Friday, 21 March 2014
day 1
We were to meet in the evening of 13 March at a cheap hotel at CDG. Burgundy and Paris. Ho hum. It's a hard life, but someone has to do it. This was the third "boys" trip and if truth be told, the excitement and anticipation before the previous two trips was higher. We have a rhythm now. Phil and Yoni set a date, Yoni plans, Garry and I book tickets, and on the designated date, we board a flying bus and have 5 days together. And the fact that it has become standard is fantastic.
Having said that, I finished work on Wednesday afternoon and entered into "holiday" mode. Instead of tingling excitement, I relaxed. It's the sort of relaxation that you feel when you're about to spend 5 days with 3 of your closest friends in a place that is at once familiar but still interesting. Not a grand adventure, a holiday. I duly promised my friends that I wouldn't be getting up to the same old tricks that resulted in a rather embarrassing end to our previous trip. So I promised.
But first, I had to get to Paris and that was via Vienna. It may sound ridiculous for a 54 year old living in Israel in 2014 to admit to trepidation about travelling on Austrian Airways to Vienna and being in an exclusively German speaking environment. However we all have our foibles and mine is a knee-jerk holocaust syndrome. And you know what? It was ridiculous. I must be getting old, showing previously unwitnessed signs of rational, mature thought.
I had three and a half hours to kill between flights. It takes only 15 minute by train into Vienna, so rather than hang out in the airport, decided to take a trip into town. Vienna, as beautiful as it may be, has never been on my travel radar...knee-jerk holocaust syndrome, remember? I have to admit though, I really enjoyed wandering the grand boulevards for an hour and a half. The only decision I had to make was Vienna Schnitzl or Apple Strudel. I didn't really have time and space for both, did I? Generally I prefer savory over sweet, but the Aida Cafe won me over. It has red vinyl covered bench chairs in wood paneled booths and has been open continuously since 1903. The waitress looked like she had been at the opening ceremony herself. To round out the atmosphere, Strauss played in the background (at least it wasn't Wagner. Classic Vienna. Trouble is, Classic Vienna had some troubling years in the 20th century. I couldn't help but think what went on in a place like this, that has been open uninterrupted since 1903, during the war years. I only complicated my knee-jerk syndrome when I ordered (and truly enjoyed) an apple shtrudel and a kleine brauner (coffee with milk and cream), worrying that the "brauner" was named after a rather infamous woman who was known to visit Vienna in the 30's and 40's. Oh dear. Guilty pleasures.
These Central Europeans have some interesting mores. The train to and from the airport is a comfortable triple-decker with free newspapers in a rack for the passengers to read on their 15 minute journey. Now I'm no prude, but I found it weird that on the front page of the Vienna Morning Herald, hanging in public for all to see and read, was a photo of a bare breasted woman and some headline, of what I could discern from my non-existent German language skills, that this woman and her breasts were 48 year's old. Of course, they didn't look it. But that's not my point. I guess what isn't acceptable in the English speaking world is more acceptable in Europe.
In any case, back at the airport, I pondered that whilst I could have flown directly from Tel Aviv to Paris, the side trip to Vienna once again confirmed that the indirect route is often the more interesting one.
I was first to arrive first in Paris and found my way to the hotel. The others straggled into Paris separately We were all exhausted upon arrival; Garry as a result of a trade show that was suffered without samples and changes of clothing, courtesy of ElAl. My excuse was a 4 a.m. flight after seeing a new\old friend at his hotel in Israel the night before and taking the long way to Paris. Phil arrived direct from Australia, but seemed to be relatively refreshed, and Yoni is always tired because he can't sleep and travels too much. In any case, Yoni, Garry and I managed to eat dinner before Phil's arrival, at a local Chinese restaurant that took us back to our childhood. Remember the days when the local Chinese restaurant served portions soaked in thick gooey sauce and laced with MSG added by the kilo? Where the word "quality", if used at all, was spelled "qwality" because that was as much attention to detail the owner\chef\waiter was willing to give ? I was under the impression that places like this had gone the way of the cassette player, but no, here in downtown Roissy, we were the only patrons of the Peking Palace. This fine establishment offered Chinese, Thailandese and other assorted imitations of Asian cuisines with all the retro 70's flair of tight jeans and crimped hair. And we were in Paris, the world's greatest food city.
After Phil arrived and had settled in, we decided a bottle of wine was the appropriate night-cap. Garry had bought a very serviceable Australian shiraz for the princely sum of 2.40 Euro.. So here we were, drinking Australian wine, bought in Koln, here in Paris, out of plastic cups in the minuscule sized lobby of our cheap hotel. And we loved every minute of it.
Thursday, 20 March 2014
Day 2
The day started with one of those embarrassing moments that you see in films and imagine that it has to actually happen to someone in real life. well it did. Yoni just ducked out of his room in order to wake Phil up in the neighbouring room. Boom, Yoni's hotel room slams shut, leaving him standing in a hotel corridor,at 6 a.m. in his boxers and nothing else. Unfortunately there is no photographic evidence of the event, but perhaps in the name of public decency, its just as well. He cajoled Phil into going downstairs to get another key. I'm a crueler person than Phil...I would have insisted that Yoni front up in his undies, himself, to the reception girl.
Once Yoni was back in his room, we were all dressed and ready to go by 6.30. We wanted to get going early in order to fully exploit the day and beat the Paris peak hour traffic.
Once we were sure that we were out of Paris and clear of potential traffic jams, we set our sights on our usual (perpetual?) activity. Finding something to eat. Leaving Paris without breakfast was a necessary evil, but an evil all the same. The first service station and roadside restaurant we came across would allow us to get some well needed calories. For those that have followed previous adventures, or our on-going trans Israel trek, you will already know that any opportunity, no matter how small, to get either lost or confused, will immediately be grabbed. And here too, looking for a place to eat, we found ourselves in the entrance to the trucks only carpark. We were told over the intercom (which was 2 1/2 metres above the ground...truck height) that we couldn't park there. We didn't see any other trucks there, but I suspect that this place was actually a secret French torture compound. How else could I explain that the entrance was guarded not only by a Fort Knox style gate, but by a metal wedge barrier that rises and falls, similar to those used in .
embassies around the globe in order to protect them from car bombs entering the compound? When we parked in the adjacent CARpark, the food in the restaurant looked dodgy, to say the least. Worse, the clientele looked like a Marseilles trucker gang. The leader of the gang was a particularly dangerous looking character that had a dotted, cut-here line tattooed around his neck. The 4 out-of -place and scared foreigners spun around and sprinted towards the exit. A few km down the road we found a Shell petrol station, where Pierre was happy to serve us coffee, hot chocolate and Cola Zero for Phil, chocolate croissants, brioche and ham and cheese baguettes to our heart's content.
