“Trois” - Three
I’m sharing this on April 5. This is the third anniversary of Harrison’s death. The third year he hasn’t been here. I’ve already written at length explaining that he and his short life are the drivers for Katy, Auggie, and I being here, now. Previously, the week leading up to this day was every bit as daunting as the day itself. With that in mind, we planned this getaway and also planned to be back in our Parisian apartment before today. That way, we could spend time remembering Harrison the way we need to. For me, that includes sending this letter out to all of you. With that, allons-y.
Lyon is the capital of the Auvergne-Rhône-Alpes region. It’s known more for its food scene than Paris is—in fact, some would argue it’s France’s gastronomic capital—and it’s centered very nicely within the Rhone Valley meaning it’s also known for its wine. There are two rivers that run through it: the Saone, and, you guessed it, the Rhone.
Lyon is special to us. We brought Harrison here in 2022. He started to pull up on his own, here. I carried him in his fold-down stroller up the many, many stairs to the cathedral in the hot Rhone summer. This time, we’re accidentally staying only a few spots down from where we stayed that time. It’s on an ancient cobblestone road. Lyon has since become more special to me upon reading Dirt by Bill Buford. This is where he and his family lived while he learned what French cuisine really meant. Consider this another plug for the book. It’s one of the more definitive pieces of food writing I’ve ever read, and a major inspiration for everything I’m doing right now.
While culinary school wasn’t in Bill’s plan, he did briefly attend the renowned École de Cuisine Gourmets by Institut Paul Bocuse (who was essentially France’s first celebrity chef). Bill studied under a boulanger here, as well as cooked at La Mère Brazier, a two-Michelin-star joint that was filled with no small amount of drama and learning. Bill, if you’re reading this (you aren’t): thank you.
Lyon may be my favorite city I’ve visited in France (though admittedly I haven’t seen a lot).
Unfortunately, our first day here was marred both literally and figuratively. Mere moments after arriving in our Airbnb apartment, Auggie took a tumble and landed face-first onto the hard corner of a wall. It swelled quickly as head knocks can do. We spent the remainder of our very rainy day taking him to first an urgent care where a very kind doctor looked him over, then spent the next five and a half hours navigating to, sitting at, and coming home from the emergency room.
I probably don’t need to tell you what it felt like to see the giant knot on Auggie’s head rise in just a few seconds, or how worrisome it was to see his eye beginning to swell closed. I don’t need to tell you how gut-wrenching it was to walk into a strange, cold ER for children again. Or to see other parents there with their kids, too. To see ambulances bringing small ones in on stretchers. And to see all of this the week leading up to the anniversary of Harrison’s death. Katy and I both, in our own ways, detached. Looking at Auggie’s head and knowing that something inside Harrison’s betrayed him made me sick to my stomach. To make matters worse, only one parent was allowed to accompany him into the ER waiting room. Katy did—her French and sensibilities are better. And I don’t know how hard that was for her but I can imagine. Meanwhile, I sat upstairs in the waiting hall and watched families come and go, waiting for update texts from Katy. Every possible scenario ran through my head and I hoped and hoped and hoped no one would come upstairs looking for me, asking if I’m August’s dad, asking me to come with them, quickly please.
Auggie is ok, though he does look like he went a round or two with prime Mike Tyson. His eye swelled shut completely but it’s back open now. Such resiliency in that little boy. We’ve had to beg him to not run in the apartment, even now, and remind him of what happened. As I sat him down to breakfast the following morning he said, “Auggie fall there!” and pointed to the corner which walloped him. Pretty good for only being able to see out of one eye at the moment. He also reminded us no fewer than 3,000 times that he wants “to go on a big train.” He’s his old self.
Katy, steadfast as ever, is working on this trip of ours. So while it’s a sort of vacation for me, it isn’t for her. We’re planning activities around her schedule and Auggie’s nap. And while they’re pre-disposed, I’m taking walks around the cities. I wanted to see Bill Buford’s Lyon, so guided by a single Instagram post of the view from his living room all those years ago, I went searching for it. I may have found it, but it’s impossible to know. Buildings block most of the views from the street. That’s perfectly ok, because I walked neighborhoods I didn’t see last time, saw more of the city that I enjoy so much. And I walked way, way up the hill on the other side of the river. Valley, indeed.
A much easier way to experience Lyon from Bill’s POV was to eat at La Mère Brazier. So I made reservations for a Monday lunch—much more manageable (I hoped) with a two-and-a-half year old who doesn’t love sitting still for very long.
I’m not going to go into the long history of La Mère Brazier—please, please just read Dirt already—but I’ll give you some basics. It was founded in 1921 by Eugènie Brazier, during a time in France where most women were relegated to being mothers and housewives. She was eventually awarded three Michelin stars, which is a feat all but unheard of at the time. The restaurant was passed down through her family until it was bought by Mathieu Viannay. Chef Viannay is a Meuilleur Ouvrier de France, which means the collar of his chef’s jacket bears the colors of the French flag. In this country, being an MOF means you’re the absolute best at what you do. It’s a big freakin’ deal. Chef Viannay also features in Dirt, quite obviously.
