The capital of Burgundy is visitor-friendly, its compact historical center chock-a-block with parks and plazas, splendid architecture, and good food. On a weekend visit last month, I was fortunate to have sunny days, and at times it seemed I had the place mostly to myself for two days of museum-hopping and meandering the medieval streets.
Jacquemart, the figure of a man with a hammer, began striking the bell of the church clock in A century later, the citizens of Dijon gave him a female companion. A hundred years after that, the couple was given a son, Jacquelinet, who strikes the half-hours. In the late nineteenth century, a daughter, Jacquelinette, began striking the quarter-hours. The busy family is still at it. I arrived too late to take in the bustle of Saturday buying and selling, but could admire the building.
I tried a nearby restaurant. The meal provided two of the best, and absolutely the very worst, taste sensations of my time in Burgundy. To start, a sturdy crab-meat gazpacho, made with sun-dried tomatoes, had a pleasing earthy kick.
It was served in a trendy bar glass, on a slab of black slate sprinkled with paprika—fun to look at and a delight to eat. The main course of perfectly spiced and grilled prawns and scallops came with a daunting-but-tasty mound of young leaf lettuce—and a gloppy raspberry-flavored risotto topped with mustard sprouts, glue-like with no discernible rice grains!
The dish bore no resemblance to the sublime strawberry risotto that piqued my taste buds in Florence a couple of months ago. Note to self: You are in France. Go with it. Save my name, email, and website in this browser for the next time I comment. This site uses Akismet to reduce spam.