Next stop, Auxerre. It's the regional centre of the Yonne department within Burgundy and sits on the Yonne river. (We suspect to this day that Yoni chose this region because of its similarity to his name. He vehemently denies the accusation). It's a charming town, with cobbled stone streets, old buildings and a relaxed buzz. At least the old town is like that. The majority of the town resembles any grey newish town in any country in the industrial world. But we tourists stuck to the pretty bits. There is also the obligatory world famous Gothic church and another couple of almost famous yet just as impressive looking churches. Unfortunately, since I was the only one interested in seeing them, my heathen friends outvoted me and I can't describe to you the magnificent 17th century stained glass windows or the fine example of Gothic flying buttress engineering. You'll have to read about it somewhere else.
We did wander around the old town for a bit, helping Phil in his indecision as to whether to buy a new coat to replace the one he left on the plane. We actually would have saved a fair bit of coat searching had Yoni not invoked the Sigal first rule of shopping...never buy the first thing you see. You'll always find something better or cheaper along the way. If not, come back to where you started. Phil found a coat he liked in the first shop, but didn't buy. In the end he can thank Sigal, via Yoni, for saving him some Euro. He took Yoni's coat to Prague, rather than buy a new one.
The most important purchase during our wandering was the first of many tart citron. This came at the heavy cost of a very difficult cultural lesson for Garry. Whilst waiting in line at the patisserie artisinal, Garry found the tart citron he wanted in the display case. He innocently slid the glass door open and started to take out the tart. . This is an absolutely acceptable thing in Israel. Well deary me. In France, you do not touch the merchandise in a cake shop. He was treated to the murderous glance and stern admonishment of the lady at the counter. We thought for a moment the dear little lady was going to physically attack our bemused friend, or that the gendarmes were about to take him away to the local lock-up for crimes against French culture. In the end Garry slinked out, crestfallen, but with the first of many lemon tarts in hand. I would like to add that it seemed Garry had decided that if the French didn't know or care too much how to properly feed a vegetarian, he would at least get his nutrition in these coming days from these delicious tarts. We actually tried to make a Garry's tart citron to Phil's Cola Zero ratio, but as time progressed it became apparent that the ratio kept changing and that Garry had no hope in keeping up with Phil's consumption of Cola Zero...we're talking in terms of litres per day. Instead, we searched for the perfect tart citron...the one where the base was just thick enough, just crisp enough and the lemon custard was just the right mix of sweet and sour. Lemony scent and custard viscosity were other parameters to be taken into account. We may not have been able to decide on which was the best, but we had lot's of fun sacrificing our waistlines in the name of science.
Eventually, as we always do, we found the local market and were reminded how quality and authenticity are not traits that the French have to search for or even endeavor to achieve, it's just there, naturally. There were stalls that only sold a few different varieties of potatoes, or onions, because that's what they know to grow or buy. Cheeses of the finest quality are accessible not to the Paris, or New York connoisseur, but to the local, everyday Auxerrian. The butcher stalls were not squeamish about their product. A duck might be in the vitrine with it's head and feet still attached. It's not "yuck" or "gross". It's an admission that this is an animal that we want to eat and there's no reason to sanitize that fact. It's part of life, it's just the way it is, and I admire the French and Italians for it.
On previous trips, in such a market, we would have bought 4 different cheeses, 2 styles of baguette and fine Corsican horse sausage just to taste it, whether we were hungry or not. This time we exercised self control and a policy of "look but not touch". Sigh. I guess it was the right thing to do.
After wandering Auxerre's charming old city, it was time to wander down Auxerre's charming river, the Yonne. We parked the car opposite one of the churches we weren't going to visit and started walking upstream. The idea was to find a rustic country restaurant on the banks of the river, waiting just for us to stroll by. After half an hour or so we had passed the Auxerre football club stadium, the local public swimming pool, a few grand old manor houses and a number of canal locks and were pretty much out of Auxerre. We were getting hungry (of course) and it was becoming obvious that the restaurant that we were dreaming of was just that, a dream. We decided to walk back to the car and drive further upstream, to the next village along the river. If in Australia they build the pub first, then the town around it, in France, it's the restaurant they build the town around. We would eat and continue walking after lunch. Nice theory, but the first hamlet we came to, Augy, seemed to be too small to support a restaurant. At Champs-sur-Yonne, the next village down, there was a supermarket. No way would a town in France have a supermarket and not a restaurant, and sure enough, we stumbled upon Chez Gillou, the local brasserie. It was a charming, no frills village eatery, a Burgundy version of an Australian R.S.L.club. Nothing fancy, just locals eating good simple local fare. As we entered the upstairs dining room, the restaurants patrons, in unison, turned to see the 4 Americannes that had dropped in from Mars. A momentary confused hush came over the room, until they realized that it wasn't really worth the distraction from the general eating, drinking and socializing that they'd been doing before we entered the room. Monsieur smiled and showed us to a table. The menu cost all of 13 euro and for that you got the salad bar, main course and desert or cheese platter. Who said you can't get bargains in France? Monsieur, after the usual mirth of actually having a vegetarian in his restaurant, happily suggested an omelette for Garry, who would have been quite satisfied with the quiches and vegetables at the salad bar. Yoni, Phil and I were happy with the charcuterie and a few dead plants to go with it from the salad bar. Yoni and I had the local dish of Belgian endive wrapped in ham and cooked in a bechamel sauce as main course and it was very good. Phil was very happy with his Burgundy roast chicken and Garry, well, as is the case for vegetarians in France, had his omelette. For desert, Garry naturally opted for the tart citron, Phil spotted a chocolate eclair that had his name on it, whilst Yoni and I, just as naturally, opted for the cheese platter. The obligatory carafe of local vin rouge rounded off the meal that was exactly what we had wanted.
Once Yoni was back in his room, we were all dressed and ready to go by 6.30. We wanted to get going early in order to fully exploit the day and beat the Paris peak hour traffic.
Once we were sure that we were out of Paris and clear of potential traffic jams, we set our sights on our usual (perpetual?) activity. Finding something to eat. Leaving Paris without breakfast was a necessary evil, but an evil all the same. The first service station and roadside restaurant we came across would allow us to get some well needed calories. For those that have followed previous adventures, or our on-going trans Israel trek, you will already know that any opportunity, no matter how small, to get either lost or confused, will immediately be grabbed. And here too, looking for a place to eat, we found ourselves in the entrance to the trucks only carpark. We were told over the intercom (which was 2 1/2 metres above the ground...truck height) that we couldn't park there. We didn't see any other trucks there, but I suspect that this place was actually a secret French torture compound. How else could I explain that the entrance was guarded not only by a Fort Knox style gate, but by a metal wedge barrier that rises and falls, similar to those used in .
embassies around the globe in order to protect them from car bombs entering the compound? When we parked in the adjacent CARpark, the food in the restaurant looked dodgy, to say the least. Worse, the clientele looked like a Marseilles trucker gang. The leader of the gang was a particularly dangerous looking character that had a dotted, cut-here line tattooed around his neck. The 4 out-of -place and scared foreigners spun around and sprinted towards the exit. A few km down the road we found a Shell petrol station, where Pierre was happy to serve us coffee, hot chocolate and Cola Zero for Phil, chocolate croissants, brioche and ham and cheese baguettes to our heart's content.Next stop, Auxerre. It's the regional centre of the Yonne department within Burgundy and sits on the Yonne river. (We suspect to this day that Yoni chose this region because of its similarity to his name. He vehemently denies the accusation). It's a charming town, with cobbled stone streets, old buildings and a relaxed buzz. At least the old town is like that. The majority of the town resembles any grey newish town in any country in the industrial world. But we tourists stuck to the pretty bits. There is also the obligatory world famous Gothic church and another couple of almost famous yet just as impressive looking churches. Unfortunately, since I was the only one interested in seeing them, my heathen friends outvoted me and I can't describe to you the magnificent 17th century stained glass windows or the fine example of Gothic flying buttress engineering. You'll have to read about it somewhere else.
