We set out for a heroic 40 km ride through the Esterel mountains — electric bikes, early morning discipline, and protein yogurt for breakfast.
By 10 a.m., we were in Saint-Raphaël, ready for adventure.
But then came the drizzle, the smell of grilled shrimp, and the irresistible laughter of locals already sipping white wine over oysters.
So much for the cycling.
Sometimes, the only race worth running is between the seafood stall and the cheese shop.
🎙️ Listen, imagine the sea breeze, and taste the quiche.
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On Saturday, we were firmly determined to conquer our rightful 40 km on electric bikes through the Eststerell Mountains. And so, we arrived in San Rafael as early as 10:00 a.m. An unheard of weekend achievement for me. Sporty, that’s what we are. Not like those others who, hiding their swollen, postparty eyelids behind dark glasses, crawl along sleepy streets. They seem to be heading for some farmers arugula and raw sausages, but in reality they cling tightly to the first cafe table surrounding the market. They perch on a stool or bench, slowly fill themselves with coffee and cigarettes, exchange jokes with passers by, gradually move on to oysters and white wine, and finish right there without leaving the spot with a solid French lunch. Not us. We are strong willed. went to bed early, woke up fresh, had a breakfast of protein enriched yogurt, and stifling a yawn, were ready to shake ourselves out of the soft seats of a warm car and begin our survival race. Not really. Clouds thickened in the sky. A fine drizzle began to fall. How about a cup of tea with milk? Came a timid suggestion. No caffeine, no sweets, just to warm the insides before a decisive dash through the forested hills in bad weather came immediate voices of agreement. Down with croissants. We need a place with teapotss and kiche. Real French kiche with cheese. The sensible thought gained momentum. Do you know what kiche lraine truly is? The real one from the region of Anacey. No ham, God forbid. only smoked bacon, eggs, and cream, just like my grandmother made before going to work in the fields until dark. Swallowing hard, we stepped onto the market square, right under the tunnel with TGV trains roaring overhead, and stumbled upon a stall of fresh seafood. It had absolutely everything. Shrimps, from tiny gray ones the size of a child’s ear to huge whiskered giants of the same color, and of course, lifeaffirming pink ones in three sizes. Lobsters, crayfish, langusts and langustines, separate crab claws for those who don’t like row, pearly squids, sea urchins from asterius, snails, scallops. Not just a fish shop, a full-on cafe with a grill covered in oiled paper, where the sea creatures chosen by the guests are tossed and cooked right before your eyes, then served without ceremony, accompanied by a glass of white wine. Across the square, another awning with the night’s fresh catch, whole fish or fillets, and towering piles of oysters, both Atlantic and local. It’s oyster season because the month’s name, October, contains an R. Thanks to fridges, oysters are eaten in summer, too. But the trueorn locals never give up their principles. A dozen oysters never hurt anyone. We’ll have the meatiest ones and no wine, please. What kind of cycling can you do after alcohol? Grilled shrimp, snails with mayo, seabbream fillet, perch and scallops for me, fried sardines. These are places with honest food and honest prices. No linen napkins or uniformed waiters. You’ll be served by the owner himself, throwing bold compliments at cheerful ladies of early retirement age. As an apparatif, the chef, who is also the owner, the main vendor, and the one training apprentices, shucking oysters before your eyes, will toss you, just for the ladies. Four beautifully bare shrimp fried in boiling oil. Oysters come on ice with lemon and vinegar. Black bread and butter complete the composition. Illegal glasses of wine sneak onto the tables. Tea is forgotten. No side dishes. As for amenities, a solitary market toilet resembling a small metal submarine. It’s fully washed automatically after each use. So, believe it or not, it’s not as terrible as I imagined. Craving dessert? They’ll wave you toward the ice cream stand on the proomenade. Passers by can’t resist the sight of early morning eaters devouring seafood at an hour when only black coffee is socially acceptable. Scandal. And immediately occupy the remaining tables under the awning. Don’t get us wrong, this isn’t lunch, just to light a pair of teeth, insists an elegant elderly couple before promptly ordering enough food for an army. Three ancient old ladies, flirtatious blondes with walkers long past caring about propriety, dive straight into sardines and blackjack, skipping the foreplay. We finish our fish and lean back in our chairs. And then, as if on Q, the sun bursts out, swiftly scattering the clouds and drying the drops on the cobblestones. Questionable weather to be honest. Not much of a day for cycling. On the next street, we discover an excellent fromie, cheese shop, and bulerie bakery. And thus, our athletic adventure turns into a gourmet marathon.