Fine Dining
In 2002 or thereabouts, Gail was on assignment in France. She had returned to the work force after Doug, our youngest, had reached school age. After a brief stint in my laboratory as an unpaid technician, she taught chemistry for a few years in a Catholic college near our home in Baltimore. Ultimately, she landed a job with a Swedish biotechnology company. She began as a technical service representative and soon rose, remarkably quickly, to carve out a career in which she counseled companies all over the world on how to meet the regulatory requirements of the drugs that were being developed as a result of the revolution in molecular biology. She became a globetrotter, a winged warrior. Most of the time she traveled without me. Sometimes, I would tag along, taking advantage of the numerous holidays that the academic life provided. On this particular occasion, Gail was giving a talk at a biotechnology conference near Lyon. We had read about Vieux Lyon, the large Renaissance district in the center of the city, as well as the numerous Michelin three star restaurants nearby. Gail and I aspire to be gourmets, and sampling some of the best restaurants in the world sounded exciting. We decided to book a hotel in the old city and use it as a base from which to explore a variety of dining establishments. To get from the conference center to Lyon and to visit the places that weren’t within walking distance of the old city, we rented a car.
Allow me to pause here to relate a few stories about our experiences on the road in our numerous travels. I’ve driven all over the world on both sides of the road: On the left in Great Britain, South Africa, Ireland, and Australia. And on the right in, Italy, Spain, France, Croatia, and the rest of Europe. When we motor together, Gail and I have different responsibilities. She’s in charge of the navigation. I handle the wheel. This arrangement has not been without its problems, sometimes resulting in long arguments followed by protracted periods of silence. I think its fair to say that reading maps isn’t one of Gail’s talents. And I tend to shoot off in various directions when ever I get a vague feeling for the proper route. As a result, we’ve found ourselves lost, or I call it “temporarily displaced”, on numerous occasions.
For example, while navigating via a road map in Rome, we took a turn into what looked like a major highway, and instead found ourselves at a dead end in a parking lot. The problem was that the street names in Rome seemed to change every few yards. At one point we got so confused that we almost hired a taxi. Not to ride in, but to follow it to where we were headed. In the end, we decided on the following strategy: drive for one block, pull over, read the map, find a sign that identified the road we were on, and then repeat the procedure until we reached our destination. It was slow going, but it worked. Thank goodness for GPS, those days are gone for good.
In Oxford, I drove onto a one way street. At its end was a police woman. I couldn’t turn around and had to slowly approach her. I rolled down the window (it was a long time ago when windows rolled) and began pleading “I’ve been driving all day on the wrong side of the road. I can’t figure out these English signs. We’re hopelessly lost. I’ve run out of options. Arrest me.” She took pity and told me to keep calm. Apparently driving the wrong way on a one way street is not a capital offense in Britain. She let me go with a warning and a promise that I wouldn’t drive in Oxford ever again.
The most amusing (in retrospect) incident happened during our first visit to England way back in 1980. We had rented a car in the middle of London with the intention of driving around the British Isles. It had a manual transmission, but I didn’t consider that a problem since I had driven shift cars for many years. However, all of my experience came from autos where the driver was seated on the left side, and the shift lever was on the right. Somehow or other I thought that sitting on the opposite side of the car meant that the shift pattern was the mirror image of what I was used to. Accordingly, I put the car into third gear (instead of first) and pulled out into a major artery. Of course, the car stalled. I immediately hit the clutch, but in doing so I accidentally depressed a nearby device that the rental agency hadn’t told me about. It was the windshield washer switch. A great spray erupted from just below the windshield, and I found myself stalled in London traffic in front of a line of impatient black taxis, all honking angrily, with windshield washer fluid spurting up in the air. What an introduction to England.
Allow me to pause here to relate a few stories about our experiences on the road in our numerous travels. I’ve driven all over the world on both sides of the road: On the left in Great Britain, South Africa, Ireland, and Australia. And on the right in, Italy, Spain, France, Croatia, and the rest of Europe. When we motor together, Gail and I have different responsibilities. She’s in charge of the navigation. I handle the wheel. This arrangement has not been without its problems, sometimes resulting in long arguments followed by protracted periods of silence. I think its fair to say that reading maps isn’t one of Gail’s talents. And I tend to shoot off in various directions when ever I get a vague feeling for the proper route. As a result, we’ve found ourselves lost, or I call it “temporarily displaced”, on numerous occasions.
For example, while navigating via a road map in Rome, we took a turn into what looked like a major highway, and instead found ourselves at a dead end in a parking lot. The problem was that the street names in Rome seemed to change every few yards. At one point we got so confused that we almost hired a taxi. Not to ride in, but to follow it to where we were headed. In the end, we decided on the following strategy: drive for one block, pull over, read the map, find a sign that identified the road we were on, and then repeat the procedure until we reached our destination. It was slow going, but it worked. Thank goodness for GPS, those days are gone for good.
In Oxford, I drove onto a one way street. At its end was a police woman. I couldn’t turn around and had to slowly approach her. I rolled down the window (it was a long time ago when windows rolled) and began pleading “I’ve been driving all day on the wrong side of the road. I can’t figure out these English signs. We’re hopelessly lost. I’ve run out of options. Arrest me.” She took pity and told me to keep calm. Apparently driving the wrong way on a one way street is not a capital offense in Britain. She let me go with a warning and a promise that I wouldn’t drive in Oxford ever again.
