Ten miles eastward is another hill town, Avallon, with Romanesque treasures of its own. The ramparts of this ancient stronghold are still standing. Its houses bulge with old towers, and its steep-roofed clock tower stands just as it did in the fifteenth century. Few portals in this world can approach the splendor and richness of those on the south façade of the Church of St. Lazare. Avallon offers a handsome aesthetic reward indeed. It may seem a trifle gauche to mention mere transitory Burgundian food in the same paragraph with ageless Romanesque carving, but in the present instance it doesn’t seem irreverent. For here is a genuine citadel of fine cooking, probably the very best in Burgundy at the present time. They just can’t cook badly in Avallon, and you will be well dined wherever you turn.
But Avallon’s noble Hôtel de la Poste is an experience! It is famed throughout the countryside as one of the few remaining shrines of la grande cuisine. Guide books triple-star it, and gourmets make lengthy detours to include it in their itinerary. This venerable hostelry dates from 1707 and right at the moment is at its epicurean peak, due to the skill and lofty standards of Monsieur Huré, its proprietor. The fine dishes of Burgundy are all here, including such particular favorites as jambon chaud á la chablisienne and poulet au gratin. The wine cellar possesses aged treasures from great years or fresh young vins du pays to act as a foil for these exquisite dishes. You wouldn’t expect such fare to be cheap, and it isn’t, but if you are accustomed to just the average New York restaurant check, you will probably be startled at the fairness of your addition.
But the epicurean portrait of Avallon is not yet complete. On its outskirts are two other temples of good Burgundian fare which merit your confidence. One is the Relais Fleuri at La Cerce, a pleasant little spot three miles east of Avallon. The other is a joyous auberge in the Vallée du Cousin, two miles or so west of the town. This is called the Moulin des Ruats, and it is a bit more festive, picturesque, and exotic than other Burgundian inns. It is presided over by a gracious lady named Madame Berthier, whose son is the chef. This neighborhood is beribboned with small streams which provide trout and crayfish for the artistry of this gifted cook. You may find, however, that the subtlest fascination of the place is its clientèle. If you like to play guessing games on the subject of which guests have taken marriage vows and which have not, this may enthrall you.
Just as a child will put aside the frosting on his cake, so our most toothsome morsel has been saved for the last. This is Chablis, a name that everybody knows, but a town that comparatively few have ever visited. You won’t be sorry for the detour to Chablis, if only for the Hôtel Etoile, a country hotel you’ll never forget. The village is not particularly enticing except during the vendange when the streets are animated with purple-stained carts and pretty, full-hipped young grape-pickers. The doors of the wine cellars are open then, and you can hear the creaking of the old oak presses and smell the haunting, fruity odor of newly pressed Pinot Chardonnay. The wines of Chablis are a chapter in themselves, for another day, but the Hôtel Etoile must have a few words.
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