Beaune
Nevers on the Loire is pretty much at the geographical centre of France and Beaune, between the Bourgogne and the Saône, is about 150km east of it, about the same distance from the Swiss border. It was an ideal resting place on our epic dash from Calais to Cannes, 1200 km apart. The old mediaeval town is largely intact, and traffic has to go around it as if on a gigantic roundabout, and any driver who ventures into it copes with cobbles, narrow twisty streets, the odd hairpin corner, and no parking to speak of.
It looked very festive in late January, with all the lavish Christmas lights still in place because in France there is another event to celebrate; I was told what but I forget. Help please. Pennie had had a tough day on the autoroute, snow and ice are not her milieu, with the occasional thought that we might be spending the night in the car, dining on digestive biscuits and water. And French venues are notable for the number of patrons who smoke. I can’t smell them, the old sinuses see to that, but it’s no fun for her. So she rested with some smoked salmon and crackers and apple juice from the Aldi across the road.
The Hotel Alesia is a gem--- madame very pert and French, monsieur very obliging, perhaps a little under madame’s spell. But I was dying to undertake the French dining experience, having observed at our recent overnight visit many warm and cosy little restaurants clustered around the town square, la Place Monge.
A 15 min walk into the town centre at –3degC meant an even sharper appetite; off the square I tossed up between two very appealing restaurants--- one offering wine by the glass the other not--- but I had in mind a small carafe or half bottle anyway, so Restaurant la Dame Tartine captured my affections. On Saturday night, about 7PM it was already quite busy, with Reservée on some tables, but I got a seat on the banquette along the wall, fumbled with my coat and cap, not knowing the precise etiquette, and dumped them on the seat opposite, at my table.
By this point the young, pretty but soooo distant waitress would have written me off as foreign, hopelessly gauche, and likely to dither over ordering. So I determined that such would not be the case, and when the maitre d’ approached, superb in black trousers shirt and tie, I confidently ordered the menu Prix Fixe de seize €, which offered four courses, each with three choices. First, Jambon Persillé then Beef Bourgignon (It’s a serious wine region, and Burgundy is nearby), Trois Fromages, and Gâteau, plus a demi bouteille de Côtes du Haute Rhône 2001. To my relief he absorbed it all without query, and I proceeded to study my fellow diners, between efforts to complete the crossword in that day’s Daily Telegraph, bought around the corner for 3€.
On my left a late 40’s couple arrived, spoke very softly at first, but warmed up and began to giggle a great deal. I think it may have been their first date. Ominously, an ash tray was placed at their table. To my right another pair turned up---- he tall, vacant looking and silent, she small intense and fox-like, remained glued to her mobile phone, and doing most of the talking. After ten minutes of this, they lit up a Marlboro each and studied the menu briefly, stubbed out the cigarettes and left. The waiter studied the abandoned table, shrugged in disgust and removed the ashtray with its part-used fags.
Then my dinner began to arrive; the ham jellied in aspic and parsley, elegantly garni with salad and new potatoes in mayonnaise, together with a generous basket of sliced baguette. The combination was delicious, washed down with wine and a mouthful of bread. My plate, totally scraped bare, was removed but sadly so was the bread basket. However it reappeared, fully restocked, with the beef and some small peeled and boiled potatoes. The one disappointment was that the beef had been so well stewed that it was rather dry and lacking texture.
The plate of three cheeses was a perfect follow-up. The waiter did tell me what cheeses they were, but I caught only the last, chèvre: goat’s cheese. All were fresh, soft and sharp, perfect to spread on the bread, with a sip of wine. It is not the French way to tell you what you are drinking, only where it came from, but I would guess it was a pinot or maybe cab sav, dry and somewhat acid. The cheese and the wine, softened with bread made a perfect contrast with the full bodied beef stew. Then dessert, whose name I forget, but a sort of creamy soft gateau topped with a fruit syrup and some cream.
By now the place was humming; every table full, a large group of assorted 30-ish friends having occupied the corner to my right, and ahead, by the door, a noisy and cheerful bunch of late 20s early 30s. But I was not the only wrinkly: an elderly gent with young woman and her son were by the kitchen door opposite and to my right. At the table vacated by Mr. Vacant and Ms. Foxy, a young couple with their three-year-old, his face glowing with excitement, were studying the menu attentively, discussing aspects of it in great detail with the waitress. This was clearly a meal to be taken seriously, planned and enjoyed to the full by all three it appeared.
This is what à la carte means, I realized: the meal is selected from the card, a full page, and not from the six or so fixed price menus preceding it. Well fed, but not bloated I toyed with the crossword a while, well aware how cold it was going to be outside, asked for l’addition, and paid my 26.50€, ($A 42) all taxes and service compris.
Outside I felt a glow of well-being: it had been a meal of enjoyable sensations, leading to a satisfying conclusion. The walk back to the hotel, up Rue Lorraine past dozens of very chic shop fronts, under the ancient ceremonial archway of the town and across the Boulevard Joffre served to dampen any alcoholic after glow and prepared me for a night of perfect repose.
