m thrown off like a questing knight who has finally pushed his patient steed too far.

Though I haven’t got round to mentioning it to Matt, I’ve plotted a course that just happens to pass right by La Ferme Marine de Cancale, which, its website promises, offers ‘a fantastic one-hour-and-a-half tour!’ Fortunately, it’s well signposted from the road, allowing me to discover it with delighted surprise, a surprise that becomes all too real when I learn that it’s closed, so instead of prying into ‘the secrets of the oysters’, we pedal on to the town of Cancale proper, and the not-so-secret oyster market at the end of the harbour (‘#1 of 11 things to do in Cancale!’). The wide road along the bay is fringed with seafood restaurants gearing up for the Tuesday lunchtime trickle, culminating in the market, a clutch of striped tents above the concrete slipway, facing inwards against the wind.

PAUSE-CAFÉ – The Mysterious Fruits of the Sea

For some reason, this is the kind of vocabulary that runs in one ear and out of the other like the tide – possibly because I’m not quite sure what the name for all those little shells is in English, let alone French. Here’s a crib sheet:

Coquillages – seafood

Moules – mussels

Huîtres – oysters (creuses are rock oysters, plates what we know as natives, the flatter, rounder shells that aficionados believe to boast a sweeter, more complex flavour than cheaper, pointier rocks)

Bulots – whelks

Bigorneaux – winkles

Coques – cockles (amande de mer is a common variety known in English as a dog cockle, though disappointingly it bears little resemblance to either a dog or an almond)

Crevettes – prawns (géante tigrée or gambas suggests the larger variety, crevette rose are average-sized North Atlantic prawns)

Crevette gris – shrimps

Langoustine – Dublin Bay prawn (like a little lobster)

Palourdes – clams

Couteaux – razor clams

Homard – lobster

Crabe tourteau – brown crab (sometimes just listed as tourteau)

Araignée de mer – spider crab

Crabe mou – soft-shell crab

Their custodians loiter in front, waiting for customers. I experience the same mild panic as when confronted by a weighty wine list in a smart restaurant – how on earth is one supposed to choose between baskets of bivalves? I do a slow circuit of the stalls, trying hard, like everyone else, to look like I know what I’m doing, and end up back at Aux Délices de Cancale, run by two brothers, Fabien et Gildas Barbé, attracted not by the subtle curve of the shells on display, or the quality of their barnacle build-up, but by the fact that they have the largest oysters I have ever seen, propped out front to draw in the kind of shallow people impressed by size. People like me, in fact.

I go for half a dozen ordinary number 4s (they’re graded by size, from fat 00s to tiny 6s, and in general, I think smaller shellfish have a better flavour) and one complete beast of a pied de cheval, or horse’s hoof. Come on, it had to be done!

People gather round murmuring in wonderment as the stallholder, who has opened the others as easily as a can of Coke, braces Monsieur Big against the back wall and sets about him with a chisel. ‘How old is he?’ I ask as he hammers away with gritted teeth. ‘Oh, about 15.’ Fifteen! I think. That’s the same age as my oldest nephew! When this animal was born (spawned?) I still naively thought I was going to have a proper job by 30.

Holding his prize carefully lest it spill out, Gildas, victorious over the shellfish at last, explains that the creature weighs about 180g, well over twice as much as the others, and will need to be tackled with a special knife, which he will lend me for the purpose. The assembled crowd goggles as I escort my victim over to the sea wall, where Matt is already sitting with his slightly more modest order. He raises one eyebrow, which in Matt terms is pretty serious stuff, and don’t I know it. I like oysters you can eat in one gulp, that are easy to chew and slip down as smoothly as an ice-cold martini, not ones with the strength to fight back in your digestive system. Nevertheless, I’ve paid to have this chap’s shell wrenched off, and he deserves to be done justice, if you count being eaten alive as justice, though now definitely isn’t the time to go into that particular argument.

I unfold the sturdy knife Gildas has provided and nervously begin to divide the creature into vaguely edible portions, silently begging for forgiveness as I perform this gruesome but necessary live butchery, and then, conscious of the expectant gaze of not just Matt, but several other diners, tip the first chunk into my mouth and begin to chew. It’s better than I expect, more scallopy, but with a definite meaty texture, and a surprisingly harsh, almost tannic finish. Not unpleasant exactly, but for reasons as much psychological as gastronomic, I can’t say I enjoy the remaining four bits. After a bit of a breather (if only I’d known you could buy chilled wine to take away at the shop round the corner), I tackle his smaller, sweeter relatives, who prove far more to my taste, though frankly, once the last shell is tossed onto the beach below, joining the thousands already piled up there, I feel I wouldn’t be sorry not to see an oyster again for a good while.

A Platter of Oysters

Though fun to order in restaurants for the sheer decadence of it, it’s far better value to eat oysters at home – they’re not expensive. I like natives, which have a slightly sweeter, more complex flavour, but rocks are cheaper, and almost as good.

As many oysters as you feel you can eat (3 per person as an amuse-bouche, 6 for a starter, between you and your god for a feast)

2 banana shallots

100ml red wine vinegar

1 lemon per dozen oysters

Very thinly sliced brown bread, spread with unsalted butter and cut into decorous triangles

1 Keep the oysters, flat side up and tightly wrapped in damp newspaper, in the salad drawer of your fridge (between 1° and 4°C), refreshing the newspaper every couple of days as it dries out. In theory they’ll be fine for 10 days, but the longer you leave them, the greater risk you’ll have to chuck out some dead ones, so I’d advise eating them as soon as possible.

