My friend GB is a very special person. An artist, outstanding photographer, father of two, with a spiritual and slightly morbid side. He goes to poor places or war zones to speak with the people holding the banner of spirituality and culture there. Back home, he navigates the social [[Primordial Soup]] like the mythical ancestor of all social animals. From the sleazy rich to the marginal and all women turn their heads like owls since Adonis gave up and became a solitary fisherman in spite. One day he comes to visit and says: "I want to show you guys an incredible place". Tartas, southern Haute-Loire. It had snowed heavily, the hills roll far and cold. The village is so medieval that the nave of the church has a kink towards the alter to avoid some rock. Constructed with the precision of a measuring thumb. Volcanic stone, red and green, mayor's daughter greets him heartily, she's the only resident under 20. We came for Madame Graille. 80 plus years old, she has been selling groceries for all her life, her son is selling lentils and beef. Her bar-inn hybrid serves Jack Daniels, soccer and newspapers but most importantly her own cooking. GB's eyes sparkle: "This kind of place is out of this world, out of time". Graille is determined, measured, a gesture appoints our seating and in a second we have an anonymous red wine, cooked ham and pickles on our plates. Only one other table, locals who complain about strangers and the weather. In a movie I would blend in a dramatic view from way down pointing past a moss-covered stone cross, clouds running by like veins on a taught forearm. And cut to our table: GB is telling us about an Imam somewhere in Lebanon, "The inside of a Minaret is just a concrete block - people park their bikes, flour sacks, Amazon packages". We run around the world, 0-100 countries in 7 words or less. Have you been to China? Petra is the most amazing place on earth. And you should definitely live among Benedictine monks for a couple of months. Graille is holding her famous gratin on shaky legs. I'm not sure she'll make it, GB gets up to help her out a bit. It's caramelized, tough but tasty a perfect bite to go with the miracle wine that I keep serving enthusiastically into tiny sturdy glasses. I grew up on movies showing this world: the old clock from a train station, maps from when school boys were wearing shorts, men would be throwing "boules" if it weren't so chilly and somebody enjoys their pastis. Back home, I wanted to get away from these vibes. But here I could imagine shedding a tear for that brave woman with a glint of wit lodged in the corner of her eye, cuddled into her wrinkles like a girl dreaming of true love under her Pocahontas bedsheets. "Did you enjoy?" - "Very much so, Madame", clear eyes that would stop bullets mid air but feel like a pat on the back for those who stare back with honesty and truth. I sound like Ernest, but it is as it is: at her age, you don't lose time with nonsense. Show your colors or get the f\*ck out. Desert is a Clafoutis, an astonishing dish I only learned about in France. Powerfruits and dairy, minimal sugar, infinite variations. "Coffee?" - "You bet!" GB has told us about this hundreds of times. Filter coffee, heated in the microwave, served in a one liter pot. It is good coffee. We ask for the bill, no answer. The other patrons are long gone, the TV is going loud in another room. Madame Graille fell asleep on her chair next to her cup. GB goes to wake her up and in less time she needs to get up she calculates our tab. "Say hello to your dad for me", she tells GB and "a tres bientot!" "We'll be back", I clamor by way of goodbye. I mean it in the moment but it's unlikely to happen like most things. GB has lived for almost a year in this forlorn village, painting nebulous bodies and death while the old ladies chatted with the young man about life in the olden days. And he wanted to show us who had kept him well fed and in good spirits.