28 SLUG xxxx 2012 Jean-Louis Gelin, owner of La Meunière
F guts and Lyon has an appetite for ine dining, with 20 Michelin stars to its name. Its heart, though, belongs to its bouchons, which are altogether earthier affairs. Elizabeth Winding samples the city's centuries-old tradition of no-nonsense, nose-to-tail eating or the bouchons of Lyon, eating the whole animal is nothing new. Salade de museau (beef muzzle salad) has been on the menu for over two centuries, as has oxtail, gently braised with tomatoes and shallots. They’re the kind of dishes around which every self-respecting bouchon’s menu revolves: solid, honest and immune to the vagaries of passing foodie fads. The bouchons started up in the 18th century, when they catered to hungry travellers waiting for their horses to be rubbed down (bouchonné) in the stables. Often presided over by women, who became known as les mères lyonaisses, they were cramped and convivial places, serving up unfussy but often excellent home-cooking; in 1933, Eugénie Brazier of La Mère Brazier became the first woman to be awarded three Michelin stars. These days, bar a few honourable exceptions, it’s mostly men in the kitchen – though little else seems to have changed over the years. Communal tables, red-and-white checked tablecloths and minimal elbow-room are de rigueur, as is a comfortable clutter of copper pans and dubious bric-a-brac. Menus revolve around offal, just as they’ve always done, from tête de veau (calf’s head) to tablier du sapeur (literally “fireman’s apron”), a workmanlike slab of fried, breaded tripe. Quenelles are another local speciality: a triumph of FLY TO lyon three times daily. brusselsairlines.com glory Photography Laura Stevens culinary ingenuity, whereby almost inedibly bony pike are transformed into ethereal, mousse-like dumplings, served with rich, crayfish-infused sauce. Lunch in such establishments proceeds along timehonoured lines. The proprietor chides the regulars, delivers heaped plates of charcuterie and dispenses squat pots lyonnais of wine, while regulars keep up a hum of conversation and purposeful clatter of cutlery. They’re not shy about dispensing advice to out-of-towners, either, from the merits of various digestifs to vociferous recommendations of other vrai bouchons: we leave one lunch with a 12-strong list, scrawled on a torn-off strip of paper tablecloth. Locals who eat at the bouchons generally harbour fiercely partisan preferences, although there is some consensus. Most would concur that Comptoir Abel has the lightest quenelles in town, while over at Daniel et Denise, Joseph Viola’s awardwinning pâté en croûte is considered beyond reproach. There’s broad agreement, too, on the fact that a lot of the tourist traps that call themselves bouchons are nothing of the sort – an increasing problem, as tourist numbers rise. Although a new scheme to identify and label ‘authentic’ bouchons is afoot, not everyone’s keen on signing up. “We know we’re a bouchon Lyonnais,” says one indignant owner. “And we don’t need to pay a committee to tell us so.” MARCH <strong>2013</strong> 29