Home, The New York State Fair

Two days ago, on the little jet from Dulles International to Syracuse, where Mother was waiting to take us by car to Chaumont, I had to battle to keep from falling to sleep. We had been on the road nearly 24 hours. I wanted to look out the window.

I cherish that aerial re-introduction to the town where I grew up when I come home. It comforts me that I can still recognize the neighborhoods. Syracuse, New York from such a distance, even if it has drastically changed at ground level since I left, will always be nestled within the same boundaries from above.

I noticed, as the pilot circled around a second time before landing, that the State Fair is in full swing. It looks glorious from the air. Going there will be a delectable item on the agenda for this year’s brief trip home, our third in seven years. Loïc has never been to the fair.

We went to the New York State Fair every year when I was growing up. During the elementary years, it was the excitement of the games on the midway that I remember the most, the thrill and hope that came with trying for those big huge toys that barely anybody ever won. Deep inside, I always held on with the most profound devotion to the hope that I would one day be able to win one of the grand prizes.

Every once in a while we would see a triumphant young child on his father’s shoulders, clinging to a life-sized stuffed gorilla or crocodile and it would boost our determination. Since funds were limited, a kid had to calculate carefully the chance and the odds of winning with each game. The ones that relied on skill were the surest, but then again you had to play a few times to learn. The way they nonchalantly tossed the ball at a stack of flimsy pins, knocking them all, making it look so easy was a trick.

There was always a frightening thrill from the unknown and feeling of danger when we were old enough to be set loose along the Midway. I believe my mother transmitted it to me telepathically. She and whatever friend she came with would look after the smaller children and once I was old enough, I could tag along with the older kids. We were each given a sum of money, and were free to roam in groups for a set period of time. Boyish men in sleeveless shirts with tattoos, feathered hair, and combs in their back pockets would smile through pocked marked faces from their stations by the rides. Huge oil lubed machinery would pitch us in chaotic directions. Other kids from all throughout the region would also be lining up, identifiable by their haircuts, school colors, or the jeans they wore. The kids’ midway underworld was full of intrigue.


I believed that the generous bosomed country women at the stands selling maple candy had made it on pot bellied stoves themselves at home. The straight faces and dead seriousness in serving up sugary fried beignets, oozing sticky gooey treats, baked goods, and candy apples was my life’s first initiation the exotic lure of things foreign. I embraced it all with a curious fervor and let my imagination run free, from the cheese curds to the cotton candy.

These people lived solely to spin sugar and crochet or knit. If they did both at the same time, they would capture my attention for a good long while. As a kid I was enthralled by their staid reality. It was such a contrast to the fanciful delights swirling around them. It was hard to keep up with the other children because of my imaginary visits to their worlds. I lost my group more than once.

I always pretended not to be completely blown away with the joy of it as we fell with abandon on the plethora of offerings to eat. These ladies passed a forbidden sugary beignet across to you as if it was completely natural to live year round on them. It was almost beyond my comprehension how everyone was allowed to eat such an array of totally forbidden things. The common feigned nonchalance in these transactions was the best of play acting.
By divine parental design, at the State Fair, how I spent my allotted sum was open, we were free. Even now, as I anticipate the trip in to Syracuse for the Fair, this forbidden lure occupies a special savor that is altogether unique in my mind.

The Upstate New York twang echoing from loudspeakers at the State Fair was the complete opposite of the rounded soothing measured tones of my mother’s Tennessee drawl. But from the time I was a toddler, that metallic hard edged voice selling home in its natural habitat once a year became emblematic of a certain inner part of me. It was this place, my home, our being foreign ourselves as a Southern family, and all things local converging in a vortex of hard edged reality and fantasy that never changed through the years.

I grew up speaking without any drawl or twang in either direction. There is a strong accent, however, in the way I hear the voices of the people now, wherever I go, that was shaped by these early contrasts.

Mixed Pepper and Spice Marinated Duck Breast

The last time I enjoyed grilled duck breasts, they were prepared by a friend over her kitchen fireplace. I was walking in the door the moment she put the breasts to grill. It was my first dinner while visiting with her, and although it seemed simple and wholesome and an easy breezy way to enjoy them, when she cut them and served them up, I was convinced that wood fire is made for duck and duck made for wood fire.

This summer, when I saw the breasts when we were out doing some errands while visitng my in-laws, I thought it would be just the thing to enjoy with family. With Brigitte's things going on in the kitchen here and there, I set them to marinate for a few days while we waited for the chance to get a fire going in the garden.

