Illustration by Alex Deadman-Wylie
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The brass door handle of La Dilettante was dead cold. Partly because it was January in Burgundy and partly because no one had touched it all day. On a small chalkboard hanging in the bistro’s window, the word fermé greeted us.
“Are you [expletive] kidding me?” my husband’s jugular rose from his neck like a humpback coming up for air.
Generally speaking, he is a reasonable man. A lawyer by trade, he can keep cool when most would falter. But a closed sign on a restaurant that was, according to the internet, supposed to be open? An injustice worthy of litigation.
I felt bad for him. He’d spent weeks researching restaurants for our trip and La Dilettante was in his “can’t miss” category. He already knew what he was going to order – the terrine de campagne, the smoked anchovies, the jambon persillé. But alas. The restaurant’s closing crumpled his dream like a used cocktail napkin.
“Maybe they’ll be open tomorrow?” Having lived in France, I knew full well that only the most astute psychics could predict when La Dilettante would reopen, but I felt the need to be supportive.
A year in France as a student changed my outlook on life
No response. His thumbs were frantically tap dancing across his phone. The search for a substitute restaurant was well under way. The hunk of Comté cheese I had for breakfast was wearing off. I wasn’t prepared to wait the eternity it would take for him to find another restaurant that checked all the boxes he insisted a Burgundian restaurant should check. The streets were nearly empty – lunch service was under way. I recognized the silence growing between us. This was the calm before a where-should-we-eat storm.
“Let’s just go here,” I pointed to the restaurant next door, certain he would shoot down my long shot, but when arguing with a lawyer you’ve got to act fast.
“Fine. Whatever.”
I couldn’t believe he agreed. I filed “quickly suggest the restaurant next door” in my brain as a workable conflict-resolution strategy and opened the door to Café de France.
Painted pale yellow and wet pavement grey, the room was packed. It didn’t take long to realize that everyone in the restaurant had three things in common: they were all men, all in paint-speckled overalls and all staring at us – chins tilted down, eyebrows raised. Skilled in the art of translation, I knew this look meant, “Americans? Bah non!” Message received. We were about to leave when an enormous woman greeted us with a grunt that I recognized as, “follow me.”
She seated us at the only available table – a wobbly four-top, tarted up with a plastic dollar-store tablecloth. I looked at my husband for the first time since I suggested what I now understood to be a questionable establishment.
Oh no! My favourite restaurant just closed
“Do you want to leave?” I knew he wanted to leave. I also knew offering him the power to right this wrong would come in handy during the future argument we would have over this terrible meal.
“No, no. Let’s look at the menu.”
A waiter approached us not with menus but with a large stainless steel bowl.
“Pardon monsieur, we didn’t order that,” I said.
“We don’t take orders.” he mumbled as he walked away.
“Let’s just leave,”
“No, no,” my husband insisted.
We inched toward the edge of our seats and peeked into the bowl. A head of leafy frissé, gently tossed in a mustard-based dressing, cradled still warm lardons and a perfectly soft-boiled egg – I drooled watching its marigold-orange yolk run. Before digging in, I tossed my dining companion a light-hearted, “Touché” look. What had been a smirk turned into a smile as the waiter poured us some Pinot.
With crusts of baguette, we mopped up every last drop of dressing. The now-empty bowl we didn’t order was swiftly replaced with two oven-safe dishes we didn’t ask for. One held a roast chicken, its skin so crisp I could already hear the sound it would make in my mouth. The other was overflowing with frites that I would go to jail for. Then came the cheese. All local. None aged a minute too long. We slumped into our chairs, bellies distended, mystified by how good the restaurant next door can be.
As we were leaving, the waiter was distributing pots of yogurt to the paint- and plaster-splattered workers who were heading back to work. Like school boys, they raised their hands to signal which flavour they wanted. A few half-in-the-bag regulars raised their glasses – chinchin.
Behind the bar, next to a French national rugby team flag, was a kitschy decor sign. I smiled when I read it: Vous êtes au bon endroit. You’re in the right place.
Krista Raspor lives in Toronto.
