Destination: France : Poor Man’s Riviera : On the Brittany Coast, St.-Malo has evolved from a pirates’ haven to an insider’s resort with bargain prices

Another misty day in Brittany and no way to spend my big wad of francs. All I could do was drink Campari for 20 cents a shot, bicycle through the medieval lanes of this ancient walled city, jog atop the great stone ramparts, wade into the English Channel, play low-roller games in the casino, chow down cheap cre^pes or quenelles, board the mini-train at the city gates or take the sea shuttle to the posh resort town of Dinard.

Then again, I could listen to the free brass band at Place Cha^teaubriand; walk out to the Petit Be, before the 50-foot tide turned it into an island; shop for UCLA Bearwear or Levis for less than they cost at home, or take the bargain bus to the abbey at Mont-St.-Michel, an hour’s drive to the east.

I ended up doing it all. I could not waste any time. After all, my first-class hotel room was setting me back $75 a night.

Here, in France’s heart of darlingness, a mainly low-budget crowd from northern France and Britain’s Channel Islands shares unbelievable values on France’s Emerald Coast, the Poor Man’s Riviera that stretches east/west along the Channel north of Rennes.

Within the 90 blocks of cobblestoned alleys in the heart of the Old City lies a wonderland of chocolateries, charcuteries, boulangeries and brasseries, towered over by the striking St. Vincent Cathedral. When I visited, tourists in shorts were lying on the floor of this heavy, Gothic church, staring up in awe at the majestic vaulting in the 12th-Century nave.

St.-Malo was not always just a cute little fishing village. For four years, beginning in 1590, it was a free and independent nation, with its own parliament. It sent ambassadors to the capitals of Europe, and pirates to England. In time it became a world leader in piracy and remained so until the 19th Century. It remains a free-spirited, spunky little city. Its coat of arms proclaims, “Ni Francais, ni Breton, Malouin suis.” I am neither a Frenchman nor a Breton, but a man of St.-Malo.

Every Saturday night during the summer, St.-Malo sets off fireworks and puts on a lighthearted sound-and-light show in the courtyard of city hall, the former castle of Duchess Anne of Brittany (1477-1514), to commemorate the golden years of independence and the glorious centuries of piracy.

On an excursion train tour I took to orient myself to the confusing rabbit warren of twisting streets in the Old City, the driver proudly referred to St.-Malo as the “corsair city.” The tour, conducted in French and English, began at the gates to the city and rolled on rubber tires for half an hour past the former homes of pirates, patriots, priests and explorers. Shopkeepers and little children waved to us.

Whatever one might feel about the residents elsewhere in France, in St.-Malo they are positively an asset, in fact a joy. The locals look much alike, with sharp noses and complexions so burnished to perfection that they appear to be painted on. Their courtesy and unrelenting cheerfulness were, for me, wondrous to behold after four days in Paris. (My last memory of Paris was being yelled at by a jeering mob for letting the door of a coin-operated pay toilet close behind me as I left.)

After the train ride, I stepped into Le Charly’s Bar on Place du Marche aux Legumes and ordered Campari. The bartender filled a five-ounce wine glass to the brim and charged me five francs, about 90 cents at that day’s rate of exchange. In Paris, I had paid 35 francs, more than $6, for a single shot no bigger than a thumbnail.

As a pre-dinner drinking crowd surged into the Place Cha^teaubriand and then into the byways, I took refuge at the Pub L’Encrier, Bar Mexicain. There was nothing visibly Mexican about it, certainly not the men playing darts in the front, the big-screen TV blasting MTV nor the blond, blue-eyed Frenchwoman holding court, drinking coffee and tonic and smoking a cigar. At a time when the dollar elsewhere in France wasn’t going very far, a Tuborg here cost me $2.50. It had cost more than $7 in Paris.

For dinner I chose a romantic restaurant that was frozen in ages past. At Faisan Dore, the Golden Pheasant, I ordered the kind of classical meal that hasn’t been served in Paris for a generation, certainly not in such generous quantities, and certainly not for the $18 I paid.

A warm peach glow lighted the restaurant, which was filled with candles and flowers. French couples nearby were popping mussels and oysters into each other’s mouths. One young woman who had seen too many old movies parted her lover’s lips with her fingertips, inserted a cigarette, lit it and blew him a kiss. I began to regret leaving my wife behind in Paris, where she was shopping.

I started with quenelles de poisson, a pate of pike folded into a dumpling and served in a rich sauce made with cream, mushrooms and parsley. My wine was a Muscadet, the only Briton wine, white and fruity. My friendly, grinning waitress brought me one overflowing serving dish after another, with enough salmon in aurore sauce and petit pois to fill my plate three times.

In the morning, the sun was shining, the air was cool and beaches were packed. Taking advantage of the low tide--at high tide there would be 40 to 50 feet of water--families hiked out to the Petit Be to tour the 17th-Century Fort National, a massive fortress with a dungeon, and teen-agers shrieked in the seawater pool. A few souls braved the 20-minute walk out to the Grande Be, where St.-Malo native son Francois Rene de Cha^teaubriand (1768-1848) is buried. Cha^teaubriand is best known to us as a piece of meat, but in St.-Malo he is hailed as a great Romantic novelist.

