Our Moveable Feats

September 4 & 5, 2024

What a peculiar place. It may be our corrugated sleep or the dreary weather but Lyon is subtle, maybe even sublime. We were accosted by a noisy, sticky, pisseoire-scented riverside agglomeration of French-ness: ornate slate-roofed institutions, all of architectural history in it’s many bridges and the requisite old town medieval muddle.

Like Budapest, there is a flat side – workmanlike, multinational, affordable (our place) – and an uprisen one, lorded over by the twin authors of this country: the Holy and the Roman.

Speaking of uprisings, Lyon prides itself on being a thorn in their occupier’s sides in WW2; we went to a Resistance Museum and.. well, didn’t really learn anything new – those SS types were evil. The defiant Lyonnais had home-town advantage, slinking away in the old town via ancient cross-tunnels called traboules… it took us a long time to find one!

And, gastronomy. The land of Bocuse, Escoffier et. al. with its rich farmlands and vineyards aplenty begets sensual tastebud antics. As we had nary the means (nor outfits) for a chicken in pig’s bladder (poulard de Bresse en vessie), we aimed for the more traditional Lyon bistro, the bouchon. T was challenged by a Lyonnais salad, deluged with pork lardons, evanescent croutons and crowned with a poached egg. The menu warned the chef would require 20 minutes to prepare it, so S could not resist the quenelle. It melted like a fluffy seafood foie gras; the superlatives flowed alongside the rosé, itself in a sneaky Lyon bottle (.46 litres).