One Michelin star usually means you’re in for an experience. I couldn’t imagine what a two- or three-star experience could be. Today, LMB has two stars—a first for me and Katy. We were guided upstairs into a small, private room. They knew exactly what they were doing when they put a two-year-old off by himself. We walked by the kitchen on the way up and Auggie got to see all of the chefs, hard at work, dressed in their clean whites and toques. They all said “bonjour!” and waved to him.
The service staff all wore suits. It didn’t feel stuffy, just…nice. We were offered an aperitif and chose a glass of champagne. Not long after, our welcome from the kitchen arrived: a slice of pâté en croûte, a specialty of the house and the region. Auggie enjoyed the pickled cherries served as an accompaniment but the texture of the pâté was too much for him.
Lunch works well because you’re given three courses at a serious discount to the dinner. You get to choose your selections from dinner’s set tasting menu. We ordered a 2017 Moulin-à-Vent from Chateau des Jacques at the sommelier’s suggestion and put in our order, which looked like this:
Katy’s entrée (“entrée” in France is the first course—it’s the “entry” into the meal; why it means main course in the United States…I don’t know): Foie Gras and Artichoke. This dish, or at least something like it, has been on the menu since 1921, served by Mère Brazier herself. What’s to say? Of course the foie gras was delicious, smooth and unctuous (I know you’re rolling your eyes at that word, but it’s correct). The artichokes too were perfectly cooked. Make a dish for well over 100 years and you should expect perfection.
Cy’s entree: grilled white asparagus with rye grains and a sabayon of arugula and green asparagus. White asparagus is all over the marchés in France right now. It’s thicker than its green counterpart, but I’d never eaten it. The flavor is delicate but clearly benefited from being cooked hard over the grill. The sabayon was a dream: frothy, fresh, and buttery. They left the dish with extra sabayon, and Katy and I licked it clean.
Katy’s plat: milk-fed lamb, glazed carrots, and tripe, served with pepper-spiked jus. (A quick translation note which I think is hilarious. “Jus” translates literally to “juice,” and that is how every server translates it to us. It’s technically accurate—it’s a sauce always made from the meat drippings. But…meat juice. You know?) Katy is weird about pieces of fat on her steaks. This one, though, she called “the best piece of meat she’s ever eaten.” I may not concur completely, but it’s close. Tender, mild, and with a fat cap that was still intact yet perfectly rendered so our teeth slipped right through it.
Cy’s plat: sweetbreads with French-style peas and a jus à la tagète. A tagète is a marigold, and while I don’t know if they were used in this “juice,” it was herby and beautifully bitter. If you’re unfamiliar, sweetbreads are literally nothing like what they sound like. They are actually either the thymus or pancreas, in this case from a calf. Tender, a tad gamey, and coated in breadcrumbs before being cooked in god knows how much butter, the richness was offset by the bright and vibrant peas—my favorite preparation of that vegetable.
Katy’s dessert: a passionfruit and rhum soufflé. I scored my lowest score so far in culinary school on a day I cooked a soufflè, but it sounds like I’m going to get better because Katy has requested I make this every day for the rest of her life. A soufflé (a real one, not the midwestern “casserole-called-soufflé” dish) is light, airy, and incredibly delicate. This one had a tartness brought on from the passionfruit throughout.
Cy’s dessert: Meyer lemon shortbread with meringue. I very easily and gladly would’ve ordered the same soufflé, but we’re going for diversity here. A sablé cookie with both lemon custard and meringue was topped with—get this—a small garnish of candied Kalamata olives. I’m no fan of black olives at the best of times, but I ate the thing and saw what they were going for.
At this point we were reaching almost two and a half hours of lunch. While wonderfully relaxing, filling, and leisurely, our sweet boy was over the little room they put us in and started loudly letting us know. Despite our better efforts to calm and quiet him, we only made it worse. I tried having a quiet talk with him in the bathroom which led to nazgul-style shrieking, kicking, and hitting. While there was still some leisure to be had—the French love their long, lingering lunches—it was time for us to leave. Admittedly, I was pretty mad, and maybe a bit embarrassed. But that was silly and fleeting. The staff was so incredibly kind to Auggie, bringing him a coloring book (made specifically for the restaurant!) and markers to color with. They brought him bread when he didn’t want to eat anything else. Katy said that Auggie was the most excitement that staff had seen in months. She’s right. While I felt slighted by my two-year-old, I quickly came to realize how stupid of a sentence that is and now rightfully recognize our lunch at La Mére Brazier as the single nicest dining experience I’ve ever had.
We’re in Beaune, the center of Bourgogne (or Burgundy in English parlance) known so significantly for its wine and indeed surrounded on all sides by hectares of grape vines. I thought it would be a good idea to take a bike ride through the vineyards, following a trail that leads from Beaune down to Santenay. Katy very smartly asked for an e-assist bike, on which we would mount a child’s seat for Auggie to ride the whole time. I, headstrong and stubborn, was certain that I could handle this little ride on a regular bike. After all, the véloroute guide online assured me it was “fairly flat.” These bikes are commuter bikes, closer to a mountain bike. They have gears specifically designed for easy climbing. Pas de problème, assurément.
