little gold car downhill over winding roads to the seaside town of sanary sur Mer, where farmers had set up their stalls near fishing boats moored by the blue Mediterranean Sea.
   She greeted the vendors by name and puchased just enough items to let us know that she was getting some practical use out of this visit - some cheese, a variety of mushrooms and olives, a few tomatoes ("mmm, so perfect!").
   Soon, Juju and I had to press on. We had locked ourselves into an itinerary that involved meeting some people in Toulon, then having lunch with two more acquaintances in St. Tropez. We saw Daniele to her car, exchanged kisses, and as she started the engine, we told her, "We'll be back." (...)

A little hotel/restaurant in Provence loses no charm the second time around

By Robert Cross
Tribune staff reporter

the next few hours he would be preparing individual banquets for as many as 70 customers seated in the large yellow dining room with picture windows overlooking the vineyards of bandol and the distant Provencal mountains.
   On that memorable evening in 1996, Daniele had introduced each course and every that went with it. "You have never had anything like this," she would say. "This is so delicious. You will love the one that comes next. Yes, yes, yes!" As soon as a server had retrieved our plates, Daniele would rush over with a big smile. "Do you see? Didn't I tell you? Magnifique! Yes!"
   After dessert, Rene Berard emerged from his kitchen with the beaming Daniele at his side, as if showing him off. we conversed in halting French with considerable aid from daniele, who is fluent in English. "I cook the cuisine of Provence," he said. "I cook what like."
   Rene runs a famous cooking school, but he would not be teaching the next day, because he had ageed to take part in a special educational program for pre-adolescents. many of the chefs of France planned to visit their local schools to teach children the virtues of the national cuisine as opposed to the evils of fast food. In France, good taste demands eternal vigilance.
   "But we will visit the market, instead! You will love it," Daniele told us. And sure enough, the next morning we followed her

   CADIERE D'AZUR, France - Madmae Daniele Berard, tiny and blond and more bubbly than Champagne, met us with kisses in the cheeks, hugs, sparkling eyes and all the bonhomie of a friendship renewed.
   My wife, Juju, and I had promised her we would return to her Hostellerie Berard. We had stayed there in the autumn of 1996 during a rather hectic tour of Provence - sampling chateaux, converted abbeys and convertes monastries along the way. All had their good points, but our one evening and morning at Hostellerie berard somehow struck the deepest and longest chord.
   Rene Berard, Daniele's husband and a master chef, presides over the kitchen that gives the hostellerie's wonderful restaurant its gustatory luster: He is large in a muscular way and bears a resemblance to mel Brooks, but youger and less impish. He had greeted us warmly, too, but after a few glances at his watch, he repaired to the kitchen. In

  (...) Travel writers frequently convince themselves they'll return to places they like. When they conclude an article that way, it sounds trite - a facile cliche employed to wrap things up, like the sunsets in TV Travelogues.
   So I won't end the story here.
   Last summer, we did return to Hostellerie Berard. And we were relieved to see that hardly anything had changed. The first time, we recalled, our room presented a pleasing view of vineyards and farms. The scene from our single window had resembled a landscape by Jean-Francois Millet. This time, we could look out at more swaths of green, plus a neighboring village, Le Castellet, with its medieval walls perched atop a hill. In the foreground, right below our window, the hostellerie'dark blue swimming pool shimmered, and sunbathers lounged on the terrace beside it.
   Yes, it was summer, and Rene Berard does not conduct his famous cooking school in July and August. We would miss it again. Besides: "It is not a cooking school," insists Daniele. "He teaches the art of fine cuisine and good living in Provence. Many times when you take a cooking course it's not with the big, famous chef who gives the school its name. But Rene is there himself. Ah yes."
   "Ah, but you are in for a treat tomorrow morning, anyway", Daniele consoled. "The Bastide, the beautiful Bastide! You will visit there. Yes!", The Bastide, it turned out, would be the country house where rene Berard imparts his wisdom to paying students and grows the herbs and vegetables that go into his dishes and the flowers that beautify the restaurant.
      That afternoon of our arrival, while Juju shopped on the main street, Rue Gabriel Peri, I spent the afternoon wandering around La Cadiere d'Azur, the name of which evolved from "Cathedra", which it was called back in 977 A.D. Although the town is of some interest to medievalists, it suffers little of the touristic bustle we had experienced earlier in resorts along the coast. Cars moved politely, despite the absence of traffic lights. I could wander off the sidewalk to better admire the beige buildings with tile roofs and their colorful shutters, the imposing gates, the ancient walls and the magnificent vistas of French countryside below.
      Although La Cadiere d'Azur is less than 30 miles east of Marseille, no airplanes flew overhead. The trucks on Autoroute 50 could not be heard from the hilltop, and they looked like silent little restnagles as they sped past the rolling vineyards. Chirping cicadas, which the Provencals have adopted as their signature insect, would have drowned out the engine roar in any case.
   The 40-room hotel complex has been described as a former covent, dating back to the 11th century - or a monastery, or a prefecture boarding house. Over 35 years of operation, involving cinsiderable hard work,the Berards have acquired several houses and lots along Rue Gabriel Peri. Thier buildings blend into the rear of the village church and spill downhill toward the village cemetery. They span an alley called Rue du Moulin a Vent - Windindmill Street - one more implication that La Cadiere d'Azur, with a population of 1,000 within the town walls, has served other purposes and weathered sevarl centuries.
    The Berards grew up here. He was the butcher's son. She was a pharmacist by training. Their 25-year-old son, Jean-Francois, also cooks, and their daughter, Sandra, 28, does aggresive marketing for Hostellerie Berard, making sure the world does not ignore it

 .

