The scene is a lovely fine restaurant in Beaune, in the heart of Burgundy. Stan closes his eyes, savoring the last bite of his first course.
STAN: Mmmm, can you believe that sauce? I’m so glad we splurged on this tasting menu… what’s the matter?
VAL (looking worried and contrite): I’m sorry… but I missed the part where it said ‘raw.’ I don’t know how it happened… I saw the word ‘cru’, and I know that means ‘raw.’ But I couldn’t imagine I was reading it right, and then I got distracted before I could ask…
STAN (still smacking his lips): What? What do you mean? What’s raw?
VAL: WAS raw, Stan. The course we just ate. That rabbit. It was raw. You didn’t notice? The waiter announced it when he put the plates in front of us. I’m kind of surprised you ate yours, actually.
STAN (staring at his very empty plate, in case it holds some kind of clue): No, he didn’t say anything about raw rabbit, you’re mistaken.
VAL: Oh yes, he put the plates down and clearly said “Raw rabbit, sir.”
STAN: No, no. He said “Your rabbit, sir.” YOUR rabbit. YOUR.
VAL: Sorry, but it was definitely raw. Didn’t you notice those shiny pinkish pieces? Looked just like… well, chicken. Like raw chicken. Hey, do rabbits carry salmonella?
STAN (after a silent, pensive pause): I need wine. Lots more wine. Let’s get another bottle, right away. What goes with raw rabbit, anyway? White, don’t you think?
One has to roll with the punches a little bit when traveling. France doesn’t make us think of uncomfortable moments confronting food we don’t consider edible. At least not compared to other parts of the world… Asia comes to mind. But the French eat pretty near anything they can cram into a pot… or not, in the case of our unfortunate lagomorph. But they’re just so darn good at preparing it!
The very next day, for example, in a different town, Stan asked our waiter about a wild mushroom sauté we were considering sharing as a first course for lunch.
STAN (wary now): What is this ‘white caviar’ that comes with it, exactly?
WAITER: It eez the heggs of hessnells.
STAN: Pardon me? What eggs? Is that a type of sturgeon?
WAITER (louder and trying to enunciate, somehow elongating the word from 2 to 3 syllables instead): HESSSNELLS-UH, sir!
VAL: He’s saying ‘snails.’ It’s snails’ eggs.
He agrees to put our ‘white caviar’ on the side, leaving me hoping this can be cleanly accomplished. After all, wouldn’t snails’ eggs be incredibly tiny? I’m picturing large grains of salt.
The dish arrives, and the eggs, happily sequestered to one side, are enormous. They look just like tic-tacs. Stan and I spend a few moments contemplating the mechanics of snail egg collection. Their size would warrant a C-section, we figure, picturing the row of little snails in their recovery room. They probably give them tiny glasses of wine, too, to lift their spirits… Toasting with our own glasses of Meursault (the very best accompaniment to heggs of hessnells, don’t-cha-know?) we proceed to enjoy our beautiful plate of chanterelles and cèpes.
An early moonrise in the town of Beaune
We took the high-speed train from Nice to Beaune, a friendly town of 20,000 in the heart of Burgundy. Burgundy is, of course, one of several world-renowned wine producing regions in the country. But it’s also a sort of ‘food capital,’ in a nation known for its cuisine. So despite the misadventures above, we were very well nourished.
We visited the Hôtel-Dieu (above), a hospital built around 1450. A museum today, it’s an amazingly well preserved site.
Surgical instruments used in the 1600’s… that awful drill-like thing above was for… yep, you got it: brain surgery!
We tasted wine at the spot above. Very atmospheric, because after descending into the ‘caves,’…
… you taste wine by candlelight, then emerge finally in a medieval church.
One day, we rented a car to tour the countryside, visiting some of the quaint villages whose names read like a high-end wine list: Puligny-Montrachet, Chambolle-Musigny, Volnay, Meursault…
They charge you for a whole car, but this is all you get!
… And this is why they’re such popular ‘town cars’ here. You can park a Smart Car absolutely anyplace.
Happy Charolais cattle, enjoying a morning snooze or rolling in the grass.
It happened to be right in the middle of the grape harvest, so we got to see what looked like whole families hand-picking grapes in the vineyards around these little villages. A beautiful, peaceful and cheerful place… of course, we’re dying to return and spend more time.
Only skipping the raw rabbit next time around.
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