For the spices, I raided Brigitte's cabinet and found many lovely spices to add to the mix. Black and pink peppercorns, Sichuan peppercorns, black mustard seeds, and some juniper berries were ground and mixed with sea salt to cover the duck breasts with their heady delicious aroma.

They were marinated two days, while we waited for the right time to cook them.

We waited and waited for the right time to light a fire. It's dangerous in Provence to light fires when the wind is blowing, because everything is as dry as tinder. My spirits flagged when a strange summer Mistral rolled in and blustering winds kept going and going. In the end I decided to cook them my regular way, a reicipe that my niece Jessie helped research and adapt when she was visiting with me in France. She was about 13 years old at the time, and wanted to help, so we did some research into the best way to cook duck breasts. Under my guidance, she prepared them on mother's day for her mother. The process is classic. Sear the scored skin side to render the fat and make it crispy and brown, and put them under a hot broiler to finish. While they cook in the oven, quickly prepare a simple wine and cassis reduction sauce with the pan scrapings, finishing it with some butter.

Loic's family adored the recipe, and it brought back nice memories.

Jambon Persillé

In Burgundy, starting as south as Macon in the Saone et Loire, and moving up into the Cote d'Or and the Yonne, one appetizer that you are likely to see in the first course at a café but less often in the higher eating establishments is called jambon persillé, a local parsley seasoned ham terrine. It is a specialty of the region, and it can be quite good, being an emblem of the simpler things offered there. In Lyon, we consider it an import. It is clearly emblazoned with the mark of Burgundy, which we all know is an influence here but not a local stamp of provenance. Don't pass it by if you see it, it is sold by weight and you can buy a very thin slice. It's worth a taste, perhaps a makeshift sandwich with pickles and hearty bread at a café by the riverside, washed down with a swig of wine you've ordered, as you soak in the sun reflecting from the buildings along side the Saone, the river that carries Burgundy to Lyon. You can find this terrine at a couple of Burgundian vendors with charcuterie that make their appearance at the St. Antoine market and at butcher shops in the city that carry Burgundian specialties.

Salade de Pommes de Terre aux Harengs

A little bit about this salad. It is a classic in the fast disappearing eating houses in France where a person can go and get a meal very cheaply. Now you really must search for the places where it is still something cheap. Sometimes you'll see it as an appetizer in a fixed menu that costs a lot of money, because they know that it holds nostalgic value.

There used to be places where you could and serve yourself a boiled egg from a bowl on the bar. It would cost something like fifteen cents if you didn't sit down. The last place I knew that did that in my neighborhood went down last summer.

The egg from the bar ritual was my lunch many times when I didn't have the cash for the luxury to be served a prepared meal, but needed energy to keep me going while I was out and about. The salad in the photo above, although it's a home and a rich style version, is also one of those dishes - often listed in a menu as the cheapest one, and a very satisfying one at that. It is a salad of warm potatoes, smoked herring, whatever herbs they might have, and oil.

When we arrived to Lyon I discovered smoked herring rather quickly, since we were in a in a state of poverty that goes beyond depressing and into bare survival. Although that state only lasted half a year at most, and at any time we might have broken down and reached out for help, we didn't. There are reasons that go to the root of a couple's strength why we stick together and make it through difficult times without help. Strong lines that unite us even now were formed at that time.

You could get a packet of smoked herring at the market for very little cash and that would be enough, with a few potatoes and oil, for dinner, along with whatever greens you mustered up. Then at the end of the week, if you had managed to put aside enough spare change, you could get something else. One of those harrowing weeks I saved for a much needed needle and thread through the judicious use of smoked herring. It goes well with eggs, potatoes, on toast, etc. We never got tired of herring and eating it now is comforting, somehow even more now that we have it only once in a while than it was even then. We can take how far we have come into consideration. Smoked herring is friendly, helping-hand kind of larder fare that reminds me of a time when fate dealt a difficult hand, and we managed to play it through.

Salade de Pommes de Terre aux Harengs

3 smoked herrings
4 potatoes
1/2 an onion
3 Tblsp. oil
1/2 tsp. pepper
capers (to taste)

Rinse the herrings to remove as much salt as you can. Soak them in milk if you have some on hand, which will cut the salt and smoke taste. Remove their skin, and slice them thin or in chunks, your preference. Slice the onion. Steam or boil a few potatoes to your liking, slice them, add the fish, the onions, the oil, and pepper. Sprinkle with capers if you are using them. Toss gently and serve while the potatoes are still warm.

