On the day I landed in Paris, I left Paris. For Rennes. This was a technology/diligence trip, and so western France would occupy my time for the first part of the trip. The first stop was Rennes. When I finally emerged from the hotel after a coma-like nap, a young hip gal with the heavy regional accent of Bretagne - Rennes is the capital of this region - told me that for the aperitif I sought in a nice ambiance, I specified, perhaps Place Ste. Anne was where I should head. And so I did, passing all sorts of lovely and actually just exquisite architecture along the way.
When one is sitting outside in a lovely Place such as this, i.e., the photo above, and enjoying the first aperitif in France, one tends to go overboard. I had two aperitifs - and then realized I needed to eat. Soon.
No good calling the hotel to ask what they had recommended as the best creperie out of so many in the crowded creperies culinary space. Too tired. Faint with hunger. I figured just any one of the nearby creperies on this bustling gathering spot would be a good pick.
I would be wrong.
I picked one nonetheless. And had more red wine. But it could not disguise that the spinach in this crepe - which I thought would be a healthy choice along with ham, mushrooms, and hallmark of regional egg on top - for my first famous regional crepe in this the capital of Brittany.
The equivalent of frozen chopped spinach this was. A sour canned taste. I was forced to order a dessert crepe: chocolate and salted caramel. For someone who had been on no bread, no sugar, and in general just no complex carbs for weeks, this was manna. Slowly, but not entirely, the sour canned spinach taste and memory went away.
Next day, I know better. I ask at the Front Desk. The nice young man does not hesitate when I say I made a mistake the night before and needed a great creperie. The Creperie Saint-Georges, he says, and hands me a map.
I walk down the charming quais. Then turned right and right again onto the cobblestone street, with lanterns and those hallmark half wood-framed buildings. It was perfect. How ever did he know?
I walk in. It is unlike the 1970s mode creperies I recall from high school trips to Paris. It is hip, warm, friendly, and bustling. Mid-century modern chairs - avocado green almost, gold, lucite and shag up front. But all done up with a 2012 contemporary sensibility. See it all here.
Even better, the music. That lounge-y stuff that I on buying on iTunes (Soul Lounge, Gregorian Chant Lounge, Celtic Lounge).
I wanted to high-5 the guy at the hotel about now.
I walk through the cool vibe room onto that back terrace.
I am handed a menu.
So many elegant choices for a crepe.
This is not the last night creperie-of-canned-spinach horrors.
This is about fresh farm cream and other locally sourced dairy, including all the goat cheese.
Even better, certain crepes had recommended wine pairings by the chef. Have to have that.
I order the "George" something: with the chevre cendre (ashed) and pears, and lightly smattering of "lardons" (bacon). I was unclear on the "glace (ice cream) a chevre" - how does ice cream enter into the picture? But the pear and goat cheese with that ashen outside was calling my name. I ordered, and for 3.2 Euros extra, got the Chardonnay pairing.
"Black wheat" (ble a noir) is the composition for these crepes - darker it seems than the more traditional buckwheat.
Inside, the lardons are not overmuch and not greasy.
Just enough to pick up and contrast that salty tasty with a sweet crisp pear, and several small layered slices of just melted oozy goat cheese with that telltale sharpness that I just never get tired of.
And that little bit of ice cream on the side on my lovely plate? So used to "chevre" being used to refer to cheese, or that's just where my head is usually, I forget it is just the word for goat. Therefore, if one has yogurt with "chevre" - it is yogurt made with goat milk. And if it is "glace" - or ice cream - a la chevre, it is ice cream made with goat milk.
It was such a French, tiny, just-right portion. It was a thick, rich vanilla taste, with a tart tangy bite to it. I loved it. Loved it all.
And then I ordered coffee.
And then I finished my coffee.
And then there was nothing left to order. I had to leave.
Here, one pays at "l'accueil" - at the welcome desk up front. The two guys running this whole show, answering the phone, cheerfully and graciously welcoming every guest - a charming bookend to the creperie of horrors the night before. I told of my mistake: that I ate the night before at a creperie up at the Place Sainte Anne. He smiled and kind of rolled his eyes knowingly, but he said nothing.
And because it is "Festival Gourmand" in Rennes for about a month -- though I am missing the big finale weekend in a couple of weeks -- they stamped my card for me that I picked up at the tourism office. If you go to 3 restaurants participating in the "Festival Gourmand" and have them stamp this card, you rank which of the visited restaurants you liked best and turn in the card at the tourism office for a drawing.
I did not turn mine in.
But if I had, the Saint Georges would have been my No. 1 pick.
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