   Although Rene Berard considers himself a disciple of Auguste  Escoffier, he doesn't favor the heavy sauces and rich creams of the old french style. "Nouvelle cuisine?" he often says. "I don't know what it is. For me, there is only the cooking I like." The mantra hasn't changed.
   Yet, the plates that grace the yellow tablecloths arrive bearing what appears to be modern cuisine. Foie gras looks jaunty on its tiny dish, surrounded by slices of fresh peach. Sauces circle the entrees artistically, and summer truffles harvested in Aup form a precise pattern around the rims of larger plates. The Sisteron lamb shanks arrive with sprigs of thyme, which have been set afire so they can send curls of smoky fragance across the dining room. Yellow zucchini flowers stuffed with steamed ratatouille complement some courses.
   The main dishes cover a wide range. A brochure published by the Chambre de Commerce et d'Industrie Marseille-Prrovence hails Chef Berard for his takes on veal from Aveyron, poultry from Bresse and fish from Sanary. He makes a sublime bass mousse and seasons red mullet with pistachios. He does miraculous things with pigeon and hare. The roast kid comes encrusted with pistachio and green garlic.
Dessert range from his version of the classic Peach Melba to all those chocolate things with funny shapes and intense flavors that patrons of haute-cuisine encounter the world over.
   Still, this is not another story about a french super star: Rene berard wins plenty of awards and has appeared on french television, but he isn't exactly a household name on the foodie circuit. The hotel rates three stars, not four or five, according to the government's bewildering rating system. Michelin Guide finds the accomodations quite plaesant, but as for restaurant no stars at all.
   I went there initially, in 1996, because French government tourism officials had recommended Hostellerie Berard as one place to stay while I researched an article on the painters of Provence. But the tourism officials recommended lots of lodgings. We returned to this one because of lodgings. we returned to this one because that brief contact with a hotel-restauarant family had blossomed into friendship. We kept in touch. When Rene and daughter Sandra vivited Chicago two years ago, Juju and I took them out for dim sum.
   As always, on our trip to france, the tribune paid, despite Daniele's protests.
   So all of this affection is difficult to explain. We fell in love with a small hotel-restauarnt and that led us to fall in love with Provence. So many little things go into something like that: the back trousers and skirts and white shirts of the wait staff, the exquisite bar beside the dining room, the colorful tiles, the view of the greeting card f

rom the Berards that has wished us well fir each of the last five Januarys.
   And there were big things: The satisfied grin on the face of son Jea-Francois as he emerges from his father's kitchen. The news that Sandra is expecting her first child and must send regrets, via cell phone, from her home in Marseille.
   And, of course, La Bastide. Ah, yes! Rene Berard drove us there in his old blue Mercedes, winding down the hill, cutting through the vineyards on a smooth road, and parking in the driveway of a handsome old country house. He calls it "La Bastide des saveurs", the country house of flavors, and the cooking school sessions take place in the long, cool kitchen, admist the barrels of homemade vinegar, well-seasoned pots ans pans ans state-of-the-art ranges and ovens. The house is a Provencal museum of ancient cupboards, beautiful tile work and artful furnishings of well-used wood. Upstairs  are four well-appointed new guest rooms ("only for special visitors, but not available yet"). The house intrigued us, but Rene was anxious to proceed outside, where his garden - with the aid of two gardeners - is a showplace of colors, a living pantry of ingredients for the kitchen, and a bower filled with flowers for Hostellerie Berard.
   We strolled along slim pathways separating the tomatoes from the zucchini, the raspberries from the eggplant. Rene pointed out the haricot, chicory, coriander, pepermint, wisteria and English roses.... There were trees growing peaches and olives, plus medleys of herbs only a master chef could name. "It's all natural, organic," Rene said.
   Then he added, "This is my paradise."
   That night, our second and last this time in La Cadiere d'Azur, we enjoyed another fine dinner. red mullet. Monk fish. An exquisite dessert. The dining room was full, and yet daniele managed to make everyone feel special. The streets outside were packed with the cars of patrons from nearby villages, as well as those  who come all the way from Marseille.
   After eating too much once again, Juju and i oedered our digestifs out on the main street. the two bars in town had set up tables at the edge odf the narrow right-ofway. Townspeople filled the makeshift outdoor cafe, and a jazz trio perofmred - two men on acoustic guitars, a woman on violon. ...