march-2013

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 2013
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