By the time the fourteen-year-old Louis Brechard took over the family vineyard and farm in 1918, there weren't many holdouts for the old ways left. The Beaujolais was modernizing, and not by machinery alone. Agronomic science was improving plant selection, and the big phylloxera scare had brought a greatly increased attention to cloning and grafting on a semi-industrial scale. Effective pest-control chemicals and pota.s.sium-rich fertilizers derived from the slag of the steel industry in eastern France were becoming available, while progressive industrialists like Vermorel were regularly disseminating information sheets on rationalizing traditional agricultural methods. As a result, wine production soared throughout the country even as the total acreage under cultivation dropped. Progress marched forward in the Beaujolais as everywhere else, and yields per acre jumped. To those who had known the old days, this came as a divine surprise. As matters turned out, though, the alchemy of greater yields proved to be very much of a mixed blessing. And how could it be otherwise? For the fatalistic vigneron, every plus always dragged a minus along with it.

"When I was a boy we used to dream of getting thirty hectoliters of wine from one hectare of vine," Papa Brechard told me in 1993-a time when any grower in the Beaujolais could easily produce two or three times that amount, if he hadn't been restrained by the quality-control limits imposed by INAO (the National Inst.i.tute of Certified Names). By the time I met him, the problem throughout French vineyards had become not how to produce enough wine to satisfy the national and international demand, but rather how to keep yields down within reasonable limits, thereby maintaining good prices and constant quality. The ancient worry of not enough wine to go around had flip-flopped into the new economic bete noire of oversupply.

This dilemma of too much wine and not enough buyers was to be a recurrent and painful theme in the ongoing history of French winemaking. Ironically, it was phylloxera that brought that dilemma to center stage for the first time. In those years of dearth, the commercial wise guys had learned how to make wine ex nihilo, or almost, and the parasitic sugar-wine industry continued to run full steam for several years even after the country's vineyards had been reconst.i.tuted with phylloxera-resistant grafted plants, to produce real wine the old way. It was a curious and surprising anomaly-who, least of all among the French, could possibly prefer fake, factory-made "wine" to the real thing? A lot of people, as it turned out. Sugar wine was bulk stuff, aimed exclusively at the low-end of the spectrum-a cheap drunk-but there was a market for it, and a combination of dirt-cheap pricing and weak, unclear consumer-protection legislation made it possible. After all, why bother with all that specialized field labor and fastidious vinifying when mixing up a bit of cheap wine from Algeria or the Languedoc region with a jolt of tartaric acid, sugar and yeasts, all of it thinned out with plenty of water, delivered a nicely profitable drink that could be labeled with any fanciful name?

Sugar wine finally disappeared in 1908 when the government applied a new sugar tax specifically designed to deal with it, but it was not before peasants in the south, whose wine prices had been dramatically undercut by the factory-made stuff, had set off a series of violent demonstrations that turned to b.l.o.o.d.y rioting. In June 1907, six people were killed in clashes with police in Narbonne, and in nearby Perpignan the regional administration building was burned to the ground. With a quasi-insurrectional climate upon the land, the army had to be called in to restore order. It was high time to get rid of the vinous counterfeiters once and for all.

Through it all, the Beaujolais remained dead calm. Theirs were "lesser" wines than those of their rich and n.o.ble Burgundian cousins up in the Cote d'Or, but they were honest, traditionally made and sincere, miles above the sugar-based industrial plonk that was causing all the trouble down south. Since Beaujolais was in a higher category of prestige and price, there was no head-to-head compet.i.tion, and hence no cause for strife. So the vignerons plugged along with their specialty, the peculiar little gamay grape that they knew better than anyone else and which apparently was happier on their granitic slopes than anywhere else, turning out the pleasant wine that over the years had conquered a modest but respectable corner of the national market. None of them could have illusions of acc.u.mulating anything like wealth from their labors; in fact, all the way through to the end of the Second World War, the Beaujolais could only have been cla.s.sified as one of the poorer regions of France.

"It wasn't so easy to be settled into neediness the way we were," Papa recalled in a moment of retrospection, "but I suppose we weren't all that ambitious. As long as we had about enough to eat and people liked our wine, and the neighbor liked it, too, we had a certain kind of contentment with our life. Everything considered, our misery was joyous enough. We might have been living close to the edge, but we were living, after all."

Right up into the 1950s, the old ways and customs continued very much as they had been in Papa Brechard's youth, and the atmosphere of the Beaujolais country remained generally slow-paced and thrifty, closer to penury than to prosperity-getting by. But things were about to be shaken up. In March of 1957, France, Germany, Italy, the Netherlands, Belgium and Luxembourg signed the Treaty of Rome, the founding doc.u.ment of the European Economic Community. The Common Market was just around the corner, and the enlarged European Union was being sketched out on the horizon. It was to grow into the greatest market in the world, the economic powerhouse that over the next half century was to become one of the princ.i.p.al motors of the astonishing wealth-creating machine that now goes by the name of globalization.

The Beaujolais was to profit mightily from this wealth machine when the rest of France, and then Europe and finally the entire world, woke up to the fact that the much-belittled gamay had been given a seriously b.u.m rap by Philip the Bold. That was a secret that the population of Lyon had known all along, of course. Because it was there, in France's second city, that Beaujolais's extraordinary run to worldwide popularity had begun.

IV.

THE THREE RIVERS OF LYON.

Scratch a grumpy French intellectual, and the chances are pretty good that beneath the bark and the bombast you'll find an insecure little gourmet yearning to climb out. Leon Daudet (1867-1942) was an unabashed reactionary, a fire-breathing author, critic, politician and polemicist who hated just about everything in Republican France and democracy in general, and who was always ready to put up his dukes or his pistol (he is said to have fought at least fourteen duels) to lay low anyone who disagreed with his radically royalist and retrograde opinions. But set him into hot intimacy with the winsome breast and well-turned thigh of a Bressane hen, or the volupte volupte of an elegant wine, and the Savonarola turned into a milksop. of an elegant wine, and the Savonarola turned into a milksop.

"There are three reasons why Lyon is the capital of French gastronomy," he wrote in 1927, doubtless with a tear in his eye and a gla.s.s of Brouilly or Moulin-a-Vent standing within easy reach. "The first is that this incomparably gastronomic city is neighbor to the Bresse region, with its unctuous quenelles and the best chickens in the world, raised the wise old way, and ringed with layers of golden fat.

"The second is that in her markets she has the crayfish that can't be found anywhere else in the world and, when they are in season, black morel mushrooms.

"The third is that in addition to the Saone and the Rhone, she is served by a third river, the Beaujolais, which never dries up and is never muddy."