2 When you’re ready to shuck them, if this is your first time, I’d highly advise watching a video online if possible. A stout oyster knife will make life easier too. Wrap the oyster firmly in a damp tea-towel, as much to protect your hands as to provide a firm grip, then gently insert the tip of the knife into the hinge at the pointy end of the shell. Slowly work it in, twisting it slightly, until you hear the shell pop. Remove the top shell, cutting away at the oyster if it sticks, then slide the knife underneath its body to detach it from the bottom. Carefully place it on a platter, making sure not to spill any juices – if you’re feeling fancy, the oysters look lovely on crushed ice, which seems less wasteful than rock salt.

3 To make the shallot vinaigrette, peel and finely chop the shallots and put them into a small bowl. Pour in the vinegar and season well with freshly ground black pepper (no need to add salt, the oysters will supply plenty). Cut the lemon into wedges and serve with the oysters, with the bread on the side (don’t forget a little spoon for the vinaigrette, and somewhere for people to put the oyster and lemon shells if they’re not sitting down).

We sit in the sun, quietly digesting, trying not to think of the bivalves splashing about inside, and watch the bustle on the beach below, which is less of a place for sunbathing and sandcastles, and more a giant oyster factory – long, low racks stretch right down to the low tide mark, laden with huge wire bags of bivalves. Workers in waders rolled down to their waists in the sunshine wander among them, turning the odd bag and loading a few that have clearly passed some mysterious test onto the tractors that chug in a steady train down the slipway behind us – one flops off onto the road with a great jolt, and a chino-clad tourist runs to the driver’s aid. His spectacular failure to even get the bag off the ground, and the nonchalance with which she picks it up and tosses it back onto the trailer, have us cheering like a seaside Punch and Judy show.

In fact, all this activity proves sufficiently fascinating to persuade Matt to cycle back to check on the museum before we head on to Saint-Malo – at which point it begins to rain, and not just rain, but pour. Shoving our bikes hastily behind an abandoned boat, we rush in the direction of the entrance, only to find it still locked up. When I eventually locate a living being in a shed nearby, she tells me, and a vexed-looking French couple who have followed me in, that they’re not actually opening for another 30 minutes. The French observe this is not what’s printed on the board outside. She happily agrees it isn’t.

The terror of missing out on the opportunity to get better acquainted with the many creatures currently dying a horrible death in my stomach must show on my face, because Madame suddenly relents and offers to let us into the museum early instead. I’m delighted: not only will this offer entertainment (though, given that it turns out to be largely devoted to a collection of seashells from around the globe, it doesn’t actually provide very much of that), but it’s warm and dry, too. Perfect.

Once we’ve exhausted the gruesomely detailed biological diagrams of the oyster and mussel, both of which make me heartily regret my dietary choices over the last 24 hours, we stand and watch the rain until a sufficiently large number of pensioners in sensible waterproof clothing have gathered to make a tour. This begins with a lengthy video in French, during which I think I learn that the bay of Mont-Saint-Michel produces about 15,000 tonnes of oysters a year. Their superior quality is attributed to the dramatic tides, which work the muscle holding the shells shut, rather like one of those electric six-pack machines advertised on daytime television: ‘Strong muscles are important,’ the narrator explains ‘as they might be in transit for up to three days if they’re destined for Japanese tables.’ Things could have turned out worse for my 15-year-old, all things considered.

I read on the way out that oysters are ‘your best friends if you are slimming … the queen of all diets, with only 70 calories per 100g’. So French.

Outside, the rain losing heart now, we squelch down to the shoreline to peer at the racks in the distance, where bags of tiny oysters grow into adults, helped by the farmers, who regularly turn and move them to more spacious accommodation to encourage expansion. Once they’re big enough for sale, the oysters are brought up to spend a week or so in an oxygenated, temperature-controlled tank (5–8°C is apparently optimal) to ensure they’re in tip-top health before they’re sorted, with workers weighing each shell in their hands to check they’re heavy, and thus full of water – any suspiciously light ones are discarded as probably dead.

‘In the run-up to Christmas, we employ 69 people here, and they grade 1,800 an hour,’ our guide explains, ‘so they don’t have much time to chat.’ Matt shoots me a meaningful look as the party moves on to the climax of the tour: the dégustation, the oysters already laid out on long tables for our gustatory pleasure. Frankly, I’m relieved to make our excuses and hurry off, though Madame is shocked that we’ll miss the best bit. ‘Ah, les fous Anglais,’ I imagine her muttering as we hastily exit through the gift shop, but I’m content to live up to the national stereotype if it means I don’t have to look another oyster in the frilly gills for a day or so.

Though his check-in opens in half an hour, and we’re still 15km away from the port, Matt confidently assures me as we unlock our sodden steeds that his ship doesn’t actually sail for hours, so until Google Maps sends us down the side of a farmer’s field with mud as deep as our pedals, we make a fairly leisurely pace west.

Fortunately, once we divert on to the main road my phone is so keen to avoid, it’s a fast run into Saint-Malo, although the town sprawls wider than I remember, and the ferry terminal sits bleakly, in the manner of such places, on a dual carriageway with nowhere for a farewell drink but a warehouse advertising cheap crates of beer to British booze cruisers. For the last time, I give thanks for my companion’s unerring nose for ‘just a quick one’, which leads us up the hill to the distinctly un-Gallic Cunningham’s Bar from where we can enjoy the sight of Matt’s boat patiently waiting for him as we raise a cider to my continuing adventures.