10/5/2004. Vézelay--la colline éternelle

About 30 years ago, Denis' family bought--and then seemed to forget--several modest properties in the Morvan, a nearly mountainous region smack in the middle of Burgundy. Since the death of his widowed mother early this year left him the possibility of accepting them (or not) as part of his inheritance, we slated a weekend to go down and look at them.

The Morvan--even though it is totally surrounded by Burgundy--doesn't seem to be considered as part of that regal vinous province. Most of the Morvan is in national parkland, as it is ruggedly rolling country, blanketed with deep forest and punctuated with gray granite cliffs that are favorite haunts of rock climbers. It's a region I'd never heard anyone talk about and never read anything about either. But since it is fall and Morvan is forested, I was eager to visit. I had hopes of mushroom hunting, but I really had no idea what to expect from the countryside.

I did, however, expect a spectacular dinner. During September's food issue of the New Yorker, I had read with relish a hilarious article by Jim Harrison on a 37-course lunch (no kidding!) at L'Espérance, the restaurant (Michelin 3-star) of Marc Meneau just outside Vézelay. As one of the properties we needed to look at was itself just a kilometer from Vézelay, the ever-indulgent Denis booked us a room and dinner at L'Esperance.

Nearing Vézelay, I got more and more excited by the beauty of our surroundings. We plunged into rolling hills cloaked in dark forest, opening up from time to time into wonderful villages of ancient sandstone houses. Unlike the manicured ch”teaus of the Côte d'Or, where some of the world's best wines are produced, these villages had the earthiness of the habitations of people who have worked their land--themselves--for centuries.



Vézelay was visible long before we arrived at its feet. Its exquisite Roman church was built on the summit of a hill dominating the valley of the Cure River, after Norman invaders destroyed the monastery originally located at the present-day village of Saint-Père. From afar, we could see this grand church on its promontory, with the ancient stones of Vézelay village clothing its hill.

We arrived at Vézelay just as the light was fading on Friday night, and turned into the entry to the village at the foot of the hill. Driving slowly up toward the church, I craned my head this way and that, catching tantalizing glimpses of cozy interiors of vaulted stone rooms, warmly lit and furnished, some of them filled with happy diners. I was amazed not to see a single tourist trap establishment.

Artisanal signs announced the presence of bookstores, épiceries (small food stores) boasting regional products, and the dwellings of famous writers. Vézelay, explained Denis, has a long and rich intellectual history. The vibrant spiritual life centered around the abbaye have attracted countless artists and writers over the centuries, including Picasso, Théodore de Bèze; Claude Claudel, and Romain Rolland.



I was itching to get out and explore, but my guide reminded me that we had a dinner by one of France's foremost chefs waiting for us. By the time we pulled into the parking lot of L'Espérance, it was almost dark. A porter opened our car doors, welcoming us warmly and checking our name off the list of the evening's arrivals. Although this hotel/restaurant is back of beyond, close to nothing but Vézelay and a lot of forest, the parking lot was full. The cuisine of Marc Meneau makes L'Espérance a destination in itself.

The staff apologized that, because the hot water heater to our room had broken, we would be installed in a suite--at no extra charge, of course. To our delight, we were led to our quarters in an old mill building some distance from the main hotel. The sounds of rushing water greeted us entrancingly at every turn of the path.

We opened the heavy, dark wood door on a living room that was the very essence of coziness. Ancient stones and dark handhewn beams, a fireplace laid ready to light, and furniture and rugs in deep reds, moss, and olive--some of my favorite interior colors, especially at this time of year. We nibbled from a basket of pears, apples, late plums, and figs while we dressed (casually) for dinner.

Ah, dinner! To get there, we followed about 150 meters of graveled pathway along the rushing waterway of the millrace to emerge at the restaurant. A regular welcoming committee ushered us to our table. I especially appreciated the courtesy and warmth that every good French restaurant shows its clients on arrival and throughout the evening...

(Last weekend, in a stylish Cotswold village in England, we ate in a hotel more expensive than Marc Meneau's. When we arrived (and other diners as well), no one was there to welcome and seat them, and service seemed so unfriendly and even uncouth. The courteous pleasantries that are such an intrinsic part of French restaurant service were completely lacking. No greeting, no nothing. After standing awkwardly amid other diners for a few minutes, we finally just sat ourselves down. Apparently this was par for the place, as no one apologized or seemed surprised that we had seated ourselves.)

We had the menu Collections d'automne, which consisted of only 9--not 37!--sublime courses, not including two "amusettes" or pre-appetizers, and two supplemental desserts or rather super-generous mignardises. (For the curious, I'll list the menu at the bottom of this article.) During our dégustation of this feast, we were visited conversationally several times by the chef's wife, and finally by the chef himself. Ah, France!