If it was Pasteur who gave drinkers everywhere the ideal rationalization for having another gla.s.s (wine being the most hygienic of drinks), it was the ill-tempered Daudet whose riverine image became the single most famous and frequently repeated phrase used to characterize both France's second largest city and the wine it loved to drink more than any other. As long as anyone could remember, the house wine in the wonderful restaurants for which Lyon was justly famous-often, in the simplest of them, the only wine available-was Beaujolais. For a gent sincerely zealous about his thirst like Daudet, it could, indeed, appear that Lyon was awash in a river of the wines of gamay. So fitting was Daudet's image that the inveterate Beaujolais drinker became a national stereotype as the star attraction of the Lyonnais marionette theater invented by an out-of-work Lyonnais canut canut (silk worker) that continues to thrill French children today in spite of continuing aggression from the cathode ray tube. These hand-puppet shows feature a whole vocabulary of colorful characters, but the two princ.i.p.al ones are unfailingly Guignol in the left hand and Gnafron in the right. Guignol is the Lyonnais Everyman, the typical (silk worker) that continues to thrill French children today in spite of continuing aggression from the cathode ray tube. These hand-puppet shows feature a whole vocabulary of colorful characters, but the two princ.i.p.al ones are unfailingly Guignol in the left hand and Gnafron in the right. Guignol is the Lyonnais Everyman, the typical gone gone (guy in the street): quick, skeptical, bright and subversive. But it is Gnafron who gets most of the laughs, because he is both recognizable and irresistible-the barfly with a W. C. Fields nose as red as Abbe Ponosse's, an amiable shoemaker who neglects his work in favor of homespun philosophizing and wicked political commentary over a (guy in the street): quick, skeptical, bright and subversive. But it is Gnafron who gets most of the laughs, because he is both recognizable and irresistible-the barfly with a W. C. Fields nose as red as Abbe Ponosse's, an amiable shoemaker who neglects his work in favor of homespun philosophizing and wicked political commentary over a canon canon of Beaujolais, the standard bar winegla.s.s measuring an eighth of a pint. of Beaujolais, the standard bar winegla.s.s measuring an eighth of a pint.

Like Gnafron, Lyon's food-loving, joke-loving population took to Beaujolais and adopted it as their very own wine, because it was good, plentiful and inexpensive. Beaujolais became as much a part of the city's ident.i.ty as the rich local argot and the peculiar drawl of the Lyon accent, as different from Paris chatter as Boston's is from New York's. The real-life Gnafrons who hung around bars and cafes with a finely tuned sense of what counted in life and what did not knew that November 11, Saint Martin's day, was a pivotal moment in the year's cycle of Beaujolais winemaking. Peasant empiricism, perhaps reinforced by a lingering belief in succor by divine intervention, had determined that each year's new vintage, or at least a part of it, could be ready for drinking only two months or so after harvest. By common accord, the date they chose for this early release was heavily symbolic, the day of France's patron saint. The good, charitable Martin, he who had given his cloak to a freezing pauper, could always be counted upon to bring success and comfort. In Lyon of the eighteenth century, when preserving wine was still a hit-or-miss matter of luck, the barrels in the drinking places were often oxidizing and turning sour by the end of summer, so the arrival of the new year's fresh wine was an eagerly awaited event. Ritually, then, Lyonnais bar and bistro owners trekked north to Villefranche, Belleville and Beaujeu as of November 11 and fanned out through the countryside to taste, select, haggle and finally buy their barrels of new wine, or primeur primeur, as they named it. Still fermenting its residual sugar, needles of CO2 burping, Champagne-style, through a straw stuck in the bung, the barrels were loaded aboard horse-drawn barges for the easy walk down to Lyon, coasting on a Saone so tranquil, as Julius Caesar himself had remarked in his burping, Champagne-style, through a straw stuck in the bung, the barrels were loaded aboard horse-drawn barges for the easy walk down to Lyon, coasting on a Saone so tranquil, as Julius Caesar himself had remarked in his De Bellum Gallic.u.m De Bellum Gallic.u.m nearly two millennia earlier, that you could hardly tell in which direction it was moving. nearly two millennia earlier, that you could hardly tell in which direction it was moving.

The closer to November 11 the primeur primeur arrived in town, the better it was for the dedicated drinkers of Lyon, because there was this special quality about Beaujolais: it was good when it was young, even very young. Fully finished Beaujolais wines-especially the more complex arrived in town, the better it was for the dedicated drinkers of Lyon, because there was this special quality about Beaujolais: it was good when it was young, even very young. Fully finished Beaujolais wines-especially the more complex crus crus-required six months or more of ageing, and by tradition were not released until they had "done their Easter," but Lyonnais throats grew dry in November, and the rite of having a taste of the year's wine in its juvenile state, still tingling on the tongue with CO2, gradually became inst.i.tutionalized as one of the city's characteristic annual events.

For the best part of three centuries, while communication was slow and people tended to live out their lives in or near the areas of their birth, most outsiders were unaware of the Lyonnais's November wine-drinkingeccentricity. Those who happened to come into contact with it probably gave the ritual no more thought than the indulgent smile reserved for local folklore. In modern times, though-that is, after World War II-everything accelerated, and the custom of drinking primeur primeur in mid-November began spreading outward from Lyon to the rest of France and thence to the world at large. That proved to be both a blessing and a d.a.m.nation for the peasant vignerons of the Beaujolais, because after enjoying the giddy pleasures of worldwide stardom they would soon be confronted with its hangover, in the form of a fundamental rule of the business: wine drinkers can be very fickle. in mid-November began spreading outward from Lyon to the rest of France and thence to the world at large. That proved to be both a blessing and a d.a.m.nation for the peasant vignerons of the Beaujolais, because after enjoying the giddy pleasures of worldwide stardom they would soon be confronted with its hangover, in the form of a fundamental rule of the business: wine drinkers can be very fickle.

