The French Do Not Season Their Food With Regret

But sometimes they do not season their food at all.  They just add cheese.

It has been an intriguing, interesting, and sometimes gastronomically delightful four days in Lyon.  But judging by the graffiti, boarded shops and ongoing protests, regret might be the last of their worries here.

We set off on the nicest day so far, a partly sunny Sunday, where it hit about 14C, to Les Puces, the second largest flea market in France.  Is that a selling point?  It’s hosted on a vast deserted lot in Villeurbanne, just outside the city limits.  We took transit to the eastern rim of the city then “pedestrianed” our way to the market.

The market was a hash.  On the perimeter, vendors had basically cleaned out the garage and brought boxes of stuff, some dreck, maybe the occasional gem.  But there were also permanent barn-like structures with stalls and the vendors there had curated a style and were selling a theme.  It was interesting, as spectacle can be, but also exhausting, in terms of volume.  Still, we spent the best part of two hours wandering around.

And now, get out your handkerchiefs, the Uh-Oh gallery:

Too much junk? Not for us. We did yet another walk through.

Afterwards we backtracked to the tram.  We took T1 from the northernmost stop to the southernmost stop, which was basically the confluence of the two rivers.  It was such a gorgeous day we just walked back to the city along the eastern side of the Rhone.

Back in the city we stopped for a break, then continued wandering through the backstreets and riverbanks.  Eventually, late afternoon, we crashed at the hotel.

On Sunday the city, despite its size, is largely closed and quiet.  But many local bouchon (busy, diner like restaurants serving local cuisine) remain open.  We stopped at La Merciere, a restaurant that has been in operation, at the same locale, since 1890.  The meal itself was satisfactory if perhaps a little simple, but the space—classically bistro with long tables against the wall—was boisterous and convivial.  As patrons jostled by our table to inch their way inside many would stop and comment on our food.  And wine.  A table of a dozen seniors were sent upstairs, on the narrowest, tightest circular staircase imaginable.  And when Stephen ordered rum baba for dessert, they plunked down the cake with a bottle of rum and said “pour as much rum as you’d like over top.”  It was that sort of place.

Back to the hotel not too late to pack for a midday flight to London tomorrow.