Sitting in Bernard Loiseau's magnificent rose filled garden, we were presented with delicate canapés to tempt our screaming appetites.
There was something quite surreal about chopped snails, floured and rolled into little balls on a white lace doily; they looked like rabbit droppings so we left them all.
The frog’s legs, pale like chickpeas, laying on a small mountain of mashed potato was delicious and I wandered what they did with the rest of the body as there are no frog arm pâtés or frog torso soups.
Delicate rabbit liver canapés didn’t get much attention either and the waiters were perplexed as to why we had left so much.
Abundant roses, two chilled Kirs, oversized menus, and mouth-watering choices helped me believe I could master French just by continually translating the menus.
I ordered the farm chicken breast and foie gras with golden potato truffle purée, followed by pink sands in pure chocolate ice cream and candied orange coulis.
Tom ordered the white Charolais beef and unusually said this was no time to diet so I agreed.
That evening we were treated to a garden front table overlooking the fragrant rose garden, but it gave the other diners behind us a view of the back of our heads.
The candles, the perfume, and the golden sun setting against the stained terracotta walls lulled us into marital silence I gave way to artistic thoughts.
Earlier that day as we drove by fields I had noticed pure white Charolais cattle standing nestled together under trees in the shade like creatures in a Greek tragedy.
If the way to save an animal from extinction was to eat it, then these celestial gentle beasts had been saved from a ritual sacrifice.
Always in small groups, as if comforting each other, they were spotlessly clean in lush fields and oblivious to our approach so tranquil in their isolation.
Legend had it that white cattle were in the region as early as 878 A.D, and were popular in French markets in 16th and 17th centuries, especially in Lyon.
Until the French Revolution they were generally confined to the area, but in 1773, a cattle producer from the Charolles region moved to the Nièvre province, taking his herd of white cattle with him, so they were known as Nivernais for a time.
As the evening passed I watched the long shadows of Tunisian turquoise blue lacy wrought iron balconies sway and stretch as the sun’s rays clung on for the last few moments before slipping into the envelope of the night.
Ruby Burgundy wine flowed silently into our veins, mellowing our souls and making tranquillity our guest.
S happily chatted to himself, to his rolls, and his langoustine got a whole speech, whilst I replied with smiles, nods, and said very little.
His wandering mind fixated on a NYC Peter Luger steak, and his enthusiasm grew with the approach of his Charolais beef. He immediately regretted ordering it, and we ate without a word.
“My tongue is encrusted in brine!” Tom’s New York accent pierced the air, and everyone in earshot. He was in full swing, and I knew a full dissipation could be well on its way and everyone would soon be listening to his complaints.
I didn't reply, didn’t encourage and soon we blended back in, and the other tables forgot about us.
I found out the next morning that Bernard Loiseau had founded the restaurant in December of 1998, becoming the first chef in the world to be listed on the Stock Exchange, and placing him on the cover of the New York Times. It was an incredible achievement.
The restaurant boutiques sold produce, exquisite glass, china, and breath-taking books, amongst which I found a fabulous informative historical account of the distinctive Charolais beef. Seeing those cattle so content in their habitat I left with feeling guilt and remorse.
Bernard Loiseau is no longer with us unfortunately but his brave wife and loyal team have ensured all continues in his name and in his honour.