Le lunch, élément indispensable

Astoundingly, I am now in catch-up mode for the trip.

Sundays in Lyon, see yesterday’s blips regarding Lyonnais predictability, tend to be slower days. Not that I have a problem with that. As a creature of habit myself, I can admire other people’s routines.

Having imbibed my regulation coffees, it seemed an appropriate time to go for lunch. Tim recommended a place that S. hated – possibly so he could attack the wine list with gusto – and took me to “Ultimo”, a “Franco-Italian bistro with homemade organic pasta, natural wine, cocktails, tapas”. It was also empty, which (at my age) I see as a big advantage.

There is something about a French lunch that is unparalleled. It is a ritual. An acceptance of foibles. A pursuit of the idyll. You don’t want to start with an apéritif? WHAT THE FRIG IS WRONG WITH YOU? HAVE AN APÉRITIF. You have an apéritif. And, of course, that is the right decision, because after an apéritif – even on a coffee-laden stomach – you are in the mood for your fellow diner(s).

Unbelievably, my best memories of my six years in France are of lunches. There was a restaurant called “La Commanderie” which specialized in gratins. At the university in which I taught, there was a weekly Friday lunch, for which each of the teachers catered on a rotational basis (including the English). The wine list was of special importance. My friend Patrick and I went every Thursday to the café closest to the IUT because it had the freshest bread. Every meal started with an apéritif – usually a Ricard for me – and finished with a coffee. Two hours dedicated to conviviality and lunch. And people ask me why Brexit was a bad option.

Anyway, Tim and I took the allotted two hours, and somewhat more, as we worked our way through the courses. I went simple: aglio & olio, with Sicilian olive oil, and garlic so pungent even my Covid-jaded narines could revel in it. Who cares what Tim had, I had this – and this was exquisite. We washed it down with a bottle of ridiculously expensive local wine, a rouge pétillant at whose price I originally demurred, but gave in an now regret only that I cannot remember the name. Coffees, digestifs. We talked and talked and left, me 110€ poorer, but richer in spirit than I have been for a long time.

We walked back past the Opéra and managed just to avoid a speeding police bike. There was an anti-immigration demo going on: no, not an anti-immigration demo, an anti-anti-immigration demo, marching against Macron’s new stricter laws. A photographer told us where to go (as in the side-street to avoid), so we walked on, trying our hardest to forget what Pastor Niemöller said, (in fairness, with my hips (not to mention my alcohol intake), I’m an easy target).

We made it home and sat down to an afternoon of rugby, which is Tim’s latest passion. And we even got to watch Liverpool’s 4-0 win over Bournemouth.
Dinner of salmon and baked vegetables.