May 14, 2024 / annakpf11

Spontaneous Déviation

We hadn’t originally planned to spend time in Lyon; we were going to spend three days hiking in the Alps. But wintry weather makes us think again. We worry that hiking will require snowshoes, and clouds will obscure the mountain views we were hoping to see. So, during dinner one evening in Burgundy, we hatch a new plan. Luckily, Dave has the foresight to always book places that allow penalty-free cancellations up to 24 hours in advance, and he enjoys the challenge of finding new and interesting places for us to stay, so in short order he has cancelled our alpine reservation and replaced it with three nights on an island in Lyon. But first we visit Pérouges, a walled village dating from around the 9th century and built with a mind-boggling number of individual stones.

Strategically located on the road from Lyon to Geneva, the village flourished through the Middle Ages and the Renaissance, becoming an important textile center known for the craft of its weavers.

Its fortunes dwindled in the 18th century, when a new road was built that bypassed the village, and new weaving techniques were developed using large, industrial sized looms.

At its height, the population of Pérouges numbered about 1,000 souls, but by the early 1900’s, businesses had shuttered, walls crumbled, and no more than 10 or 20 people remained. Structures were plundered for building materials to use elsewhere.

In 1911, horrified by the prospect of this historic jewel of a village being destroyed, a group of concerned citizens formed an association whose members each bought a house in Pérouges and rebuilt it. The association grew, and house by house, the village was restored. Today it is living replica of a medieval village, all signs of the modern world hidden from view, inhabited by artisans and tradespeople.

We arrive in Lyon in the late afternoon. Built on forested hills around the confluence of the Saône and Rhone rivers, Lyon and its environs impress us as a vibrant and attractive place to live.

Besides being considered the capital of French gastronomy, it is one of the largest metropolises in France, and the second most important business center (after Paris), with numerous regional headquarters and financial institutions.

Our rental apartment is on L’Île Barbe (or Insula Barbarica—the wild island), in the middle of the metropolis, but a world apart. Once a site of druid worship, in the 5th century the island became the site of one of the earliest Christian monasteries in France. Endowed with a wondrous library by King Charlemagne, the abbey withstood attacks by Saracens and Protestants in the 1500’s, became a facility for elderly or infirm priests in 1741, and was finally sold and dispersed during the French Revolution. Today, except for a small public park and playground, the island is private, the land and buildings owned by a small community of residents. The vestiges of its long and tumultuous history are reflected in the architectural mash-up of ancient ruins, medieval remnants, and subtle modernization, all blending into an enchanted hodge-podge of a place lost in time.

To reach our accommodation we make our way across a rickety, single-lane bridge (more often used by cyclists and pedestrians than cars), enter a code that unlocks an ornate iron gate and turn into a narrow lane that leads past the remains of a long-ago cloister.

Our host Bénédicte is a cheerful, outgoing young woman whose family has lived on L’Île Barbe for five generations. We follow her up a winding staircase and she explains that the building, once a monk’s refectory, was used by her ancestors to store junk. She recounts how she and her brothers had to clear out three stories of dusty rooms crammed floor to ceiling with centuries of cast-off furniture, art, textiles, books and memorabilia in order to create three holiday rental suites.

Bénédicte leads us into our top floor suite through a small foyer and tall, mirror-paned doors into a cavernous main room. The luxurious sitting area, dining table, kitchenette and doors leading to a small terrace are definitely more space than we need, but it is the only room available, the price is reasonable, so here we are, and we aren’t complaining. (Also, the internet is reliable and fast.)

Palladian windows look down onto a peaceful garden where remnants of the Romanesque abbey church are still visible: a ghostly archway embedded in the wall of a converted cottage; a subterranean entrance to an ancient crypt; and an interior wall of the abbey church, now an exterior façade.

It’s time for our first meal in Lyon, fabled foodie’s paradise. We walk across the river to Pistou, a nearby restaurant recommended by Bénédicte, and enjoy a meal so delicious that we wish we could return every evening of our stay. Unfortunately, the staff is going on a week’s holiday the next day, so the best we can do is count ourselves lucky we managed to catch one meal here. Dave swears that his entrée is the freshest, most refined tuna tartare and vinegar-infused rice he has ever experienced (and that is saying A LOT), and Anna can’t help but exclaim over the burst of flavor with every bite of her cod, white asparagus and nutty cereal risotto bathed in frothy caviar sauce. So far, so good on the gastrono-meter.

