Vermont is not like the rest of the America, which makes it quite special to me, but I am consistently reminded of this whenever I go there. We went to the small and lovely town of Brandon today to drop off the sheep’s wool so it can be made into yarn for Maria to sell and we drove into town for lunch and stopped at a restaurant called the “Cafe Provence.” There are lots of restaurants with French or European names around upstate New York, where I live, but they are usually just kidding – food is frozen, deep friend or covered in glop. Heart-busters, we call them.

I love where I live, but I am no longer used to the elegance and style taken for granted in Boston or New York. We aren’t too stylish in Washington County, even if we are earnest.

Maria ordered a bagel with lox, stylishly served with capers and some artfully displayed greens. I ordered some oatmeal, which came with raisins, walnuts and cranberries.The waitress refused to serve me my decaf coffee, she insisted on making a fresh cup.  I love oatmeal, this was great. On the way out, I saw a chef behind the grill with a tall French chef’s hat, he looked quite elegant and surprising in a small restaurant in a small town in Vermont. I thanked him for the wonderful oatmeal, and asked if I could take his picture.

“But of course,” he said, in the most elegant and soft-spoken Parisian accent. I took the photo and he smiled at me.

“Monsieur,” he said, “how eez the oatmeal? Did you enjoy it?”  I admit to being startled, but recovered. I thought he might kiss Maria’s hand.

I bowed to him and thanked him, I said the oatmeal was quite wonderful. I saw on the way out that he teaches cooking two or three times a week in this town. I might come back and take a lesson.