By Eva Ciabattoni

Los Altans run Le Mas Perréal bed and breakfast in Provence.

Friends from Mountain View had visited Provence last year and raved about the bed and breakfast run by Kevin and Elisabeth Widrow, who sold their Los Altos home to buy and renovate an old stone farmhouse on the outskirts of St. Saturnin. Le Mas Perréal (a “mas” is a farmhouse, “Perréal” the name of a nearby hill) became the centerpiece of a spring break train trip across Austria, Switzerland and France.

Each morning, I threw open the sky-blue wooden doors of our room to see the clear morning light that drew artists such as Vincent Van Gogh and Paul Cézanne. Breakfast was served at a long wooden table in the spacious eat-in kitchen where investment-banker-turned-B&B-proprietor Kevin Widrow manned the stove, cooking up feather-light crêpes or omelets with broiled tomatoes and tapenade. With the smell of good things tickling our nostrils, we devoured the daily bread from the artisan bakery in the village with butter and homemade jam - either Carpentras strawberry or cherry from the Widrow’s orchard.

We found that Provence is best explored with a rental car, a good set of maps, steady nerves and a guidebook. (Practice putting the car into reverse before being forced to by an inevitable wrong turn. Hint: It involves pulling up on the ring thingy below the gear shift knob.)

Two books that proved particularly useful were “Provence Byways” by Bob and Sue Winn (www.provencebyways.com) and “Markets of Provence” with a foreword by Patricia Wells.

Peter Mayle’s books on Provence - while delightful - were too outdated. Setting out to find a restaurant he described, we drove to Lacoste, where the ruins of the Marquis de Sade’s castle brood over the village, only to discover that the restaurant no longer exists. Sore of foot, tired of body and growling of stomach, we settled for a tiny place we discovered on the main road but found the meal expensive and uninspired. The kids ordered - what else? - hamburgers, which arrived on the tartare side of rare. Unable to summon the words for “done” or “cooked” or even “pink,” I settled for pleading, “Plus chaud.”

Next time I visit, I plan to brush up on my kitchen French before the trip and partake in the long, leisurely, multicourse lunches typical of the region than dinners at which tourists tend to congregate. And we will definitely make another stop at the crêperie Lou Planet on the charming Place Favier in St. Rémy, where the fresh crêpes filled with such pretty-sounding jams as myrtille (blueberry) and groseille (blackberry) are as plaisant as the owner.

Once dismissed as peasant food, the best of Provençal cuisine is based on the concept of fresh, local, the-farmer-has-a-name ingredients. I adored the local small markets that take place once a week in most villages and thrice-weekly in larger towns like Aix-en-Provence.

I visited three very different markets - St. Saturnin, Aix and Bonnieux - and loved the Friday morning market in cliff-hugging Bonnieux best of all. It has a lovely relaxed atmosphere, live music playing, dogs’ tails wagging, people smiling and greeting one another with the double- or triple-cheek kisses. It’s sized to have a good selection without being overwhelming.

Dried lavender blossoms were piled in large baskets in eye-popping quantities; lavender oil was available by the pint. An intensely fragrant aroma drew me to the Rue Lucien Blanc just off the main square, where an amazing selection of herbs and spices were heaped into round, cloth-lined baskets like paints on an oversized artist’s palette.

Several times we spent the morning at a market filling a picnic basket with bread, olives, saucisson (delicious dried pork sausage), jam, butter and meltingly tender local strawberries with a half-life of 2 minutes. After a quick stop at a winery (try Chateau La Canorgue for fine organic red and rosé), we would set off exploring.

I’m still laughing about this paragraph in a guidebook to Fontaine de Vaucluse: “Petrarch was universally known for his collection of sonnets dedicated to Madonna Laura, of whom little is known today. Could it perhaps have been Laura di Noves, wife of Ugo-di-Sade? Who cares? Petrarch immediately fell passionately in love with her.” Who cares, indeed? Pass the strawberries.

Not immune to capitalist market forces, France has its supermarkets too and its nuclear reactors visible from the train, and other modern conveniences and ugliness. The view from Cézanne’s home in Aix is now of a slummy housing project instead of purplish Mont Ste-Victoire, the mountain depicted in many of his paintings. What’s the price of a view, I wonder.

I tried to lug Provence back home with me in the form of bottled sunshine - a half liter of lavender oil; jars of olives; a liter of olive oil; lavender honey; jam; and one, no, two, make that six bottles of wine - to be served on a tablecloth I bought in Aix at La Victoire on the Place Richelme. Marie-Hélène speaks French, English and German; she is happy to help you make the perfect selection of fabrics, napkins or tablecloths - bring measurements or e-mail her at lavictoire1@gmail.com.

Tonight I think I’ll make omelets laced with herbes de Provence. And this weekend, I’ll try Kevin’s crêpes, for which he gave me the recipe to share with readers in his former hometown. They’re called matefaims, a word from Old French meaning “that which kills the hunger.” I’ll vouch for that.

Matefaims “Mas Perréal”

Beat 2 eggs.

Mix in 1¼ cup flour, 3 tablespoons sugar and ½ teaspoon baking powder.

Add 1¼ cup milk.

Add vanilla extract to taste and about a capful of rum.

For the filling, you can use sliced apple and/or pears. Simmer over medium heat with lots of salted butter and cinnamon and brown sugar to taste.

Melt a bit of butter over medium heat, then pour in enough batter to cover the bottom of the pan. Let brown, flip and add a portion of filling to one half. Let the matefaim cook a bit more. Then use a bit of batter around the filling to seal the matefaim as you flip it over to form a pouch. Serve with a bit more of the filling and a dusting of powdered sugar.

Eva Ciabattoni is a Los Altos resident and freelance writer living on the outskirts of Vienna for one year.