Niagaras of ink would be spilled, pro and con, on the subject of primeur primeur in future years, but the essence of all the brouhaha was disconcertingly simple and innocent. It just so happened that the gamay variety of in future years, but the essence of all the brouhaha was disconcertingly simple and innocent. It just so happened that the gamay variety of Vitis vinifera Vitis vinifera was happy on the Beaujolais hills, and its marriage with that particular was happy on the Beaujolais hills, and its marriage with that particular terroir terroir was such that its juice could be vinified extremely young into a pleasant, unpretentious little wine that was enjoyable to drink. This happy state of affairs, it appeared, was unique to the Beaujolais gamay. It didn't work with the pinot of the great Burgundies, and even less with the multiple was such that its juice could be vinified extremely young into a pleasant, unpretentious little wine that was enjoyable to drink. This happy state of affairs, it appeared, was unique to the Beaujolais gamay. It didn't work with the pinot of the great Burgundies, and even less with the multiple cepages cepages of the n.o.ble Bordeaux. (The tannic attack of a new Bordeaux was "like having a porcupine in your mouth," remarked Professor Garrier with a shudder, recalling a tasting experience he had lived in a moment of departure from his academic duties.) When, all the way back in the fifteenth century, the Burgundian Philip the Good (1396-1467, grandson of Philip the Bold) presciently warned that the wine of the gamay grape was dangerous because "it flatters foreigners" in its young state, he apparently had a.s.sumed that no genuine Frenchman could be taken in by a wine made by and fit for serfs. But the Lyonnais people, the most gastronomically inclined of all French citizens, knew better: the serfs were no dummies. So they stuck to their little ad hoc November of the n.o.ble Bordeaux. (The tannic attack of a new Bordeaux was "like having a porcupine in your mouth," remarked Professor Garrier with a shudder, recalling a tasting experience he had lived in a moment of departure from his academic duties.) When, all the way back in the fifteenth century, the Burgundian Philip the Good (1396-1467, grandson of Philip the Bold) presciently warned that the wine of the gamay grape was dangerous because "it flatters foreigners" in its young state, he apparently had a.s.sumed that no genuine Frenchman could be taken in by a wine made by and fit for serfs. But the Lyonnais people, the most gastronomically inclined of all French citizens, knew better: the serfs were no dummies. So they stuck to their little ad hoc November primeur primeur pleasure, grateful for the cheer it lent to the cold, dreary days leading up to Christmas. That little eccentricity was destined to have an astonishing surge in later years. pleasure, grateful for the cheer it lent to the cold, dreary days leading up to Christmas. That little eccentricity was destined to have an astonishing surge in later years.

The French Revolution gave a serious boost to the special relationshipbetween Lyon and the wines of the Beaujolais. The newly installed republican government desperately needed money, and one of first steps it took to harvest ready cash was to sell off communal grounds, Church holdings, and the estates of landed gentry who had fled abroad to save their necks from the guillotine's hungry bite. There was plenty to sell: depending on the region, 20 to 30 percent of France's land had been owned by clergy and n.o.bility. In princ.i.p.al, this big sell-off ought to have immediately endowed the French countryside with hundreds of thousands of new, individually owned farms of peasants released from serfdom. In reality, though, what happened was what always happens in such situations: most of the land fell into the hands of wealthy speculators. Rather more rare were the prosperous peasants who had laid aside enough money to pay for newly released acreage. Consequently, the greatest part of the confiscated lands fell into the hands of Lyonnais bourgeois-but they had neither the time, the strength nor the inclination to work it themselves, and any casual hands whom they might think of hiring were unlikely to possess winemaking expertise. They were, then, obliged to deal with the peasant winemakers who had been there all along. The result was a large expansion of the fifty-fifty "half-fruit" vigneronnage vigneronnage system, as Beaujolais peasants began making wine for absentee landowners sitting in Lyon townhouses rather than for locally resident n.o.bility-but now half of the production became theirs. Squirreling away their petty savings year by year, often in the form of gold coins hidden in the proverbial straw mattresses, more and more of them managed to fulfill the peasants' eternal dream of actually getting full t.i.tle to their very own land. Patiently, hectare by hectare, year by year, they bought up vine s.p.a.ce as the bourgeois shaved off sections of their big holdings, creating the patchwork of small family exploitations, most of them no more than five or six hectares, that still characterizes the Beaujolais today. Often this patchwork was split into odd shards-perhaps a bit of land in Villie-Morgon, a bit in Lancie or a bit in Chiroubles, as the system, as Beaujolais peasants began making wine for absentee landowners sitting in Lyon townhouses rather than for locally resident n.o.bility-but now half of the production became theirs. Squirreling away their petty savings year by year, often in the form of gold coins hidden in the proverbial straw mattresses, more and more of them managed to fulfill the peasants' eternal dream of actually getting full t.i.tle to their very own land. Patiently, hectare by hectare, year by year, they bought up vine s.p.a.ce as the bourgeois shaved off sections of their big holdings, creating the patchwork of small family exploitations, most of them no more than five or six hectares, that still characterizes the Beaujolais today. Often this patchwork was split into odd shards-perhaps a bit of land in Villie-Morgon, a bit in Lancie or a bit in Chiroubles, as the parcelles parcelles became available. Beaujolais vineyards are not always handily and contiguously disposed around vignerons' houses, and it is common for winegrowers to work several different fields in different became available. Beaujolais vineyards are not always handily and contiguously disposed around vignerons' houses, and it is common for winegrowers to work several different fields in different terroirs, terroirs, some owned, some rented. some owned, some rented.

By the twentieth century, the Lyonnais absentee landowners had disposed of most of their properties in the Beaujolais, keeping only the residences secondaires residences secondaires they had built for summertime rustication with their families. The symbiosis between the city and the wine country had taken a new turn. From landowner to sharecropper, the social model changed to independent artisan interacting with the occasional visitor from the big city. they had built for summertime rustication with their families. The symbiosis between the city and the wine country had taken a new turn. From landowner to sharecropper, the social model changed to independent artisan interacting with the occasional visitor from the big city.

It was a curious relationship. The Lyonnais and the typical Beaujolais vigneron were fundamentally quite similar in character, and in fact many of the Lyonnais were descended from the pure Beaujolais stock of ancestors who had trekked down to the big city to make their fortunes. Both sides of the divide were marked by a wicked sense of humor and a penchant for pranks and shenanigans-a penchant unerringly encouraged by a procession of canons canons of Beaujolais-but the traditional rural-urban standoff was inevitably present nonetheless. The city guy wondered whether the crafty peasant was trying to pull the wool over his eyes one way or another, and the country guy was always a bit defensive lest the city guy display any sense of superiority, with his money and his urbane ways. The Lyonnais loved to visit the Beaujolais on weekends, all the more so if he owned a house there; the denizen of the Beaujolais enjoyed nothing more than inviting him into his of Beaujolais-but the traditional rural-urban standoff was inevitably present nonetheless. The city guy wondered whether the crafty peasant was trying to pull the wool over his eyes one way or another, and the country guy was always a bit defensive lest the city guy display any sense of superiority, with his money and his urbane ways. The Lyonnais loved to visit the Beaujolais on weekends, all the more so if he owned a house there; the denizen of the Beaujolais enjoyed nothing more than inviting him into his caveau caveau and getting him good and drunk. and getting him good and drunk.

But there was one aspect of life about which the two were in total agreement, even harmony: the planning, preparation and consumption of food. If Lyon had become the gastronomic center of France (and thereby the world, of course; no one ever had any doubt about that), it was at least partly due to its proximity to the wine country that it cherished. Because there was this that had to be said for the Beaujolais peasantry: they were poor, most of them, but when the time came to celebrate special occasions, they knew how to pull out all the stops and do it with style.

