41 Minutes

 
Time for an update of my post about the butcher shop from summer 2014. Here is what the same butcher shop is like in early 2016.

I went, as I too frequently do, on a Saturday morning. This is colossally dumb, as everyone does their shopping on this day in Saulieu: it's the weekend, there is a market, everything is open. Everything except the hotels and restaurants, which are in the midst of their fermeture annuelles, when they shut down from December 24 through mid-February. The pre-holidays must have been particularly exhausting this year. (On a side note, we are heading into school vacation starting this afternoon, and the café, two of the three bakeries, a hair salon, and the wine shop will all be closed in our town for at least a week. As Trump might tweet, "Sad!") I got to the shop slightly after 11. The inside was pretty packed and I had a few seconds of self-doubt...did I really want to wait in this line? 

Apparently, I did.

Warmth for Lunch

Sometimes, lunch is just food. It gives your body fuel for the rest of the day, each bite forgotten as soon as it swallowed. Sometimes, lunch is an eating marathon, the principle activity of one's day. Sometimes, lunch causes personal injury. And sometimes, lunch is a time to warm up.

It has been cold. Not cold like in my US hometown, where it was recently -22 in the sun, but cold for Burgundy nonetheless. A wind was whipping through the streets of Beaune at noon, and it was time to seek shelter and food. I stood in front of an Italian place I had been eyeing for some months and decided today was the day to take the plunge. 

The windows tipped the scales for me on this visit. As I stood on the frozen cobblestones, the glass panes of the restaurant were fogged by the breath of patrons, the steam of cooking, and, no doubt, the hot air of conversation. I went inside and told the hostess I was alone. "Mais pas dans la vie," I was quick to assure her. Not alone in life.

She said she had a table for me, but I would be next to other people. Would that be ok? Naturally. 

I sat and perused the menu, deciding that a thin-crust 4 Seasons pizza would be just right (artichokes, olives, prosciutto cotto, and mushrooms). After ordering, I looked around at the other customers. There were men in business attire, finishing their meal with an espresso. Young couples corralled their children the best they could. A table of lunching ladies worked their way through beautiful salads.

The hostess noticed my table was wobbling and brought over a shim. When I asked if I could have some of the breadsticks that were on neighboring tables, the couple next to me quickly offered their own, one of those little restaurant moments where they weren't eavesdropping, but couldn't help but overhear and just wanted to be helpful. The breadsticks were Italian and divine, dotted with salt and brimming with rosemary. The chill was gone, the red Santenay in my glass was opening up nicely, and everywhere around me was a symphony of French. (There are not many tourists in Beaune on a Wednesday afternoon in early February.) 

Luncheoning alone in crowded restaurants is under-appreciated. This day was a wonderful chance to observe: no book, no phone, no distractions, just looking and listening to the world around me while I waited for my food.

Saint Vincent Take Two

As the police officer walked away from me I said, "I'll see you later, Monsieur le Gendarme." 

He gave a hearty laugh and I told him not to worry, I had taken the train to the 71st Saint Vincent Tournante festival. This year's version of the celebration of the patron saint of winemakers was held in Vougeout and Gilly-les-Citeaux, the former known for, well, one of the most famous wines in Burgundy, and the latter for being next to the former. 

We had been to the 70th version of the event last year in Saint Aubin and 365 days in Burgundy had taught us an important lesson: LEAVE THE KIDS AT HOME WHEN YOU GO TO A WINE FESTIVAL. We hired a babysitter, put on eight layers of clothing, drove to Beaune, ditched the car, and got on the 11:33 train to Vougeout. As the mass of humanity boarded, one girl already in the train said, "What's going on? I take this train every Saturday and I've never seen so many people." Burgundy wine festivals will do that.

