I first visited the south of France when I was 18 and I could tell right away that Provence knew something I didn’t.

When the train from Paris pulled into the station, I tossed my pack on my back and wandered off to a sleepy Sunday afternoon in the seaside town of Cassis. Sundays, especially back then, were days off in France. Sure, you’d find the lights on at a café or two, with couples and families sharing a carafe of wine, but for the most part, towns are shuttered and quiet. Sundays are considered a day to spend with people you care about the most, take a walk in the park, play some petanque, and watch the tide come in.

I stayed at an old provincial mas five miles outside of town. At the time, I had as many spare dollars as Cassis had Sunday bus routes; which is to say, I took a long walk up the hill and into the countryside rather than hail a cab. Five beautiful but hard-fought miles later, I checked in to the ivy-covered farmhouse. The same fleur de lys tile from the 1800s still was underfoot in the entrance hall. With stone walls that old, I felt myself sink in deep.

One thing missing though, was food. After the uphill schlep with all my worldly possessions on my back, I could barely muster “je cherche un restaurant” to the propriétaire, only to be told that it was Sunday, nothing was open. No boulangerie or patisserie, no brasserie… no café. Nothing at all except, he told me, down the road a ways, there was a couple and their three daughters who had a pizza oven in their backyard and would make pizzas every Sunday. I could try there, if I wanted, he shrugged.

A few more miles added to my day of walking and sure enough, I found the only backyard with signs of life. It seemed that the entire village was already there, lounging around tables and devouring slice and after slice. They’d sometimes sing, other times fall silent. The old couple in the corner would kiss and the guy in plaid would bang on the table. The father threw more wood on the brick oven. The wine would get emptied and refilled and the Pastis passed around. The daughters kept a constant barrage of pizzas and cheese plates on the table as the local fisherman and cheese monger welcomed in the American kid, taught him the lyrics to La Marseillaise (wait, is your national anthem seriously all about blood in the streets?), and made sure his mug of cider never went dry.

The whole neighborhood gathered in one spot every Sunday just to be together.

That sense of community is something I’ve sought out and aimed to create since. It’s one of the reasons Moveable Feast has come about. I want to get good people around a big table.

And there’s something about the Chateau de Goult, something about the old stone walls that draws you right in. The great halls are begging for a big table full of folks and ideas.

Check this place out. Let’s tell each other some tall tales and add to the many stories its walls have heard.

If these walls could talk… What stories they’d tell. We can’t wait to hear yours. Come be a part of our village– it won’t be the same without you.

Wanna chat about your seat at the chateau table? We’re just a skype call away. Hit us up and let’s set up a rendezvous.

-T

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