La Cote St Jacques was an unassuming, but pretty, building on the roadside, which was initially a bit disappointing because there was no obvious view, not a gorge, or waterfall in sight. I was wrong, again.
Originally in 1945, Marie Lorain, who was a very good cook and a seamstress by trade, opened an inn in Joigny in a beautiful mansion.
Michel Lorain, born in 1934 and the youngest of four children, took the business over after an apprenticeship in pastry in 1958 with his wife Jacqueline, and turned it into a well known restaurant in the region.
He was rewarded a first Michelin star in 1971, a second in 1976, the third in 1986 (at 27 years old) and the rest is an awesome, legendary, spectacular history of achievements.
Presumably the best rooms were at the front, but there was just a roadway and I could see nothing dramatic at the back of the hotel, and I was getting worried. We had driven miles, had we had nowhere else to stay. It was already 5.00 pm and if Tom threw another fit we, the car, and our suitcases of creases, would be back on the road again.
After finally checking in, the porter took us into a lift, pressed a marked button, and we descended into a subterranean passage. Unbelievably, we negotiated a maze of corridors that looked like a grotto that wove under the roadway and all the way to the River Lyon itself.
I was so impressed and excited, I didn't care if S wanted to complain and leave - I was staying.
It's a twice-starred gourmet restaurant in the Michelin Guide, Jean-Michel Lorain, the chef, share both his passion and exceptional style.
The indoor bar deep in the grotto had shelves and lights carved into the walls, with small chairs and comfortable armchairs all dimly light with red or pinkish bulbs. It was cocktail hour all day in there.
Bottles of blood red Kir from Bourgogne were lined up and impossibly I so longed to take them all back home.
Large bottles of Cognac and full bloodied Burgundy stood silently, patiently and timelessly awaiting their turn to be noticed. They glowed deep cabochon colours in the half–light, waiting to unleash their magic on unsuspecting innocent tongues.
Dusted with a fine layer of dust, some bottles looked fragile, rarely disturbed by fingerprints or handling. It was a gossamer veil for what potency they held inside, like a frustrated old genie trying to get out of a bottle.
It was a screaming chorus, all calling to me as I passed, but I looked forward and pretended not to hear. That bar had one way in, but several unpredictable ways coming out, and I wasn't risking it.
La Côte Saint-Jacques is right near Chablis and Auxerrois vineyards, also not far from the prestigious Côtes de Beaune and Côtes de Nuits, so you can imagine the cellar.
In an Issey Miyake trouser suit, so tightly pleated it couldn't crease any more, and with an elastic waist band, I intended to eat.
We entered the dining room all smiles, as I viewed each night as a theatre performance, with all the actors seated at the tables, while the waiters handed us the menus.
Starters included Rosace de Homard; Pattes bleues; et salade de Palmiste frais Retour des Iles. Rose of Atlantic lobster and fresh heart of palm salad “Tahiti dressing spirit.” Not fattening.
For the main course Tom ordered something like the Aile de Raie cuite doucement et servie sur un bouillon parfumé au lait de Coco et Cumbawa, Tomate confite et poêlée de Légumes nouveaux. This was the slow-cooked skate wing served on a broth flavoured with coconut milk and kafir lime, tomato confit, and sautéed spring vegetables.
Tom noticed little beyond his plate, and took an immediate forkful, only ever looking up if he suspected I had a sip of wine more than he did.
I watched everyone, all simultaneously, made the right comments to him, at the right time, in short sentences. We were 'the marrieds' in the room who hardly spoke in depth, just in case it became contentious.
He was spending far too much on dinner each night to disagree with me and ruin his meal, and I didn't want to disagree, and ruin our meals.
Anyway, the food spoke for itself, and fine diners are not expected to chatter away like monkeys.
It was magnificent, the chef deserved the attention, and so did the creation he set before us.