Not having time to research your destination in advance can sometimes be a good thing. Yes, you miss out on the smugly virtuous feeling of having done your homework – but instead, you could have the unexpected fun of landing up in the middle of something as delightful as the old city of Dijon.
For that, it’s best to have booked a hotel right in the middle of things, and that’s what we did. Hotel Restaurant Le Sauvage, in Rue Monge, is a 15th-century coach house; you drive through one of those medieval archways into its cobbled courtyard, where with any luck there’ll still be parking. Right ahead is reception, and on the left is the hotel’s eponymous restaurant, famous for its authentic traditional grill cuisine – and, according to TripAdvisor – for being open on a Sunday night when literally nothing else is.
We chose the hotel for three things: its ideally central location (once parked, you can walk anywhere), its promise of olde-worlde character (which it fully delivered on) and its reasonable €62 charge (breakfast is an additional €6). What our room (no. 5) lacked in facilities – no drawers, fridge or aircon, for example – it made up for in size, with a full bath and a comfortable-enough bed for two nights.
Dijon’s Old City
After arriving late on a Saturday afternoon, we were surprised and pleased to to find the pedestrianised centre of Dijon thronged with people, shopping in the hundreds of boutiques and department stores, listening to a live band belting out from an open-air stage or eating and drinking at the numerous pavement cafés and restaurants along the streets and in the various squares.
Our choice, Le Grand Café, was fine for a drink, especially as it was promoting Lillet Blanc – the stuff Roy buys for his vesper martinis – and they brought us little snacks, but we really should have taken our cue from the citizens of Dijon and had dinner elsewhere. My duck was still quacking, and Roy’s boeuf bourgignon gave him indigestion. That malaise, however, could also reasonably be attributed to the crepe Suzette, flamed in Grand Marnier and topped with cream, that we washed down with Irish coffees at La Casa des Crêpes about ten minutes before falling into bed.
Sunday in Dijon…
… is a quiet affair, almost all the shops and most restaurants being closed, but it was another ridiculously beautiful day – perfect for sightseeing. Having utterly refused (as is his wont) to visit the Tourism Info office first to pick a proper map as opposed to the basic plan de ville we got from hotel reception, it must be said that Roy did lead us unerringly to the port of Dijon.
No more than ten minutes from the town centre, it’s located on the Canal de Bourgogne. It was interesting to see the fancy hotel riverboats, some complete with swimming pools; also, to note that the serviced mooring (water, electricity) is taken up by sometimes scruffy boats that seem not to have moved for a long time, leaving little or no room for visitors. And where was the capitainerie – or, indeed, any sign of management?
Back in the old city, we wandered around its now much quieter streets and squares, enjoying the massive architecture of the Théatre Dijon Bourgogne, the Palais des Ducs et des États de Bourgogne, the Cathédrale St Benigne, the massive Hotel de Ville and the expansive Place de la Libération, and Dijon’s own Notre Dame.
For the best coffee we’ve had since arriving in France – and that’s not saying much, as it’s all tasted either bitter, instant or both (at least to these two Nespresso fans) – we stopped in at a Starbucks, where the prices, by the way, were exactly double those in Singapore. Seeing four Aussies lingering over lattes at a neighbouring table, I seemed to remember (correct me if I’m wrong) hearing that Starbucks tried and failed in Australia, because it couldn’t compete with the consistently high standard of coffee there.
Only a handful of eateries were open on Sunday, even at lunchtime. That said, a carousel played in one square to entertain diners at two sprawling alfresco restaurants. In another huge square opposite the hotel, we whiled away a couple of hours over salades géants and a bottle of Côte de Provence rosé at L’Epicérie & Cie – trying to save our appetites for dinner at Le Sauvage… which did not disappoint.
Restaurant Le Sauvage
Compared to the crowds of last night, Saturday night, when I’d popped my head around the door to book “une table á deux pour Teetch-marrsh, demain soir”, Sunday night was just nicely buzzy. I loved the way they offered us an English menu, understood why we preferred to struggle with the French one – “parce que nous voulons apprendre” – and then graciously carried that through, all the way from our excellent mains (rack of lamb for Roy, lamb shank for me), to tarte tatin for him and another “Ee-reesh coffee” for me. Ninety-one euros, including two flutes of Bollinger and half-a-litre of local pinot noir.
As I write this, they’re still banging away in the kitchen across the cobbled courtyard, and someone is singing almost comedically out of tune. And when I wake up, I hope it’s to the sound of the boulangerie van arriving with a tray of baguettes for my breakfast.