Upon arriving, we purchased our pack de dégustation, which included a commemorative glass and its carrier, a map, and seven tickets for different tastings. Our first stop was for a grand cru red, made exclusively from Pinot noir grapes. The local winemakers had pooled their supply for this unique event, creating an assemblage of different grand cru wines that would only be available for this weekend. On Monday, it would be impossible to find this particular wine ever again. The man pouring it gestured to the falling snow and said, "Try to warm it up with your hands."

The weather had made this the opposite of the ideal tasting conditions. Instead of a controlled environment, the wind was bitingly brisk, and all the wines were served al fresco, far from their optimal temperatures. The air was crowded with odors competing for the wine's aromas: roasting hams, cigarette smoke, melted cheese, French fries, and more than enough BO to go around. We cupped our glasses in our hands, trying to warm it, but the effort was wasted. It was like defrosting a snowy windshield with your breath. And yet, that first wine...well it was magic.

Lunch, Church, and Politics on Sunday

One of the rules we follow here is to spend time with French people every chance we get. If you think about it, that is a wild departure from our American lives. We never said, "Jeez, I really need to see some Americans today!" when we lived in the Land of the Free.

On Sunday, I found myself in a trifecta of French situations: hunting cabin for lunch, 15th Century church for a concert, small town meeting with the mayor for the annual galette des rois.

This was not my first time in a French hunting situation.

The cabin, where there is one rule: no guns, dogs, or women allowed inside

I had been invited for both the hunt and the lunch, primarily for the latter. As one of my friends here had described this type of deer and wild boar hunting, "You don't talk, you don't move, you don't smoke, you don't fart." As I would be armed with only a camera, this sounded like something I could pass on this time, so I just went for lunch to the cabin.

I had stopped by my friend's house at 11:30 to pick up the lunch. I know what you're thinking: Perhaps a basket of sandwiches and some chocolate chip cookies? Maybe a pot of chili and a few brownies? Surely a dozen men would appreciate a bowl of pasta salad and some snickerdoodles, right?

Wrong. 

It Rains Here. A Lot.

When we arrived here a year ago, it rained part or all of every day for 60 days. We knew not a soul, both our kids were frequently sick with gastro, ear infections, conjunctivitis, or fever, and we had no knowledge of what to do with two kids under 4 when it rains. It was a trying two months. 

This winter is shaping up to be more of the same. Oftentimes, in a cruel tease, a pink sunrise and a fiery orange sunset will serve as brief parentheses for an otherwise wet day. Burgundians say that the typical winter here is cold but bright, usually with some snow. Now that we are in mid-January, however, I am becoming increasingly skeptical of these claims, especially because it was 60 degrees on Tuesday. 

Regardless, we've come a long way. We have memorized the hours at three different libraries and no longer curse when we arrive to find them exceptionnellement fermées. My wife discovered a ludothèque, a sort of toy-brary, where the children can run and romp among a sea of games, puzzles, and, thank heavens, trains. Grandparents have furnished us with buckets of Legos. While a rainy day is far from a welcome sight, it is no longer a surprise, and we manage our way through the day with relative ease.

Throughout, we have Charolais cattle, those who provide the region's beef, as our steady witnesses to the moisture. The photo above shows the view from the boys' bedroom. Each morning, I hold the baby in my arms and say, "It looks like some of your friends are there! Do you want to say hello?" And he will scream "Moooo!" at these hulking beasts. The cows tend not to return the greeting. The more it rains, the closer they huddle together, trying to get a snitch off an ever-dwindling bail of hay. During a stretch of dry, clear weather, these animals are beautiful white jewels on the Burgundy landscape, dotting green pastures like gigantic cotton balls. When it rains, they turn to mud. Slop covers their hindquarters, their faces, their underbellies, and, as you can see, their shins. 

If self-doubt and existential bewilderment are the emotions dominating my day, their melancholy lowing rattles the windows, a universal cry of misery and confusion. But if optimism and excitement have thwarted those negative thoughts, I confess that their sounds make me think just one thing:

Better you than me, guys.