The Last Bitter Greens

At first glance the neighborhood where I work seems like a wasteland in terms of architecture, but as time goes on and I ride the same route again and again, my eyes explore all of the the nooks and crannies. Careful observation over the same route for months now has unearthed remarkable remnants of something mysterious and grand that existed there before these complexes were built. I touch on the clues like milestones as the bus passes through.

Sometimes I think about the history of it. Something happened before they managed to raze the quartier completely, and for reason unknown to me, there are just a few gorgeous houses set back from the road behind tall metal gates, set inexplicably among cheap sandy looking unpainted cast concrete housing complexes. I wonder what this neighborhood might have been like if they'd managed to hold out. What made the community leave? Sometimes I wonder if this part of town was destroyed by bombs or fire during WWII and this is the rebuild. I suppose I could find out.

One of these days I'll pick up my camera on the way out the door in the morning and take it out on the bus and take some photos of what lingers in the nooks and shadows. I love to explore the neighborhood, even if it looks from the outset like there's nothing there. There is a whisper of deep beauty lurking in the shadows, on the edge of it, predominantly Art Nouveau, cool and mysterious, a built-in window box, a gate, a cast iron worked gate of inexplicabe beauty standing out from the nothingness, something in the ruins and miraculously, in the morning, passing by on the bus, I notice the nuances, they tell me that many of these seemingly vacant houses are indeed occupied.

Unfortunately the neighborhoods there aren't equipped anymore for any kind of local commerce. It still exists like limpets on sea rock clinging to some of the main thoroughfares, but not much. I still get out and walk through the neighborhood where I work every day. Walking during my lunch break today, I was at a crosswalk and because I was impatient and didn't want to stop, I turned the corner towards what I thought was just a vacant lot instead of waiting for the light to change. I passed by a building really empty, I could tell, because all of the windows were broken out.

That's when I saw, recessed from the street, a little place that sold vegetables and some well chosen regional products, a really nicely chosen selection of products, I coudn't help but notice. Veggies, cheeses mostly from the Alps, some jams, cakes, fruits and fresh herbs. I picked up some winter greens and parsley to make a salad tonight. A wedge of cheese and some spice bread. I will go back there again. Things were fresh.

Tonights salad was a mix of the chicory above, carrots, shallots, some greener lettuce, feta to counter the bitterness of the winter greens, sliced mushrooms, and a simple vinaigrette made with cider vinegar, lots of black pepper. It hit the spot.

Paris Weekend - an Exerpt

Well, the food was fabulous. And so was the shopping. My feet have been replaced by bloody stumps, but that is the fact of life that must be accepted when weekends in Paris are planned. One must think in advance and think sensibly or else they end up like this. But I am a bloody stump type of girl. I live life that way. Voilà.

First, I met some friends and colleagues for Lunch at le Violin d’Ingres, a lovely little place near the Eiffel Tower. Out of curiosity I ordered the “mille-feuille”, which Sophie instantly photographed. She is very good about not letting moments pass by which I find extremely admirable. Phyllis and Sophie both looked smashing and it was really wonderful to be in one place with them both, and with Angela, and the rest of the group.

She recommended the tête de veau, which was melt in your mouth delicious. I have learned through the years that following her advice always reaps rewards. Now we had a little discussion about how to translate things like tête de veau without giving the false impression that they’re going to light up a gothic candelabra and dim the lights and have coffin bearers come out of the kitchen to place in front of you the freakish remainder of a devil worshipping ceremony. It is really not that way at all. Tête de veau is good. And when properly prepared, it can be sublime.

The tête de veau is one of those dishes that was once the food of the people, you know, a cheap cut. It is now a food of the elite and can cost as much or more as the finest aloyau when it comes straight from the butcher, which bothers me a little bit because in my mind, everyone should get a chance at least once in life to enjoy a good home cooked tête de veau the way mamies used to do it at home. The butcher will advise you to simmer it long and slow with a bouquet, and serve it with a sauce gribiche. I do prepare tête de veau at home when my butcher has it, which is not very often but enough that I’ve got a pretty good recipe tested out in my kitchen notebook.


Constant’s dish tastes like it has been done with tender loving care. I agree, it is extraordinarily well prepared in his kitchen, and served very beautifully. Each plate has a sampling of the important parts of the dish. He does it the old fashioned way, no mystery about that but what makes it shine is that he takes the time to do it right, from A to Z. I would not be surprised if he separates it into parts and cooks certain parts of it respectively to perfection, reassembling the elements at plating. When I was served the dish I remembered that I had ordered at Café Constant last June and it was the same, down to the mimosa dressing. They don’t take reservations at the café so you can always give it a shot if you’re in the neighborhood if you haven’t taken the time to reserve. There is care coming out of that kitchen. They have got it down pat.

