I've come to enjoy one of the Seven Deadly Sins of European travel: hotel breakfasts. Specifically the diners themselves. No matter where they are from, or where they are going, they're eating the same cold ham, the same strawberry yogurt and the same Emmental cheese as I am. Banal conversations earn a new gravitas when spoken in German, or in the mother's hush of French. Usually, I just let the words wash over me and smile because I'm in France and people are politely speaking French like they don't back in the United States.
So far, I haven't heard much English in Lyon. My friendly, and ill-pronounced, greeting of "bonjour" usually results in a French reply. I immediately have to follow this up with a friendly, ill-pronounced and abashed "ah, je ne parle pas francais". For some reason I always preface the few French terms I know with "ah", just like I end English sentences with "then" when I'm in England.
Lyon feels like a place that's waiting to happen. The vibe and the food call to mind Oaxaca with potable water. You've got your narrow lanes unfit for traffic, and pedestrian-only boulevards. Of course, you have your cathedral (mandatory) and gobs of history (Roman ruins and 20th century tragedy); you have your amazing food ('tho the less said about andoulette the better) and luxury shops in a simulacrum of Champ de Elysees. I suspect the lack of a singular instagram-able image to encapsulate the city has held back the hordes. Darn!
Of the Hotel Celestins, it is a perfectly serviceable hotel in a good location for wandering about. Our room is typically French: small. It's a bit of a challenge to get two people around in. Getting the shower to function is a test worthy of Mensa admittance -- turn this knob, press this button; you'll know you did it right if you're suddenly blasted with icewater. Also, there's no shampoo, so forewarned is forearmed.
Bouchon Tupin
The Perfect Man is wearing a perfectly-fitted Seafoam Green sweater. He sits katty-corner at the table next to mine. I have never seen a man so perfect before. His haircut is perfect. His shave is perfect. The blush on his perfect cheeks is perfect. His chin is perfect. His Rolex is perfect. His simple gold wedding band is perfect. Someday, a magazine called "Perfect Man" will come out, and on its glossy cover, the Perfect Man will be perfectly posed and perfectly photographed, probably by Annie Liebowitz.
His wife/girlfriend/mistress is not as perfect. A trace of Creamed Mushroom soup remains at the bottom of her stoneware bowl and she's not going to let it go to waste. So she scrapescrapescrapescrapes at it with her spoon. She scrapescrapescrapescrapes at it with all the ferocity of a starving Bandicoot digging up a grub. She scrapescrapescrapescrapes and scrapescrapescrapescrapes until she stops for a moment to check whether she's gotten it all. Nope. Scrapescrapescrapescrape.
My wife looks at me.
Blessedly, my Quenelle arrives, along with trout for my wife. The Perfect Man and his annoyingly-industrious companion are out of mind, replaced by other things,
Earlier today I was wine tasting my way through the upper Rhone Valley. The tour was the kind I like: short on production and long on product -- "here's some barrels, here's some vats, let's drink." Given that these were all Rhone wines, there wasn't a plonker in the lot, nor were the samplings on the stingy side. When you're served 2010 Cote Rotie, it's obvious you've met a wine maker who knows her audience, their weaknesses, and the depth of their bank accounts.
Back to the food: it's wonderful, of course. The trout, which I suspect to be Steelhead, is delicately-flavored and cooked to the point a fork slides through it without pressure. My Quenelle is barely fish-flavored, and sauced with something that pours from the tap in Heaven.
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