Squared away

Written 12 May 2011

Finally! All the reservations are made.

I ran into all the usual glitches: (1) the restaurant that replied to my query with the news that it had closed permanently a couple of months earlier; (2) the only moderately rated one that was inexplicably booked solid on our evening of choice, months in advance (a wedding, we speculate) and, conversely, the ones that laughed at me for reserving so far in advance; (3) the widely advertised e-mail address that proved invalid; (4) all the on-line forms that required cell-phone numbers (I got pretty good at shoehorning, into the little "comment" box, my explanation about not having a cell phone that works in Europe and that the number I gave was our hotel); (5) the hotel that insists we let them know in advance what time we will arrive, even though we'll be touring by car that day and therefore cannot be sure (promising to call if we would be later than 6 p.m. wasn't sufficient; I must call them en route with an ETA); (6) some slick reservation websites that worked perfectly and others that didn't; (7) the one brasserie that wouldn't take reservations more than a certain length of time in advance; (8) the ones that specify on their websites that they take reservations only over the phone (and the one that only tells you it doesn't when you call to ask why your e-mail was never acknowledged); (9) having to spell "Thistle" (a word that the French not only cannot pronounce but cannot even believe) 32 times over the phone (which, for reasons having to do with the band-pass characteristics of phone lines and the acoustics of human speech, never works, even in English; I can't tell you the number of times I've had to tell an American restaurant hostess, "Nothing under Thistle? Try under Phifple")—"T, comme Théodore; H, Henri; I, Isodore; S, Samuel; T, Théodore; L, Léon; E, Étienne. Oui, oui, Tay-Ahsh-Ee-Ess-Tay-Ell-Euh".

And the museum tickets! Because the Musée d'Orsay will only be open for about four of the hours we'll all be together in Paris, and because CJ really wanted to go back, I looked into advance ticket sales. If you buy your tickets early, then you can go straight to entrance C and by-pass the folks standing in line. So I visited the museum's official website, which directed me in turn to two places I could buy my tickets on line, from here. It emphasized that you cannot have your tickets held for pick-up at the musuem itself. I checked out both sites, both of which mentioned the possibility of tickets that you could print yourself but neither of which ever gave me a chance to choose that option—maybe it's only for customers in France. One, a sort of French Ticketmaster outfit, wanted me to specify the date and hour of our arrival and how many tickets of each of several grades (general admission, child, "young person," student, senior, school teacher, etc.), and it promised to send them to me by DHL express (for a hefty extra fee, of course). The other, the French book-and-media store FNAC, just wanted to know how many tickets—no dates, no times, no classes of ticket—and it specified that the tickets would be good for a year and that they would be sent to me by registered mail. I liked that last option (both cheaper and more convenient), so I went with the second site, only to receive shortly afterward an e-mail from DHL telling me how to track the parcel FNAC had just sent me. Drat.

Anyway, a few days later, I got home to find a big orange sticky-note on my door saying that DHL had tried twice to deliver the package (sure enough, the first sticky note had fallen off the door, and I had overlooked it). Call this number to ask for a third delivery try before the package was returned to sender, sign the form permitting delivery without a signature, and leave it for the driver. After a fruitless couple of hours trying to get somebody to answer the phone in DHL's "delivery problem" office, I gave up, called DHL's general number, and started exploring the phone tree. After several tries, I got hold of somebody in the department of "new accounts" who cheerfully assured me she'd take care of it. Sure enough, the tickets arrived safely the next day. And highly "securitized" they are, too, multiply decorated with little holograms, metalic seals, and bar codes.

Meanwhile, our travel agent has sent us our TGV tickets, so I think we're entirely good to go!

A couple of years ago, friends gave us a glass cheese board in the shape of France, on which names of some of the best-known French cheeses are printed in their appropriate regions of origin. I am delighted to see that Lyon is at the epicenter of a veritable hotbed of delicious varieties, surround by, e.g., Fourme d'Ambert, Bleu d'Auvergne, St. Nectaire, St. Marcellin, Reblochon, Beaufort, Tomme de Savoie, and Comté. Yum. Bleu de Bresse doesn't appear on the map, but we're sure to encounter it as well.

And the food. Lyon is famous for it. In particular, it is known as the capital of offal cookery. I've been studying the on-line menus of some of our restaurants and forming an ever-expanding list of stuff I have to be sure to eat at least once while we're there.

• Andouillettes: Chitterling sausages that even David has to admit are pretty good. In northern Burgundy, we encountered many in the style of Troyes, in which the contents are roughly chopped and stuffed into the casing, but Lyon specializes in andouilletes "tirées à la ficelle"—that is, "pulled with a string"—in which the chitterlings are left whole, and each length is pulled lengthwise through the casing (with a string) so that you eventually end up with a sausage that, cut in cross section, is made up of concentric rings, formed by the many lengths successively pulled through the center.

• Tablier de sapeur: Literally "sapper's apron" (French sappers, a division of the fire brigade, wear rubber aprons). A short of tripe steak, stewed to tenderness, then egged, crumbed, and fried crispy on both sides. David's favorite way for me to eat tripe in his presence, because it's better disguised than most. Of course, tripe is available in many other forms as well.

• Sweetbreads: The thymus gland (or, occasionally, the pancreas) of a calf or lamb. Classically, they are poached, then cooled and chilled under a weight. Only then are they trimmed and ready to sauté, braise, or whatever. For a while, chefs seemed to be experimenting with sautéing them directly from the raw state—not, in my opinion, an improvement. I'm hoping we won't encounter that sort of nonsense in Lyon.

• Quenelles de brochet: Pike dumplings. Much better than they sound. A "quenelle" is a a glob of any maleable substance formed (classically by scooping it back and forth between the bowls of two spoons) into the shape of a slightly elongated American football. French chefs serve all kinds of things in "quenelles"—the ice cream garnish on a dessert, the fig jam accompanying a serving a cheese, apple chutney served with foie gras—but in this case, they are souffléed savory dumplings. The raw meat (most classically pike, a freshwater fish, but sometimes chicken or veal) is puréed finely, seasoned, and mixed with an equal volume of choux paste (the dough used to make cream puffs). The mixture is shaped into quenelles and poached in simmering water or broth, then set aside to cool. At serving time, two or three quenelles are gently reheated in a sauce (usually a cream sauce). The pan is shaken to keep them from sticking, and as they heat, they swell up amazingly. When the cook judges that they are at their peak, they are quickly sprinkled with a little cheese and run under the broiler for a moment, then served forth sizzling hot. Good ones are light and fluffy, creamy and scrumptious.

• Other freshwater fish, notably pike and zander. Not widely available on American restaurant menus. In fact, Lyon has a long tradition of fish farming.

• Bresse chicken: Bresse chickens (famous for their red crests, white feathers, and blue feet—the colors of the French flag) are the only poultry in the world with their own "appellation controlée," just like wine. They are raised, free range, to exacting standards. In restaurants, you encounter two grades: "poulets" (chickens), which are of either sex and at least three months old, and "poulardes" (fowl), which are by definition female and at least four months old. The former are most classically roasted or prepared in a cream sauce with morel mushrooms. The latter are most often "casserole roasted." We have not been especially taken with either in the past, but we'll try to keep open minds (and mouths).

• Lyonnaiseries: Room temperature salad of lentils in vinaigrette, topped with hot garlic sausage. Not so essential, since I can make a passable version right here at home, but in Tallahassee, I have to use kielbasa because I can't get those great Lyonnais garlic sausages. Julia provides a recipe, but our climate does not really lend itself to the necessary curing process.

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