Bordeaux is the Grand Hôtel, across from the opera house, and its Gordon Ramsay restaurants. It’s about entrecôte Bordelaise à la moelle, a grilled rib-eye served with a red wine and bone marrow reduction, and lamproie à la Bordelaise, a rich winter stew made with lamprey, leeks, lots of butter and perhaps bacon.
The Dordogne, on the other hand, is all about fermes auberges — farmhouses converted to guest rooms — surrounded by groves of plum or walnut trees, and their family-run restaurants, where madame takes your order, monsieur cooks, mamie pours the anonymous vin rouge, and the children, curious about their guests, race from the kitchen with baskets of crusty country bread and a chipped crock of homemade butter.
A quick glance at the menu on the chalk board reveals the region’s general all-duck-no-choice selection. Do they make pâté and rillettes and saucisson out of duck for an appetizer? They do.
For the entrée, might they cook a leg and thigh confit or, perhaps, sear the breast and bathe it in a reduction of grated orange peel, cinnamon, star anise and red wine? Most assuredly.
If you desire something lighter, is there a beak-to-tail salad, Landaise, heaped with foie gras, duck confit and the poor bird’s organ meats? If you’re lucky. But, please, don’t bother to ask for entrecôte; that’s not what they do here.
Bordeaux is about the Philippe Starck-designed Château les Carmes Haut-Brion, with its ship’s prow winery, plopped in the middle of a river like a metal-hulled cargo vessel.
Dordogne is about peasant-built castles perched on cliffs and bastide towns, medieval villages with timber-framed houses and fortified outer walls.
Bordeaux is about jazz festivals and stunning fireworks on Bastille Day launched from barges floating down the Garonne.
The Dordogne is about la Félibrée, a 100-year-old celebration of the ancient Occitan culture that rotates annually among the region’s villages and can best be described as the Rose Parade-meets-Renaissance festival.
On streets decorated overhead with thousands of bright plastic flowers, old and young, in homemade folk costumes with lots of lace and embroidery, play button accordions and a sort of French bagpipe called a cabrette while everyone dances like a stilted marionette.
The finale of the early summer festival is a traditional communal lunch, perhaps held inside a monastery, where neighbors remind one another to add a healthy splash of red wine to the last of their garlic soup and quaff it cabroù, which means to “drink as a goat.” You will be served foie gras and duck confit in a soupy broth of cassoulet beans, followed by a plate of nutty, velvety Rocamadour goat cheese.