Two French rivers, the Saone (above) and the Rhone, conspire to create the city of Lyons. Like Geneva, Lyons' waterways and bridges separate the nouveau from the vieux. But, it is Lyons' food that separates it from just about anyplace else in the world.
There are many ways to know a city; I have found hunger to be the best guide. By hunger, I do not mean famished: that will get you into trouble and guarantee indigestion, especially in a city you are just beginning to know. Instead, I am talking about the kind of hunger that develops after a hard day's work: having your hotel lose all your laundry, guiding Olympic guests through a crowded French airport, finding their lost luggage, or not, and hauling them up and down steep mountain roads.
That kind of well-earned hunger.
Late in the afternoon on such a day in February 1992, I asked my friend, the manager of Lyons' Saint Exupery airport, for a restaurant recommendation. Without hesitation, he directed me to his favorite spot, run by his friend in Vieux Lyons. By a miracle I was able to guide my Espace through an unusually cold night, decipher which river was which, find a legal parking spot, and go to the food equivalent of heaven.
I will leave detailed recipes and reviews to Julia and Michelin. I simply walked out of that cold night and into the proverbial warm well-lighted place and was greeted as family by the owner, a short exuberant femme Lyonnaise.
A saintly waiter made telemark turns around crowded tables and brought me a glass of local beaujolais , the kind that never reaches our shores. Slowly the gamay warmed me. I began to forget that the clothes I wore were now my only set. The wine replaced the whine of Gatorade Guy, The World's Most Ungrateful Guest, and his babyish pleas about his lost luggage.
I am fairly certain that I had a delicious salade verte to begin, but, honestly I cannot remember precisely. The reason for that is that I very distinctly do remember having that night perhaps the best single thing I have ever eaten.
Une tarte a l'oignon.
Perfectly round, steaming in its hot shallow tin, just-browned cheese, then sweet l'oignon and more cheese in the center. Strike up an anthem!
Once more, I had earned Olympic Gold.
Before you say, "Oh, I've had that a million times, big deal," let me just say arreter!
As Gisele is to Brazil to you, this tarte is France to me. And, when you are speaking of France and food, you are getting mighty close to the core of human experience in my estimation, my Friends. The French may not understand Americans, but they very definitely understand food and more than one way to get warm and stay that way on a frigid February night.
Note: we highly recommend Waverly Root's Food Of France, if you have to settle for reading about food. Otherwise, you'll have to go to Lyons. No, we won't tell you the name of that restaurant; best to discover your own.
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