Aside from the tete, the highlight of the meal for me was the great conversation. I loved just talking about food in general and French, and stuff. When I meet people in person, I want to meet them and talk about what we share in common. I like to listen to people and get a feel for how they express themselves. We talked about common passions at lunch, and the ideas were fluid from the get go, with everyone at the table. It was a very refreshing meal. We closed the restaurant. Sophie had to get back to packing for her long trip in America that’s coming up and I continued my conversation with Phyllis for a little while on the metro before I got off to begin working on getting my feet good and sore.


I left a rather painful trail through the paper shops in the Marais and considered books as well, but in the end decided against it for fear of my back. I loaded a large shopping bag with lots of little things that only Paris boutiques can offer including some lovely clothes and jewelry, and tried to be careful but in the end I was slogging a large mustard colored sack full of what amounted to lots, even though I was careful not to buy too much. It was a very productive visit.

Dinner was extraordinarily good and exactly what I hoped for. I made a plan to meet with David. He suggested ethnic and I felt safe in his care.

We met at about nightfall. After hauling my large mustard colored sack to an art opening and strategically putting it down in a calculated place in the gallery so that it appeared to be a part of the exhibition, we went to dinner. I considered leaving the sack, because as people slinked by in the magnificently lit gallery they all looked at it and backed away from it as if calculating its significance in comparison to the Golden House on display. But I hadn’t walked my feet to stumps for nothing. I was not going to give up my paper products that easily!

I asked David if we could possibly descend by elevator because the little wooden Paris stairwells give me dizzy spells. The elevator was made of glass and only fit two people, much like a futuristic capsule. It was amusing to be riding it down and watching a girl spiraling down around us on the stairs at a similar speed. We’ve been talking about the elevator here in our building, a kleenex box from the 1960s that’s literally about to fall apart, and I simply adore the idea of getting a glass one as a replacement. I am going to suggest it.

It is clear that in many of the cities of France, people get stuck in elevators a lot. We once helped our neighbor from the one in the building where we used to live in on Cours Lafayette. Madame Arthaud who lives in our building was also trapped this summer. David recounted a recent tale of his own entrapment in which he had to wait for the elevator people to come back from lunch to be freed from an old Paris elevator. His only link to the outside world was a telephone that had someone telling him the men would be along to free him after lunch. I can’t decide if a glass elevator would be good in a situation like that.

People pile in the cars and act out all kinds of interesting scenarios in the Paris Metro. Everyone is aware that everyone is a spectator in that context. There is a lot of self expression going on in many ways on the Metro and it is not to be scoffed at for entertainment value. But when I come to Paris, It is the city that I come to see, so I take the bus when I can. I adore riding across the surface of it and soaking in the layout of the streets and learning the places.

We took the bus on a line that David said is one of his favorites (No. 29) to a Japanese place. The Japanese have a really great way of summarizing big things into completely accessible little packages. In fact sometimes their gestures can say much more than any detailed elaboration, in my opinion. The place we went to was all about little plates of things. We got to compose the table and it was delicious, and matched our conversation perfectly.

The waiter or waitress (not sure what the wait staff was) was caring it was clear, and moved fluidly and acted as a buffer but also a driver of the fracas that made up this wonderful place. We ordered just the right amount of food and warm sake. David shared a story in which he goes to Japan and is sequestered like a prisoner by day, forced to train people, but is fed the most amazing food he has ever eaten every night. The way he told it I imagined them pushing him blindfolded into cabs and cars and taking him to one restaurant after the next, leading him to eat without ever being allowed to see anything in Tokyo outside of a dinner plate. It sounded pretty good to me. It was simply a delight to talk to him and to sample all of the little plates between us. He paints a beautiful picture, grand gestures here, small details there.

Playing Hookey

The plan is to swing by the station I pass each day to go to work and instead of passing it climb aboard after a quick look to find a track. Into the center of Paris in the blink of an eye, suddenly in the middle of it, almost like getting on the metro and stepping off. I'll pack light but also pack as much into the weekend as possible. There are things to see and people to meet. Meals are slotted in one after the next with one person and then the other. In between I will look and gather and align myself along the groove swirling round the arrondissments. Gifts and presence, bisous and breakfasts. A lunch date clenched it and I've pulled it out like an accordian. I will take some time for myself on the streets in between, with a special visit to the quartier Chinois planned alone. There are certain things I need. I will go to the Japanese movie theater for a talkie in VO and remember when we were in the little one room place with ancient yellowed wallpaper by the canal.

On Friendship and Frescoes

It was clear when we were standing at the doorway of Franny Golden's gallery that she had a special relationship with Kate. The sing-song 'woo-hoo!' said volumes as she trundled down to the door and let us in. The beautifully finished tile floor and mosaic pattern that she's begun to work on tell us that this is a woman of ways. Since birds are special to me, I was drawn to the paintings she had on the left as we entered the gallery. They're lovely little birds, gathered in and centered in their fields of color. After taking in her work, we continued through into her house. It was a beautiful topsy-turvy spiraling bungalo stacked on three levels. She has painted murals on just about every flat surface.