We awoke rather late after sleeping off all this indulgence, and mosied down the same path--by daylight this time--to have a long, leisurely (and in my case, light) breakfast. To my delight, the path led along the backs of several meticulously tended potagers, full of fall dahlias, bright squashes, lettuces, and other delicacies. Separating them from the path was an ancient dry stone wall (photo above left) populated with succulents and ferns, and undoubtedly by lizards and other beneficial animals.




After a lingering last cup of coffee, I took a walk in the garden behind the hotel. Trees and shrubs were just beginning to show hints of fall color, and an old pear tree hung heavy with burnished fruit. Along one side, a stream flowed under an arching bridge, offering peaceful reflections to my eye.

As pleasant as it was, I found that with caffeine invading my circulation, I was eager to explore Vézelay. In the reception area at check-out time, I added two irresistable Marc Meneau cookbooks to my collection. One of them, La Cuisine des Monastères, I'm already deeply into. (In fact, I am concocting chicken in a linden infusion as I write this.) I

It is a lavishly illustrated volume, but definitely not just a coffeetable cookbook. Its recipes represent some positively stimulating cooking techniques, such as baking meats and fish in a salty crust (which is discarded and not eaten), as well as stewing meats in infusions of plants (linden, and hay!) As I marveled over the wondrous recipes, Denis reminded me that French monks have a rich--and not at all spartan--cooking (and eating) tradition. In fact, Meneau's book is full of fascinating history and monastic lore.



Back in Vézelay, we wandered into the magnificent church. It is positively enormous, and has no stained glass. The morning sun was streaming through the windows, softly illuminating the monks and nuns celebrating mass. Their singing in this majestic and joyful setting was so beautiful that it brought tears to my eyes, and I later saw the sisters--dressed in blue dresses and aprons, white scarves, and sandals, genially leading groups of visitors around the village explaing its history.


We finally tore ourselves away from this lovely music to wander to streets of the medieval village. Although there were quite a few visitors roaming around, the atmosphere remained serene. Everything was carefully kept in the spirit of the village, and no garish tourist goods were polluting the sidewalks. An amazing number of charming small hotels and tempting restaurants are scattered throughout the town. We finally stopped at a place just facing the church called Cabulus, or l'Ancienne Hostellerie de l'Abbaye. We were drawn in by its tasteful decoration using simple objects, such as the cluster of illuminated wine flasks shown in the photo at left below.



There is even a small vineyard on the slopes of Vézelay, and the grapes were being harvested when we were there. As this region is colder in winter and cooler in summer than the Côte d'Or, and of course its soils are different, the Vézelay wines are less spectacular than, say, a Nuit St.-George. But the peaceful scene of the vendange just made it that much easier to imagine the centuries of monastic activity on the "hill eternal." Besides, it suited the mood of the morning perfectly. We even noticed an old sign painted on the stuccoed wall of one of the village buildings: Md. de Vin--"Md." being an abbreviation of marchand (merchant).



As we reluctantly headed back to Paris, I lifted my nose out of my new cookbooks long enough to ask Denis, "So, when can we come back? I didn't even get a chance to look for mushrooms!" Also, I'm hoping the artisan who made this beautiful iron ensign (The Porcupine) which I saw outside a Vezelay shop is still around, and that I can entice him to make something wonderful to offer you here on my site...
































Vézelay is only a couple of hours southeast of Paris. Follow the A6.

Marc Meneau--L'Espérance à Vézelay
89450 Saint-Père sous Vézelay
Tél. (+33) (0)3 86 33 39 10

What we had...

Les Amusettes
(Small exquisite mouthfuls to get the juices flowing...)
***
Petits Pois "Façon à la Française"
(A parfait of fresh peas consisting of layers of mint cream, carrot cream, whole peas and a bacon 'chip')

***
Sardines Macérées au Citron
Caviar; Crème de Navet
(Filets of raw sardine marinated in lemon, foamy cream of turnips, caviar)

***
Jaune d'oeuf de Poule à la Neige, aux Cèpes
(Egg yolk in poached meringue, with wild cèpe mushrooms)

***
Foie Gras de Canard--Poché--Grillé
Lentilles Fraîches à la Reine
(Duck foie gras first poached then grilled, fresh creamy lentils)

***
Tournedos de Homard au Corail,
Pomme de Terre Confite
(Rounds of lobster with their coral, slow-cooked potatoes)

***
Agneau de Quercy à la Moelle,
Persil Truffé
(Saddle of lamb from Quercy with marrow, truffled parsley)

***
Cosses de Légumes Farcies
(Stuffed vegetable pods)

***
Comté de Quatre Ans d'Age
(4-year-old Comté cheese (a hard nutty fruity cheese) freshly shelled green walnuts, green apple rounds, kumquat preserve, and malaga raisins)

***
Figues Pochées aux Epices--Fenouil Confit et Glace
(Figs poached with spices, candied fennel and fennel ice cream)
***
Mignardises
(Small sweetmeats with coffee--in our case, they were chocolate macaroons, orange almond cakes, pistachio meringues, homemade caramels, and other goodies I was too sated to remember...)

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