Madame Rolland, a leading pa.s.sionaria pa.s.sionaria of the French Revolution (who in 1793 paid with her head for being in the wrong political wing at the wrong time), remarked in one of her letters that in the Beaujolais "the least bourgeois house a bit above the common offers meals more delicious than the richest houses of Amiens and a great number of very wealthy ones in Paris. Ugly little house, delicate table." of the French Revolution (who in 1793 paid with her head for being in the wrong political wing at the wrong time), remarked in one of her letters that in the Beaujolais "the least bourgeois house a bit above the common offers meals more delicious than the richest houses of Amiens and a great number of very wealthy ones in Paris. Ugly little house, delicate table."

Pity she hadn't gone all the way down the social order with her slumming and mingled with the peasantry, because there she would have learned about really really serious eating, of the kind that Papa Brechard remembered from his youth. It wasn't exactly delicate. "The meals lasted twelve hours," he recalled, "if not twenty-four hours. Twenty-four hours was a little long, but twelve was the minimum." serious eating, of the kind that Papa Brechard remembered from his youth. It wasn't exactly delicate. "The meals lasted twelve hours," he recalled, "if not twenty-four hours. Twenty-four hours was a little long, but twelve was the minimum."

The marathon chowdown he was describing was not the most frequent, but it was the most important one-the village wedding. Naturally this had to be celebrated with the utmost vigor, but weddings were occasional events that happened at unpredictable times. More reliably fixed on the calendar were children's First Communions, Christmas, Easter and the fete des vendanges, fete des vendanges, the blowout meal cooked up by vignerons' wives for the grape pickers after the final baskets of the harvest had been brought in. During the long days of grape picking, the harvesters were fed well enough with good, traditional country fare-cabbage soup with fatback, potato and bean salads, omelets, noodles, pumpkin flan and the like-but when all the grapes were in, the poor peasants of the Beaujolais threw aside the frugality of their everyday lives and briefly entered the Lucullan world of Roman emperors. Professor Garrier posits that the magnificence of the harvest celebration had a triple significance: first, in an unwitting hangover from the magical invocations of their pagan ancestors of pre-Christian days, as a kind of propitiatory gesture to ensure that future harvests would be as plenteous as the meal being offered; and then two others which could not possibly be more practical and down to earth-to outshine the neighbors, and to make such an impression on the harvesters that they would be certain to return for more of the same the following year. the blowout meal cooked up by vignerons' wives for the grape pickers after the final baskets of the harvest had been brought in. During the long days of grape picking, the harvesters were fed well enough with good, traditional country fare-cabbage soup with fatback, potato and bean salads, omelets, noodles, pumpkin flan and the like-but when all the grapes were in, the poor peasants of the Beaujolais threw aside the frugality of their everyday lives and briefly entered the Lucullan world of Roman emperors. Professor Garrier posits that the magnificence of the harvest celebration had a triple significance: first, in an unwitting hangover from the magical invocations of their pagan ancestors of pre-Christian days, as a kind of propitiatory gesture to ensure that future harvests would be as plenteous as the meal being offered; and then two others which could not possibly be more practical and down to earth-to outshine the neighbors, and to make such an impression on the harvesters that they would be certain to return for more of the same the following year.

The typical post-harvest feast always centered around that rarest and most luxurious of comestibles: meat. Unlike the usual peasant paucity, here an orgy of meat was glutted to overdose proportions, prepared in the three cla.s.sical manners. In the first course it was boiled: either chicken or beef in the form of a pot-au-feu, ritually preceded by a bowl of its own broth. Next was a meat dish slow-cooked in sauce (boeuf bourguignon was a perennial favorite) was a perennial favorite), and finally a big roast, usually veal. With each dish, the housewife presented her personal vegetable and starch creations, and a selection of tarts and pastries wound the meal up in proper splendor. Fired to enthusiasm by the profusion of wine, the guests sang and danced well into the night, for as long as their energy lasted. Anything less than a celebration of these proportions would have been considered vaguely shameful, a loss of face in the village. and finally a big roast, usually veal. With each dish, the housewife presented her personal vegetable and starch creations, and a selection of tarts and pastries wound the meal up in proper splendor. Fired to enthusiasm by the profusion of wine, the guests sang and danced well into the night, for as long as their energy lasted. Anything less than a celebration of these proportions would have been considered vaguely shameful, a loss of face in the village.

If the fete des vendanges fete des vendanges was a series of individual events celebrated separately at each vineyard, the weddings concerned the entire village. "There were hundreds of guests," Papa Brechard recalled. "It was a mobilization! We borrowed crockery and dishes in every house in the village. Everyone helped out. It was the local festival." was a series of individual events celebrated separately at each vineyard, the weddings concerned the entire village. "There were hundreds of guests," Papa Brechard recalled. "It was a mobilization! We borrowed crockery and dishes in every house in the village. Everyone helped out. It was the local festival."

As it still frequently is in all of France today, the typical Beaujolais wedding was a double affair, and by custom it took place in the morning, in order to leave the afternoon free for feasting. The first stop was the town hall for the official republican ceremony, p.r.o.nounced by Monsieur le Maire Monsieur le Maire who, resplendent in his tricolor sash, married the young couple before the state. The marriage before G.o.d came next, in the church, with who, resplendent in his tricolor sash, married the young couple before the state. The marriage before G.o.d came next, in the church, with Monsieur le Cure Monsieur le Cure saying an impressively lengthy ma.s.s, blessing the union and enjoining the couple to raise their children as good Catholics. Then the feast began at the house of the bride's parents. saying an impressively lengthy ma.s.s, blessing the union and enjoining the couple to raise their children as good Catholics. Then the feast began at the house of the bride's parents.

"We sat down at 2:30 or 3:00," Papa Brechard wrote. "The wedding feast started rather late, in general, but it lasted at least until noon the next day. That was a minimum. These meals were truly Pantagruelian: abundant, varied, solid, with all the meats and all the fowl. To tell the truth, it was completely exaggerated. . . . We ate enormous amounts. Chickens, ducks, venison, huge chunks of meat of every origin, roasts that would be enough to scare people today. No one made a menu with less than six main courses without counting the desserts, also extremely abundant-six main courses, to which they added the indispensable vegetables. But the essential basis of it was fowl, rabbits and venison. Hares were abundant in the country then, and partridges, too. We ate a lot of them. Then there were also legs of lamb, and roast beef in industrial quant.i.ties. It was enough to knock you out."

Naturally the father of the bride served his best wine to the hundreds of guests, setting up a barrel with a wooden spigot at the bottom, free to anyone who cared to draw off a gla.s.s or a pitcher. When the barrel was emptied, out came another one from the cellar, and the dancing, singing and eating continued through the night, to the more or less expert notes of one or more of the village's accordionists. When energy flagged, there was always at hand a bottle of the winemaker's rough white lightning, marc marc, made from the re-pressed and distilled grape mash, to crank it back up again.

