After quite a lot of drizzle for days, Monday evening was fine and allowed Lyon to display a charming aspect that had been previously shrouded from us. Among the dusk photos around the Saône, we were diverted by a new statue which at a distance looked like a hero had just rescued someone from the river. On closer inspection including the title it turns out that the chap is holding himself: the ultimate narcissism.
We went to dinner at a bouchon recommended by our host: it gave us a meal that would have been loved by Lyonnais navvies 150 years ago: an entrée for W of large serves of liver gâteau, and for me pale sausages with another white animal chunky substance, and a third red meat item; followed by pork breast size XXL in red wine sauce for W, and for me a XXXL sausage slow cooked for 5 hours in red wine accompanied by about 750 grams of lentils. Enough already. The menu noted that the host saved vegetables for the pigs.
Upon recovery about 12 hours later, we trolley bussed to Les Halles Bocuse. This is is not a market in any sense recognisable by ordinary standards. It more resembled a larger version of the gourmet section of David Jones Food Hall, with a preponderance of prepared dishes and emphasis on careful display of each item in an orderly and pleasing layout. It would be in general a place to shop for special occasions. For us it was lacking in the vibrant excitement associated with dedicated and enthusiastic buyers and sellers of food in farmers' markets, and the pizzazz generated by Maeve O'Meara's TV show featuring it.
On our walk back to our loge after lunching on a pleasant salmon tartare we encountered the fountain in the Place des Jacobins. After many tribulations in its 450 year existence the fountain now celebrates four obscure French artists from various centuries, and endows them with utterly irrelevant mermaids clasping fishes chundering after a night on the tiles.
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