About 20 minutes into this (very, very beautiful ride on what turned out to be a very, very lovely day), Katy has zipped up this hill which looked so meager when we started. I, on the other hand, found myself in the smallest combination of gears possible with my heart hammering harder than my pedals. This was not the last time I would have to pull off to the side of the trail and gasp for air. On the way back, Katy sometimes got so far ahead of me I heard Auggie yelling, “You comin’ Daddy?” Slowly but surely, son, yes I am.
The Voie des Vignes runs southwest from Beaune through several small towns and ends in Santenay. If you’re not familiar with wine, in France it’s not classified by the grape varietal (pinot noir, cabernet sauvignon, etcetera), but rather by its location. Usually—and this is a gross oversimplification—the vineyards in an area grow one or maybe two varietals, which may be blended together to create the appellation that shows up on the bottle. Each commune has its own appellation. This véloroute runs through Pommard, Volnay, Meursault, Puligny-Montrachet, Chassagne-Montrachet, and finally ends in Santenay. It runs 22.6 km (roughly 14 miles). That’s six different appellations of wine within a 14 mile strip—and doesn’t include the others outside of that very limited route. Remember that next time you watch a video of a sommelier nail an appellation in a blind tasting.
Unfortunately, we didn’t make it all the way to Santenay. Katy had an important meeting and needed to be back, so we turned back in Puligny-Montrachet. Each of these gorgeous little communes would have been great to stop in and take in the sights, but it wasn’t in the cards for us on a windy day with a bonking husband (me), but Meursault in particular is gorgeous. Seeing the light leaving my eyes after a couple of climbs, Katy suggested we stop there at a boulangerie for a sandwich. I housed a Croque-Monsiuer and a Fanta for sugar while Katy and Auggie shared a jambon beurre and mango juice. I was resurrected, mostly.
After we got back and dropped the bikes, Auggie had taken about 12 steps before begging to “go up” (which is how he asks us to carry him) presumably because he had spent a very hard morning just sitting there. But I am a sucker for that boy, and up on my shoulders he went for the 15 minute walk to our apartment. I kept wondering if that trip back—the route was definitely uphill both ways, damn the clichés—would be better or worse with a glass or two of bourgogne in me. We’ll do this again later this summer, and maybe I’ll find out then. On an e-bike.
It shouldn’t be a secret that I eat a lot. Adventurously, even. It shouldn’t be a surprise that sometimes the stomach bugs catch up to me. Unfortunately, after half a day wandering Dijon with Auggie, one struck. Not so bad as to keep me in bed, but bad enough to keep me from straying too far from our apartment.
Katy and Auggie explored the best of things Dijon had to offer, while I stayed home, ate crackers and rice and drank water. Fortunately, the worst of it was over for me after about 24 hours, so they were able to show me a few fun places. Those best laid plans sometimes fall apart, but we came home with four different kinds of mustard and a few other special treats as well.
Dijon was a little difficult for me, even outside of the stomach cramps. Some cities feel designed around people who don’t live there—people, unfortunately, like us. Those touristy areas get clogged up and make the city feel inauthentic. When I travel, I don’t want to see what you think I want to see. I want to see what you want to see, as a local. Yes I want to try mustard, of course I do. But I don’t want to buy it from four different stores in a row all selling the same thing. I know there’s more to it. Unfortunately, we weren’t able to get around to it. Maybe next time.
I won’t call Dijon a loss, though. The train ride home through the French countryside made up for it. We picked a slower (and cheaper) option to get home, so for about three hours we coasted through dark green rolling hills with adorably quaint villages, and bright blooming yellow fields of mustard and rapeseed along the Yonne river. I know not everyone is as taken with the romanticism of France as I am, but I admit I was surprised to be the only one gawking out the windows at all this surrounding us, while everyone else stared gloomily into their phones. C’est la vie, I suppose.
We got back into Paris and took the metro to our apartment, just in time for Auggie to take a nap. After he woke up, we ran to the grocery store for dinner, the Monoprix just around the corner. While we were there, an older woman chatted with Auggie in French—it’s someone who has paid attention to him on at least two other occasions. In Auggie’s terms, “she’s a friend.” At the checkout, the cashier called over to one of his coworkers and said (in French, obviously), “Hey, who does this guy look like? What famous person does this guy look like?” while pointing at me. I smiled and turned to look at his friend, knowing what the cashier was going for. The last time I was there, he told me I looked like Leonardo DiCaprio. (Don’t laugh, I’ve heard it before.) His friend didn’t see it, necessarily, but said, “Ah, Leo? Ouais, un peu.”
It’s been three months—that’s it. We miss our families and our friends. I miss Harrison and I look for him everywhere here. But after a trip and returning back to Paris? It’s crazy how it already feels like home.