As most of you know, Chef Tony Maws works passionately to create his own flavor of the the bistrot moderne food tradition, inspired by the expertise of his mentors; legendary chefs, vintners, and farmers from wildly different food family trees. Whenever solicited, Tony is happy to recommend visiting the people and places under whose tutelage, either through direct or indirect training and exposure, he has been influenced to do what he does so well.

On a recent trip to France, my husband, Greg, and I were keen to visit Lyon for the fabled Lyonnais bouchon experience. Neither of us had spent much time in Lyon and didn’t know where to begin. (We only had 19 hours in Lyon and wanted to do it right.) Tony had offered high praise for Chez Brunet, the brainchild of chef Gilles Maysonnave, protege of Paul Bocuse. True to form, Tony steered us in the right direction.

Chez Brunet is a typical Lyonnais bouchon - which is essentially a small restaurant that specializes in house-made dishes; always meat, more meat, and meat “parts” like snout, tail, ear, tongue. In effect, you sit - and eat - cheek and jowl and the like for as long as you can continue to consume. As we learned, no bouchon experience lasts less than three hours

We arrived at 9:45, having pushed our reservation back because of our 10 hour drive from Normandy. We were the last to be seated, and were concerned about being rushed through our meal (which happened only at one moment). The place was covered in decorated mirrors, on which was written the menu and the specialties of the day, week, and season. Figure things like tripe stew, rabbit stew, blood sausage, head cheese, every type of paté imaginable, including house-made foie gras, pheasant, etc. Chez Brunet specializes in gibier, which is wild game and we discovered later in the evening that Chef Gilles has a deal with a hunter friend who hunts and traps all his game.

Now, it’s important to note that neither of us are meat eaters. But we’ve made a pact that we’ll treat ourselves to wild duck once/year if the time and circumstances are right, and in general, when traveling to France, all bets may be off. While I manage (mostly) to stay on the no mammal wagon while in France, Greg is likely to fall off all wagons completely, bounce a couple of times and land face first in a house-made terrine (a country pork paté) or plate of thinly sliced house-cured saucisson, which he did - happily and unrepentently - for his appetizer.

I started with a lentil soup with cream and scallops. We ordered a “pot” of chilled Beaujoulais (not Nouveau). Beaujoulais has become our wine of choice for Thanksgiving in general, and since we were just an hour south of Beaujolais country, this was an exquisite terroir treat.

Then on to the main course - which came out mistakenly while we were still eating the appetizer; a rush that is unusual in France. They realized their mistake quickly and disappeared back into the kitchen, which was not much bigger than a Smart car. About the same time, we saw who we presumed to be the chef wandering the room, and realized he probably quickly prepared the last dish to finish his evening. A friend of his showed up and sat near us. The chef joined him and a champagne cork popped.

Despite the timing mix-up, when the main course (re)arrived, it was delicious. I thoroughly enjoyed my once/year wild duck indulgence (i.e. hunted, not raised, colvert not canard) with three types of mushrooms, including cepes. Greg had a quenelle, which is a Lyonnais specialty - a dumpling in a rich sauce. He asked what was in it, and the server said nothing - the dumpling is enough. And it was, arriving in a cast iron pan, a puffed up dough loaf burnt to a light crisp at the top, swimming in a cream sauce. All the while we were savoring our meal, the chef was stealing glances of our faces and plates, I guess to measure our enjoyment.

For dessert Greg asked for the traditional cerval de canut, which he thought would be some sort of sweet cream dessert. No such luck. It’s a savory fresh cream concoction that reminded us both too much of sour-cream/ green-onion potato chip dip to appreciate that it wasn’t. (Cerval de canut literally means “brains of a silk-worker”. Lyon was the home of the European silk trade. That’s where the connection ends for me He inquired what kind of cake-like desserts they had, and the server was explaining one when the chef, smiling, leaned over and whispered in French (apparently to simplify the sell) “it’s four-quarters - 1/4 kg butter, 1/4 kg sugar, 1/4 kg flour, 1/4 kg eggs”. Sold.

And that’s how it started. We mentioned to the chef and his friend that we had been recommended by Chef Tony Maws, who had spent time training in Lyon. Sure enough, Monsieur (Gilles) Maysonnave had heard of this “young American chef exposing American eaters to Lyonnais cuisine.” He was delighted. The restaurant cleared out and it began to feel more like a family dining room than a public bistrot. We spent the next two hours sitting and talking about all things food and wine related with the chef, his friend, and two servers (one who was the chef’s wife). They generously poured us some of their champagne. (Neither of us being champagne fans we were a bit skeptical, but their enthusiasm about the quality of this particular bubbly quieted our concerns). At one stage, we were talking about foie gras - and 5 minutes later, we had a slice of house-made foie gras each. It was too much food, after dessert even, but Greg tried his best to polish his off, while I discreetly had to pass. Chef Gilles eventually asked if we didn’t like it “Too salty. It’s too salty, isnt it?” and we had to graciously impress upon him that we were so full with gloriously rich food we just couldn’t eat a another single bite.