We did wander around the old town for a bit, helping Phil in his indecision as to whether to buy a new coat to replace the one he left on the plane. We actually would have saved a fair bit of coat searching had Yoni not invoked the Sigal first rule of shopping...never buy the first thing you see. You'll always find something better or cheaper along the way. If not, come back to where you started. Phil found a coat he liked in the first shop, but didn't buy. In the end he can thank Sigal, via Yoni, for saving him some Euro. He took Yoni's coat to Prague, rather than buy a new one.
The most important purchase during our wandering was the first of many tart citron. This came at the heavy cost of a very difficult cultural lesson for Garry. Whilst waiting in line at the patisserie artisinal, Garry found the tart citron he wanted in the display case. He innocently slid the glass door open and started to take out the tart. . This is an absolutely acceptable thing in Israel. Well deary me. In France, you do not touch the merchandise in a cake shop. He was treated to the murderous glance and stern admonishment of the lady at the counter. We thought for a moment the dear little lady was going to physically attack our bemused friend, or that the gendarmes were about to take him away to the local lock-up for crimes against French culture. In the end Garry slinked out, crestfallen, but with the first of many lemon tarts in hand. I would like to add that it seemed Garry had decided that if the French didn't know or care too much how to properly feed a vegetarian, he would at least get his nutrition in these coming days from these delicious tarts. We actually tried to make a Garry's tart citron to Phil's Cola Zero ratio, but as time progressed it became apparent that the ratio kept changing and that Garry had no hope in keeping up with Phil's consumption of Cola Zero...we're talking in terms of litres per day. Instead, we searched for the perfect tart citron...the one where the base was just thick enough, just crisp enough and the lemon custard was just the right mix of sweet and sour. Lemony scent and custard viscosity were other parameters to be taken into account. We may not have been able to decide on which was the best, but we had lot's of fun sacrificing our waistlines in the name of science.
Eventually, as we always do, we found the local market and were reminded how quality and authenticity are not traits that the French have to search for or even endeavor to achieve, it's just there, naturally. There were stalls that only sold a few different varieties of potatoes, or onions, because that's what they know to grow or buy. Cheeses of the finest quality are accessible not to the Paris, or New York connoisseur, but to the local, everyday Auxerrian. The butcher stalls were not squeamish about their product. A duck might be in the vitrine with it's head and feet still attached. It's not "yuck" or "gross". It's an admission that this is an animal that we want to eat and there's no reason to sanitize that fact. It's part of life, it's just the way it is, and I admire the French and Italians for it.
On previous trips, in such a market, we would have bought 4 different cheeses, 2 styles of baguette and fine Corsican horse sausage just to taste it, whether we were hungry or not. This time we exercised self control and a policy of "look but not touch". Sigh. I guess it was the right thing to do.
After wandering Auxerre's charming old city, it was time to wander down Auxerre's charming river, the Yonne. We parked the car opposite one of the churches we weren't going to visit and started walking upstream. The idea was to find a rustic country restaurant on the banks of the river, waiting just for us to stroll by. After half an hour or so we had passed the Auxerre football club stadium, the local public swimming pool, a few grand old manor houses and a number of canal locks and were pretty much out of Auxerre. We were getting hungry (of course) and it was becoming obvious that the restaurant that we were dreaming of was just that, a dream. We decided to walk back to the car and drive further upstream, to the next village along the river. If in Australia they build the pub first, then the town around it, in France, it's the restaurant they build the town around. We would eat and continue walking after lunch. Nice theory, but the first hamlet we came to, Augy, seemed to be too small to support a restaurant. At Champs-sur-Yonne, the next village down, there was a supermarket. No way would a town in France have a supermarket and not a restaurant, and sure enough, we stumbled upon Chez Gillou, the local brasserie. It was a charming, no frills village eatery, a Burgundy version of an Australian R.S.L.club. Nothing fancy, just locals eating good simple local fare. As we entered the upstairs dining room, the restaurants patrons, in unison, turned to see the 4 Americannes that had dropped in from Mars. A momentary confused hush came over the room, until they realized that it wasn't really worth the distraction from the general eating, drinking and socializing that they'd been doing before we entered the room. Monsieur smiled and showed us to a table. The menu cost all of 13 euro and for that you got the salad bar, main course and desert or cheese platter. Who said you can't get bargains in France? Monsieur, after the usual mirth of actually having a vegetarian in his restaurant, happily suggested an omelette for Garry, who would have been quite satisfied with the quiches and vegetables at the salad bar. Yoni, Phil and I were happy with the charcuterie and a few dead plants to go with it from the salad bar. Yoni and I had the local dish of Belgian endive wrapped in ham and cooked in a bechamel sauce as main course and it was very good. Phil was very happy with his Burgundy roast chicken and Garry, well, as is the case for vegetarians in France, had his omelette. For desert, Garry naturally opted for the tart citron, Phil spotted a chocolate eclair that had his name on it, whilst Yoni and I, just as naturally, opted for the cheese platter. The obligatory carafe of local vin rouge rounded off the meal that was exactly what we had wanted.
It was unanimously agreed that we needed to walk off the newfound calories and there was no place finer than along the banks of the Yonne. We ambled down the river, not a care in the world. Conversation ranged between trip democracy (or lack of it), old world vs Asian vs new world sightseeing, people we hadn't thought about for 30 years and things that are said in Burgundy stay in Burgundy. All under blue, late winter skies and besides the slow flowing picturesque river. It's a hard life, but someone has to do it.
