gingham

I first went to a bouchon as a 20-year-old Erasmus student. I’d accidentally ended up spending a semester of my year abroad in the Auvergne countryside, which meant every weekend I’d thumb a ride to the nearest big city – Lyon. I didn’t know much about Lyon, except that it was famous for its food – in particular the hearty fare served up at these traditional restaurants with their red gingham tablecloths and chalkboard menus. So when I found myself eating stringy, overpriced beef muscle that cost more than my night at a hostel, I wondered what the hype was about.

But after nearly five years living in the city, I’ve now learned how to avoid the tourist traps (which largely line Vieux Lyon between souvenir shops selling fridge magnets and sweet shops). Historically, most bouchons weren’t in Lyon’s old town anyway, writes Yves Rouèche in Histoire(s) De La Gastronomie Lyonnaise, but in the neighbourhoods of Vaise, Croix-Rousse and La Guillotière, the gateways to the city in the Renaissance period where merchants and travellers stopped for the night.

Elsewhere in France, bouchon translates as “traffic jam”, “wine cork”, or (if you ever need to converse with a medieval peasant) a “wisp of straw”. I’d assumed the name came from the wine cork, as Beaujolais and Rhône Valley wines are served liberally in these establishments, but, as one bouchon owner tells me, it’s more likely to come from the straw: bunches of straw were often used to mark the doors of auberges (inns) that were open and serving food. Shared tables, checked tablecloths and pots de vin are all hallmarks of a bouchon, but the real defining feature is the quantity of meat served, particularly offal – enough to surprise even devout carnivores.

The restaurants really took off in the 19th century, when they were largely run by women, known as Mères Lyonnaises (Lyonnaise mothers). They dished up andouillette (tripe sausage), rognon de veau (calf’s kidneys) and cervelle de canut (silk worker’s brain, actually a soft cheese infused with shallots, garlic and herbs) to silk merchants and weavers. The Michelin guide discovered one of these “mothers” in 1933, and awarded Eugénie Brazier six Michelin stars, three for each of her restaurants. For the 65 years that followed, she was the most decorated chef in history, and her success put Lyon and its bouchons firmly on the map.

I drank wine at breakfast and consumed a veritable slaughterhouse worth of offcuts to find the best.

I was excited about this spot, because it has won awards for its quenelles. These sausage-shaped egg, flour and butter dumplings remind me of toad-in-the-hole batter, and in a bouchon, they’re usually stuffed with pike and covered in sauce aux écrevisses (crayfish sauce).

The restaurant is busy with local diners, and busy in decor. The red and white curtains are patterned with chickens, and the chandeliers and lamps on the bar are frilly and ornate. There’s already rosette (salami) and cervelle de canut on the table.

My quenelle is almost as large as a loaf of bread , but I finish up the lot, enjoying the contrast between the crisp, oven-browned top of the quenelle and the doughier part that’s been saturated in sauce. It’s buttery and tastes like marmite, and reminds me of British comfort food staples such as yorkshire puddings and dumplings. It’s very good, but, just like getting excited for several months about going to watch Avatar, I’d set my expectations too high.
Quenelles with crayfish sauce €24. Bouchon rating: 7/10

I arrive at 9am – and feel as though I’ve got there late. All of the other tables are full, the carafes of wine sitting on them half empty. La Meunière upholds the tradition of mâchon, Lyon’s answer to the bottomless brunch, only with hearty quantities of meat washed down with red wine. Originally, this would have served as lunch for hungry canuts (silk weavers), but now it’s popular with office workers and anyone else looking for an excuse for a midweek breakfast booze.

There’s no choice of menu (“salad” is a loose term for the starter). There’s not a vegetable in sight, rather tongue, ivory-coloured slices of cold pig’s trotters, lentils and pâté. So much cold meat early in the morning turns my stomach a little, but other than the pig’s trotters – possibly a mental block rather than a gustatory one – it’s all pretty good. The main course goes down easier: new potatoes roasted in their skins, pork that falls apart when I dig my fork into it, slices of sausage and bacon that’s more fat than meat, all in a rich gravy and garnished with parsley. I don’t manage lunch that day.
Mâchon: €34. Bouchon rating: 8/10

A local I speak to outside says it’s “excellent”, which abates my fears over having selected a bouchon called Jura, surely a slanderous move when the Jura region is around 90 miles from Lyon. “It’s historic,” says the owner, as he shows me its magnificent wine cellar, filled with enormous, dusty bottles of Chartreuse (a herbal liqueur) as long as my torso. “A wine merchant from Jura was the first person to set up a restaurant here.”

In a moment of bravery – and in spite of the smell – I try my friend’s andouillette. It takes liberal quantities of the accompanying mustard sauce to choke down the mouthful. My own pistachio-infused sausage with new potatoes is way more palatable, although the presentation reminds me of my grandparents’ “meat and potatoes” approach to cooking. The standout is the pâté en croûte, like a giant pork pie with a jelly made from port, cognac and cherry liqueur.

For dessert I order an iced souffle infused with Chartreuse. It’s wonderfully rich, but I can’t really tell the difference between an iced souffle and a very decadent ice-cream.
Pâté en croûte: €17.50. Bouchon rating: 7.5/10

This is the only old town bouchon I try, and there are far more tourists in here than any of the others. Unusually, there’s a vegetarian option; the ravioles, miniature ravioli in a vermouth cream sauce, are baked and topped with copious amounts of melted cheese.

Looking forward to a pig trotter-free meal, I order it, but am promptly told off by the owner. It’s only there so groups don’t have to leave the veggie at home, he says. So I double up, and order an oxtail macaroni gratin with foie gras, which is the house speciality – and infinitely more flavourful. I follow it up with a sticky pink praline tart with praline ice-cream that is so sweet it almost makes my teeth hurt.
Oxtail macaroni gratin: €30. Bouchon rating: 7/10

Chez Hugon

This pint-sized bouchon is owned and run by Fatima Zerrouki (in the kitchen) and Paola de Almeida Rocha (front of house), the fourth generation of women to run it. There is a short set menu, which helps with my indecisiveness, and I start with chicken liver pâté, sprinkled with hazelnuts and gherkins to add a little crunch.

Next up is poulet au vinaigre, the largest chicken leg I’ve ever seen, served in a sauté pan. The sauce is pure indulgence, made with vinegar, tomato pulp, heaps of onions and garlic, white wine and cream – and after eating it I finally understand why Michelin inspectors put Lyon’s bouchons on a pedestal a century ago. If I had the choice between this poulet au vinaigre and my mum’s Sunday roast, I’d choose the former. Sorry mum.
Two-course set menu: €30. Bouchon rating: 9/10