However, Pennie had taken a bath, and found that the infuriating knob device to raise the drain plug was having a bad day, so monsieur had to be summoned, since my efforts had failed. He arrived with Stanley knife to prise up the metal plug and pliers to adjust the linkage: order was restored. A hot bath seemed a fine way to finish a day of many sensations, starting as it had with morning peak hour in Cannes.
It looked very festive in late January, with all the lavish Christmas lights still in place because in France there is another event to celebrate; I was told what but I forget. Help please. Pennie had had a tough day on the autoroute, snow and ice are not her milieu, with the occasional thought that we might be spending the night in the car, dining on digestive biscuits and water. And French venues are notable for the number of patrons who smoke. I can’t smell them, the old sinuses see to that, but it’s no fun for her. So she rested with some smoked salmon and crackers and apple juice from the Aldi across the road.
The Hotel Alesia is a gem--- madame very pert and French, monsieur very obliging, perhaps a little under madame’s spell. But I was dying to undertake the French dining experience, having observed at our recent overnight visit many warm and cosy little restaurants clustered around the town square, la Place Monge.
A 15 min walk into the town centre at –3degC meant an even sharper appetite; off the square I tossed up between two very appealing restaurants--- one offering wine by the glass the other not--- but I had in mind a small carafe or half bottle anyway, so Restaurant la Dame Tartine captured my affections. On Saturday night, about 7PM it was already quite busy, with Reservée on some tables, but I got a seat on the banquette along the wall, fumbled with my coat and cap, not knowing the precise etiquette, and dumped them on the seat opposite, at my table.
By this point the young, pretty but soooo distant waitress would have written me off as foreign, hopelessly gauche, and likely to dither over ordering. So I determined that such would not be the case, and when the maitre d’ approached, superb in black trousers shirt and tie, I confidently ordered the menu Prix Fixe de seize €, which offered four courses, each with three choices. First, Jambon Persillé then Beef Bourgignon (It’s a serious wine region, and Burgundy is nearby), Trois Fromages, and Gâteau, plus a demi bouteille de Côtes du Haute Rhône 2001. To my relief he absorbed it all without query, and I proceeded to study my fellow diners, between efforts to complete the crossword in that day’s Daily Telegraph, bought around the corner for 3€.
On my left a late 40’s couple arrived, spoke very softly at first, but warmed up and began to giggle a great deal. I think it may have been their first date. Ominously, an ash tray was placed at their table. To my right another pair turned up---- he tall, vacant looking and silent, she small intense and fox-like, remained glued to her mobile phone, and doing most of the talking. After ten minutes of this, they lit up a Marlboro each and studied the menu briefly, stubbed out the cigarettes and left. The waiter studied the abandoned table, shrugged in disgust and removed the ashtray with its part-used fags.
Then my dinner began to arrive; the ham jellied in aspic and parsley, elegantly garni with salad and new potatoes in mayonnaise, together with a generous basket of sliced baguette. The combination was delicious, washed down with wine and a mouthful of bread. My plate, totally scraped bare, was removed but sadly so was the bread basket. However it reappeared, fully restocked, with the beef and some small peeled and boiled potatoes. The one disappointment was that the beef had been so well stewed that it was rather dry and lacking texture.
The plate of three cheeses was a perfect follow-up. The waiter did tell me what cheeses they were, but I caught only the last, chèvre: goat’s cheese. All were fresh, soft and sharp, perfect to spread on the bread, with a sip of wine. It is not the French way to tell you what you are drinking, only where it came from, but I would guess it was a pinot or maybe cab sav, dry and somewhat acid. The cheese and the wine, softened with bread made a perfect contrast with the full bodied beef stew. Then dessert, whose name I forget, but a sort of creamy soft gateau topped with a fruit syrup and some cream.
By now the place was humming; every table full, a large group of assorted 30-ish friends having occupied the corner to my right, and ahead, by the door, a noisy and cheerful bunch of late 20s early 30s. But I was not the only wrinkly: an elderly gent with young woman and her son were by the kitchen door opposite and to my right. At the table vacated by Mr. Vacant and Ms. Foxy, a young couple with their three-year-old, his face glowing with excitement, were studying the menu attentively, discussing aspects of it in great detail with the waitress. This was clearly a meal to be taken seriously, planned and enjoyed to the full by all three it appeared.
This is what à la carte means, I realized: the meal is selected from the card, a full page, and not from the six or so fixed price menus preceding it. Well fed, but not bloated I toyed with the crossword a while, well aware how cold it was going to be outside, asked for l’addition, and paid my 26.50€, ($A 42) all taxes and service compris.
Outside I felt a glow of well-being: it had been a meal of enjoyable sensations, leading to a satisfying conclusion. The walk back to the hotel, up Rue Lorraine past dozens of very chic shop fronts, under the ancient ceremonial archway of the town and across the Boulevard Joffre served to dampen any alcoholic after glow and prepared me for a night of perfect repose.
However, Pennie had taken a bath, and found that the infuriating knob device to raise the drain plug was having a bad day, so monsieur had to be summoned, since my efforts had failed. He arrived with Stanley knife to prise up the metal plug and pliers to adjust the linkage: order was restored. A hot bath seemed a fine way to finish a day of many sensations, starting as it had with morning peak hour in Cannes.
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