The most amusing (in retrospect) incident happened during our first visit to England way back in 1980. We had rented a car in the middle of London with the intention of driving around the British Isles. It had a manual transmission, but I didn’t consider that a problem since I had driven shift cars for many years. However, all of my experience came from autos where the driver was seated on the left side, and the shift lever was on the right. Somehow or other I thought that sitting on the opposite side of the car meant that the shift pattern was the mirror image of what I was used to. Accordingly, I put the car into third gear (instead of first) and pulled out into a major artery. Of course, the car stalled. I immediately hit the clutch, but in doing so I accidentally depressed a nearby device that the rental agency hadn’t told me about. It was the windshield washer switch. A great spray erupted from just below the windshield, and I found myself stalled in London traffic in front of a line of impatient black taxis, all honking angrily, with windshield washer fluid spurting up in the air. What an introduction to England.
Back to Lyon. We had identified our prospective hotel on the map and were slowly making our way toward it. Soon we found ourselves within shouting distance of our destination, but the road to the hotel – at least the road that Gail said we were to take – was blocked by a barrier. I indicated to Gail (in a voice that might have had a slight edge to it) that she had made a mistake, that this couldn’t have been the proper route. She reacted badly. I decided to demonstrate to her that there was an alternative route that she had overlooked. For an hour, we circumnavigated the old town in an effort to find another way in. Three times we failed, and found ourselves back to where we began.
Gail pointed out (with a slight edge to her voice) that she had been correct, that this was the only route into old town. She suggested that we ask someone for guidance. I have to admit that seeking directions from strangers is not to my liking. Except of course under extreme circumstances. And, from Gail’s tone, this seemed like this was an appropriate moment to ask for help. I pulled over, climbed the stairs of a hotel on the corner, and asked the bellhop for directions. Luckily, he was able to make sense of my fractured French and the game of charades that I was using to indicate our problem. He led me down the steps of his hotel to a red post on the sidewalk. He pressed a button. The barrier that prevented us from entering the road into old town retracted into the ground. We had found the way in.
Gail pointed out (with a slight edge to her voice) that she had been correct, that this was the only route into old town. She suggested that we ask someone for guidance. I have to admit that seeking directions from strangers is not to my liking. Except of course under extreme circumstances. And, from Gail’s tone, this seemed like this was an appropriate moment to ask for help. I pulled over, climbed the stairs of a hotel on the corner, and asked the bellhop for directions. Luckily, he was able to make sense of my fractured French and the game of charades that I was using to indicate our problem. He led me down the steps of his hotel to a red post on the sidewalk. He pressed a button. The barrier that prevented us from entering the road into old town retracted into the ground. We had found the way in.
Once in our hotel in Lyon, on speaking terms once more, Gail and I decided to visit the restaurant of one of the legends of French cooking: Paul Bocuse. In the early afternoon of the next day, feeling that dinner would be too filling and expensive, we drove the 20 or so miles out of Lyon to Bocuse’s restaurant: L’Auberge du Pont de Collonges for lunch. Large billboards are rare in France, but we soon came upon one on the side of the road. It bore a picture of the famous chef along with the inscription: “Fifteen miles to L’Auberge du Pont de Collonges, Paul Bocuse’s restaurant.” Several similar signs, of increasing size, appeared at five mile intervals. When we finally arrived, there was a sign bearing Bocuse’s name in two feet high letters near the top of the building as well as a similar smaller sign above the door. A series of eight foot high murals were painted on the exterior walls that depicted fine dining from a historical perspective. The culminating mural seemed to suggest that cuisine had reached its apogee with Paul Bocuse. He was shown wearing a towering toque blanche overseeing a team of sous chef’s who were obviously in awe of his prowess.
We passed under the signs and appeared to enter a shrine. We were early. There were few patrons and many wait staff. It was eerily quiet. On the table we were presented with several plates and a multitude of forks, spoons and knives. Prominently inscribed on each piece of silverware was the name “Paul Bocuse”. The plates bore the same inscription in large letters. A thin overbearing waiter appeared. He gave the impression that we barely deserved the honor of dining at the restaurant. However, we were served promptly. Paul Bocuse himself stepped out of the kitchen in his chef’s uniform midway through the repast, a tall presence who reminded me of Charles de Gaulle. He acknowledged the patrons with a wave of his hand and a haughty nod. We were in the midst of the asparagus season, and I fondly recall eating a dish of the inch thick spears, white, tender, flavorful, and soaked in butter. They were delicious but we would have enjoyed it more if a multitude of waiters and busboys weren’t hovering nearby warily watching our every move. Of course, each had the name “Paul Bocuse” embroidered on his jacket.
As we neared the end of the meal, an elderly couple slowly entered the restaurant. The man used a cane and she was bent with age. They were accompanied by a small dog of indeterminate breed who, judging from its gray hair and sluggish gait, appeared to be as old as its owners. The three were seated across from us. The dog, who apparently was a regular patron, took up residence under the table. A waiter soon arrived. Bending down, he set before it a beautiful silver doggy bowl containing some morsels apparently prepared by the legend himself. The canine ate eagerly, evidently aware of the chef’s reputation. On the way out, after we signed the bill and and as we walked by the elderly couple’s table, I glanced down at the dish that the dog had been eating from. Engraved prominently at its base, it bore the name “Paul Bocuse”.
As we neared the end of the meal, an elderly couple slowly entered the restaurant. The man used a cane and she was bent with age. They were accompanied by a small dog of indeterminate breed who, judging from its gray hair and sluggish gait, appeared to be as old as its owners. The three were seated across from us. The dog, who apparently was a regular patron, took up residence under the table. A waiter soon arrived. Bending down, he set before it a beautiful silver doggy bowl containing some morsels apparently prepared by the legend himself. The canine ate eagerly, evidently aware of the chef’s reputation. On the way out, after we signed the bill and and as we walked by the elderly couple’s table, I glanced down at the dish that the dog had been eating from. Engraved prominently at its base, it bore the name “Paul Bocuse”.