After the market, we'd go out for lunch; not at "good" restaurants, Michelin-starred or otherwise (2-year-olds and fine wines in crystal goblets don't mix), but at local routiers (truck stops) or at informal spots that we chanced upon. The food in these family-run establishments was simple yet well prepared, and the ambience was very, very kid-friendly. Our favorite was Auberge de la Nauze, tucked away in the ancient village of Fongauffier. The first day we went, we wanted to sit downstairs, where locals smoked and ate at big communal tables, but the owners insisted that we dine upstairs in a more formal room. We compromised on the "garden", which was actually the corner of the gravel parking lot. We sat down and, when the waitress arrived, confidently ordered the menu du jour, without having the slightest idea what it would turn out to be. She disappeared and soon reemerged with a liter of vin ordinaire and our salads, each consisting of half a perfectly ripe, perfectly silky, and astoundingly sweet cavaillon melon, a huge slice of coarse pate de campagne, and a scramble of field greens. The combination, scattered with a few cornichons, was sublime. Next, she brought out the main course: crisp pork sausages in a dark and rich reduction that tasted faintly of fresh rosemary, a neat little bundle of bacon-wrapped haricots verts, and a timbale of couscous with mixed baby vegetables. Dessert was a trio of raspberry, strawberry, and lemon ices covered with a mountain of fresh blueberries and fraises des bois. All of this for 58 francs (about $11) each. We concluded that French farmers eat better every day than Michael Ovitz does.