To acknowledge their generosity, we offered to get the next round of champagne. Chef Gilles went on to talk about the internationally famous Lyonnais chef - and his mentor - Paul Bocuse. At one stage he was rifling though his photos, proudly showing us shots of him with Paul. They told us to go to Les Halles Bocuse (an indoor market) for lunch - “Tell them Gilles Maysonnave sent you” - where we would find only the freshest fish, snails, frog’s legs, oysters, etc.

When we finally took our leave at 1am, we were sated and floating. We noticed on the cab ride home that our champagne round was almost half the entire bill - and worth every centime. Being invited to the Chez Brunet family table was priceless.

On our travels we’ve learned that recommendations are the way to go and Chef Tony Maws’ are well worth exploring. This three hour restaurant experience was truly a slice of Lyon. The conscious intention and attention that goes into food procurement, preparation, and enjoyment is directly related to what the Lyonnais hold dear; a distinct love of place. Fittingly, this experience happened to fall on American Thanksgiving. It was a complete terroir experience and this Thanksgiving we felt tremendous gratitude for the opportunity to get in touch with the people, food, and wine of a particularly special place.

- Amanda Dates and Greg Beuthin, November 2007

Chez Brunet
23, rue Claudia
69002 Lyon

Tél : 04 78 37 44 31
Fax : 04 78 42 45 74
Propriétaire : Gilles Maysonnave
www.achatlyon.com/brunet

But I mean to use the term “myth” the way anthropologists would have us do: a myth is not necessarily an untruth or a fantasy, though in the case of this holiday it is quite fully fabricated, but it is a “story we tell ourselves about ourselves” – a way of explaining who we are and what is meaningful in the experience of being “us”.

In the spirit of that ongoing story, I’d like to share a thought that has struck me for the last several years. It is of the nearly holy serendipity of the Thanksgiving meal. I imagine 300 million Americans sitting down to almost identical dinners. Some of us make an effort to serve this meal to the least fortunate citizens of our society. And considerable resources go to providing that service personnel around the world can also eat the traditional menu. An effort is made, at least on this day, to ensure that people don’t go without. At millions of tables there is a turkey as the centerpiece, cranberry sauce, pumpkin pie. Green beans, gravy, and mashed potatoes add heft and color to the meal. But here is where it begins to veer off into millions of tributaries. And this is my second favorite thought about Thanksgiving: that just as there is this almost zen-like moment of 300 million souls sitting down to the same meal – they are also sitting down to radically different ones. It is here, I think, that the modern myth arises. Into the treatment of the bird, the care that goes into its accompaniments, are so many diverse traditions. Chorizo stuffing, candied yams, braised pearl onions, or green bean casserole. In one instance, my cousins hosted a communal celebration to which an Afghan family was invited. They showed up with a magnificent platter of spiced rice with game hens plunged into its steaming, fragrant center. This too, is our uniquely American meal as it is practiced today.

Frankly, I think there is a kind of worship here – whether people agree they’re participating in it or not – one way or another we are breaking bread together as a whole society, with foods that connect us to the recent harvest of our homeland. And at the same time we are bringing our own strains and stories to the table, augmenting and enriching it.

A friend of mine refers to this phenomenon as dynamic tension – between our sameness and our diversity – our moment of communalism and our distinct individuality. Each year at my own table, I enjoy the dance along this line of tension – what elements of my meal will be traditional and what will be new? Who will sit and sup with us who has been here all along, and who will charm us with their new tales of discovery?

I’d like to relate one more myth of a dynamic Thanksgiving celebration – one that highlights so beautifully the unexpected joy that can come from fully embracing the local foodshed. In a small town in New Hampshire, my friend’s family got their turkey every year from a local producer. Because the town was one of those tiny little hamlets, so too, did most of the rest of the residents. Year after year, ordering a turkey from this farmer was just part of the holiday routine. Except that a few Thanksgivings ago (my friend reports that it may even have been a full moon, days before the holiday) the farmer’s exuberant pair of Jack Russell terriers got a wild hair and literally decimated the entire flock. The Jack Russells went on a murderous rampage and didn’t leave a bird fit for dressing.

My friend is a vegetarian and the absence of the turkey was no great culinary loss for her. But the cooks who were at the center of this drama were at a bit of a loss. The meal was to be held at another neighbor’s organic farm, where the table had been hewn out of a single tree. Salvation arrived in the form of a Greek grandmother, who showed up bearing a four foot long Spanikopita, which, combined with a vegetarian’s fantasy of side dishes, more than fed the assembled guests. But apparently theirs wasn’t the only turkey-less feast that year. Reliant on the local source, most of the families in town went without their birds – but returned to ordering again from the farmer the next year. So while recreating a highly structured and stylized ritual – a little local chaos shook things up and changed the feast. But the drive to gather and share was never interrupted.

Each Thanksgiving my own prayer of thanks is for the enormous job of work that brought the food to the table. The continuing mythology of my celebration is made possible and then made wondrous by all the hands, bodies, and backs set to the task. Truly, it is a meal of a thousand variations and a unifying thread, which can nourish our hopeful path forward.

