The menu—still ingrained in memory—was perfectly conceived. The vintage white linens, the old silver and glassware, and the heavy antique chairs looked fittingly natural and echoed the age of the solid Provençal farmhouse. Yet the meal wasn't in the least formal. Lucien, the family patriarch (and the driving force behind the winery), poured the wine as Lulu passed a salad of roasted yellow peppers and rice dressed with fruity olive oil and vinegar. We lingered while Jean-Marie, the elder son, stepped outside to grill the quail over a fire of vine cuttings. Upon his return, knives, forks, and fingers gleefully attacked the grilled birds, the smoky aroma of thyme and garlic perfumed the room, and the Bandol Rouge flowed. But the meal was far from over. There would still be local goat cheeses, a fruit tart (maybe apricot) for dessert, coffee, and little glasses of marc de Provence, the fiery local variant of grappa. The afternoon was punctuated with lively stories, earthy jokes, and a genial, relaxed intimacy. Afterward, everyone retired for a postprandial nap.