Promises to Keep (13 page)

They left the bus tour again to explore the Renaissance district on foot. One of the oldest areas in Lyon, it was lucky enough to have survived for five hundred years almost intact. Armand explained that some of the buildings were erected in the Middle Ages and many more in the Renaissance era, when silk weaving and printing were the city’s main industries.

“I love how they have made so many streets here only for pedestrians. Everything seems so accessible,” Kat said. Then she remembered what she’d read—that hidden from view were hundreds of secret covered passageways, called
traboules
, running through private homes and down to the river, some of them dating back to the fourth century.

She had been unaware of Lyon’s silk-weaving past until Véronique had talked about it in Entrevaux. The guidebook Philippe had given her on the train had several pages about that history, and she was particularly interested in seeing the
traboules
. She’d read that they had been used by the Resistance during the German occupation. She mentioned her interest to Armand, who told her that many of them were in the Croix-Rousse area, where they were headed next.

Walking through to Place Bellecour, the largest square, they went down into the subway and caught the next train. The district, built on a hill, was once the center of the silk-weaving industry. There was no time left to explore any of the
traboules
that were open to the public, so Denise suggested that Philippe take Kat on a tour of them the next day. “They are architecturally unique as well as historically important. You can’t imagine what they are like until you see them for yourself.”

While the men stopped into a bar, the women went on a guided tour of the Maison des Canuts, the Silk Weavers’ House, where they looked at the many antique looms on display and watched a demonstration of how an old, treadle-operated dobby loom worked. “It’s like watching an intricate ballet,” Kat whispered to Denise. “The movements required are so precise and demanding. It’s quite the workout for the weaver. The Jacquard looms are fascinating too, with those punch cards.”

“Jacquard really was responsible for the whole idea of programming machines, and his concepts were critical in the development of computing hardware,” Denise said as the tour finished, her enthusiasm matching Kat’s. “I never tire of visiting this area. There’s always something to learn.”

The weather difference from the coast was a bit of a shock and reminded Kat of Toronto in December. She was glad Philippe had encouraged her to put a heavy sweater on under her jacket.

“My feet are ready for a rest,” Denise exclaimed after they rejoined Philippe and Armand. “We’ve covered a lot of territory today.”

They hailed a taxi and went back to the apartment to shower, change, warm up, and enjoy an
apéro
. “I’m sure you know the drill by now,” Armand teased Kat as he served them all a celebratory
kir royale
.

“Bien sûr,”
she replied.
“Santé!”

This part of the day was another French tradition to which Kat had adapted, one that was a complete change from the rush from work to dinner that was the rule in her marriage. James had not been a fan of cocktail hour.

Of course, that would have meant he had to converse with me
, she thought ruefully.

Joy had explained the philosophy of
l’apéritif
in France when Katherine was first in Provence on her exchange.

“
L’heure de l’apéro
is not just a time for cocktails,” Joy had said. “It is the moment when the French deliberately create some space between the workday and the dinner hour, demonstrating their talent for slowing down and, somehow, miraculously expanding time. The idea is to whet the appetite for the meal that is to come.
Le plaisir
. . . remember?”

Denise and Armand expanded on the tradition.

They all raised their glasses without actually making contact.

“Did you know that it is bad luck to cross arms with others when we reach across to toast?” Denise said.

“Yes, I heard that,” Kat said. “I also know we must always make eye contact with the person. It’s one of the many lessons I’ve learned from Philippe.”

“Ah, she is learning quickly to become
française
, Philippe.”

“D’accord,”
he replied, his eyes shining.

The conversation turned to where to eat dinner that night, and Armand spoke persuasively in favor of their local
bouchon
, a kind of restaurant that served traditional Lyonnais food.

Denise held up a hand to get a word in. “Katherine, you should know that Armand is a bit like royalty here in Lyon, as he is descended from one of the original
mères Lyonnaises
, the local women employed as cooks by aristocratic families.”

“I just read about them on the train.”

“So you know that, after the
Revolution
, they were encouraged to write down their recipes—”

Armand broke in excitedly. “And my great-great-grandmother was one of those
mères
. Her recipes were handed down through my family but, of more pride to us, some of the greatest chefs in this city were trained following her strict rules.”

“Armand’s family is well known here and is always welcome at the finest restaurants,
sans réservations
.” Philippe added.

“So now you know why he is the way he is.”

“You mean
trop gros
?” asked Armand, feigning hurt.

“
Non
, not overweight,” Denise laughed, giving him a light poke in his well-padded stomach, “I mean why you are so fixated on cuisine.”

Armand played along and doubled over before continuing. “
Bien!
So tonight, Katherine my dear, you will eat the food of the fine
mères
de Lyon. You will love it!”

“Tomorrow we will take you for a meal at the other end of the spectrum here. We will cover it all,” Philippe promised as his cousins nodded in agreement.

“C’est une visite éclair!”
laughed Denise.

“A lightning visit,” translated Armand.

“Right—a whirlwind visit,” Kat offered.