Kate bought a big chunk of Cantal from the Auvergne and ham from the market that morning. With salad, it was lunch. I was thankful she brought me along. I believe that Franny Golden knows something important. I've already told mother that if Franny is this side of the pond the next time she comes, we should go down on a discovery trip through the area and she should take some drawing classes with her. Her work was really thought provoking and beautiful.

The wall in Franny's Kitchen.

The Land of Duck Necks and Honey

Well, in my research on how to skin a duck neck for stuffing, and my forays into duck neck gluttony and how to use a duck neck to take soup to another level of excellence, I should have gone down south, where the entire dish is done for you by the volailler! Kate, why didn't you tell me before?!

On Saturday morning, Kate Hill took her houseguests to her market in the town of Neyrac, where I found to my hearts content that the volailler had them ready for cooking. This was one thing I could not pass up, because when the artisans do poultry, people should listen. In Lyon, there are plenty of things to do with readily available chickens and rabbits and we do get the various typical duck parts, but if I want serious Southwest preparations at home like duck necks, I have to seek out the ingredients, roll up my sleeves, and get to work. I was really happy to see that the volailler had them ready and in their native habitat, because I can tell you now, preparing this dish takes planning when you're not in the land of duck necks and honey! I was curious too, I wanted to know what they tasted like, because as we all know, things are never better when produced and sold fresh in their local context by people who know and have lived the story of the Southwest.


There were cured duck parts on offer as well, which really made my day. I ended up picking up nearly a kilo of duck "craquelins", which are completely different from anything we get in Lyon, half of a duck chorizo, and several stuffed duck necks for good measure. These went directly into Kate's freezer and having been frozen solid, they traveled well during the 6 hour journey back to Lyon on Monday.

Fresh new garlic was ready for using - we won't see that in Lyon for a few weeks!

We had the duck necks for dinner last night. They were delicious.

Arrival at Kate Hill's Kitchen in Gascony

The train left Lyon at a quarter to three on Friday afternoon. As the sun was setting, the pink sky pulled with it the silhouettes of trees black on the landscape, and they flowed by like paper cut-outs along the horizon. I sat mesmerized by the view of the splendor through the window. I slipped by TGV into Southwest France from the brisk streets and hustle bustle of Lyon with one thing in mind - to see Kate, and Pim. They met me at the station. I was a bit afraid and tried to pin my hair back and thought of lipstick when I stepped down on the platform. I paused and stood still as the wave of travelers went on their way. Pim hit me first, with a wide smile and open arms. Her gorgeous elocution pierced through my shell in a whisper as she gave me a warm hug and said, 'So great to meet you'. A burst of joy. Kate then enveloped me in her arms and they swept me out to the white country car and into the night.

I was sitting in the back seat and wisps of bacon smells were tickling my nose. I said - Your car smells like bacon! Kate threw her head back in a wide open laugh as Pim giggled and the car barreled between trees lit by the headlights in the country night. You see, Kate has a new puppy she has christened - Bacon. My eyes, having adjusted to the dark, saw that the back seat was lined with a blanket. But it didn't smell of dog. Bacon is just a new puppy and hasn't been in the car much since he arrived to live with Kate.

They each took one of my bags and I was led into the house. The first thing that struck me was the fire. A huge chimney along one side had a well seasoned log fire burning, the smells and sounds of crackling, radiating stories of grilled meats.

Kate scored the magrets and Pim poured me a glass of local wine. Where to begin. Where to start. Bundling bustling about. Duck cracklings in fat and hearty potatoes.


My eyes were drawn to the stoves. Burners galore, enough to really do some cooking, and then up swept my gaze, to the walls and the space, cavernous and cozy at once.

But then the magrets were placed on the fire where they sizzled and spit. Simply sliced and served with potatoes and a winter salad, it was enough.

Sitting in Kate's kitchen, we ate and drank by the fire. I wanted to know more and felt that hard yearning to encapsulate them both which was not possible in an evening. But we had given it a good start.

In France they Kiss on Main Street

Lucas' mom's pralined almonds.

Amour, mama. In the first few days at my new job, I took all of the possible combinations of metro, bus, and tram routes at various points of time in order to find the best way to get to and from the office. It’s quite a curious optimistic feeling, riding along a bus route on a street I’ve never been on, exploring new neighborhoods, knowing that if I find a particular route fruitful, I can take it daily. As the bus rolls though a particular neighborhood, I take it all in, the beautiful old town houses scattered between the 3rd arrondissement and Montchat, the little islands of commercial activity, where there is a bakery, butcher or epicerie along the route in proximity to the stops, places that I can stop off and pick up necessities here and there.