There are no shops or restaurants on the island, so the next morning we make the short journey across the bridge to the nearest bakery, a fragrant, bustling establishment offering not only a vast selection of baguettes but also an array of tartes, brioches, croissants, sandwiches—in short, any breakfast pastry or picnic fixings our hearts might desire. We stock up while we can; the bakery will be closed for the next two days.

A brief note about opening—and closing—hours in France: In Paris, one can always find an open bakery, shop or restaurant, but in provincial towns and villages, even a big city like Lyon, opening days and times are sporadic, and sometimes seem downright capricious. Advance planning is essential, unless one enjoys running out of milk and skipping meals.

We set out to explore the Old Town of Lyon, but after twenty minutes of shouldering our way through swarms of chattering teens, tourists, extended families and baby carriages, we realize that Sunday afternoon on a three-day weekend (which most French will stretch to four days, and some simply taking the entire week off) is probably not the best time for a relaxed stroll around narrow winding streets.

About holidays in France: The French are notorious for “bridging the gap” between weekends and holidays, and because Wednesday, May 1 is French Labor Day, Wednesday, May 8 is VE day, May 9 is the religious Ascension Day holiday and businesses are closed anyway Sunday, Monday and/or Tuesday, many people simply take the first two weeks of May off. We admire the French sense of work-life balance, but traveler be aware.

To escape the crowds, Dave retreats to The Smoking Dog Pub for a beer. To his delight, he finds a cold IPA and a Sunday afternoon playlist of All Beatles All The Time. Anna hikes to the top of the nearest mountain and finds views more reminiscent of Italy than France.

A visit to Lyon would be incomplete without a meal in at least one of the seven (7!) Paul Bocuse restaurants scattered around the city. (Who is Paul Bocuse? He is one of the founding fathers of French nouvelle cuisine, aka the Pope of French Gastronomy.) Each of his Lyon restaurants offers a different atmosphere and menu, and the largest, the casual Brasserie L’Ouest, is very convenient to where we are staying. It is a SCENE. At least five different wait-staff attend our table, and the restaurant is filled to the brim with families, couples and friends. Dave orders a classic steak tartare avec frîtes and salad, while Anna enjoys a three-layer concoction of rice, marinated beets and seared salmon in a light sorrel sauce.

Instead of ordering Chablis to accompany our meal, we decide to try a half-carafe of white wine from southern Burgundy. (What were we thinking? Henceforth we will come to our senses and return to drinking Chablis.) The backdrop of our meal is the constant back-and-forth of service and a large open kitchen where cooks wearing tall white chef’s hats scurry between stations. The head chef communicates with his minions via microphone and his instructions are audible to the entire restaurant. It is not an intimate dining experience, but it is definitely entertaining, and not to be missed.

In the part of town known as La Croix Rousse, formerly a silk weavers district, we make sure to visit the huge trompe l’oeil painting that creates a 3D illusion of neighborhood dwellings, shops and street life on what is actually a large expanse of blank plaster wall.

After each sojourn across the water into town, we are happy to leave busy city streets behind and return to our island refuge. Intriguingly, a high, locked gate blocks entry to the other end of the island. Anna attempts some iPhone espionage, but what lies beyond remains a mystery.

Two great meals, one to go. On our last night in Lyon, we find a friendly restaurant and a menu with unusual and delicious choices at Copains Copines sur la Colline (Friends on the Hill), a small “bistronomique” restaurant in the Croix Rousse district. Anna orders an entrée of tandoori chicken breast with onions, cucumber, coriander with raïta sauce topped with a teaspoonful of coconut curry sorbet. Her main course is steamed yellow monkfish with wok-fried vegetables served over ramen noodles and drizzled with a light coconut-lemongrass-coriander sauce. Dave orders a main course and a dessert: Truffle risotto with ham, parmesan and hazelnuts, followed by mojito sorbet with morsels of buttery pound cake and mint sauce.