By the time we got back to the car it was getting into late afternoon and time to head to our lodgings in the village of Lindry. And what lodgings. From the entrance it looks like an old manor house, with a magnificent green lawn in front and gravel courtyard behind. Inside it's all dark wood paneling and stone. Our hosts, Julia and Stephane, welcomed us warmly and happily shared of themselves. Over pre-dinner kir, we talked as if we'd been friends for years, catching up on the goings-ons of this past week.
http://www.la-bichonniere.com
Stephane recommended we try L'eko in nearby Bleury. It's a funky place with cool young owners, in a tiny, out-of-the-way hamlet. The customers included older couples, young families, bikers, young girls on a night out...and us. The young waiter\owner seemed to be of North African descent, and the food reflected that. It wouldn't surprise me if he had his mum cooking out back in the kitchen.We ordered over-sized barbecued skewers threaded with lamb, beef and chicken (no pork on the menu) which came accompanied by a giant communal bowl of couscous and chunky vegetable soup. Harissa comes automatically. We weren't really that hungry, but since when has hunger and eating been linked on these trips? And as we wearily sat back in our chairs, we once again repeated our mantra...it's a hard life...
http://www.la-bichonniere.com
Stephane recommended we try L'eko in nearby Bleury. It's a funky place with cool young owners, in a tiny, out-of-the-way hamlet. The customers included older couples, young families, bikers, young girls on a night out...and us. The young waiter\owner seemed to be of North African descent, and the food reflected that. It wouldn't surprise me if he had his mum cooking out back in the kitchen.We ordered over-sized barbecued skewers threaded with lamb, beef and chicken (no pork on the menu) which came accompanied by a giant communal bowl of couscous and chunky vegetable soup. Harissa comes automatically. We weren't really that hungry, but since when has hunger and eating been linked on these trips? And as we wearily sat back in our chairs, we once again repeated our mantra...it's a hard life...
Wednesday, 19 March 2014
Day 3
Yoni seems to be having troubles with mornings. Yesterday morning locked out of his room in his undies, today he woke up realizing that the planned market in Chablis was tomorrow, not today. My my, what would we do? Simple. Ask Google for a list of market days in Burgundy. Sure enough, just down the road, at Tonnerre, we could sample rural Burgundy's finest.
But before that, we had breakfast to tackle. Amazing how Julia, our hostess, made bread and jam into an art form. Of course, bread means a fresh flaky croissant, crusty baguette and a couple of other rustic chewy baked goods. Any resemblance between what you take off the shelf at the local super and the apple and 3 peppers jam, or mulberry, or spiced pear jam, or sour marmalade, or crystallized, unheated honey, or, or, or...is in name only. Fresh coffee, of course, real hot chocolate for Phil, of course, fresh squeezed pink grapefruit juice...not gourmet but simply perfect. We spotted small containers of fresh yoghurt and 3 types of home made muesli to go with it, but, honestly, we were too well fed with the other stuff to even contemplate it.
The weather was overcast above the heavy fog. Mid March is still winter, so we worried a bit that there might be some rain. The day would remain cool, but without precipitation.
So off we went, to the hamlet of Tonnere and the local market. The place was quaint enough, in an average French country-side sort of way, but nothing that would have me rushing back for a second visit. The market was a bit underwhelming too, in keeping with what you might really expect in such a small place. We noticed that all over the place people were handing out flyers. Seemed strange until someone explained that there were municipal elections today. There was also a blood drive. Makes me wonder who were the bigger blood-suckers...the para-medic teams on hand waiting for blood donors, or the local politicians. Interesting what the villagers would answer.
Chablis is one of France's and perhaps the world's most famous white wines. It's a very good chardonnay by any other name. And we were certainly going to taste some. But not at 10 a.m. In order to get a feel of the terroir, we decided we would go for a nice 5 km walk through the vines, forests and hills of the area. The local tourism office gave us a map and assured us that all we had to do was follow the yellow markings. Ha, we thought, a French Mr. Shvil Painter. If we so often miss the white, blue and orange markings of the Israel National Trail (http://shvil-yisrael.blogspot.co.il/) then why wouldn't we miss the simple yellow markings of Chablis. And sure enough, we don't know how, we don't know why, but we missed the markers and walked our own route. The big difference between being lost and not knowing where the designated route is, is that here in Chablis we could almost always see the village, or at least knew exactly where it was, When we get lost here in Israel we get LOST.
On a marked route or not, it was very beautiful. We've seen over both our trips to France lot's of Monet landscapes. Finally we were walking through one. We climbed hills, walked between rows of dormant grape vines and had the town of Chablis in sight, perched on a hill a few kilometres away. We passed here and there a few workers, doing whatever they had to do in late winter between the rows. We skirted forests and then passed through others. The planned 5 km walk stretched into 2 1/2 hours of strolling, probably closer to 10 km, and it was great. Need I mention that life is tough, but...?
By the time we got back to Chablis, we were famished. a rare and unfortunate event in our journeys. Chablis might be reasonably famous, but it is not blessed with an abundance of restaurants. We stumbled upon a restaurant that seemed just perfect. A menu for a reasonable price offering local fare. We entered, climbed the stairs into the small brasserie and saw 8 full tables and one, lone table for four in the middle. Ah, we thought, the food gods are smiling upon us. But alas, no. The waitress informed us that without a booking it was not possible and that lone teasing table was booked for 15 minutes time. She gave us the name of another restaurant, a ten minute walk away. It too was full and had a 45 minute wait. We were getting past famished and didn't like the idea of hanging out another 45 minutes. After wandering around looking for almost anything that wasn't offering just sandwiches and pizza, Phil discovered Hotel de la Poste. Even though rule no. 1 of restaurant choosing is never go to a place that is empty, especially when every other restaurant in the vicinity is full, we were so hungry and so bereft of choices, we decided to give it a go.
Things didn't auger too well when it took the waitress 10 minutes to acknowledge that we were in the restaurant and a further 15 minutes to take our order. She seemed much more interested in talking to a young lad at the bar, that she was tending. It took 10 minutes for Phil's Cola Zero to travel the 5 metres from the bar to the table. A land speed record.
Once she took the order it took a further 20 minutes for the first courses to come out. I remind you, the restaurant was empty, bar one deranged looking woman seated at the back of the dining room. When Garry took a trip to the bathroom, he noticed that our waitress who doubled as a bartender, tripled as a dishwasher. We were quite convinced she quaded as a cook. Grim. Very Grim.
My snail soup was quite reasonable and Yoni's plate of charcruterie was great, if great means ducking out to the local supermarket and buying the cheapest pre-packaged brands you can find. Just goes to prove that poor quality sausage meat can be found everywhere, even in France. He ate it grumpily, because he was hungry. So far, so bad and Yoni's mood was starting to reflect the grave state of affairs. After a further wait, the mains came out. The only bit of almost encouraging news was that when Phil went out back in order to empty his Cola Zero bladder, he saw a cook in the kitchen who wasn't our waitress. It was her pimply 15 year old younger brother. Our "it's a hard life" mantra was starting to take on literal connotations. Garry's pasta in roquefort was quite good, Phil's salmon certainly edible, my steak wasn't exactly Japanese kobe and the pepper sauce had a very large contribution from Mr. Knorr, but given my state of hunger, was acceptable, if no more than that. And then there was Yoni's fish. It was definitely fish, that's to say, it did once swim the seas. To what clan of sea creature it belonged we couldn't tell, and judging by the ammonia smell, forensic testing wouldn't succeed in identifying the genus. Between two layers of white smelly flesh was a row of membrane or cartilage , which led me to think that it was shark. When we described it to Stephane, our host, later in the evening, he confirmed that I wasn't too far wrong. He said it was ray, and I'll whittle that down to skate. Stephane also confirmed that it is indeed regarded as a local delicacy. Well a delicacy this dish wasn't. As Anakin took 3 films to fully embrace the Dark Side, it took Yoni a scant hour to go from humourosly grumpy to full on Dark Side. Move over Darth Vadar. Once we'd finished, all we wanted to do was get out, before Yoni whipped out his laser-saber and cut gaping holes in the waitress and her pubescent brother. We hadn't seen Yoni lose the plot like this for years, though to be honest, I can perfectly understand him. To be served sub standard food in downtown Carmiel, or Jersey City, I can somehow understand, but the one meal that we're going to eat in Chablis, you'd want something far better. Phil has his choosing rights revoked and will not be allowed to pick a restaurant at any time in the coming decade.