As with these stupefying wedding feasts, the workers sitting down to the once-yearly fete des vendanges fete des vendanges were allowed to drink the vigneron's wine-his real wine this time, not the thin were allowed to drink the vigneron's wine-his real wine this time, not the thin piquette piquette with which they had quenched their thirst while out working in the vines. Such generosity represented a real expense, but to do otherwise would have been bad for business, because guaranteeing the return of happy harvesters was of first importance: no grape pickers, no wine. An army of harvesters some thirty thousand to forty thousand strong invades the Beaujolais every year in late August or early September, and the winegrowers would be lost without them. Unlike most other wine regions of France, winegrowers of Beaujolais-Villages and the ten with which they had quenched their thirst while out working in the vines. Such generosity represented a real expense, but to do otherwise would have been bad for business, because guaranteeing the return of happy harvesters was of first importance: no grape pickers, no wine. An army of harvesters some thirty thousand to forty thousand strong invades the Beaujolais every year in late August or early September, and the winegrowers would be lost without them. Unlike most other wine regions of France, winegrowers of Beaujolais-Villages and the ten crus crus share with their rich professional cousins up in Champagne the distinction of being share with their rich professional cousins up in Champagne the distinction of being required required to pick their grapes by hand. In both cases, this requirement is related to vinification: the grapes must enter the vinifying vats undamaged. Harvesting machines are much cheaper to use than hand labor, but even the best of them cause some damage to the grapes. It was only in 2004 that mechanization was permitted in vineyards of the lesser, "generic" Beaujolais. to pick their grapes by hand. In both cases, this requirement is related to vinification: the grapes must enter the vinifying vats undamaged. Harvesting machines are much cheaper to use than hand labor, but even the best of them cause some damage to the grapes. It was only in 2004 that mechanization was permitted in vineyards of the lesser, "generic" Beaujolais.

Whatever the overindulgence at the wedding or harvesting blow-outs, though, and however aching the heads, the Beaujolais vigneron and his vigneronne vigneronne would be back to the flinty realities of work at dawn the next day, he in the fields or the vinifying shed, and she with the children, the animals and the house. The feasting had briefly allowed them to thumb their noses at the relative penury of their existence, but the single, unyielding imperative that gripped them was to ensure the self-sufficiency of the family and the farm, the basic unit for survival. In those days, the vines were still a mere adjunct. In a good year, they might provide enough extra money to buy new equipment, pay off back debts or perhaps fulfill the ancient peasant's longing for more land. In a bad year-or worse, in a succession of bad years, when the wine was poor and the prices low-the vigneron and his wife had to rely on the farm alone to get through to the next harvest. The family survived mostly on home-grown vegetables, milk from their cow, and whatever cheeses the lady of the house was clever enough to make. would be back to the flinty realities of work at dawn the next day, he in the fields or the vinifying shed, and she with the children, the animals and the house. The feasting had briefly allowed them to thumb their noses at the relative penury of their existence, but the single, unyielding imperative that gripped them was to ensure the self-sufficiency of the family and the farm, the basic unit for survival. In those days, the vines were still a mere adjunct. In a good year, they might provide enough extra money to buy new equipment, pay off back debts or perhaps fulfill the ancient peasant's longing for more land. In a bad year-or worse, in a succession of bad years, when the wine was poor and the prices low-the vigneron and his wife had to rely on the farm alone to get through to the next harvest. The family survived mostly on home-grown vegetables, milk from their cow, and whatever cheeses the lady of the house was clever enough to make.

"We could never be certain of getting through tomorrow," remarked Papa Brechard matter-of-factly. Every Beaujolais peasant could recall miserable seasons when hail, drought or attacks of insects and fungus came close to wiping out an entire year's crop of grapes. "Very often, the baker was the banker," Brechard explained, "because we weren't always able to pay him for his bread."

The credit list at the baker's is a thematic memory that always returns in conversation with elderly retired vignerons who had known the period between the two great wars when subsidies were nonexistent, social protection mostly a matter of charity, and when an informal cartel of wholesale wine merchants, the most powerful of them based in Beaune and Dijon, ruled the roost. Those were the hard times, the days when the little window in the dealers' offices in Villefranche symbolized the quasi-feudal commercial subjection that bound the winemaker to the big dealers. Mondays-it was always a Monday-the vigneron brought his sample bottles to that little window, where a clerk took down his name, address and noted how much of the stuff he had for sale. Come back in a week, he said, and that was that.

"A week later we'd go back to see whether or not they had accepted the wine, and if they did, at what price," one of these veterans of innumerable Beaujolais campaigns told me. "Then it was take it or leave it-period."

"We were all alone against the dealers in those days," Papa Brechard explained. "We weren't organized, and we didn't have any unions or anything like that. We had a lot to learn."

In those days a real corporatist antipathy separated vignerons and wine wholesalers, because the latter were the only significant commercial outlet for the former, who were consequently in a permanent position of weakness. On-site direct sales at the vineyard or farm were virtually unknown, because few peasants owned anything other than the most rudimentary of bottling equipment, and the automobile civilization that would eventually see thousands of tourists and weekend drivers from Lyon and elsewhere cruising deep into Beaujolais territory did not even begin developing until the mid- to late fifties. The little window in Villefranche-or the Cafe des Promeneurs, or Chez Coco, the two bars where wholesalers' reps commonly received pet.i.tioners in preference to their stuffy offices-were, then, the frowzy little mini-Meccas to which the typical vigneron was obliged to entrust his hopes for a year's revenues.

"It was impersonal and it was humiliating," said Gerard Canard, the pa.s.sionate son of the Beaujolais who for thirty-five years directed the Beaujolais Wine Promotion Committee. "There was no harmony, and certainly no fellowship between the two trades, none whatsoever. It was two completely separate worlds. The dealers didn't even have to invest in the personnel to go around and seek out the best wines-with their system, the vignerons came to them. The dealers' reps just sat around in the cafes and drank canons canons all day long. They exploited the peasants, of course. Very often, the guys didn't have enough money to pay their harvesters, so they would borrow from the dealers, with their wine as collateral. Naturally, this put them at a big disadvantage when it came to negotiating the price of that wine." all day long. They exploited the peasants, of course. Very often, the guys didn't have enough money to pay their harvesters, so they would borrow from the dealers, with their wine as collateral. Naturally, this put them at a big disadvantage when it came to negotiating the price of that wine."

The dirtiest trick of all-again, a canker that repeatedly arises in conversation with old-timers-was the village credit rating scenario: the most ruthless dealers would occasionally send investigators around to interview bakers and butchers in order to discover which vignerons owed the biggest tabs. The deeper the debt, the worse would be their bargaining position for the price of the year's wine. It was pretty unscrupulous stuff, and word of the practice quickly flew around the village, of course. The animosity between grower and buyer grew even more solidly entrenched.