In France metropolitan areas, public transportation is seen a bit differently than it’s seen back in the US, where only the unfortunate down and out and people who don’t have cars must take the bus. Here, it’s definitely used by the masses from upper crust to the underbelly. You’re just as likely to see a woman draped in expensive cashmere shawls lined with fur and bedecked with diamonds as you are to see someone more humble in means and appearance riding on the bus in centre ville. My daily journey takes me on the path from the center of town past the main train station, so the diversity of the population I see on the bus is even more pronounced.

I have taken three different buses, each with slightly different routes, because when you’re dealing with city traffic, the actual direct route from point A to point B can take more time than a more circuitous route through smaller less traveled streets. I have found that what looks to be the most efficient route on a map actually ends up in gridlocked traffic if you leave the office within certain times of the rush hour. Smaller neighborhood routes are graced with stops that conveniently are just next to all the amenities one needs daily like bread, butter, fruit, etc. whereas the central conduits often are surrounded by large squares lined with chain restaurants or sandwich stands and cafes.

Riding by the train station is interesting. I never really thought about it, but it the train station is the place where one is most likely to run into people kissing. It’s really amazing how many times since this began I have seen people are locked in long embraces. She is holding flowers. He’s got a bookbag.

Some young couples stand with their feet facing each other, looking directly into each others faces and aware of only one another. They only bend at the neck as they smooch, a little bit like still wooden dolls feeling the bliss of their stillness in the midst of city movement. Sometimes his hands cradle her head. Some stand side by side and swivel around each other like swans to kiss, intertwining with one another and also with the world around them, swirling into the movement of the hurried world by the sheer chiaroscuro of their adoration for each other, in announcement to the world. Amour mama!

Today I am bedridden, caused by the French phenomenon called the ‘arret de travail’. This is an order from a doctor to stay at home and take it easy. Which generates a paper of which the third copy generates a paper which must be sent by mail along with the second copy to a central depot for papers of this sort. Seems quite complicated, non? I am lying on the couch, with nothing to do but drink water and every so often pop one of Lucas’ mom’s pralined almonds into my mouth. They are like little kisses from a mother. Even if these delicious bites in which the sugar is just the right consistency to resist for a moment and then reveal and mingle with the almond which has roasted in sugar to give just the right tooth within are coming from Lucas' mother and not my own, I am feeling the motherly love with each one. Don't worry, I'm not having too many. Thank you, Lucas' mom. May I have your recipe?

Poulet de Bresse and the Mystery Potatoes

There are always a million things to look at between home and the Perrache station. I strolled down the Quai St. Antoine where my morning market usually is and carefully looked at the stall numbers painted on the ground, and the trapdoors recessed into the pavement that held elecrical sockets for the vendors. Passing through, I imagined what it must be like to roll one's shop onto a numbered rectangle and plug it in. It was one of the rare occasions I found myself in that place when it was completely empty and clean. You'd never know there was a market there every day. Not a stain or piece of litter to be seen. I found it a bit strange to see the quai that way. It is just a riverside park with symmetrical rows of trees after all. Funny to think of the magic that a market can add to an otherwise normal place.

I stopped into Mafter's shop and could not resist a new instant read digital thermometer and a tub of glucose, something I have been looking for. Hmm. I sense some candy making in my near future. Of course the candy will be for others, gifts. I resolve not to eat it except for the requisite tastes.

Indeed M. Broyer the Bresse man was at the market and he had a selection of birds to choose from, at the regular price. I got one of the medium sized birds, and decided, once I'd gotten it home, not to roast it on the spit after all because it was too young and the tendons needed some more time and soft heat in order for the meat to let go of the bones. I rubbed the bird's skin with a drizzle of melted butter and sea salt, and put it in the cocotte on a bed of potatoes and shallots, topped it with a few leaves of tarragon, and splashed the potatoes with wine. I covered it tightly and let it roast for awhile. I seared the liver on both sides in the smallest pan I have. Bresse chicken liver turns a special creamy golden color when it is cooked. Loic left to get the bread and when he came back the liver was ready to spread on a warm slice fresh from the boulangerie. Les foies blancs de Bresse are a treat indeed. We see sometimes at the very best restaurants, terrines made with the distinctively colored livers that come only from the Poulet de Bresse. Loic and I shared it on toast as an amuse-gueule before dinner.

The bird was delicious. My only regret was that we didn't use more potatoes. Oh la la. Was it the bird's juices? Was it the potatoes, which I picked up, still covered with dirt, on a whim - just to try? I only bought three, so that's all we cooked. I'm having trouble remembering who sold them to me. When I was peeling them, I noted the firm crisp juicy flesh, they felt special in some way, different from the potatoes I normally use. I'll have to go back and find some more - and this time pay more attention to them. I think it was the combination of these spuds with the juices from a nice long roasted Bresse bird - but I also think that the potatoes were special in some way. If I were to roast a bresse chicken over enough of these babies to soak up all that lovely juice and then make a puree of it I think it could possibly amount to the best pureed pommes de terre - Ever. Now I must think. Where did they come from? Who? They could not have been expensive, I normally don't go for the pricey ones.