It was time to distract ourselves with some of what Chablis is famous for - Chardonnay wine. We left the lunch "restaurant", walked 50 metres down the road and found "signe Chablis". We actually walked ten metres behind Yoni, for fear that the smoke emanating from his ears would lead to spontaneous combustion. (Maybe we were walking behind him out of fear. Full stop.)
In and around Chablis each grower has his own cave, or wine cellar\retail outlet. Signe Chablis does not represent one grower, but is a wine shop that has a wide range of Chablis and Auxerre wines and for very reasonable prices does tastings and explanations. Yoni, Garry and I wanted to taste some wine. Phil, who really doesn't drink (alcohol), found other ways to amuse himself on the streets of Chablis.
The Force was starting to conquer the Dark Side. When the shop owner, who spoke perfect English due to his being educated in England, offered a cheese platter to accompany the wines, Yoni had his smile back on his face. Phew!! The owner, a rather jolly giant, explained about the 4 different grades that made up the appellation; Petite Chablis, Chablis, Premier Crus and Grand Crus. The Petite Chablis was light and fruity, and each grade showed more depth and complexity. That's not to say that we necessarily preferred the Grand Cru. The three of us discussed which we preferred and why, in a very civilized manner, as is befitting the occasion. We asked questions about factors that made up the terrior, and the making of the different grades, including soil, position of the vines on the slope, whether they were on the windward or lee side of the slope and much more. The generous plate of 6 different soft cheeses and fantastic bread helped eradicate the memory of the worst meal we had ever had in France. We left the shop a lot happier, with a better taste in our mouth and more knowledgeable about Chablis wine than when we entered. You can't ask for much more than that, especially given the starting position. We decided we wanted to visit the cellar of a grower\producer, and entered one of the many that line Chablis's main street. Eager to show off our new found wine knowledge, we sipped a few different wines and bought a bottle of the one we agreed that we liked most, for Julia and Stephane. Once we were satisfied with our wine tastings, our attention turned to tart citron. Garry, having learnt his lesson from the previous days faux pas, allowed the lady in the patisserie to pack 3 tarts into a box and off we set, searching for the perfect spot to consume them. The river, more like a creek, in Chablis, looked just the place to walk by and soon enough we had left the environs of the village and were walking through the country, close to but not next the brook. A sign pointed to La maison du moulin des roches. My very limited French gave me maison = house and moulin=mill. I figured that if it's a mill it would be by the water. I may not be Einstein, but I got this one right. It's a lovely b+b, very light and airy. After seeing the house and being duly impressed by the place and the owner, our tart citrons were still beckoning to be eaten. Jean-Pierre and Marie had 4 wicker chairs on the balcony overlooking the creek. We had found the perfect spot to eat our tart citron.
With 2 walks, a bad lunch but good wine in our day's activities, we were ready for a bit of a shloof upon our return to our b+b. It was, after all, Saturday, the Sabbath, and we were on holiday.
Come dinner time, all roads led to Auxerre. We walked around the town a bit and found a nice restaurant that was very full, but not so full that it didn't have room for us. We were greeted by a smiling waitress who even managed to joke around a little with us, despite language differences. I think I said it on our previous trip to France, but will repeat it here. The French get a bad rap, principally from Englishmen who haven't forgotten the 100 years war in the 14 century. Almost without exception we've found them smiling and willing to help, despite our, or their, English. It helps, I'm sure, that we try to speak in what little French we know, but we haven't encountered any of the surliness or refusal to speak English that you hear so much about. Even the Parisians are generally ok, though a little less warm than their country cousins. Of course, the inhabitants of NYC are renowned for their lightness of heart and willingness to help, just like the inhabitants of many large cities in the world. Next time you're in France, smile to the person opposite you, address him\her with a "bon jour" and you will learn that the myth about the French is just that, a myth. (But don't push it, by taking a tart citron yourself from the display cabinet in a patisserie)
In any case, the restaurant with the nice waitress served good local tucker, though Phil almost missed his meal. He wanted to duck back to the car to get his jacket. 10 minutes later he slinked in, jacket-less and crestfallen that he couldn't find where the car was parked. At least he found his way back to the right restaurant. I have images of him still wandering around Auxerre, lost and dazed and increasing Auxerre's total yearly consumption of Cola Zero.
At day's end we could all be heard murmuring something about how tough life was.
But before that, we had breakfast to tackle. Amazing how Julia, our hostess, made bread and jam into an art form. Of course, bread means a fresh flaky croissant, crusty baguette and a couple of other rustic chewy baked goods. Any resemblance between what you take off the shelf at the local super and the apple and 3 peppers jam, or mulberry, or spiced pear jam, or sour marmalade, or crystallized, unheated honey, or, or, or...is in name only. Fresh coffee, of course, real hot chocolate for Phil, of course, fresh squeezed pink grapefruit juice...not gourmet but simply perfect. We spotted small containers of fresh yoghurt and 3 types of home made muesli to go with it, but, honestly, we were too well fed with the other stuff to even contemplate it.
The weather was overcast above the heavy fog. Mid March is still winter, so we worried a bit that there might be some rain. The day would remain cool, but without precipitation.
So off we went, to the hamlet of Tonnere and the local market. The place was quaint enough, in an average French country-side sort of way, but nothing that would have me rushing back for a second visit. The market was a bit underwhelming too, in keeping with what you might really expect in such a small place. We noticed that all over the place people were handing out flyers. Seemed strange until someone explained that there were municipal elections today. There was also a blood drive. Makes me wonder who were the bigger blood-suckers...the para-medic teams on hand waiting for blood donors, or the local politicians. Interesting what the villagers would answer.
