“It's a fucking ugly little town” said Tom to himself as we circled around the one way system of Roanne.
Modern apartment blocks with small square windows and blobs of horrendous primary colours splashed over the walls, lined up next to one another in one long 'ugly contest'.
We pulled over in the first car park we found and slammed the car doors, relieved to be out and set off looking for lunch.
Twenty minutes later we ended up in a bar where they served beer in wine glasses.
Our pubescent waiter tried to ignore us, but that didn't concern me as long as he didn't poison us, as tonight we were eating at the world-famous Troisgros.
Three hours later, with Roanne leaving zero memories for us, we arrived at Troisgros and unceremoniously stumbled up the steps dragging our cases.
We swished in behind the smoked glass doors looking to be rescued, blessed and anointed, feeling a bit vulnerable and weak.
Marie and Jean-Baptiste Troisgros and their sons, Pierre, Jean, and infant Michel, own their famous restaurant called “La Maison Troisgros” and has had three Michelin stars since 1968.
They gave us a suite with a circular balcony that overlooked the garden so I was very grateful as being with a very loud New Yorker the French often hid us at the back of hotels and restaurants.
The ultra-modern bathroom was an interior designer’s dream, built around a central column, with sliding glass and a couple of privy panels that were not soundproof.
They describe on the web, “Calm spaces of contemporary inspiration are arranged around an enclosed garden. The bedrooms feature clean lines, soft tones and natural materials” which is all true.
All the delicious toiletries were by Pascal Maribos, and had I been told to drink them, pour over food, or inject them in any way, I probably would have.
In a classic apricot trouser suit, black patent shoes, and clutching a black evening bag, we went into the restaurant at 7.30 pm.
No one else had driven for hours, changed hotels every night for the last two weeks, so we had to eat before it was too late. Booking dinner tables past 8.00 pm would have been suicide, as the stresses were beginning to show, and chronic fatigue was already setting in.
The main course was worthy of discussion - not just for its gastronomic merit, but also for how it encapsulated a cultural divide.
It was a morsel of veal. For an American who ate morsels by the plate full, often ordered top quality veal, and was used to excellent food, being offered a 'single morsel' at gastronomic prices was a terrible joke.
“Where's the rest of it?” Tom asked me with his eyes bulging. I knew budging eyes was a precursor to a loud roar to any passing waiter who risked being orally skinned alive.
These young, thin men thought they were here to serve food; they weren't. To Tom they were all part of the opposition, and the battlefield was his table and the weapon of choice was his plate.
“It’s France, that’s the way they present it and it keeps them all thin!” My emphasis was on thin, as he wanted to stay thin more than eat a lot. But it was a close call. I changed the subject before a waiter passed within striking distance and he tucked into his morsel.
Luckily the dishes, jus, and the ingredients were so rich it was immediately satisfying and never left you feeling cheated, starving, empty, or resentful. In fact it was the opposite.
We swallowed the last drops of the excellent half bottle of red, and I sipped when he sipped, and he noticed it. Drinking any other way would have been a 70/30 split, and ordering an extra glass, even to share, was never going to happen.
They have the most amazing wines from Burgundy, and John and Peter participate in numerous tastings and interestingly Pierre Troisgros also invested in the region with the winemaker, Robert Serol.
Sitting back into the chair as the normal silence befell us, I looked around the room. I noticed an unusual number of obese people, mostly in chinos and short sleeves, which I mentally accused of being Americans.
They weren't. They were mostly French. I supposed that morsel of veal they had must have been followed by several more courses of lots more morsels.