There is something in life that I truly love besides the fabulous Jann, who has been sitting only a few inches across a small table from me for the past hour, filling our lunchtime with joy. If I were a spy facing interrogation and a certain sweet was offered to me in return for secrets – no problem – I’d tell all. Please let me glory for a few brief minutes in a golden seasonal delight here in the South. There is a certain lemon that grows in the hills of Menton, a pretty little town almost in the lap of Italy. No other fruit will do for a certain chef in Nice. When the lemons of Menton are in season, a couple of large lemon tartes will appear each day, providing a slice for those quick enough to order dessert as soon as they come in the door.
Now, I’ve eaten around, so to speak, tasting off-season tartes, American imitations, and the best that Paris has to offer. All others are mere pretenders. Words are going to be inadequate, but I have to give it a try. An airburst of pleasantly tart, juicy flavor, not unlike the grand finale on the 4th of July (or le quatorze juillet for you who prefer that celebration). There is no cloying sweetness trying to make up for the inadequacy of the fruit itself. No… this is just enough sweet to almost catch up with the tartness of the lemon, leaving your mouth in a slightly orgasmic state. I realize that this last part was a bit over the line. My apologies, but I hope you get the message. When I asked for a slice last November (out of season) at this particular restaurant, the server looked at me like I had insulted his mother. “January,” he said. “At the earliest.”
I think that some things in life are worth waiting for. It’s just my opinion. There have been times in life when we could buy most of what we wanted, when we wanted. Now it’s more about quality over quantity. We shared one slice of simple lemon goodness, five or six bites each. Sublime.