Chablis is one of France's and perhaps the world's most famous white wines. It's a very good chardonnay by any other name. And we were certainly going to taste some. But not at 10 a.m. In order to get a feel of the terroir, we decided we would go for a nice 5 km walk through the vines, forests and hills of the area. The local tourism office gave us a map and assured us that all we had to do was follow the yellow markings. Ha, we thought, a French Mr. Shvil Painter. If we so often miss the white, blue and orange markings of the Israel National Trail (http://shvil-yisrael.blogspot.co.il/) then why wouldn't we miss the simple yellow markings of Chablis. And sure enough, we don't know how, we don't know why, but we missed the markers and walked our own route. The big difference between being lost and not knowing where the designated route is, is that here in Chablis we could almost always see the village, or at least knew exactly where it was, When we get lost here in Israel we get LOST.
On a marked route or not, it was very beautiful. We've seen over both our trips to France lot's of Monet landscapes. Finally we were walking through one. We climbed hills, walked between rows of dormant grape vines and had the town of Chablis in sight, perched on a hill a few kilometres away. We passed here and there a few workers, doing whatever they had to do in late winter between the rows. We skirted forests and then passed through others. The planned 5 km walk stretched into 2 1/2 hours of strolling, probably closer to 10 km, and it was great. Need I mention that life is tough, but...?
By the time we got back to Chablis, we were famished. a rare and unfortunate event in our journeys. Chablis might be reasonably famous, but it is not blessed with an abundance of restaurants. We stumbled upon a restaurant that seemed just perfect. A menu for a reasonable price offering local fare. We entered, climbed the stairs into the small brasserie and saw 8 full tables and one, lone table for four in the middle. Ah, we thought, the food gods are smiling upon us. But alas, no. The waitress informed us that without a booking it was not possible and that lone teasing table was booked for 15 minutes time. She gave us the name of another restaurant, a ten minute walk away. It too was full and had a 45 minute wait. We were getting past famished and didn't like the idea of hanging out another 45 minutes. After wandering around looking for almost anything that wasn't offering just sandwiches and pizza, Phil discovered Hotel de la Poste. Even though rule no. 1 of restaurant choosing is never go to a place that is empty, especially when every other restaurant in the vicinity is full, we were so hungry and so bereft of choices, we decided to give it a go.
Things didn't auger too well when it took the waitress 10 minutes to acknowledge that we were in the restaurant and a further 15 minutes to take our order. She seemed much more interested in talking to a young lad at the bar, that she was tending. It took 10 minutes for Phil's Cola Zero to travel the 5 metres from the bar to the table. A land speed record.
Once she took the order it took a further 20 minutes for the first courses to come out. I remind you, the restaurant was empty, bar one deranged looking woman seated at the back of the dining room. When Garry took a trip to the bathroom, he noticed that our waitress who doubled as a bartender, tripled as a dishwasher. We were quite convinced she quaded as a cook. Grim. Very Grim.
My snail soup was quite reasonable and Yoni's plate of charcruterie was great, if great means ducking out to the local supermarket and buying the cheapest pre-packaged brands you can find. Just goes to prove that poor quality sausage meat can be found everywhere, even in France. He ate it grumpily, because he was hungry. So far, so bad and Yoni's mood was starting to reflect the grave state of affairs. After a further wait, the mains came out. The only bit of almost encouraging news was that when Phil went out back in order to empty his Cola Zero bladder, he saw a cook in the kitchen who wasn't our waitress. It was her pimply 15 year old younger brother. Our "it's a hard life" mantra was starting to take on literal connotations. Garry's pasta in roquefort was quite good, Phil's salmon certainly edible, my steak wasn't exactly Japanese kobe and the pepper sauce had a very large contribution from Mr. Knorr, but given my state of hunger, was acceptable, if no more than that. And then there was Yoni's fish. It was definitely fish, that's to say, it did once swim the seas. To what clan of sea creature it belonged we couldn't tell, and judging by the ammonia smell, forensic testing wouldn't succeed in identifying the genus. Between two layers of white smelly flesh was a row of membrane or cartilage , which led me to think that it was shark. When we described it to Stephane, our host, later in the evening, he confirmed that I wasn't too far wrong. He said it was ray, and I'll whittle that down to skate. Stephane also confirmed that it is indeed regarded as a local delicacy. Well a delicacy this dish wasn't. As Anakin took 3 films to fully embrace the Dark Side, it took Yoni a scant hour to go from humourosly grumpy to full on Dark Side. Move over Darth Vadar. Once we'd finished, all we wanted to do was get out, before Yoni whipped out his laser-saber and cut gaping holes in the waitress and her pubescent brother. We hadn't seen Yoni lose the plot like this for years, though to be honest, I can perfectly understand him. To be served sub standard food in downtown Carmiel, or Jersey City, I can somehow understand, but the one meal that we're going to eat in Chablis, you'd want something far better. Phil has his choosing rights revoked and will not be allowed to pick a restaurant at any time in the coming decade.
It was time to distract ourselves with some of what Chablis is famous for - Chardonnay wine. We left the lunch "restaurant", walked 50 metres down the road and found "signe Chablis". We actually walked ten metres behind Yoni, for fear that the smoke emanating from his ears would lead to spontaneous combustion. (Maybe we were walking behind him out of fear. Full stop.)
In and around Chablis each grower has his own cave, or wine cellar\retail outlet. Signe Chablis does not represent one grower, but is a wine shop that has a wide range of Chablis and Auxerre wines and for very reasonable prices does tastings and explanations. Yoni, Garry and I wanted to taste some wine. Phil, who really doesn't drink (alcohol), found other ways to amuse himself on the streets of Chablis.
The Force was starting to conquer the Dark Side. When the shop owner, who spoke perfect English due to his being educated in England, offered a cheese platter to accompany the wines, Yoni had his smile back on his face. Phew!! The owner, a rather jolly giant, explained about the 4 different grades that made up the appellation; Petite Chablis, Chablis, Premier Crus and Grand Crus. The Petite Chablis was light and fruity, and each grade showed more depth and complexity. That's not to say that we necessarily preferred the Grand Cru. The three of us discussed which we preferred and why, in a very civilized manner, as is befitting the occasion. We asked questions about factors that made up the terrior, and the making of the different grades, including soil, position of the vines on the slope, whether they were on the windward or lee side of the slope and much more. The generous plate of 6 different soft cheeses and fantastic bread helped eradicate the memory of the worst meal we had ever had in France. We left the shop a lot happier, with a better taste in our mouth and more knowledgeable about Chablis wine than when we entered. You can't ask for much more than that, especially given the starting position. We decided we wanted to visit the cellar of a grower\producer, and entered one of the many that line Chablis's main street. Eager to show off our new found wine knowledge, we sipped a few different wines and bought a bottle of the one we agreed that we liked most, for Julia and Stephane. Once we were satisfied with our wine tastings, our attention turned to tart citron. Garry, having learnt his lesson from the previous days faux pas, allowed the lady in the patisserie to pack 3 tarts into a box and off we set, searching for the perfect spot to consume them. The river, more like a creek, in Chablis, looked just the place to walk by and soon enough we had left the environs of the village and were walking through the country, close to but not next the brook. A sign pointed to La maison du moulin des roches. My very limited French gave me maison = house and moulin=mill. I figured that if it's a mill it would be by the water. I may not be Einstein, but I got this one right. It's a lovely b+b, very light and airy. After seeing the house and being duly impressed by the place and the owner, our tart citrons were still beckoning to be eaten. Jean-Pierre and Marie had 4 wicker chairs on the balcony overlooking the creek. We had found the perfect spot to eat our tart citron.