November - 2007
Having just finished my umpteenth bowl of turkey-barley soup, I am not yet sick of thinking about Thanksgiving – or its leftovers. For many food-lovers, this is a holiday utterly without angst or ambiguity. There is none of the subterranean clash of cultures of the religious holidays that surround the winter solstice [...]

November - 2007

Having just finished my umpteenth bowl of turkey-barley soup, I am not yet sick of thinking about Thanksgiving – or its leftovers. For many food-lovers, this is a holiday utterly without angst or ambiguity. There is none of the subterranean clash of cultures of the religious holidays that surround the winter solstice and none of the hand-wringing over consumerism run amok. Pure and simple, it is about gathering around a table with folks whose company you can stand for at least a few warm, sated hours. And ultimately, it is about the food. I like to think too, that it is about an abundant reverence for what our earth produces, year after year.

Contemporary sources tell us that the story of the First Thanksgiving is a myth. The nation as a whole did not start celebrating the holiday until well after the Civil War and the origins of a first feast are murky, at best. Scholars of food and history exhort us to recall that “Thanksgiving … expresses and reaffirms values and assumptions about cultural and social unity, about identity and history, about inclusion and exclusion.”[1]

But I mean to use the term “myth” the way anthropologists would have us do: a myth is not necessarily an untruth or a fantasy, though in the case of this holiday it is quite fully fabricated, but it is a “story we tell ourselves about ourselves” – a way of explaining who we are and what is meaningful in the experience of being “us”.

In the spirit of that ongoing story, I’d like to share a thought that has struck me for the last several years. It is of the nearly holy serendipity of the Thanksgiving meal. I imagine 300 million Americans sitting down to almost identical dinners. Some of us make an effort to serve this meal to the least fortunate citizens of our society. And considerable resources go to providing that service personnel around the world can also eat the traditional menu. An effort is made, at least on this day, to ensure that people don’t go without. At millions of tables there is a turkey as the centerpiece, cranberry sauce, pumpkin pie. Green beans, gravy, and mashed potatoes add heft and color to the meal. But here is where it begins to veer off into millions of tributaries. And this is my second favorite thought about Thanksgiving: that just as there is this almost zen-like moment of 300 million souls sitting down to the same meal – they are also sitting down to radically different ones. It is here, I think, that the modern myth arises. Into the treatment of the bird, the care that goes into its accompaniments, are so many diverse traditions. Chorizo stuffing, candied yams, braised pearl onions, or green bean casserole. In one instance, my cousins hosted a communal celebration to which an Afghan family was invited. They showed up with a magnificent platter of spiced rice with game hens plunged into its steaming, fragrant center. This too, is our uniquely American meal as it is practiced today.

Frankly, I think there is a kind of worship here – whether people agree they’re participating in it or not – one way or another we are breaking bread together as a whole society, with foods that connect us to the recent harvest of our homeland. And at the same time we are bringing our own strains and stories to the table, augmenting and enriching it.

A friend of mine refers to this phenomenon as dynamic tension – between our sameness and our diversity – our moment of communalism and our distinct individuality. Each year at my own table, I enjoy the dance along this line of tension – what elements of my meal will be traditional and what will be new? Who will sit and sup with us who has been here all along, and who will charm us with their new tales of discovery?

I’d like to relate one more myth of a dynamic Thanksgiving celebration – one that highlights so beautifully the unexpected joy that can come from fully embracing the local foodshed. In a small town in New Hampshire, my friend’s family got their turkey every year from a local producer. Because the town was one of those tiny little hamlets, so too, did most of the rest of the residents. Year after year, ordering a turkey from this farmer was just part of the holiday routine. Except that a few Thanksgivings ago (my friend reports that it may even have been a full moon, days before the holiday) the farmer’s exuberant pair of Jack Russell terriers got a wild hair and literally decimated the entire flock. The Jack Russells went on a murderous rampage and didn’t leave a bird fit for dressing.

My friend is a vegetarian and the absence of the turkey was no great culinary loss for her. But the cooks who were at the center of this drama were at a bit of a loss. The meal was to be held at another neighbor’s organic farm, where the table had been hewn out of a single tree. Salvation arrived in the form of a Greek grandmother, who showed up bearing a four foot long Spanikopita, which, combined with a vegetarian’s fantasy of side dishes, more than fed the assembled guests. But apparently theirs wasn’t the only turkey-less feast that year. Reliant on the local source, most of the families in town went without their birds – but returned to ordering again from the farmer the next year. So while recreating a highly structured and stylized ritual – a little local chaos shook things up and changed the feast. But the drive to gather and share was never interrupted.

Each Thanksgiving my own prayer of thanks is for the enormous job of work that brought the food to the table. The continuing mythology of my celebration is made possible and then made wondrous by all the hands, bodies, and backs set to the task. Truly, it is a meal of a thousand variations and a unifying thread, which can nourish our hopeful path forward.