In Burgundy, the best lunch of our lives was not where we expected it to be

first person

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The brass door handle of La Dilettante was dead cold. Partly because it was January in Burgundy and partly because no one had touched it all day. On a small chalkboard hanging in the bistro’s window, the word fermé greeted us.

“Are you [expletive] kidding me?” my husband’s jugular rose from his neck like a humpback coming up for air.

Generally speaking, he is a reasonable man. A lawyer by trade, he can keep cool when most would falter. But a closed sign on a restaurant that was, according to the internet, supposed to be open? An injustice worthy of litigation.

I felt bad for him. He’d spent weeks researching restaurants for our trip and