Earlier this month, I sat around a table in the heart of France and experienced one of the most memorable meals I’ve had in years. Famille Moutièr, a multigenerational restaurant nestled in the village of Thénac in the Périgord region, welcomed us with the kind of charm only centuries can cultivate. Housed in a beautifully preserved 17th-century farmhouse, it had that instant, quiet magic, the kind that lets you know you’re in for something truly special.
The rustic outdoor terrace, mercifully shaded from the sweltering 37-degree heat, felt like a secret garden. A canopy of trees draped in vibrant green created a natural shelter, wrapping the space in soft shadows and filtered sunlight. It was a picture-perfect setting for a long, leisurely lunch, one where food, conversation, and friendship unfolded with effortless ease.
Lunch began in true French fashion, with a DIY Kir. A bottle of intriguing local white wine was paired with an unlabelled bottle of crème de cassis, and the mixing was left entirely up to us. The trick, of course, is restraint: just enough cassis to lift the wine’s flavours without overpowering them. Let’s just say the wine wasn’t exactly a solo performer to begin with, so the addition of blackcurrant liqueur was less of a flourish and more of a rescue mission. Still, it did the job, and added a cheerful start to the meal.
Next came the amuse-bouche: warm, freshly baked gougères, light on description but not on heft, served with a square glass vessel filled with fruit juice from Monbazillac. It was presented with a shortened straw and a flourish that felt more science experiment than aperitif. I’ll admit, it gave me a moment’s pause. If the fruit juice in a cube was any indication of what lay ahead, I feared this lunch might not be my thing.
I was wrong. Gloriously wrong. And about ten minutes later, I was deeply regretting that second gougère.
Foie gras, love it or hate it, is a regional rite of passage. And when it landed in front of us, slightly warmed and piled high with a sticky spiced onion compote, I have to admit… it was outrageously good. Possibly the best I’ve ever had. Then came the Montbazillac: sweet, golden, and practically winking at the foie gras like they were long-lost lovers. Oh, and by the way, we were only two courses in, and the bottles of wine? Casually plonked on the table for us to “help ourselves.” Dangerous territory. Deliciously dangerous.
There’s a quiet kind of magic in the moment when a table of food-loving friends leans in, shares a single plate, and takes that first bite together. Eyes meet, no words needed, just the unspoken joy of flavour and connection. The sweet Montbazillac and the rich, silky foie gras sang in harmony, prompting a gentle chorus of “Mmmms” that rippled around the table, pure, collective bliss.
Périgord salad: a glorious celebration of duck in all its forms. This one came heaped with confit duck gizzards, slivers of dried duck breast, and just to really lean in, dried duck breast stuffed with foie gras. We washed it down with a bottle of Château Grinau’s ‘traditional’ red, which felt perfectly at home alongside such a carnivorous masterpiece. I remember making a version of this back in college, though we swapped the fancy duck for humble lardons—close enough, right? Now, gizzards aren’t everyone’s idea of a good time, and I’m always grateful for the picky eaters at the table (more for me!). But on this occasion, four out of five of us were fully committed, and the gizzards didn’t stand a chance. Rich on rich on rich, but balanced beautifully with a splash of red wine vinegar and that juicy, fruit-forward red. Not a single bite made its way back to the kitchen.
At the start of the meal, a menu board was presented for us to choose our mains. With two duck options, steak, guinea fowl, lamb, and fish, there was no shortage of temptation. But despite the sweltering heat outside, three die-hard duck devotees marched straight to the confit without a second thought.
When it arrived…oh my word. Everything was served family-style on one magnificent platter: whole duck legs glistening in their golden crispness, lamb and steak sliced and artfully stacked, all perched atop what must have been the largest serving of potatoes this side of France. Crowned with a scattering of crispy cepes and not a green vegetable in sight. Not that anyone was complaining.
To make sure our arteries didn’t feel left out, three sauce boats, red wine, porcini, and morel, joined the party. The unspoken message? Resistance is futile. Between the indulgence and the wine (two more bottles casually plonked on the table), we were headed for a finish line paved with gout and glory. Visions of an Absolutely Fabulous afternoon danced in my head, and judging by the laughter around the table, I wasn’t alone.
Duck confit is a weakness of mine, well, let’s be honest, anything confit’d makes the list and this was very, very good. I even tried to track down reviews of the wine online and found the perfect summation: “It’s good table wine.” Which it was. And honestly, that’s all we needed. Nothing too refined, nothing too fussy. Just right.
By this point, I was deeply regretting my decision to go in for a second gougère, but there was no turning back. After a brief pause for digestion (and possibly repentance), the biggest cheese board I have ever seen made its entrance. My heart soared, my brain cried out in false hunger, and my digestive system threatened open rebellion.
The waitress rattled off the names of at least twenty cheeses, hard, soft, washed rind, ash-covered, all local, all delicious, and all delivered with the authority of someone wielding a knife like a cheese sommelier. Naturally, no one declined. We headed in with wild abandon.
I did, however, draw the line at dessert,apart from a pipette of liqueur that came poking out of one particularly cheeky pudding. Everything looked and smelled divine, but after a bottle of wine each and enough calories to fuel a rugby team, I was officially caput.
So why is this rating this as one of my top five meals of all time.
This meal was a true celebration of Périgord’s culinary heritage, a joyful festival of local flavours and time-honoured traditions. Every dish paid homage to the region’s roots, crafted with pride and authenticity.
The value for money was almost outrageous, generous portions, flowing wine, and an experience that felt priceless.
It ticked every box of genuine hospitality,welcoming, delicious, and deeply rooted in place.
But what truly made it unforgettable was the rustic charm of the setting and the warmth of family-style service. It wasn’t just a meal; it was a memory in the making.
But above all, it stirred a deep reminder of food’s quiet magic, how it nourishes not just our bodies, but our bonds with others. It rekindled my love for food as a language of connection, a way hearts, and friendships ,find each other across tables, through shared plates, laughter, and time.
And for my fellow diners, it was a pleasure to share it with you.
To Clodie and Bill, thank you for the memory
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