Shopping List

We began following a program to increase our fitness level this week by the famed German bike trainer Dr. Lothar Heinrich, of the U of Freiberg department of Sports Medicine. The other day we did some interval training, which while frightening to even think about before we did it, was actually rather pleasurable. Today came the dreaded hill climbs. Anyone who has lived in Lyon can go ahead and cringe - we climbed les pentes de la Croix Rousse from Terreaux to the Boulevard 4 times in a row this morning, without stopping. And we did it the long way. There was a stone faced man sitting by the road about halfway up who watched us pass four times and is witness to our victory.

Suprisingly, the worst part of the whole thing was getting back down again each time. I believe that the residents of the upper Croix Rousse neighborhood while claiming to be such a great socially conscious community, could all do for a lesson in sharing the road with their fellow human comrades on bicycles. Obviously they really didn't have much experience in that area, and tended to pretend we didn't exist, coming dangerously close to sideswiping us along the boulevard, slamming on their brakes as if we weren't there to back into parking spots, nochalantely passing by and then purposefully sidling up to the edge of the road to block our way to interesctions, etc. Then there was the car of not so young boys and their lewd comments (Prince charming, where are you?!) and the 4X4 who laid on his horn before plowing through at twice the speed limit when we were rounding the mountain to go down again. The driver of the downhill bound Number 18 bus was suprisingly courteous, I tip my hat to him.


Loic and I, while eating a very boring but satisfying bowl of mutton stew and steamed wheat grains for lunch, made up a shopping list. He put down: Confiture. I took the irresistable opportunity to take the pen from his hand and cross through the word with a with a flourish. I reminded him that in his audit - um, I mean inventory of the side cupboard on Sunday, the one that included a computerized list indexed on expiration dates, we were enlighted to the jam situation. Thanks to the kind printed reminder taped to the inside of the door, we know that we still have two whole jars of confiture that we must consume very soon: a jar of Rose (as in the flowers) and a jar of Sage (as in the herb) flavored jams (don't ask). Okay, okay! That won't do for your breakfast tartine, honey, I know. Hey, lighten up! Oh, nevermind. I was just joking. Hmm. Tired from the climb, maybe? I could have done worse, actually popped one of those babies open and presented it to you one morning for breakfast, but I didn't, now did I?

I'll be hitting the producers' market this evening at the place Carnot in hopes of finding 1) fruit for some good home-made jam, and 2) a Bresse chicken because it's been ages since we've had chicken. The weather is cool enough to tuck some herbs under the skin of a bird and roast it on the spit.

How Loic came to make the Vacherin.

We were passing through Montelimar. The highway sign that usually has a picture of a knife and fork, and a phone and a gas tank to remind us what amenities the station exit has to offer, also had a square with the word NOUGAT. Well, we all know that Montelimar is a big nougat town. And if you've ever had the real nougat from this town, it is something that you come to think about later, sometimes years later. It's one of those things that grows in your mind. The nougat from a few years ago that had reached a certain proportion in my mind and the sight of that highway sign crossed astrological paths in space and time and I had a vision. I told Loic that I had decided what I wanted for my birthday cake. I wanted something with nougat. And meringue. He smiled and said that this year he was going to be preparing me my birthday cake from scratch. The following two days became somewhat of a trial for him. How about a trip to the beach, Lolo? "I have to make the meringue" he replied. He still wouldn't tell me what he was making. I finally convinced him that I would water the garden while he put the meringue together and we set the oven on a timer. Little by little his idea became a reality while I stepped in and assisted here and there, learning details along the way about what could possibly be his suprise dessert. It was delicious, it technically contained no nougat but was absolutely exactly what I envisioned. Thank you, Loic. You know me so well.

Stop 2: Condrieu

Stop 2: Condrieu : Wherin we experience an abominable Sunday Lunch and a Beautiful Excursion into the Vines that produce the Cote Roti

We had 15 minutes to get to the station and as we cruised on our bikes across the square in front of Perrache station in Lyon, I saw on the clock that the train would be just pulling away from the track. We’d missed the train! Since there wasn’t one leaving soon afterwards, I decided not to get too worked up about it and began thinking about a new plan. This has happened to me more than once in my traveling days. Since we had all of Sunday spread before us and we were at the station, my suggestion was to head on up anyway and get a ticket going somewhere. Who cares?