Down in Lyon, the canut canut silk weavers had been similarly exploited by both the big silk dealers known as silk weavers had been similarly exploited by both the big silk dealers known as les soyeux les soyeux and by the owners of the hundreds of small, family-owned workshops that dotted the city. Like the rural artisans of the Beaujolais, these urban proletarians-for the most part peasants who had removed to the city in search of a better life-worked twelve- to sixteen-hour days at their looms in stuffy, overcrowded firetrap ateliers and earned a pittance that barely lifted them above the minimum for their families' survival. Theirs was a d.i.c.kensian existence of economic wretchedness, as pinched as the hard times that Papa Brechard remembered from his childhood up in the wine country. But history avenged the workers of the loom, because today, when the old silk-weaving industry has disappeared, it is the skeptical, rebellious, wise-guy and by the owners of the hundreds of small, family-owned workshops that dotted the city. Like the rural artisans of the Beaujolais, these urban proletarians-for the most part peasants who had removed to the city in search of a better life-worked twelve- to sixteen-hour days at their looms in stuffy, overcrowded firetrap ateliers and earned a pittance that barely lifted them above the minimum for their families' survival. Theirs was a d.i.c.kensian existence of economic wretchedness, as pinched as the hard times that Papa Brechard remembered from his childhood up in the wine country. But history avenged the workers of the loom, because today, when the old silk-weaving industry has disappeared, it is the skeptical, rebellious, wise-guy canut canut who is acknowledged and proudly held up as the true representative of the soul of the place, the one who exemplifies Lyon's character the way the cool, unflappable who is acknowledged and proudly held up as the true representative of the soul of the place, the one who exemplifies Lyon's character the way the cool, unflappable t.i.ti parisien t.i.ti parisien does for the capital city up north. does for the capital city up north.

Like the Beaujolais vigneron, his cousin in austerity, the canut canut fed himself and his family on day-to-day rations of extreme modesty, with the traditional Sunday chicken in a ca.s.serole or boiled beef pot-au-feu being the only truly respectable meat dish of the week (heavy on the leeks, carrots, turnips and potatoes, more miserly on the beef). Daily fare centered mostly around bread, cheese and the evening soup, as it did with the rural peasantry. To this was added a whole vocabulary of poor man's nourishment of a style as surprising, rib-sticking and deliciousas the American soul food that owed its invention to the same kind of poverty. Named with the wry, self-deprecating humor that is native to the city, all of these specialties are inextricably bound up with the culinary ident.i.ty of Lyon today. Mention any item on this list to a food-conscious citizen anywhere in France, and the spark of recognition will be immediate-it can only mean Lyon. A short compendium, far from inclusive, would have to include: fed himself and his family on day-to-day rations of extreme modesty, with the traditional Sunday chicken in a ca.s.serole or boiled beef pot-au-feu being the only truly respectable meat dish of the week (heavy on the leeks, carrots, turnips and potatoes, more miserly on the beef). Daily fare centered mostly around bread, cheese and the evening soup, as it did with the rural peasantry. To this was added a whole vocabulary of poor man's nourishment of a style as surprising, rib-sticking and deliciousas the American soul food that owed its invention to the same kind of poverty. Named with the wry, self-deprecating humor that is native to the city, all of these specialties are inextricably bound up with the culinary ident.i.ty of Lyon today. Mention any item on this list to a food-conscious citizen anywhere in France, and the spark of recognition will be immediate-it can only mean Lyon. A short compendium, far from inclusive, would have to include: * * Gratons Gratons, fatty pieces of pork, discards from the n.o.ble cuts, that have been melted down in a large pan, then grilled into browned, irresistible, bite-sized cholesterol bombs. (The run-off fat from the pan is sold as lard.) * * Matefaim Matefaim (literally, hunger-tamer), a swaggering, rib-sticking omelet reinforced with flour and sometimes rum, with further additions (literally, hunger-tamer), a swaggering, rib-sticking omelet reinforced with flour and sometimes rum, with further additions ad libitum. ad libitum. * * Paquets de couenne Paquets de couenne, ham rinds tied into little bundles, poached and then sauteed with lard and parsley. Also known (derisively) as pigeons ficeles pigeons ficeles (bound pigeons). (bound pigeons). * * Cra.s.se de beurre Cra.s.se de beurre (b.u.t.ter crud), the whitish residue that comes to the surface or sticks to the side of the pan when b.u.t.ter is melted-highly recommended for spreading on slices of bread. (b.u.t.ter crud), the whitish residue that comes to the surface or sticks to the side of the pan when b.u.t.ter is melted-highly recommended for spreading on slices of bread. * * Tablier de sapeur Tablier de sapeur (sapper's ap.r.o.n). While the bourgeois were treating themselves to gorgeously sauced (sapper's ap.r.o.n). While the bourgeois were treating themselves to gorgeously sauced quenelles de brochet quenelles de brochet (fluffy "omelets" of chopped and mashed pike flesh), delicate, b.u.t.tery frogs' legs, or truffled chicken, Lyon's working cla.s.s was eating sheep's feet and t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es, donkey snout (fluffy "omelets" of chopped and mashed pike flesh), delicate, b.u.t.tery frogs' legs, or truffled chicken, Lyon's working cla.s.s was eating sheep's feet and t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es, donkey snout en gelee, en gelee, and this most typical of proletarian delicacies: and this most typical of proletarian delicacies: tablier de sapeur, tablier de sapeur, a slab of ruminant's stomach or honeycomb tripe large enough to imagine a resemblance to the leather ap.r.o.n traditionally worn by sappers or military engineers. Breaded and grilled, it was (and still is) served with a a slab of ruminant's stomach or honeycomb tripe large enough to imagine a resemblance to the leather ap.r.o.n traditionally worn by sappers or military engineers. Breaded and grilled, it was (and still is) served with a sauce gribiche sauce gribiche, a kind of herbal vinaigrette thickened with chopped egg yolk. * * Andouillettes. Andouillettes. This somewhat intimidating tripe sausage can often be a rough experience elsewhere, but Lyon's version, more delicate, is made with calves' mesentery, the fatty lining of the abdominal cavity, rather than the intestine itself. (This nuance of the awesome Yuck Factor is not immediately apparent to all visitors to the city.) This somewhat intimidating tripe sausage can often be a rough experience elsewhere, but Lyon's version, more delicate, is made with calves' mesentery, the fatty lining of the abdominal cavity, rather than the intestine itself. (This nuance of the awesome Yuck Factor is not immediately apparent to all visitors to the city.) * * Cervelle de canut Cervelle de canut (silk-weaver's brain). This well-named specialty is whipped (silk-weaver's brain). This well-named specialty is whipped fromage blanc fromage blanc (uncurdled cottage cheese) that has been lent an unexpected Sunday punch by the addition of oil, vinegar, chopped shallots, garlic and a c.o.c.ktail of herbs. (uncurdled cottage cheese) that has been lent an unexpected Sunday punch by the addition of oil, vinegar, chopped shallots, garlic and a c.o.c.ktail of herbs. * * Fromage fort, Fromage fort, a redoubtable, supercharged paste made by mixing odd sc.r.a.ps of dry cheese with white wine. Poor a redoubtable, supercharged paste made by mixing odd sc.r.a.ps of dry cheese with white wine. Poor canut canut families updated it almost daily with whatever other bits of cheese sc.r.a.ps were left over, vigorously mixed into the crock where it was stored. families updated it almost daily with whatever other bits of cheese sc.r.a.ps were left over, vigorously mixed into the crock where it was stored. * * Gratinee de pain Gratinee de pain consists of nothing more elegant than bread slices and cheese, layered and wetted with bouillon, then oven-cooked until a nicely appealing golden crust appears. consists of nothing more elegant than bread slices and cheese, layered and wetted with bouillon, then oven-cooked until a nicely appealing golden crust appears. * * Soupe de farine jaune Soupe de farine jaune, probably the most arresting example of this food of the urban poor. "Yellow flour soup" is the city dweller's equivalent of the Beaujolais housewife's pinchpenny nettle soup: cornmeal mush that has been elevated to a modest gastronomic level by the addition of milk and strips of pork rind.