With 2 walks, a bad lunch but good wine in our day's activities, we were ready for a bit of a shloof upon our return to our b+b. It was, after all, Saturday, the Sabbath, and we were on holiday.
Come dinner time, all roads led to Auxerre. We walked around the town a bit and found a nice restaurant that was very full, but not so full that it didn't have room for us. We were greeted by a smiling waitress who even managed to joke around a little with us, despite language differences. I think I said it on our previous trip to France, but will repeat it here. The French get a bad rap, principally from Englishmen who haven't forgotten the 100 years war in the 14 century. Almost without exception we've found them smiling and willing to help, despite our, or their, English. It helps, I'm sure, that we try to speak in what little French we know, but we haven't encountered any of the surliness or refusal to speak English that you hear so much about. Even the Parisians are generally ok, though a little less warm than their country cousins. Of course, the inhabitants of NYC are renowned for their lightness of heart and willingness to help, just like the inhabitants of many large cities in the world. Next time you're in France, smile to the person opposite you, address him\her with a "bon jour" and you will learn that the myth about the French is just that, a myth. (But don't push it, by taking a tart citron yourself from the display cabinet in a patisserie)
In any case, the restaurant with the nice waitress served good local tucker, though Phil almost missed his meal. He wanted to duck back to the car to get his jacket. 10 minutes later he slinked in, jacket-less and crestfallen that he couldn't find where the car was parked. At least he found his way back to the right restaurant. I have images of him still wandering around Auxerre, lost and dazed and increasing Auxerre's total yearly consumption of Cola Zero.
At day's end we could all be heard murmuring something about how tough life was.
Tuesday, 18 March 2014
Day 4
The original plan for today was to head south and east, to visit a cave ( a real, English language cave, not French cave , which is a wine cellar). The cave was closed for the winter and it anyway didn't make too much sense to head S-E when in order to return to Paris we had to go N-W. Yoni planned the cave visit to satisfy my own personal fetish for caves and let it be said that I appreciate the thought. But once we learnt it wouldn't be open, then we would head in a general, slow, Paris direction.
Upon Stephane's advice, we first headed for Toucy, who's principal claim to fame is it being Larousse's birthplace. The town is actually very quaint. We walked around it a bit, tried unsuccessfully to find the entrance to the ancient church and decided that if we were here already, we may as well go see the birthplace of France's most famous dictionary compiler. After about 10 minutes walking we could see we really weren't getting anywhere interesting, so we turned around and looked for things that did interest us. Tart citron and a good cup of coffee.
One patisserie was closed for Sunday, another didn't look good, but the third, oh la la. A real fine shmecker tart citron - the custard was passionfruit scented and had pretty passionfruit pulp in a small piece of peel, resting on the top. At this point I became aware of a possible hormone imbalance in my body. I can't find any other semi-plausable excuse for me craving, irresistibly, a chocolate tart. I'm not a real chocolate lover and never eat chocolate tarts, but I just had to have the one that was sitting in the window. And I did. And it was good. This was no ordinary lump of instant pudding splashed into a mass produced casing. No sir. The filling was at once light and airy whilst at the same time rich and smooth. It wasn't too sweet and had just that hint of real chocolate bitterness. Totally sinful.
Upon Stephane's advice, we first headed for Toucy, who's principal claim to fame is it being Larousse's birthplace. The town is actually very quaint. We walked around it a bit, tried unsuccessfully to find the entrance to the ancient church and decided that if we were here already, we may as well go see the birthplace of France's most famous dictionary compiler. After about 10 minutes walking we could see we really weren't getting anywhere interesting, so we turned around and looked for things that did interest us. Tart citron and a good cup of coffee.
 |
| tart citron and passionfruit |
 |
| yoni checking e-mails |
 |
| yoni once again checking e-mails. garry napping in the sun |
One patisserie was closed for Sunday, another didn't look good, but the third, oh la la. A real fine shmecker tart citron - the custard was passionfruit scented and had pretty passionfruit pulp in a small piece of peel, resting on the top. At this point I became aware of a possible hormone imbalance in my body. I can't find any other semi-plausable excuse for me craving, irresistibly, a chocolate tart. I'm not a real chocolate lover and never eat chocolate tarts, but I just had to have the one that was sitting in the window. And I did. And it was good. This was no ordinary lump of instant pudding splashed into a mass produced casing. No sir. The filling was at once light and airy whilst at the same time rich and smooth. It wasn't too sweet and had just that hint of real chocolate bitterness. Totally sinful.
Once we'd gotten the tarts out of the way, it was coffee time. In the main square of the village was a very quaint looking coffee shop, with a row of chairs and tables all facing outwards, in order to watch the world go by. And there were 4 empty chairs, reserved for the gringos. We sipped our machiattos and watched locals scurry by, often with baguettes in hand, bought at the local boulangerie a few doors down. The subject of baguette grip was seriously debated and whether sunday morning baguette grip is different from workday, midweek baguette grip. Sitting there, with nothing better to do but worry about how Frenchmen in Toucy hold their baguettes on a sunday morning, I couldn't help but think, once again, that it was a hard life.
Eventually we dragged ourselves up and made our way to our next stop; Joigny. Another quaint village, perhaps a little less quaint than others that we had seen. It's claim to fame is it's church. Well there's a surprise! We parked about 50 metres away from it, but the lane we had to walk to actually get there was blocked. In the end, the 50 metres took us about a kilomtre. When we got to the church, being 11.00 a.m. on a Sunday morning, it was full of people. We briefly snuck in, but if we don't join our own flock on saturdays in our house of worship, we were even less inclined to join in to a group of French Catholics singing in Latin. The church itself was quite big and nice, but I won't be returning on a weekday to do a tour when it's empty.
We were aware that we hadn't so far bought local produce and sat down for a picnic, so we spent a good deal of our time in Joigny looking either for a market, supermarket or supply store, to no avail. This almost quaint one horse town didn't even have a coffee shop open on this Sunday. At this point it was decided that the best idea was to get to Paris and we'd eat there.
From the outset, when we first left Paris, we noticed that the GPS seemed determined to take us along the back routes. On the way out, it didn't matter. We did get out of Paris quickly and efficiently and were probably happy to take the backroads to Auxerre, especially since it went via the beautiful town of Fontainebleau. Now, the GPS pointed us along backroads no matter how we changed the definitions of our journey. If it had at least taken us via Fontainebleau, as it did 48 hours earlier, we would have found some stuff and had our picnic. But no, just plain boring towns with a traffic light or whatever to slow us down. Eventually we decided to get onto the main highway, against Mrs. GPS's instructions. She tried to take us off the road a couple of times and in the end, we ignored her, only starting to pay attention to her, with much distrust, once we got into the outskirts of Paris. To her credit, she led us to our hotel without blemish. No matter. There's a lesson to be learnt here. Be a Luddite like me and use a map.