Let me note that this is not Loïc’s way of doing things. He is a set your sights kind of guy, he likes to know where he is going before he even steps foot out the door. Plan A, perhaps a Plan B, but always a plan. I am just the opposite – I thrive on the unexpected. I love to be the one reading the map because they show all those little places we can discover off to the side – when we’re out driving, sometimes he gets mad because I tell him to take a turn just because the road is a small one and I want to see what it looks like. For people like Loïc, the scientists who love to rigorously follow the rules, he gets to a certain level in his discoveries and that’s when people like me who push his limits by daring him to take risks are a good thing. I keep telling myself this anyway.

We got up to the ticket kiosk and Loïc, who was smart enough to check the departures board while I was scrolling through our future possibilities, saw that the train we had initially planned on taking was delayed by 17 minutes! Back to plan A! The day is saved! Hoorah! We quickly got our tickets and were off to Condrieu.


Pretty little town, Condrieu, and the town where we got off at the stationon the other side from the river, called Les Roches de Condrieu. We decided after all to eat somewhere. In the town near the station a boulangerie was open. It must have seemed strange to the lady when I went in and said: “we’re looking for a place to eat – can you guide us to someplace open?” For some reason I failed to see the delicious looking focaccia and quiches she had on display (Loic described them to me later). Despite the fact that she had things we could have eaten for lunch, she guided us anyway, to either the restaurant La Plaisance (which means sailing) and the bar down the road, which serves food. She repeated twice that the bar serves food on Sundays, and repeating things sometimes being my only criteria for making a decision about where to go, we went there. We found a seat on the terrace and took a gander at the menu, which had run of the mill salads in the Lyonnais city style, nothing out of the ordinary. When the girl arrived, I ordered my salad, and she got a frightened look on her face and apologized, they forgot to get food that morning. So we bid the bar adieu, and headed to the second choice.

Restaurant La Plaisance. My first impression upon entering the place was that we were entering a dark and stifling hot cave. Then as my eyes adjusted, I saw that this place had the feel of a well lived in house. Papers stacked haphazardly in the corners, various neatened areas which had been brought to our attention with the use of spot lamps placed in corners, lots of kitsch and souvenir type items placed here and there. There seemed to be an attempt to place the visitor in the history of a family. This was not just a family restaurant, but perhaps the restaurant of a large family with a tired mother who didn’t clean the house much and a father who didn’t think much of home repairs. Cozy in a haphazard neglectful kind of way.

The proprietress all the same liked to keep appearances and took some pride in her establishment, therefore, she greeted us with an icy cold glare. The reason for this was that we were not dressed to her liking. Me being in bike shorts and a tee shirt, and Loic dressed slightly like Linus and carrying a knapsack. She seated us at a dark table inside as opposed to the popular terrace meant for the fashionable Sunday people that overlooked the boat harbor.



We’d taken the train to Condrieu to take in the glory of the terroir by bicycle, after all, and the weather was sunny and beautiful, so instead of hooking ourselves into this dark cave-like lived-in family nest by ordering the ridiculously expensive menus on offer, we ordered one dish each à la carte. I ordered a lamb terrine that looked as if somehow maybe it could be promising, considering it was from the ultra-expensive menu. Loic, gearing himself up for biking, ordered some ravioli, in one of those strange menu departures from the norm : restaurants that offer meals two ways: “family style” or “gastronomique”. (note to self: avoid at all costs)

Disgusted that we didn’t order wine from the list or any of the expensive bottled water, the proprietress eventually slammed a carafe of warm cloudy water on the table and disappeared to her Sunday clients on the terrace. After we poured the water into our glasses, we noticed a bubbly slime on the inside of the bottle and clustering along the top of our glasses. I refused to drink it. I was imagining mosquito egg colonies taking root in my gut, and Loïc and I proceeded to get into a quiet spat about whether it was appropriate for us to bring out our own bottle of tap water we trusted from the back pack. At that moment, the food arrived. Here, in all it’s glory, was my lamb terrine, priced at about $13.50 for the plate alone. I will let the presentation speak for itself.


Canned baby corn after all, is quite rare in these parts. The sauce was a reduction of Dijon ‘moutarde à l’ancienne’ and balsamic vinegar with no other discernable seasoning, and I attempted tastes with both the meat and gelatin in my dish and it was complimentary to neither. In the end, I left the sauce uneaten, as well as all of the ganishes, which I actually did taste in order to give credit where it is due. In all, I think I got about one ounce of meat and 8 ounces of gelatin. If you are working on your hair and nail health, perhaps this would please you to eat daily.

No dessert or coffee for us! We had to get back on the road! After a long wait, we tactfully presented ourselves to the hostesses stand near the door and waited until she distainfully ceased to ignore us and checked us out. Freedom at last!
The biker in this photo just happened to speed by as I aimed my camera at the bridge into the town of Condrieu and in an instant, we were reminded of how athletic and fit we will be by the end of the series of bike tours of the towns from Vienne to Valence. I took it as a premonition.