Poivrons Rouges

Postcard: Plage de Saint Cyr les Lecques

Postcard de La Garde

For Beet's Sake

Did you know that beet juice was considered in Roman times to be an aphrodisiac?

My mother’s generation tasted fresh garden beets and had fond memories of them, thus during my childhood, she readily bought the canned product, which vaguely resembled a shadow of the real thing. She and my father were able, though some suspension of disbelief, to conjure up memories, replacing a good percentage of their gustatory experience with nostalgia. They somehow liked them.

Skip to the next generation, to their children sitting at the same table, who never had the good fortune of tasting a fresh beet from the garden. That was me. My experience was isolated to the slightly tinny, artificial looking formless sludgy purple glop of mushy ick that tasted something akin to dirt. What is the meaning of this mess? The fluid leaks into other foods on the same plate, staining them. The root itself disintegrates into a mealy and vaguely unpleasant texture on the tongue that is accompanied by a release of an acid, metallic tasting brine to the sensitive taste receptors in my jaw. They caused slight waves of nausea and general belly upset when the unpleasant experience of raking one's teeth through them them was avoided by swallowing them in large pieces. From then on, a genuine hatred for even the idea of beets can logically cultivate in a person’s mind. I didn't touch them again for decades.

What happens to children who subsequently never taste beets in any form because their parents were turned off by canned beets? They are transported to another time by the taste of FRESH BEETS. Hey Mikey, THEY LIKE THEM! I urge you to test this on your own children. I have conducted this experiment on my niece and nephew, and my theory proved correct.

Herein is the lowdown on what the French are doing with fresh beets in restaurants these days. You may notice never before imagined uses of the fresh beet. Do you think it is a coincidence that they use the juice in so many preparations? Think of this as a recipe for stirring up some ideas about what to do with the fresh beets you find at the farmer's market.

shredded balsamic seasoned skate with tomatoes and beet seasoned pesto.
brown sugar roasted apricots with beet sorbet.
grilled Atlantic sea bass with pan simmered garden vegetables and slow roasted tomatoes in a beetroot reduction.
beet jus bathed rouget in Tatin.
pan seared slices of foie gras with pain d’épice and beet accompanied by an acidulated ginger chutney.
foie gras again with beet and apple chutney.
beet ravioli with their caramel.
oven crisped crab with beets and asparagus.
wild boar medallions with beet jus and pepper seasoned cream sauce.
raspberry and beet root parfait.
large langoustine brochettes wrapped in middle-eastern angelhair pastry (kadaïf), served with a beet risotto.
surprising desserts, including variations on the beet theme.
duck foie gras with apples and beetroot vinaigrette.
squab with beets and jus from the root.
marbled rabbit terrine with beet purée.
borsch featuring tiny diced beets.
salmon tartare with beet vinaigrette.
soy and ginger marinated beef tenderloin with red beets and mandarin orange sauce.
locally gathered scallops, green asparagus and beet juice served with mixed aromatic herb salad.
cold zucchini soup with local Gaperon cheese topped with a goat cheese and a beet quenelle.
veal scallop with chicory cream sauce and pan tossed beets.
John Dory with beet greens in a pepper mille-feuille.
venison medallion with red beet sauce, pan tossed langoustines with slow cooked beets.
spring rolls with beet jelly.
pressed foie gras terrine with beet chutney.
pan seared scallops with endive hearts and beet soup.
lobster with beet sauce, mixed berries, and vanilla seasoned sweet potato mousseline.
the beet ravioli in a rhubarb and dried fruit and nut chutney with acidulated potato Mikado.
warm oysters in an champagne and beet juice reduction.
trout brandade napped with a beet coulis.
rabbit terrine with a vinaigrette seasoned beet and parsley duo.
grilled cod fillet served with oven baked potatoes and beets.
frog leg tartare with beets.
beet syrup over shaved ice.
green asparagus cake with a beet and fig sauce.
salmon tartare with vegetables in a beet vinaigrette.
monkfish and vegetable mille-feuille with beet caramel and a carrot reduction.
fresh foie gras with chervil root accompanied by a scoop of beetroot sorbet.
veal sweetbreads with a beet coulis.
simply boiled and sliced beets served with steamed carrots, dusted with fleur du sel and fresh ground pepper, and sprinkled with extra virgin olive oil (chez Lucy).