By common a.s.sent, nothing went better with Lyon's traditional cooking than the friendly, fruity, refreshingly tangy wine of the gamay from up north. Like the food itself, it was plentiful, free of artifice and easy on the pocketbook. Through the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, Beaujolais automatically accompanied Lyon's rise to its enviable situation as the gastronomic capital of France, the city uniquely situated to take advantage of the ideal natural larder that lies at all points around it: poultry of unparalleled quality from the Bresse, beef from the Charolais, freshwater fish from the Rhone and the Saone, magnificent crayfish and cheeses from the Jura, fruits and vegetables from the Rhone Valley and, a bit further to the south, the profusion of seafood, oils, herbs and spices of the Mediterranean regions.

By geography alone-it lies at the confluence of two great rivers, next door to Switzerland, Italy and the Mediterranean but at a safe distance from the intrusions of plunderers and rapparees from England, until recently the most aggressively, never-endingly expansionist of nations-Lyon was a much more logical choice than Paris to be chosen as France's capital city, as it had been for the Gauls in Caesar's days. For a while it seemed that history might just turn out that way, because the great monarch Francois I had taken a liking to the place, so much so that he was considering settling there for good. Alas, in 1536 in Lyon his son the dauphin Francois shocked his system by draining a gla.s.s of chilled water after a particularly heated game of jeu de paume jeu de paume (court tennis) and died shortly thereafter. That water may not have been entirely innocent-suggestions of poisoning have floated around the story ever since-but King Francois removed his crown and his court to Paris, and Lyon never had a second chance. (court tennis) and died shortly thereafter. That water may not have been entirely innocent-suggestions of poisoning have floated around the story ever since-but King Francois removed his crown and his court to Paris, and Lyon never had a second chance.

No matter. The Lyonnais have liberally consoled themselves ever since with food and drink and humor, and no one feels worse off for the bargain. The city's aura as the world's capital of great eating was already growing in Francois' reign, when the Dutch humanist scholar Erasmus remarked that he didn't understand "how the innkeepers of Lyon manage to serve such sumptuous food at such modest prices." Even those who for one reason or another did not hold the place in affection were forced to admit that it harbored special talents where food was concerned. "I know of only one thing that they do very well in Lyon" wrote Stendhal, author of Le Rouge et le Noir. Le Rouge et le Noir. "You eat admirably well there and, in my opinion, better than in Paris." "You eat admirably well there and, in my opinion, better than in Paris."

The Lyonnais naturally agree, and most of the French along with them, even if judgments of this sort tend to make Parisians cross. But once the inexhaustible quarrels about the relative merits of the greatest temples of haute gastronomie haute gastronomie have been put aside, even the most chauvinistic of Parisians will concede that nothing in the capital can rival Lyon's proudest inst.i.tution, the one that virtually defines the city: the low-down, low-price have been put aside, even the most chauvinistic of Parisians will concede that nothing in the capital can rival Lyon's proudest inst.i.tution, the one that virtually defines the city: the low-down, low-price bouchon, bouchon, the Lyonnais version of the bistro. Working-cla.s.s gathering and drinking places par excellence, these little family affairs evolved over the centuries from rough-hewn bars to a special category of humble, one-room "restaurant." I use the slightly demeaning quotation marks because most of these places were so simple that there was rarely s.p.a.ce for more than two or three tables, and the cooking equipment usually consisted of nothing better than a sink and a little coal stove, which in more modern days became gas or electric. It was in these improvised cubbyhole kitchens that proprietors' wives turned out ragouts, stews, soups and runny omelets of sorrel, cheese and tripe, while their husbands sliced bread and sausages at the bar and poured the Lyonnais version of the bistro. Working-cla.s.s gathering and drinking places par excellence, these little family affairs evolved over the centuries from rough-hewn bars to a special category of humble, one-room "restaurant." I use the slightly demeaning quotation marks because most of these places were so simple that there was rarely s.p.a.ce for more than two or three tables, and the cooking equipment usually consisted of nothing better than a sink and a little coal stove, which in more modern days became gas or electric. It was in these improvised cubbyhole kitchens that proprietors' wives turned out ragouts, stews, soups and runny omelets of sorrel, cheese and tripe, while their husbands sliced bread and sausages at the bar and poured pots pots of Beaujolais. Served up to order, often consumed standing at the bar, inexpensive and delicious, these meals were little masterpieces of simple, honest gastronomy-fast food a la Francaise-and precursors to the culture of of Beaujolais. Served up to order, often consumed standing at the bar, inexpensive and delicious, these meals were little masterpieces of simple, honest gastronomy-fast food a la Francaise-and precursors to the culture of les meres Lyonnaises, les meres Lyonnaises, the celebrated "Lyon mothers." the celebrated "Lyon mothers."

That was another category, a notch or two up from the bouchon bouchon and every bit as admirable. A succession of these rather more imposing restaurants, run by intractably perfectionist, frequently ill-tempered but endearing female chefs, became gloriously famous both in France and abroad, and they are remembered in Lyon today with a kind of sepia, Proustian nostalgia for a more comforting time before globalization spoiled all the fun by making life efficient. and every bit as admirable. A succession of these rather more imposing restaurants, run by intractably perfectionist, frequently ill-tempered but endearing female chefs, became gloriously famous both in France and abroad, and they are remembered in Lyon today with a kind of sepia, Proustian nostalgia for a more comforting time before globalization spoiled all the fun by making life efficient.

