Lyon in eastern France is a paradise for the gastronomically minded and/or the greedy. Of course the restaurants which seem to be on every corner and down every alley are the essential apparatus in one's calorific pursuit of la cuisine lyonnaise but in truth it is the Lyonnais themselves that make the city's food culture so appealing.
Paradoxically, a vein of ascetic self-deprivation runs through the city's history; its early significance was partly based on the legend of the Lyon martyrs, who had starved themselves before their slaughter in the Roman arena in the first century AD. Later, in 1856, Monsignor Marion-Brésillac climbed the city's Fourvière hill to announce the first Christian mission to West Africa – from which none of the party survived. Today, the people of Lyon appear to be making up for lost time in their hedonistic pursuit of all God's bounty.
Walking around Lyon on a warm September Sunday, I scarcely needed to read each restaurant's menu. Such was the quantity of food being ordered by Lyon's hungry citizens dining outside that every salade, saucisson, boudin and bavette was rendered visible, exacerbating my hunger and making decision-making more difficult. To assuage my torment, however, I did have the smug satisfaction of knowing that the previous evening I had eaten (or should I say gorged?) at the city's finest bastion of la cuisine lyonnaise.
It's hard to say whether this rich, creamy, and utterly indulgent style of cooking was inspired by the gargantuan appetite of Lyon's residents or whether the latter grew as a consequence of the irresistibility of the former. However, should you wish to sample it (and you do by the way), turn left off the square facing l'Hotel de Ville, take the side alley down Rue Major Martin and sit yourself down Chez Paul.
Three long tables decked in red chequered tablecloths and an ancient wooden bar give little indication of what awaits but the dozen or so large white bowls which sit towards the end of the bar manage to encapsulate all the warmth, generosity and deliciousness of the restaurant and the city. Once you’ve sat down and nibbled on home-made pork scratchings with your aperitif, these white bowls then take centre stage in the choreography of the meal.
The bowls and the vast quantities of food contained therein are then placed in front of you in a carefully planned succession with gleaming silver serving spoons inviting you, as if you needed any encouragement, to tuck in. And so that's what we did. Through a dish of jambon persillé, pâte de camgagne and braised ham to milky coco beans with tart spring onion and braised beef accompanied by the least acquired of all acquired tastes, mounds of gelatinous pieds de veau. This, as the hackneyed storyteller might add, was really only the beginning. The next array of white bowls demonstrated that Chez Paul is just as adept with the fruits of the soil as it is with the fruits of the flesh. The end of summer had yielded exquisite beetroot and tomatoes which brought a light antidote and a respite which allowed room to be made for the potato salad and soused herring which followed.
What next? Dessert maybe? Coffee? The bill? Gym membership? None of the above. It was, naturellement, the main course. If I've done a half decent job of explaining this mercurial place you should be able to complete the below list yourself. However, in case I haven't, we could choose from:
Tête de veau ravigote
Saucisson chaud
Andouillette à la ficelle
Foie de veau persillé
Viande rouge à l'échalote
Tablier de sapeur
Poulet au vinaigre
Civet de porc
Quenelle de brochet
Blanquette de veau
Boudin paysan
The viande rouge à l'échalote had such sweet and complex flavours that it was wasted on my bloated stomach. Two courses later, after a St Marcelin so ripe it required a spoon rather than a knife and a crème caramel of such unerring consistency and depth of flavour it required a knife rather than a spoon, we were at the end of our banquet. The price? A mere 18 euros for the food.
Now with no food in front of me for the first time in 70 minutes [he ate all that lot in just over an hour?? – JR] , I was able to exhale and consider the Chez Paul experience. There is certainly little outside of the food to act as a serious draw. The wine, though reasonable, comes in carafes and the "list" is simply a choice between Côtes du Rhône and Brouilly. Similarly, although I enjoy the simplicity of long communal tables they are not a draw for some and the rigid wooden chairs, I doubt, have any fans.
However, deconstructing this restaurant or criticising its faults is a far less worthwhile or rewarding exercise than praising the sum of its parts. Chez Paul offers the visitor to Lyon a hook on which to hang all the flavours and methods of Lyonnaise cooking. You would have to walk around Paris for hours before you found such a concentrated and honest example of terroir urbain and in London you would probably never find it.
Chez Paul
11 rue Major Martin
69001 Lyon
11 rue Major Martin
69001 Lyon
Tel 04 78 28 35 83
Price 22.50 euros for dinner and 18 euros for lunch
