In Vermont, a French accent

July 07, 2004|Diane E. Foulds, Globe Correspondent

VERGENNES, Vt. -- The first one may have been a fluke, the second a coincidence, but the third time a French chef opened a gourmet restaurant in little Vergennes, a postscript of a town near Lake Champlain, I knew something was cooking.

Despite the proximity to French-speaking Quebec, French cuisine is scarce in Vermont. Even greater Burlington can claim only one such restaurant. So how could a farming community support three? It was time for a look.

Vergennes (pronounced ver-JENS) is about 25 miles south of Burlington, set back from Route 7 by a long turn that takes you around the northern perimeter like a plane coming in for a landing, then sets you down on Main Street, an avenue of imposing Victorian homes. Technically, the architecture is French Second Empire: mansard roofs, oversize windows, and elevated cupolas that were popular in Paris under the 1852-1870 reign of Napoleon III. When you hit City Hall, the houses change to storefronts. On the right is a lovely park with marble monuments. Farther down the street is the Bixby Library, looking grand and bombastic with Ionic columns and a glass-domed roof. Opposite is the Black Sheep Bistro, the newest French sensation whose black facade and streetside tables ooze European chic.

Chef and owner Michel Mahe is from Brittany but grew up in New York City, where his father ran Le Cheval Blanc. The son set up shop in Vergennes, he says, partly by accident and partly for the quality of life, but also because the landscape reminds him of France.

"Brittany is exactly like here," he said, "cow country."

He was right about cows. I had passed meadows of Holsteins on the drive from Burlington. But Vergennes is looking sophisticated these days, with new shops and sidewalk cafes. After dinner I walked to the opera house for the evening show, a 1929 silent film by Russian director Andrei Vertov. At intermission, I pondered village pleasures: no traffic, no parking meters, the fresh smell in the air.

I would learn later I was wrong: Vergennes is no village, it's a city (incorporated in 1788) -- the smallest in Vermont and perhaps in the country. Most of its 2,741 residents live inside a single square mile.

I couldn't help wondering why Vergennes didn't grow to the size of older cities Hartford and New Haven. What lured the early settlers was not the restaurants but the falls. They are nearly invisible from Main Street, so the next day I sought them out. Turning west at the library, I walked the quarter-mile to MacDonough Park, a modest patch of green that slopes to the water's edge. Though diminutive, it is well accommodated with benches and picnic tables. A disembodied ship's mast rises up from the center as an added touch. I heard a muted roar and then saw them: three foaming waterfalls plunging 37 feet.

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