The meres Lyonnaises meres Lyonnaises were truly grandes dames, and memories of La Mere Guy, La Mere Fillioux or eccentrics like La Melie or Lea are enough to bring a tear to a Lyonnais eye. Lea, whom I had the honor and advantage of meeting toward the end of her career, and whose kitchen floor I happily trod, engulfed in a savory microclimate of slow-cooking aromas, was one of the memorable local characters of downtown Lyon, a wild eccentric who doubtless struck some casual strollers as half-mad. Bright and early every morning, she left her restaurant, La Voute, on a dark little side street behind Place Bellecour, and made her way, shouting and gesticulating at drivers who presumed to get in her way, through the traffic to the farmers' market on the Quai St. Antoine along the eastern bank of the Saone. Further accentuating the spectacle was the outlandish wheeled contraption that she pushed, not unlike a Sabrett's hot dog cart or a Good Humor ice cream bin, to which she had attached an oversized rubber-bulbed bicycle horn which ever and anon she honked as she thrust her way forward. There was plenty of room insideher pushcart for her day's provisions, and a bright sign on the front warned: were truly grandes dames, and memories of La Mere Guy, La Mere Fillioux or eccentrics like La Melie or Lea are enough to bring a tear to a Lyonnais eye. Lea, whom I had the honor and advantage of meeting toward the end of her career, and whose kitchen floor I happily trod, engulfed in a savory microclimate of slow-cooking aromas, was one of the memorable local characters of downtown Lyon, a wild eccentric who doubtless struck some casual strollers as half-mad. Bright and early every morning, she left her restaurant, La Voute, on a dark little side street behind Place Bellecour, and made her way, shouting and gesticulating at drivers who presumed to get in her way, through the traffic to the farmers' market on the Quai St. Antoine along the eastern bank of the Saone. Further accentuating the spectacle was the outlandish wheeled contraption that she pushed, not unlike a Sabrett's hot dog cart or a Good Humor ice cream bin, to which she had attached an oversized rubber-bulbed bicycle horn which ever and anon she honked as she thrust her way forward. There was plenty of room insideher pushcart for her day's provisions, and a bright sign on the front warned: FAIBLE FEMME, FORTE EN GUEULE FAIBLE FEMME, FORTE EN GUEULE (Frail Woman, Loud Mouth). Lea picked through the day's fresh offerings with fiendish determination, and she got exactly what she wanted. Whether it was tripe, foie gras or just a perfect lettuce, the results showed spectacularly in her little one-room restaurant. Lea was mad like a fox. (Frail Woman, Loud Mouth). Lea picked through the day's fresh offerings with fiendish determination, and she got exactly what she wanted. Whether it was tripe, foie gras or just a perfect lettuce, the results showed spectacularly in her little one-room restaurant. Lea was mad like a fox.

La Mere Fillioux, who ran her little restaurant in the Brotteaux section of town from 1890 until her death in 1925, was as renowned for her cooking as for her steely determination to do nothing but her own recipes, turning aside all culinary fads and fashions with the scorn they deserved. "I have spent my life making four or five dishes," she famously declared, "so I know how to do them. And I won't do anything else."

What were these marvels? The list was so short that to most long-menu restaurateurs it would have appeared laughable: a rich, smooth truffle soup; pike quenelles in crayfish b.u.t.ter, browned in the oven; artichoke hearts with foie gras; chicken demi-deuil demi-deuil ("half in mourning" in reference to the black truffle slices under the skin, slow-cooked for an hour in bouillon); and, on special order, lobster ("half in mourning" in reference to the black truffle slices under the skin, slow-cooked for an hour in bouillon); and, on special order, lobster a l'americaine. a l'americaine. But her specialties were turned out with such generosity and devotion to perfection that in her time they made her famous to gourmets the world over. (It is an interesting game to speculate whether Michelin, the great arbiter of restaurant quality, would have had the courage to award three stars to a place with such a limited card, but we'll never know the answer-the famous system of one, two and three stars did not enter the red book until 1933.) Her signature dish was the chicken, of course, and someone once figured out that she must have sliced up half a million of them during her thirty-five-year career, always using the same little knife. Worn to a fraction of its original size by successive sharpenings, the faithful instrument is now on display in the Escoffier Museum of Culinary Arts in Villeneuve-Loubet, near Nice. But her specialties were turned out with such generosity and devotion to perfection that in her time they made her famous to gourmets the world over. (It is an interesting game to speculate whether Michelin, the great arbiter of restaurant quality, would have had the courage to award three stars to a place with such a limited card, but we'll never know the answer-the famous system of one, two and three stars did not enter the red book until 1933.) Her signature dish was the chicken, of course, and someone once figured out that she must have sliced up half a million of them during her thirty-five-year career, always using the same little knife. Worn to a fraction of its original size by successive sharpenings, the faithful instrument is now on display in the Escoffier Museum of Culinary Arts in Villeneuve-Loubet, near Nice.

There's a nice little anecdote about that knife. One evening in the early twenties, it seems, a world-famous surgeon-some say American, but the stories vary on this detail-perhaps fired to excess of confidence by the flow of Beaujolais that had pa.s.sed his gullet, asked for the unusual privilege of being allowed to carve his own chicken after it had been lifted dripping from the pot and freed of its cheesecloth wrapping. La Mere Fillioux reluctantly handed over her precious tool, and the surgeon squared his shoulders and set to work. No more than a few seconds had pa.s.sed before a cry of anguish pa.s.sed her lips: "Stop, unhappy man, you are murdering it!"

The highest achiever of this wonderful sisterhood was Eugenie, La Mere Brazier, who was among the twenty-one to be awarded three stars when Michelin's first rating system appeared in 1933. She was a peasant girl who had begun life tending pigs, but she rose to become Lyon's most renowned chef until Paul Bocuse came along with his own brand of perfectionism and promotional genius. But Bocuse would not be what he is today if he had not served as a foot soldier under Eugenie Brazier's command-she was one of the several chefs under whom le grand Paul le grand Paul apprenticed in the early days of his ascendancy toward the imperial status he now enjoys. La Mere Brazier taught her apprentices the old-fashioned way, setting them a work schedule that broke the will of many of those who made the climb up to her place on a hill (col de la Luere) above Lyon. Rising at 5 A.M. and rarely to bed before 11 P.M., young Bocuse chopped wood, hoed the vegetable garden, milked Eugenie's cow, did her laundry and starched and ironed her tablecloths before he even got a chance to do any cooking. With that experience under his belt, followed by stints with the great Fernand Point at La Pyramide in Vienne, and Lucas-Carton in Paris, he was ready for any challenge the world of cuisine could possibly put in his path. It is no accident, then, that Bocuse holds the world's record for the longest inc.u.mbency (forty-two years and counting) in Michelin's top three-star rating. apprenticed in the early days of his ascendancy toward the imperial status he now enjoys. La Mere Brazier taught her apprentices the old-fashioned way, setting them a work schedule that broke the will of many of those who made the climb up to her place on a hill (col de la Luere) above Lyon. Rising at 5 A.M. and rarely to bed before 11 P.M., young