Cha^teaubriand, so the story goes, often instructed his cook to grill beef tenderloin between two fattier steaks in order to make the tenderloin juicy. The charred outer steaks were tossed to the dogs. In time, beef tenderloin served whole took Cha^teaubriand’s name. (When sliced, they’re called tournedos .)

Just opposite the gate to the Old City, I boarded an air-conditioned bus for a scenic 26-mile ride east to Mont-St.-Michel, one of France’s most popular tourist attractions, drawing 750,000 visitors every year. Soaring up from a sandy island, surrounded by turquoise waters and perched on a 264-foot granite outcropping, the enormous yet graceful abbey would be worth visiting if only for its dramatic beauty. But it’s fun too. Visitors enter through the only entrance--a single narrow gate--and trace a winding path upward through a 13th-Century village and market, strolling past hawkers of apples, cheese tarts, Calvados brandy and religious kitsch, much as pilgrims did for hundreds of years.

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French schoolchildren in starched blue and white uniforms filed politely behind their teachers, while American teen-agers on class tours ran up the path, taking shortcuts between the tiny houses of the village, giggling all the way. Busloads of tourists from Japan snapped endless photos of the abbey towering overhead. Inside, visitors fell in behind guides speaking their own languages.

I had several English-speaking guides, Frenchwomen in their early 20s, to choose from. Mine lined up the teen-agers among us and had them form arches with their arms and bodies to demonstrate the difference between Gothic and Romanesque architecture. The kids had a wonderful time, and so did I.

Mont-St.-Michel is hard to get to, and hotel rooms are no bargain. Most visitors take day trips from Paris, nearly five hours each way by bus. Local accommodations are cramped and priced at $150, or more, for all but the most squalid rooms. The $18 round-trip bus from St.-Malo, one hour in each direction, is clearly the way to go.

The bus trip itself was a pleasant excursion, with the Channel on one side and pastoral country scenes, amber sheaves of wheat and gaggles of geese being fattened for foie gras on the other . Gold and chestnut horses basked in the sun beside asymmetrical two-story Breton farmhouses, some with statues of saints facing the sea, toward sailing ships, toward sons and fathers.

In the afternoon, I returned to St.-Malo. The sky had misted over once again, and a light drizzle was falling. The streets of the Old City were jammed, and the ramparts were buzzing, and Guernsey boys were wading in the Channel with all their clothes on. No one fled for shelter, and few raised umbrellas. Rain is not the enemy on the Emerald Coast.

In that spirit, I joined 50 or 60 people on the shuttle to Dinard, an hourly ferry that runs across the mouth of the Rance River to another nearby resort, a richer one with a yacht club. Like everyone else, I stopped here for a cup of coffee, there for a Tuborg, elsewhere for a cre^pe filled with raspberries and whipped cream.

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On the beach at Dinard, boys played volleyball in their swim trunks, and the temperature couldn’t have been more than 50 degrees. We were all drenched, maybe a little chilly, and we didn’t care. We were vacationing on the Emerald Coast, and nothing else mattered.

Night was falling back in St.-Malo and I settled in for dinner at Chez Ferhat, a North African restaurant in the heart of the Old City. I ordered a glass of sangria to go with my superb lamb couscous, served with eggplant, celery, carrots, squash and a peppery sauce, with dishes of tomato paste and raisins to put out the fire.

I loved my meal, and drank my max, and it set me back only $24. In Paris, I had paid that much for a pizza.

St.-Malo is an ancient city, named for a Welsh priest who became a bishop here during the 6th Century. While the ramparts date to the 13th Century, and the castle and watchtowers to the 15th Century, the Old City looks essentially the way it did during the 18th Century.

In August, 1944, Allied armies under Gen. George S. Patton bombed St.-Malo to deny the Germans a sanctuary, and much of what we see today is an artful restoration. St.-Malo thus combines the best of both worlds, the charm and beauty of days gone by, with the comforts of today.

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GUIDEBOOK: Budget Brittany

Getting there: From LAX fly nonstop to Paris on United, Air France and AOM French Airlines; USAir and Continental have direct service with one stop. Lowest advance-purchase round-trip fares start at $725.

From Paris, there is no extra charge for EurailPass holders to ride the TGV, but seat reservations are necessary and cost $10 per person if made in the United States. A one-way ticket from Paris to St.-Malo costs $106 first class and $72 second class, using the TGV. Call Rail Europe, (800) 848-7245.

When to go: St.-Malo is packed from April through September, making fall and spring excellent times to visit.

Where to stay: Hotel de France et Cha^teaubriand, Place Cha^teaubriand; doubles start at $70; tel. (011) 33-99-56-6652, fax (011) 33-99-40-1004.

Hotel de la Cite, 26 Rue de Sainte-Barbe; doubles start at $85; tel. (011) 33-99-40-5540, fax (011) 33-99-40-1004.

Hotel Mercure, 2 Chaussee du Sillon; doubles start at $76; tel. (800) 221-4542.

Where to eat: Faisan Dore, 1 Rue de l’Orme; telephone locally 99-40-9170.

Chez Ferhat (ask for directions at the St.-Malo information office in front of the castle).

For further information: French Government Tourist Office, 9454 Wilshire Blvd., Suite 715, Beverly Hills, CA 90212; tel. (900) 990-0040 (calls cost 50 per minute; call before 2 p.m. Pacific time), fax (310) 276-2835.

--B.Z.