There is a secret passion for beets smouldering deep in the kitchens of France. Do no pass over the fresh beets again this year, my friend. Give them a try. Cast away the chains of the canned beet generation and discover a love you have never known before!

La Brousse and its Uses

Brousse, a fresh light tasting ewe's cheese,
is used in both sweet and savory preparations.
I like it on hot blinis with smoked salmon and duck.

We love to buy Brousse down south where we can get it super fresh, and see it everywhere in Provence and the Côte D'Azur when we are there. It is a simple fresh white ewe's cheese that drains in a basket, much like its Corsican cousin, Broccio. In Ubaye valley, the local patoie reveals a link to another cousin, calling it Recuite. Indeed, we can see the family resemblence with Ricotta. Brousse generally is labeled to contain 40 to 55% fat, but in reality the percentage is much lower, because it contains lots and lots of whey.

It has a light, creamy taste, a bit more substantial than fresh ricotta. When you taste it, it is easy imagine its use in either sweet or savory preparations. Epecially in Nice, its uses in cuisine are for the most part savory, involving oil, herbs, and garlic. Desserts pair it with compotes in pastry, in dessert verrines, or as a layer with lemon curd on a flat tart.

Near Toulon, the traditional local production was a bit different from neighboring regions and did not include salting it. Because of this feature, it had to be eaten on the same day it was produced. Reference to the cheese goes back several hundred years, with mentions of women flocking to towns with their baskets of Brousse for sale in the morning.

In addition to eating it plain or simply seasoned with herbs and pepper, southerners use Brousse in stuffed pasta and vegetables, and they also roast it in thin pastry with fish and herbs. They roll it in cured ham, and work minced vegetables into it to pair it with eggplant. Brousse has a natural affinity for tomatoes, so we see it not only paired with fresh tomatoes, but dried as well, in tarts.

Brousse du Rove is yet another Brousse that comes from the end of the Rhone before it ends at the Mediterranean, and is often not made from ewe's milk, but goat. It has a special fresh herbal taste and distinctive long thin basket mould.

Fondue de Saint Marcellin Parmentière et Salade

The Le Jean-Moulin luckily entered my line of vision when I stepped off the Pont du College, a footbridge across the Rhone connecting the lower sixth arrondissement to the second here in Lyon. I decided to swing by and take a look. It's a cute little gem of a place with lots of cachet on the riverside. I was drawn like a fly to honey to the simple delicious sounding offerings on the sidewalk chalk board. Entering the shelter of the restaurant from the chilly wind that's been blowing down the hill since the big rain, I was enveloped at once with warmth. The little restaurant, featuring only 10 covers on the ground floor but more upstairs, was decorated with an air of quiet tasteful restraint but at the same time, the details of its structure were steeped in a homey coziness. I adored way they rightfully left the historic and beautiful things that needed to be left alone, and added contemporary touches to the decoration at just the right dose here and there. The menu was also like that.

The salad I chose was noted on the menu as a Fondue de Saint Marcellin Parmentière et Salade. The first bite was a revelation, not just because I am a certified cheese freak and have a special weakness for the local Saint Marcellin, but because the warm potatoes and cheese were served at the perfect temperature, the plate coming direct from the kitchen and placed within seconds on my table. The warmth of the potatoes on salad, the healthy twist in the greens, the quilt on the landing to the stairwell leading upstairs, the service with a smile just made me feel - taken care of. The salad itself was simple enough, with mixed greens that included a nice dose of this season's peppery arugula, potatoes, Saint Marcellin cheese from Maison Richard at Les Halles, cured ham, almonds and chives, the greens perfectly dressed with a light vinaigrette.

It's really strange to try to imagine French cooking without potatoes, isn't it? We see them as the basis for so many incredibly delicious regional specialties. What would we do without Tartiflette, for example, or Pommes Dauphine? The lovely straw cakes prepared in country kitchens in the Auvergne, the Pommes Anna, or Aligot? The fact is, not much longer than 200 years ago, it was illegal to cultivate potatoes in this country for human consumption. They were thought to cause disease. Potatoes were introduced to the French diet only when a man named Antoine-Auguste Parmentier (1737-1817) devoted a good portion of his life to convincing the people of France that they were edible, and can taste good. He first convinced the medical community, then went on to network his social resources, including enlightening Mr. Benjamin Franklin to his cause, and staging spectacular public events to draw attention to the tuber. He eventually persuaded King Louis XVI to remove the ban on the cultivation of potatoes in France. Today if a dish has Parmentier in the name, you can be sure it contains potatoes.

