Lyon - Where There's Smoke.....

Before departing on one his jaunts, travel writer and food critic AA Gill likes to apply the blinkers and ignore what other people think about his next destination. This makes a lot of sense - especially when you’re AA and the blinkers concentrate his focus on the dashboard of his Rolls Royce, the rear of the First Class seat in front of him, or the stars of the porn film he once directed. But the recent SBS French Food Safari episode on Lyon, reminded me why his approach is right.

Unfortunately I travel less regularly than Adrian (his real moniker) so I’m a bit more selective in what I learn before heading off; so as to avoid picnicking on highways, camping in industrial estates or eating Bhutanese food, in say, France. But if I’d listened to most people, and the dreary indecisive babble of the guide books, I would never have visited Lyon - where I arrived not in a Rolls Royce, but a filthy campervan after a three week exploration of  south western France with wife-to-be, our two children and an Irish speaking GPS. And the first magical thing about hitting Lyon, was that we rejoined the class of people who don’t shower in thongs. In a hotel.

The few non food-centric guide books I’d permitted myself to peruse whilst crunching around the region on the wrong side of the road in 5 metric tonnes of campervan, set my expectations extremely low. Persistent references to Lyon as an “industrial town” and “riots in the 70s” meant every person I saw who wasn’t throwing a Molotov cocktail came across as Catherine Deneuve, and each building which wasn’t a burning factory, appeared as a stunning historical relic. “Look at that gorgeous door. Why is it not in flames?” I'd ask myself.

More importantly, the women are more attractive on a per capita basis than anywhere else we visited in France, including Paris - although on a weekend, I suspect many come from there, covering the 400kms on the TGV in only 2 hours. Most are probably in Lyon to eat.  Split by the Rhône and Saône rivers, the city has cobbled alleyways I didn't expect (not very industrial) and vast tracts of eye-catching people eating, drinking and smoking flat out, rather than igniting buildings. The central streets are full of beautiful shops and beautifully dressed people. If you live in Lyon there is simply no excuse for sartorial aberrations or poorly dressed children.

Food is an incredibly important part of life in Lyon, and I’m not talking about the oft-mentioned Paul Bocuse, whose presence here holds little relevance when shackled by two children on a short two day visit. In a cruel twist, we did not manage to get to the magnificent Les Halles market, but just walking the streets and looking in windows is a gastronomic powerpoint presentation. I longed to bang one of the above truffle-stuffed fowls into the oven.

The same shop sold these poached fish, snails and terrines, alongside meat and salads, an approach to food retailing completely non existent in Australia.

But of course the downside of staying in a hotel is that you can’t cook. So take heed, if you’re in the vicinity of Lyon and hoping to lose weight, then join the ring-road, drive right past the city and don’t stop until you reach Holland. The food here is rich. Just down the road in Provence we’d been eating figs, olives and delicately sliced, cured pig in every conceivable form - and then we hit Lyon. It felt like driving along a brand new piece of tarmac at 300km/hr and suddenly running into a pit of molasses. The food is slow and heavy. Flying out of Lyon after only two days had Ryan Air demanding I pay for excess flabbage.  Fit, healthy and eating celery in Provence one minute, goitre-ridden in Lyon the next:

The two bouchons we ate at were the principle cause of my physical deterioration. The bouchon is an appellation-type concept designed to protect the integrity of traditional Lyonnaise food, with about 25 restaurants qualifying annually for the official designation Les Authentique Bouchons Lyonnais. The first evening we tried to get into the Café des Fédérations, which being a Friday, was of course booked out and we ended up in a touristy area at the Les Enfants Terribles. As always in these circumstances, it’s a stab in the dark but I’m a sucker for wooden panelling, and an otherwise full restaurant. Here, I was thrilled to be introduced to a gelatinous calves’ foot salad, followed by a liaison with a slightly disappointing sausage. But the room was convivial and didn’t just seem to be full or tourists like us. When my sausage flagged, I was able to help the girls out with their meagre offering from the kids' menu:

Because we were tourists it was required that the following day we ride the funicular up to the Cathédrale Saint-Jean-Baptiste de Lyon.  My calorific overload demanded a stroll so we went directly to the gardens attached to the hillside and meandered through the drizzle, down the hill  into the Vieux Lyon (the old bit) and upon the Les Ventres Jeaune (The Yellow Belly) bouchon, a recommendation from a Frenchly handsome barman the previous evening.

On a Saturday afternoon Les Ventres Jeaune was packed with what I liked to imagine were locals, all decimating towering carafes while ploughing through lentil salads, salad Lyonnaise, Bresse chicken, and a variety of internal organs.  Despite having been funiculared up the hill, and rolling back down, I managed to convince myself I’d earned a three course lunch. The girls’ meal was a diabolical sort of frankfurter and fries, but I enjoyed my pike quenelles drowned in rich seafood sauce. The carafe of rosé was bad in a good way.

Mercifully for my health, we prepared to depart the following day, and then as if on cue, a sort of mob assembled in the expansive place Bellcour right out the front of our hotel in protest at some abomination from the government suggesting the French work a bit more. There was smoke – a fatal mingling of Gitanes and Gauloise - but no fire. And it may have been the mere thought of work, or the fatigue of protesting, but by 11.30am they seemed to run out of puff and suddenly the cafes and bouchons were full, and we escaped to the airport with the most articulate and intelligent taxi driver I’ve ever encountered.