They left for dinner at eight and strolled a few blocks to a small corner restaurant, where Armand pointed out the sticker on the window showing it was an authentic
bouchon
. They entered a packed wood-paneled room with tables covered in red-and-white checked cloths.

While they waited for the food to arrive, Philippe and Denise chatted while Armand told Kat the history of some of the more famous
bouchons
, many of which originally were small post houses or inns. A straw bottle stopper, or
bouchon
, would be hung in the window to indicate that meals were served.

“In the early days, these places served diners from every walk of life, some of them very unsavory. The secret was the food, prepared by a
mère
while the husband poured wine and collected the money. It’s like sitting down for a family meal, but you have to pay for it.

“Each
bouchon
has its own ambiance, flavor and history,” he added. “But there are two things they have in common—delicious traditional dishes and noise.”

After a meal that included duck
paté
, sausages, roast pork and
quenelles
, they strolled along narrow laneways that were lit up for the
fête
. Philippe deliberately dropped behind his cousins and whispered to Kat that she was doing a fine job of distracting Armand.

“We’ve exchanged some nice memories about the family, but I’m not saying a word to Denise about Idelle until later tomorrow. I have always liked her and feel a bit of a heel to be doing this. But whatever will help, we must do. Thanks, Minou. You are making this all so much easier.”

“Tonight we’ll wander a few streets and tomorrow we will visit Notre-Dame, which is why we didn’t get off the bus there earlier,” Armand called back to them, pointing high above the rooftops at the basilica glowing against the night sky. “There’s been a shrine there since the eleventh century. Originally it was the site of the Roman forum; the basilica was built on top of an older structure to give thanks to the Holy Mary for the city being spared during the Franco-Prussian war of 1870, give or take a few years.”

“Armand, you are the best tour guide. I can’t believe how much we are squeezing in. The church looks spectacular,” Kat said. “The view from up there must be incredible.”

“On a clear day, you can see all the way to Mont Blanc.”

“We’ll take the funicular up the steep hill tomorrow. It will deposit us right at the front door,” Denise said.

“Tomorrow is the eighth and that’s the highlight of the fête. We’ll see a spectacular
son et lumières
at La Place des Terreaux.
Je te promets.
” Philippe raised Kat’s hand to his lips.

“But now it’s time for
un peu de jazz
, old-time American style, don’t you agree?” Armand said. He guided them into a dimly lit, dark-paneled bar, where they caught the final set of a swing band before taking a taxi home.

At eight the next morning, they left to explore the storied covered market, Les Halles de Lyon, dedicated to the city’s favored son, chef Paul Bocuse.

“Caffeine first,” Armand said, “and then we will sample our way through the stalls. It’s what we do.” He led the way, waving his arm in the air while Denise rolled her eyes.

Philippe took Kat’s hand as they followed along. “This is definitely his territory,” he said.

Aisle after aisle was lined with stalls bursting with every culinary goodness imaginable.

“What shall we find for you, Minou?
Macaron? Chocolat? Nougat? Oui?
All of them?”

For himself, Philippe had one thing in mind: Fromagerie de La Mère Richard.

Armand’s face glowed. “Ahhh, le Saint-Marcellin!”

Kat looked quizzically at Philippe, who explained, “Madame Renée Richard supplies cheese to all the top chefs in France. Her Saint-Marcellin cheese is world famous and without compare. I have ordered from her, but I’ve never met her in person. I hope she’s here.”

Armand charged ahead to the shop to tell Madame Renée who Philippe was, and as soon as the others arrived, she greeted Philippe and said how pleased she was to meet him. She cut him a generous sample of the cheese, then turned her attention to the long line of people awaiting her attention. Philippe understood completely.

He explained to Kat as he offered her a taste, “It’s a small disk with a runny, strong, nutty center and a moldy rind that is cut off. See how it sticks to the knife? The texture is unique. The secret is in the ripening.”

Her grin said everything as she slowly savored the taste.

Armand waved them along again. “Mission accomplished! On to the next gustatory delight.”

All the food around them soon stirred their appetites, and they stopped into the AOC restaurant—where Armand just happened to know the chef—for an early lunch. They were seated within minutes and served wine from thick-bottomed bottles called
pots
. All of the food served there was provided by the market sellers, Armand explained. “Simplicity with quality,” he said as he made his suggestions. “My only rule is to save room for
la tarte tatin
, which is
merveilleuse
.”

As they were running tight for time, they did not linger over their meals, and soon they were in a taxi on their way to the funicular to take them up to the Notre Dame basilica.

“It’s a must,” Denise said, “even if we have to rush a bit.”

After a quick tour of the landmark church, which Kat thought was definitely not long enough, the two couples parted company. Denise had to go to work and Armand said that he had things to attend to. Kat and Philippe went on a tour of a few of the
traboules
.

Kat learned that the first
traboules
were built in the fourth century by area residents, who needed quick access to the Saône River for their water supply. These passageways were expanded upon later during the centuries of the silk trade. They allowed goods to be protected from the weather as they were moved between the
canuts
—the silk workers in the textile mills on the hill—and the merchants down by the river.