Thank you, M. Parmentier. You made my day.



Le Jean Moulin
22 rue Gentil 69002 LYON
04 78 37 37 97
closed Saturday lunch

Do One Thing and Do It Well

These men do blueberries:
Fresh, in syrup, confiture, and in pound cake.

It's the first time I have seen them selling at the market. They stood silently and still behind the table without saying a word, looking at the people passing by directly, as if observing us. It was a big contrast to the hustle and bustle, the calls and sales pitches coming from all of the other vendors. The older man was leaning as he is in the picture, with his arms slightly spread out, as if to simply say: "this is our product". Something made me stop and ask about what they had to offer, since the unmarked bottles and jars looked interesting to me. They seemed like nice people. They answered my questions. The boy collected the money, and marked each sale on a piece of paper before completing the transaction. The cake certainly tasted good. Next week I think I will get some jam and a bottle of syrup.

With coffee on the quai.

Man in Kitchen - Blanquette de Lotte

After a mysterious trip to the market by himself, he kicked me out of the kitchen and took a long time there. That's perfectly fine with me, I thought, my feet up, snacking on peanuts and watching an artfully dubbed American policier at the end of the day. I caught a whiff of the lovely fish stew, and the fact that it took so long gave me a hint. There are very few fish that we can simmer and stew. Monkfish is one. My feelers say it costs near €30 a kilo, for the good tail part. If you only buy a little bit, it doesn't destroy the budget.

He graciously shares the recipe he used, from his cookbook, Francoise Bergaud's Mon Bouquin de Cuisine (divided for two, adapted and translated below):


Blanquette de Lotte

For 2 gourmands:

300 grams of monkfish tail in one piece along with with 150 grams of the bones of white fish like sole or halibut, provided by your fishmonger (for free, we hope!)
2 1/2 cups of water
1/2 cup dry white wine
1 small leek, green parts removed, sliced thin
1 carrot
1/2 an onion
1 clove
1 bouquet garni
30 grams or three tablespoons of butter
100 grams or three ounces of fresh mushrooms in season
2 teaspoons flour
an egg yolk
1/3 cup creme fraiche or whipping cream
1/2 a lemon
salt and pepper

Wash the leeks and cut the carrots into thin strips (the recipe says to grate them but Loic julienned them and they were very pretty that way), peel the onion and pierce it with a clove, and wash the fish bones.

Prepare a fumet: Heat 1 tablespoon of the butter in a pot, add the carrots and leeks, and cook them carefully without browning them, until they begin to soften. Add the fish bones, the clove pierced onion, the bouquet garni, the white wine, and 2 cups of water; add pepper, but don't add salt because the fish stock should reduce; cover and simmer for 15 minutes.

At the end of the 15 minutes, cut the monk fish into big chunks; heat another tablespoon of the butter in a large pot and add them once the butter is hot to just cook them on the outside, without browning them.

Remove the fish bones, onion, and bouquet garni from the fish stock. Season the fish stock, and put it in the pot with the monkfish, bring to a boil, lower the heat, cover, and let cook for 8 minutes: the monk fish has firm flesh that calls for longer cooking than other fish.

During this time, squeeze 1/2 of the lemon, and mix it in a cup with the egg yolk and creme. Set aside.

Wash the mushrooms and sprinkle with the rest of the lemon juice. Heat the mushrooms with a little bit of butter until they start giving off liquid. Simmer them carefully in their own juice without browning them until they soften. Add them to the monk fish.

At the end of the cooking time of the monk fish, add the flour to the remaining butter by crushing it in and creating a paste, add to the monkfish and mushroom cooking liquid, whisk carefully to incorporate it. Bring it back to a boil. Remove from heat and incorporate the lemon and cream. (he added some leftover new potatoes at the end)

Turn it into a serving dish and serve it immediately.

This dish keeps well for a couple of days in the refrigerator or can be frozen.

Big Dream Taste - Peach and Apricot

Loic brought four luscious ripe peaches home, from the man who has the good ones. He thinks it's a waste to do anything with them but eat them plain. I agree that plain they are wonderful, but I also believe that there is something to be said for the application of technique to Mother Nature's perfection.