Loïc is ready to go ahead and follow whatever I am up to in terms of physical activity, and I surprised him with my proclamation that I wanted to bike uphill into the vines. We decided on the D30, which was very steep and curvy and full of beautiful things to see. The ride through the vines was really glorious and the photos don't do the scenery justice.
In this region, the vines are trained onto triangular supports all in rows on the hills in order to maximize exposure to the sun as it moves on its trajectory through the valley.



Once near the top of the collines, we were rewarded with a beautiful view.



Being a Sunday, the wineries were closed. I did however profoundly enjoy a stale cola flavored popsicle treat once we'd reached the town again. I will be taking a trip during the week to taste the wine in due time. My next visit on the Vienne to Valence discovery tour will be an adventure to see a producer of the local goat Cheese, the Rigotte de Condrieu.

This is installment two of what started as a short project called Vienne to Valence but which has expanded into something bigger. My bike tours of the upper Cotes du Rhône region continue as weather permits, and I will once again be including some of these installments on the blog.

Stop 1 - Vienne

Only now can I say I have come to know what makes Lyon a great food city! It has taken me 6 years to discover the truth. People come here for a weekend and expect that they’ll be able to sidle up to any table in the city and enjoy a great meal. Sometimes they are dissapointed, but those with expectations like that are missing the point, really. What makes Lyon a great food city is not an abundance of superior restaurants, indeed there are only a few here. It is actually a puzzle like a string of secrets waiting in the very fabric of the place. It takes some time to unravel and lay out clearly in words. The clues to this puzzle are everywhere, in the quality of the local ingredients and what lies in the sub-strata, a culture of quality, perpetuating itself, that radiates like a star out into the countryside in all directions. Lyon is planted firmly in the center.

This sub-culture of quality is ever present, but at the same time not always visible. It is certainly not visible on the faces of the somber droves that bustle through the canyons lined with belle-epoch architecture in one quarter, medieval structures in another – it is certainly not felt like a contagious nervous energy upon entering this town, the unititiated don't immediately feel the hum. The power is on a frequency that is so established and historical that one must concentrate and focus to harness it. With time it becomes clear that what is underneath gives the potential for the sublime table in Lyon. The reason Lyon is called the gastronomic capital of the world really has very little to do with its restaurants or dining scene or any immediate star quality we might seek and everything to do with what lies underneath.

I have spent years running my errands through these shadows and dimly lit courses to find the very best sources of every ingredient on offer within the city limits of Lyon. Now the practice has taken a certain momentum - I simply adore discovering the closest thing to perfection in produce as I can at the markets, stalls of the Halles, from local farmers, butchers, and cheese producers. I cover a lot of ground and my path is a well beaten one these days.

This unusual pastime has paid off in flavor. It means learning to visually discern the difference, from a variety of factors, between a cauliflower which has matured with its roots submerged in chemical gel 16 hours away by truck and one grown in the local soil and which traveled less than an hour to market. This means paying attention to what the milk producing cows ate and where. It means knowing what day of the week during the months of May and June a certain fromagère receives a single pallet of fresh Roves des Garrigues. Getting to know people, too. Marking in my agenda the hour and place where I can buy a fresh Poulet de Bresse direct from the producer without leaving town and understanding that this window is open but 3 hours per week. Who raises free range pigs an hour outside, and where this man can be found in Lyon on Wednesdays and Sundays. It means learning what the best restaurants know about who makes the best quenelles and simmers the best snails in the city, and when to ask when there’s something you don’t see. Once you’ve figured it out and tasted the difference, there’s no going back. Now that I have come to a certain knowledge of my city, I have begun to stretch my wings. I am looking beyond these walls and into the valley.


For this summer’s project, I will look to the South and cover the route from

Vienne to Valence.

My call to the bureau of tourism of the town of Vienne did not come at a good time. Mr. Nicholas Combe was kind of busy, with the Jazz Festival starting tomorrow. He did take an interest in my project to discover everything about the best food and wine within pedaling distance from the train station. He promises to receive me this afternoon to let me explain a bit more about my project and help me construct an initial dossier on the first in my itinerary.



Of course, the first thing that springs to mind when a food enthusiast thinks of the town of Vienne in the Rhone Alpes is La Pyramide, the restaurant and hotel created by Fernand Point in 1923. The more I learn about the history of French cuisine, the more often I hear the name Fernand Point, who was someone so passionate about his vocation and so dedicated to perfection in cooking that he became a legend and pillar in the history of French cuisine. His restaurant, La Pyramide, also became a destination for cuisine enthusiasts and VIPs in search of the paragon of haute gastronomy the world over. He was the mentor of the young Chef Paul Bocuse, and was the man who instilled in Bocuse the principles of freshness of ingredients and respect for the natural qualities of local materials, which ended up culminating in the first star chefs in tandem with the Nouvelle Cuisine Movement in France.

