We decide reluctantly to toss out our now stinky cheese. It is so sad, but the smell is hard to deal with, although I can't toss the beaufort. We have to opt with water with our pain au chocolate (an addition), since there is no coffee to go, and we need to go. It isn't the best pastry, but it is the size of my head. I have officially lost my gloves.
Does the grocery shop have coffee? No, but it has lots of Lindt, and lots of wine… yet again, all French wine. I am surprised by the blatant nationalism. I mean, you can't tell me the French never want an Italian or Californian wine, seriously? The check out clerk laughs when we ask about coffee to go. They are a little shocked, and then make fun of us a little. Could be easily misinterpreted as rude, but they are just having fun.
The alley smells of anise. We see an old woman on a bike with a baguette, how cliché. The leftover beaufort coats my mouth like chocolate, exquisite.
We start at Vougeot in the Cotes de Nuits and work our way down to Lyon. It is so hard to find places to taste wine!! Clos Vougeot is beautiful with its gates and autumn vines, but no degustation. We stop at places that say "degustation" only to be turned away, closed for today, closed for renovation. The farmers burning the leaves off the vines smells like autumn.
Finally, walk into Moillard Grivot for a FREE tasting. Yeah!! This is more like a slick Napa tasting room, but still self regulated. Motion sensor spitons and we are still tasting on barrels. We like the privacy to take notes and enjoy on our own terms. Next we stop at a small factory, where a nice young man shakes our hands and pours wine. He wishes us a good Beaujolais.
Tom tries to pronounce Italian out of my book, badly. Did you just ask me to prepare a meal? Then he asks me silly questions like, "do you think the food will be good in Italy" and "Italy doesn't make a lot of wine, does it?" He is having fun.
Lyon is hills all over with a beautiful church at the top. Our Garmin is confused with all the tunnels & bridge spaghetti, and trying to find parking is an adventure. It begins to rain again, but the sun comes through the trees lighting the yellow trees on fire against the river. Magnifique!!
We run through the alleys to get to lunch and are told we have 5 minutes to order before the kitchen closes. Now with unlabeled Beaujolais and water bottles in hand, frosty on our table, we can enjoy the atmosphere of Café Comptoir Abel. There are wood panels covering the walls, paintings, like a Greenfield Village antique shop or pub with spice boxes and telephone booths.
The food is gooood…family style home cooking. Tom has deliciously hearty sausage and lentils. I have hen in cream sauce with rice, and the waiter laughs as I soak up the remaining sauce with bread, tells me it isn't "good for me". Is any French food?
The hotel is uninspiring, but perfect for a wine nap before our big night out. We go shopping to get me some overpriced gloves for tonight and an extra duffel bag for all our goodies. The mall seems very American except for the wine bars and pastry shops.
As we hit the road for Beaujeu, I begin to worry about dinner. We have a hard enough time finding gas in the small French hillside towns. As we approach the town, we start to see people walking everywhere. Follow the crowds, park illegally. We eye a spot for dinner, place a reservation, but then realize all the good food is at the festival itself.
4 euro for a glass that you put on a string around your neck, and you get to drink for free all night long. A band with accordions inspires young people to dance in the square as the dinner hall pumps everything from Goldfrapp to gospel. There are people from all over the world. We love it here. A "hot dog" is a delicious sausage skewered into a baguette. Other fair food includes freshly made crepes with nutella and a cheese plate full of chevre.
People are getting drunk early. The Beaujolais Cru is by far the best. There are happy tents full of strangers handing out sausages. Two French men hug me and sing a song telling me how to peel the skin off the sausage. I don't understand a word of it, but everyone is happy. We hop on a train ride going around the city, hop out on occasion for a wine refill. Tom tries to warm my feet on a park bench and looses his French book. We finish off the last bottle of 2006 wine and they go into another song that no one understands. A British guy says "I think it's something about wine".
We sit out the remaining hours before midnight in a happy café. A band comes in and goes out. A very French accordion player in a striped shirt sings traditional songs with the old woman bar owner. The French people next to us make fun of us for drinking coffee, and then figure out we are American. They don't speak English, but have fun conversing with Tom about how we got here, what type of wine we like, tells us the "food of beajolais" is the best.
One of the men, in Harley Davidson suspenders, pulls a rock out of his pocket, plops it on the bar, and then laughs. He reveals it is an oyster and he wants us to eat it. After we do, without much hesitation, the men are impressed and buy us drinks for the rest of the night. They crack jokes about us getting sick off the oyster, and Tom goes to pee with the suspenders man. I joke about how gloves are "no buon mercato" and wine is "buon mercato". Le beer, la beer? Just beer!!
British people love English speakers. As I get drunk, I keep asking people if they speak Italian, just because I'm itching to communicate. Laser lights, fire twirlers, fireworks, stilt walkers, torches being lit. The night becomes a blur of moments. A girl falling on the curb after trying to jump off the train. Find a Swedish girl who has forgotten her Spanish for French, and I have forgotten it for Italian. Grape balloons set off into the sky. Double kiss on cheek. We see our first snow. Tom drives up and down scary dirt roads on the way home.