Oh, France. You’re even more beautiful than I remember. Perhaps it is the winding country roads, the
buildings that bear the gateways and stone facades of centuries past. Perhaps
it is just being out of the city, at last.
From the airport, Josh and I drove about six hours to Lyon,
which is in the south of France. Six hours was nearly twice as long as we
thought it would take based on our previous internet map searches, but that was
what our GPS indicated and we had no way of redirecting ourselves. We later
learned that we had “Avoid tolls” checked; our GPS thought that saving a few
euros was worth spending a few extra hours on the road. And while I was falling
asleep mid-sentence as I tried to chat with Josh, we made it to Lyon safely and
thoroughly in love with the pastoral beauty of rural France.
From a historical perspective, it is easy to see why Lyon
flourished. Two rivers (Rhone and
Saone) converge, creating a pointy peninsula of land several miles long
between them.
If you look at one of the
limited-view city maps, the central sliver of land almost looks like an island,
a little Manhattan rubbing shoulders with two sturdier land masses. Bridges
arch over the water every few blocks, injecting the central city with people,
cars, and life. We arrived in the middle of joyful chaos on the last night of
the annual lights festival. Our hotel was so close to the city – and festival –
center that the nearby streets and parking garages were all closed overnight
during the festivities.
Given the long drive and the early garage closure, we only
had time for a quick nap before heading off to dinner. That word – dinner – seems too ordinary to
describe the experience, though. We had reserved a table at L’Auberge du Pont
de Collonges – Paul Bocuse, a three Michelin star restaurant in Lyon. This restaurant has had three stars since
1965 and the people of Lyon are quick to boast of it (although few seemed to
have eaten there), yet it remains something of an open secret. Josh stumbled upon
it while researching places to eat near our hotel.
We parked outside of the restaurant, a large building a few
miles from the city center painted in bright colors, with a 20-foot mural of
Paul Bocuse in a chef’s hat confidently smiling down on us. A man in a garish
red and black uniform hustled to the door, determined that we would not open it
for ourselves. The early arrivals were all seated together so that we would all
be at the same stage of dinner throughout the night; many of the preparations
were done in front of everyone. Josh and I confronted the menu, which had
senior citizen-friendly font sizes, with determination. As we savored spoonfuls
of our appetizer (pumpkin soup with ground star anise – incredible), we weighed
our options. We decided that the prix fixe menu sounded like too much food for
this particular evening and ordered entrees a la carte – rack of lamb for me
and pigeon in a puff pastry for Josh. He figured it was his only chance to eat
gussied-up rats with wings.
While we felt like we were “playing adult”, the patrons
seated around us seemed much more at ease in their fancy surroundings. They
sipped their wine with ease, ordered five courses, and munched happily through
hours of conversation. Josh and I giggled, people-watched, and hummed throaty
noises of delight with every bite. Salty crunchy skin, melting puff pastry,
buttery vegetables yielding to the thrust of a fork - every bit was perfect. We
sopped up the extra sauce (possibly the best part of the whole meal) with
crusty bread that crackled when torn, showering our spotless table cloth with
crumbs. After the bliss of the entrée came a sampler of tiny deserts, from a
tart green apple macaron to a coconut-covered marshmallow and a tiny madeleine.
Next, a table was pulled adjacent to ours and piled with platters of larger
deserts. Ordering dessert meant ordering unlimited dessert, of which I took
full advantage. I’m not sure they’d ever seen a small woman eat four dessert
courses, but there’s a first time for everything. We ate apple upside down
cake, soft meringue covered in spun sugar and doused in cream, a lemon and
berry layered cake with fresh raspberries and sorbet, crème brulee, and then
more sorbet to finish it off. I managed to cut myself off without trying the
almond cake, “ambassadors”, chocolate mousse with gold flakes, rum-soaked cake,
and a couple of others.
We drove back into the city center and walked to our hotel
among the last gasps of the light festival revelry, halfway between a food coma
and a sleepless euphoria. Thousands of people streamed around us, feasting on
mulled wine and hot waffles with Nutella as the city continued to sparkle and
glow. It was a perfect night to be young, in love, and in Lyon.
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