Last year, being the fiftieth year since Chef Fernand Point passed away, they celebrated him and his life. Who are They? Today’s owner and chef of La Pyramide, Mr. Patrick Henriroux, organized a gathering of the top names in French Gastronomy to pay homage to Point and his life accomplishments. They had a big delicious party and then they took a train to pay homage to the legendary chef at his grave site. This detail interests me.

I like monuments to great people. I spent my University years slogging through lists and slides of monuments and historic commissioned works of art over the centuries and did not particularly appreciate it fully at the time. When I became a full fledged adult, though, I was able to see the convoluted reasoning behind my settling finally on that choice. Because deep inside, I feel that the monuments and artifacts connect me to the legends and lore that make up a wonderful story, this wonderful thing that mankind alone has been inspired to create and has passed down through the generations over thousands of years. Honoring these monuments is actually the essence of mankind’s existence. So “find the tomb of Fernand Point” was scratched down in my kitchen notebook.

Since I won’t be able to eat at La Pyramide this summer, nor do I suspect I’ll have the means to do so any time soon, I do think it would be nice to investigate some of the local producers of the stuff that provides the potential for Chef Patrick Henriroux and his team to turn out fabulous French meals there. So on my list for the city of Vienne, I have also written : Local suppliers to La Pyramide. Local Specialties. Cheese. And then there’s the Cote Roti – with it’s own bullet point. Alright. I think that is a good start.

All Aboard! Train leaving for Vienne!

This is installment two of what started as a short project called Vienne to Valence but which has expanded into something bigger. My bike tours of the upper Cotes du Rhône region continue as weather permits, and I will once again be including some of these installments on the blog.

Summer Project : Vienne to Valence

Finally getting things prioritized and after clearing the agenda somewhat, ideas are beginning to flow again!

This is how it happened - The other day Loïc and I got out on our bikes and began riding up the Saone on the bike trail along the bank. This is not something we do very often. We take the bikes out once or twice a year, in fact since moving to our apartment a couple of years ago, our only sport outings have been to ski. The bikes had been languishing in the "concierge" room downstairs. We got all excited, pumped up the tires and promptly began our little voyage north along the right bank of the Saone.

We started out on the bike path by the river and just kept going. I figured the path would end soon but it continued as far as we rode on it. The cars thinned and the ride changed from interesting city riding to agreeable riverside discoveries. Lots of stuff going on along the river. Before we knew it we were miles outside of Lyon. We stopped for a picnic which was a monster wild boar pâté sandwich with polish dills and leftover salad from the night before. We rested on a blanket in a park by the water. When it was time to get up, I realized that there was no way I was going to be able to make it back without some serious suffering. My back was hurting, legs shaky, ouch when I sat on the seat, etc. I had already decided that I was not pedaling back into Lyon if I could help it.

We enjoyed, despite a few quiet back spasms here and there which I concealed quite gracefully, a nice little excursion through the back streets, over cobblestone, and through cute little neighborhoods in a little town. Cool houses with turrets and luxurious gardens. A wonderland in it's own right. Oh how convenient, a little train station! After carefully reviewing the timetable (one sheet of paper stapled to a post near the track) while Loïc tugged my arm, I saw that there were two trains that could take us back to Lyon that afternoon. I proposed that we relax and continue to enjoy this little town and consider returning on the train.

Loïc hadn't ever taken his bike on the train like that, and was hesitant. I knew my tired aching body would not go back up that hill we went down about 20 minutes after we passed Paul Bocuse. We settled into our chairs at the cafe by the river and when he ordered a Panache I knew things would be fine - it meant he agreed. We flipped through he pages of a few real estate ad pamphlets I had picked up outside an agency. Nice to dream. How about a quiet place in a little French town? A mini-storm rolled in and it began to thunder. We quickly bundled up and made it to the train track just in time! We paid for the ticket once we were all aboard. 3 Euros! It stopped raining and the sun was out in the city. In 20 minutes we were back in Lyon.

The train dropped us off right in the city center, a hop skip and jump to our home. As we cruised along the smooth narrow back streets full of life and architecture and shops and people, I told Loïc that although a house in the country is a nice idea, life in the city does have a certain charm. In fact, the contrast and majesty of the city of Lyon was extraordinary.

I put my glasses on and sat down at the table by the kitchen when we got home, and took out my kitchen notebook. The adventure had me thinking and full of inspiration. I have done a bit of research and in prioritizing my summer projects, one of which is to explore and add variety to my writing, I'll be doing some touring. I wonder how many vineyards are accessible from the stations winding down through the wine country? Every town has a local specialty. I intend to begin by scratching the surface of Northern Cote du Rhone wine trail. Vienne to Valence. It has a nice ring to it, doesn't it? It is time to discover the region, and get this down in my notebook. Branching out. This time I will take my camera along.