Nothingcould have prepared me for the vision that appeared in the dining room of Domaine Balthazar in Carcassonne, that Sunday lunchtime in 2008. As a food and travel writer, I’d journeyed all the way from New York City to write a simple article on the history of cassoulet. I thought I would meet a chef, taste some beans and head home.
Instead, a group of ‘Oompa-Loompas’ in red robes and matching berets emerged carrying a stretcher wrapped in red and gold silk on which sat two gargantuan clay pots that sent clouds of caramelised steam wafting straight into my nose. Singing in what I would later discover to be the ancient Occitan language, the men and