I didn't make much ado as I quickly grabbed two of the peaches in passing, pulled off their skin, and cut them into pieces into a sauce pan. I heated them up with a little sugar, and they gave off lots of good liquid. I brought that up to to a boil and let it roll for about 3 minutes, and pureed what chunks were left into the syrup. I let it cool off heat for a moment, divided a super fresh egg, and beat the yolk into the hot syrup, making a quick custard. The remaining white was beaten until stiff peaks formed, and I folded them gently together. The mousse went into the freezer. It scooped quite nicely once it was frozen. The perfect peaches that melted on our tongues in mousse form were even better, so refreshing on that hot summer evening.

Something special happened when it was paired with an apricot macaron. The two flavors reverberated against one another and hit us again, haunting us like a big dream.

That big dream taste in certain combinations is always something I carefully note in my kitchen notebook because I can go back, revisit, and experiment in other ways with it. Sometimes we get the big dream with wine pairings, sometimes with herbs and certain meats or fish, sometimes with combinations of fruits. Big dream flavor combinations are special, especially when they are as simple as these two similar fruits. It is like a harmonious echo, reinforcement by repetition, but with just that much of a shift to make a natural spiral that turns and then turns back on itself. The pleasure multiplies within this simple system. The sensations engage your mind, making you understand something. Churn something. Something big.

Magali & Martin's Menu Degustation

Once a person learns that with some effort, they can cook just about anything they can think of, it's hard to go out and not think about how much money could have been saved by making things at home. The whole idea of value in dining out goes askew. I sometimes leave a restaurant thinking if only we spent that money at the market, we'd have really eaten like kings.

The more I learn about how to do things right, the more my standards change. Other things take on more importance. For example, sometimes I just want to sit down and have someone serve me a meal at the table, and serve me with love. I will pay for that. The quality of the service becomes more important to me.

Another thing that has changed as I have grown is that I seek out restaurants that are going to serve things that might be a whole lot of trouble to make a home. Ideally, I would like something I could prepare at home but never thought of before. I want something out of the ordinary.

Last night we went to the neighborhood restaurant Magali & Martin, one I mentioned before. Looking at the days offerings, it was difficult to decide, everything on the menu seemed interesting. Loic remembered that they have had a degustation menu, which is little versions of the chef's choice of things they have going in the kitchen. We asked, because it wasn't mentioned anywhere on the menu. Magali said Martin could of course muster up something, and their price was €45, for seven courses including cheese and dessert. We didn't hesitate.

The first course: A cool watermelon soup that had been ladled over cubes of sushi grade red tuna, gently seasoned with chives and slices of soft marinated ginger. Delicious, and a wonderful idea. I never would have thought of juxtaposing the watermelon and tuna flavors, and they worked perfectly. It was one of those things where every element was necessary and their sum was extraordinary.

Two: A marbled poultry terrine, including duck, guinea hen, and foie gras, served with delightfully smoky and salty caramelized slow cooked onions. I was thinking about how simply beautiful it was, in addition to tasting very nice.

Three: Poached wild salmon, delightfully rare inside and cut presented in all of its quivering glory on a splash of curry sauce along side a pretty detailed artichoke heart with its tender inner leaves and edible beginnings of its stem still intact.

Four: A wedge of Atlantic sea bass seared skin side down, the skin delicious and crispy, the meat perfectly cooked, served over a shellfish and spelt wheat risotto.

Five: A duo of sliced pan seared duck breast served over a mound of the season's fresh chanterelles in cream, its leg confit simmered in red wine and served over cabbage. I wrote in my notes: ("we almost died.") They were both heavenly.

Six: The cheese, tangy beaten fresh white goat cheese topped by a layer of slivered aged Picodon, black currants, and basil. Very uplifting.

Seven: A soft centered chocolate cake served warm, with house made fresh fig sorbet, a spoon sized quenelle of frozen dark chocolate creme, and raspberries served separately in a gravy boat, floating in delicious soft "half-moon" tea infused jelly.

We enjoyed a bottle of white wine through the course of the the meal, something that Magali suggested and that she also didn't have on the menu yet, a 2005 Saint Joseph Larmes du Pere from the Alain Paret vinyard. (€32)

A wonderful thing about our meal was that when the check came, we were pleased as punch with the total. We walked home on air like two young lovers and went straight to bed. I had sweet dreams of a spa journey to Eugenie des Bains where I met Michel Guerard and meeting an old school mate while sitting in the second row of a symposium.

Magali & Martin
11, rue des Augustines
69001 LYON
04 72 00 88 01
Closed weekends. Reservations are necessary a few days in advance these days.