Nîmes is only a half hour west of Avignon by swift train. The city is technically in another province, Languedoc-Rousillon, but, according to Fodor's, is “as Provençal as cassoulet.”And here, fortunately, on the eighth night of our trip, our luck with food improved dramatically.

It would have been hard to predict that we would easily find excellent food from the appearance of the buildings or the quality of our hotel. On an afternoon that continued the trend in sunnier weather, we lugged our bags a half mile up a broad boulevard lined with gray marble buildings, around the ancient Roman amphitheater known as les Arènes and half a block up a narrow lane to the Hôtel de l'Amphitheatre. The room was inexpensive (250FF), but it required a considerable walk beyond the front desk, up a flight of stairs, down a long corridor, then up two more flights to the troisième étage. This was perhaps the quirkiest room we stayed in. It appeared to have been remodeled at some time in recent decades by someone with an imagination but not much taste or skill in executing his vision. The entire room and bathroom had been paneled in wood (including panels covering the bathtub) and amateuristically painted to simulate white marble. To its credit, when we flung open the shutters we discovered that the window looked down onto a large plaza with a royal palm tree. (Checking the map, we learned this was the Place du Marché.) The hotel dropped to the lowest rung in cleanliness, however, when we noticed a strong mildewy odor on all the bathroom towels. We wondered if, after the previous  they had simply been placed back on the rack and left to dry.

Contrary to expectations, good food was only half a block away. Because the Rough Guide did not annex Nîmes to Provence, we had to consult the Lonely Planet chapter on Languedoc for recommendations. Fortunately, there were three paragraphs worth. Having been frustrated finding satisfaction in something genuinely Provençal or even merely French, Maryl and I decided to go international. There was an Algerian restaurant, Lakayna, on another narrow lane, the rue de l'Etoile, that radiated away from the Place du Marché. Maryl and I had both enjoyed Moroccan food at one time or another, but we didn't know what to expect of cuisine d'Algerie served in southern France, but it sounded worth a try. We could not see through the narrow doorway to judge the restaurant's quality by customer count, so we followed our instincts. As we were escorted from the entry down one step into the restaurant proper, my anticipation was enhanced. It was an intimate restaurant, with most but not all of the tables occupied. The atmosphere quickly transported me to another foreign country. I failed to take conscious note of the details, but my memory constructs rust-colored walls, hung with tapestries and shiny artifacts – perhaps pipes, coffee­making vessels or musical instruments. The recorded musical accompaniment, at reasonable listening levels, was probably Algerian, not the modern youth-oriented songs in English we had heard at most restaurants. We were seated at one corner of a massive wooden table which had ornate carving around the sides, and we sank into cushioned chairs that put my chest at about table height. So much the better for shoveling couscous into my mouth, I thought, recalling one of the items that the Rough Guide had mentioned we would find.

The menu was straightforward in structure, but did not make it particularly simple to render a decision on what to eat. There were two types of dishes, couscous and tagines, whatever that was, with the same variety of meat and vegetarian toppings for either. Maryl finally settled on couscous with a chicken topping, and I decided to learn what tagines were. My tagine d'agneau aux dattes et pignons would have lamb in a sauce with dates and pine nuts. The waiter cautioned me, switching to English when I did not quite understand, that my choice was both “sweet and salt,” which, apparently, some people found objectionable. I did not. The flavor of what turned out to be a kind of stew met my craving perfectly. The lamb was tender, and the bowl of couscous that accompanied my dish was light and fluffy and seasoned wonderfully with cinna­mon. (When I recently made couscous a couple times to serve with a couple vegetarian stews of African inspiration, the result was a sticky, lumpy glob of semolina, no matter how often I stirred during the brief cooking period. Tasting how delectable it could be made me vow to learn how it was done.) Maryl's dish as well was delicious, its only fault being the incredible volume of food. In addition to the plate of plain couscous paired with an adequate serving of savory chicken pieces, there was a bowl of stew with large chunks of potatoes and other vegetables. It easily would have made a soup course for four diners, but apparently it was meant to be the topping solely for the plate of couscous. I think even a vegetarian plate of couscous would have made a fine, affordable meal for two. But I was not disappointed that we had tasted both dishes. At our request for un vin Africain, the waiter recommended one of the Algerian offerings, which made a hearty accompaniment.

En route to that Algerian restaurant on our first night in Nîmes, although it was a mere half block away, we had been tempted by an even closer restaurant that we passed, right on the edge of our Place. Called La Zarzuela, it was a Spanish tapas restaurant with a large assortment of seafood on the menu. The dining area here was fully exposed, with tables spilling out into the plaza, and it clearly passed the popularity test: although sizable, there was hardly an empty table in sight. Throughout our second day in Nîmes the subliminal suggestion of seafood tapas simmered in the back of our minds. We took a guided tour of the Les Arènes, being guided around the danger zones as workmen dismantled the last support poles that had held a huge inflatable roof over the amphitheater throughout the winter. I wondered if the ancient Romans would be pleased to see that their arenas are still being packed with spectators, drawn today to a somewhat stylized form of human/animal combat. And what would they think of the modern-day innovation that the the decendants of the Gauls who reinherited their empire now deploy to hold sporting events in comfortable conditions year round. After the tour we walked to the Jardins du Fontaine, another example of the French talent for harmonizing gardens and architecture, in this case a large sunken fountain where citizens in times past could pilot small boats under covered passageways. Finally we climbed a path that zig-zagged through a lovely terraced garden to reach an ancient Roman tower, the Tour Magne, for a panoramic view of the city. During that active afternoon we worked up a real appetite. So on the second night there was no question that we would go to La Zarzuela.

We did not regret our decision. Fortunately, although the restaurant again appeared packed on this Wednesday night, the hostess did not shoo us away, but found a table tightly wedged between the tables of two other couples. Our neighbors seemed to greet us with a brief glance, then blissfully resumed the task of attacking piles of all manner of shellfish. The idea of selecting dishes in a foreign language at a tapas bar seemed a bit daunting. Fortunately, one item on the menu rescued us and came to both our attention at the same time: an assortiment de tapas with both fish and shellfish. Although we recognized less than half the names, everything was delicious. The moules bathed in their shells in a piquant red sauce, while the calamars à la Romane were served simply in oil (with a little garlic), as, obviously, were the strips of poivrons a l'huile, which aren't fish at all. Tellines were, as the Rough Guide's six-page table of food terms informed us later, those tiny clams that we gobbled down, and the petite friture were indeed small fried fish—difficult to bone, but easily chewed whole, like the plateful that Maryl and I once washed down, like peasants, with retsina in Athens. We never translated escabèche, but there were some whole fresh shrimp (with eyes) on the plate. We decided to try a pichet of Côte du Rhône rosé, and I was pleased to discover that, unlike its American namesake, rosé in France retains its identity as a wine, rather than a soft drink.