After dropping our bags off at the hotel and continuing directly to return the car, we set our attentions to our stomachs. (surprise surprise). It took us a while, we argued a bit, but eventually found a very nice brasserie. I ordered pig's knuckles and lentils and they were a revelation. Obviously cooked long and slow, the meat just fell off the bone, into the tasty lentils. The cannibal came out in me, and once I'd finished the meat, set to chomping on the soft, chewy bone. As always, it was washed down with some very nice red wine. Yoni's was even more interesting. He ordered pasta with clams. Nothing adventurous there. However, it came to the table in a plastic cooking bag, similar to a roasting bag. It appears that all the ingredients, pasta, olive oil, spices and clams in the shell, were cooked together in the bag. A novel idea that I must try at home. Not surprisingly, Yoni said it was delicious. Phil, who garners more enjoyment from eating with his good friends than from what he actually eats, had, as usual, salmon washed down with cola zero and Garry, the least fussy of us all, was happy with his salad, as he almost always is.
After correcting centuries of misplaced views in regards to the French lack of courtesy towards English speakers, the desk clerk at the hotel did his best to try to convince me to rescind my positivity. It wasn't just that he was rude and disinterested, he seemed to be making a genuine effort to be that way. When we had the gall to interrupt his chattering on his cell-phone, he turned his back on us. Our room keys were nonchalantly thrown at us across the reception desk whilst he continued to talk to the girl sitting next to him at the desk. You can forget help in finding something within Paris. He pointed with a flick of his wrist to a pile of tourist maps and told us to look it up for ourselves. Finally, a true Frenchman.
Our rooms were only on the second floor of the hotel, but with our luggage, we took the elevator. The 4 of us squeezed into a not very large cabin, with our luggage and pressed the button for the required floor. The elevator doors closed and almost in unison we saw the sign on the wall. 4 passengers, maximum weight 320 kg. Without talking, each of us gulped and did some very quick and simple math in our head. Still without talking, we all were thinking exactly the same thing. These 4 middle aged men, with luggage, weighed in together somewhere well above the 320kg mark. How far above we didn't know, but rest assured, it was above. The elevator seemed to be taking a very long time to go up 2 very short floors. I was sure I could hear the cables creaking and groaning overhead. We held our breathes, partly out of tension and partly as if the air in our lungs only added to the combined weight. Eventually the elevator stopped with a shudder and out we poured, escaping as quickly as we could. I think we walked down the stairs rather than all take the elevator together again.
Yoni, Garry and PhilI had ordered tickets to see Rodriguez that night in Paris. I was a late joiner to the trip and missed out on the tickets. I could have quite easily ordered an extra ticket, of course, but to be honest, didn't mind at all missing the concert, giving me time to wander the streets of this city that I love so much. As it turned out, the others were disappointed with the show. They actually walked out early, saying that he looked as if he didn't know where he was and what he was going to play next until his band would remind him. They described it as both strange and disappointing. A real pity. If you're going to see a concert at the Odeon in Paris, you'd expect it to be a real highlight of the trip. I'm really sorry that it wasn't.
After I met the others back at the hotel, we slipped out for a late bite to eat, a very short wander around the area and around midnight we all turned in, not entirely happy that tomorrow was our last day.
Eventually we dragged ourselves up and made our way to our next stop; Joigny. Another quaint village, perhaps a little less quaint than others that we had seen. It's claim to fame is it's church. Well there's a surprise! We parked about 50 metres away from it, but the lane we had to walk to actually get there was blocked. In the end, the 50 metres took us about a kilomtre. When we got to the church, being 11.00 a.m. on a Sunday morning, it was full of people. We briefly snuck in, but if we don't join our own flock on saturdays in our house of worship, we were even less inclined to join in to a group of French Catholics singing in Latin. The church itself was quite big and nice, but I won't be returning on a weekday to do a tour when it's empty.
 |
| nobody home |
From the outset, when we first left Paris, we noticed that the GPS seemed determined to take us along the back routes. On the way out, it didn't matter. We did get out of Paris quickly and efficiently and were probably happy to take the backroads to Auxerre, especially since it went via the beautiful town of Fontainebleau. Now, the GPS pointed us along backroads no matter how we changed the definitions of our journey. If it had at least taken us via Fontainebleau, as it did 48 hours earlier, we would have found some stuff and had our picnic. But no, just plain boring towns with a traffic light or whatever to slow us down. Eventually we decided to get onto the main highway, against Mrs. GPS's instructions. She tried to take us off the road a couple of times and in the end, we ignored her, only starting to pay attention to her, with much distrust, once we got into the outskirts of Paris. To her credit, she led us to our hotel without blemish. No matter. There's a lesson to be learnt here. Be a Luddite like me and use a map.
After dropping our bags off at the hotel and continuing directly to return the car, we set our attentions to our stomachs. (surprise surprise). It took us a while, we argued a bit, but eventually found a very nice brasserie. I ordered pig's knuckles and lentils and they were a revelation. Obviously cooked long and slow, the meat just fell off the bone, into the tasty lentils. The cannibal came out in me, and once I'd finished the meat, set to chomping on the soft, chewy bone. As always, it was washed down with some very nice red wine. Yoni's was even more interesting. He ordered pasta with clams. Nothing adventurous there. However, it came to the table in a plastic cooking bag, similar to a roasting bag. It appears that all the ingredients, pasta, olive oil, spices and clams in the shell, were cooked together in the bag. A novel idea that I must try at home. Not surprisingly, Yoni said it was delicious. Phil, who garners more enjoyment from eating with his good friends than from what he actually eats, had, as usual, salmon washed down with cola zero and Garry, the least fussy of us all, was happy with his salad, as he almost always is.
Our rooms were only on the second floor of the hotel, but with our luggage, we took the elevator. The 4 of us squeezed into a not very large cabin, with our luggage and pressed the button for the required floor. The elevator doors closed and almost in unison we saw the sign on the wall. 4 passengers, maximum weight 320 kg. Without talking, each of us gulped and did some very quick and simple math in our head. Still without talking, we all were thinking exactly the same thing. These 4 middle aged men, with luggage, weighed in together somewhere well above the 320kg mark. How far above we didn't know, but rest assured, it was above. The elevator seemed to be taking a very long time to go up 2 very short floors. I was sure I could hear the cables creaking and groaning overhead. We held our breathes, partly out of tension and partly as if the air in our lungs only added to the combined weight. Eventually the elevator stopped with a shudder and out we poured, escaping as quickly as we could. I think we walked down the stairs rather than all take the elevator together again.
After I met the others back at the hotel, we slipped out for a late bite to eat, a very short wander around the area and around midnight we all turned in, not entirely happy that tomorrow was our last day.
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