Saint-Malo (ramparts) — Breton prune far, my Breton comfort
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I often return to Breton prune far when I’m looking, in LaBouffe, for something that reflects the way I live: simple, straightforward, comforting, with no unnecessary fuss. Between two heartfelt conversations, after a visit to the historic center or a walk near the Canal Saint-Martin, I like making recipes that leave room for silence, flavor, and the kind of balance that does me good. In Brittany, far has exactly that kind of honesty: it does not try to impress; it warms you, nourishes you, and brings people together around the table with an almost understated sweetness. It is the kind of dessert I associate with a thoughtfully curated everyday life, seasonal cooking, and unapologetic indulgence that never feels heavy—much like my taste for vintage objects, plants repotted with patience, and drawings left to mature before being shown. When I make my Breton prune far, I use a dish generously buttered with semi-salted butter, because in Brittany that detail matters as much as anything else. I whisk three or four eggs with sugar, then add flour and a pinch of salt before gradually pouring in a liter of whole milk to make a smooth, supple, almost fluid batter. Sometimes I let the prunes plump up a little in light tea or a splash of rum, then arrange them in the dish before pouring in the batter. Then I bake it in a hot oven until the top turns a lovely golden brown while the center remains soft. To me, it is a recipe that feels deeply Breton in spirit: generous without being excessive, rooted without being fixed, perfect after soup, a simple meal, or a dinner shared with someone I care about. Deep down, I think that is why I love it so much: it resembles what I seek in my relationships too—something real, gentle, and lasting.
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Where: Bretagne