I’ve never seen my toddler happier. Charlie is soaked from toe to neck. The carnation yellow rain jacket he’s wearing is serving no purpose. We’re In Dijon, France at the Place de la Libération, more specifically, at the fountain in the middle of the square. When Charlie first saw the water jetting from the tiled ground he was hesitant, timidly reaching out his hand to touch the streams. Ten minutes later he’s strutting over the jets, water gushing directly into the crotch of his corduroy overalls. My husband Carl and I are cackling in delight. Charlie’s grandparents sit on a nearby bench actively pretending they don’t know us.
Our time in Burgundy was sprinkled with small moments of delight.
We arrived in the rain. In addition to the tiny trio of Carl, Charlie, and myself, Carl’s parents (Nana and Pap Pap) were with us. While waiting to check into our Airbnb we played cards under a cafe awning sipping hot chocolate and coffee while the slow, cozy rain dripped behind us. Charlie napped in his stroller tucked into a blanket. Teddy bear beside him.
When he woke we walked to the Cathédrale Saint-Bénigne, an imposing 13th century Gothic church. In an attempt to be respectful we carried Charlie in our arms to prevent him from running amok. The resulting photos of him giggling in our hands, tiny top knot on his head, knave behind him, are beloved.
We checked into our Airbnb then made the short walk into the city’s old town, which manages to look both old and peppy. The stone buildings have aged to a scrambled egg yellow and the half timbered houses have a lovely, leany wonk to them. The buildings are only a few stories tall. Streets are winding. It’s intimate.
Before dinner we stopped by the fromagerie Le Chalet Comtois. While the United States is very grocery superstore focused for one-stop shopping, France loves its specialized shops. It’s still common to make separate stops for cheese, meat, bread, and produce to get the highest quality items and engage with the local community. The tiny Le Chalet Comtois had a queue inside that reached the door. Nana and Pap Pap pushed Charlie outside in his stroller so that Carl and I could hop in line.
The queue is for personalized service. I don’t think it’s possible to self-help. When it’s our turn, we’re paired with a blue eyed man with perfectly shaggy brown hair. We ask if he speaks English and are met with a cheeky smile and a reply of “The cheese speaks English”. After telling him we’re in the market for a bleu and a buttery soft cheese he recommends a few options including a cheese labeled “100 jour”, translating to “100 day” which I read aloud as “100 year cheese”. Our dreamy cheese man got a chuckle out of that. Not the best on my part, but I’d been doing Duolingo for like, 20 days prior to our shop visit.
In total we spent 15 euros for a considerable amount of cheese that lasted 3 days between 4 adults and one toddler. And that toddler put down cheese. At home in Pittsburgh, this haul would’ve been twice as much and half as good.
At 6:30PM I’m starving. This is when I learned the hard truth: Restaurants in Dijon don’t open for dinner until 7PM. A confused Google Maps tells us everything is open, but restaurants close for a few hours after lunch service, a detail left off of websites that’s unbeknownst to our Google overlord. Hangriness sets in after a few failed attempts to find a spot. To stave off a bad mood brought on by low blood sugar we do something that’s guaranteed to bring joy — Take Charlie to the merry-go-round in the town center. It’s his first time on a merry-go-round and he’s in love. Carl takes him into a small trolley car nestled between horses and for a few minutes Charlie is transfixed.
I catch brief vignettes of this scene as the ride goes on. For a moment Charlie spins by and I catch him frantically and gleefully turning the toy steering wheel. On the next whirl I see Carl looking at Charlie with a soft smile and so much love that my whole body tingles.
If a merry-go-round jaunt could be an accessible and everyday solution to hanger or stress I’d be a much calmer person.
This ride took us to restaurant opening time and we headed straight to Cafe de Forges, a lovely little cafe with tiled floors and bistro tables. As we questioned whether it would be Charlie-friendly a well dressed, stout and cheery Frenchwoman walked out and told us they’re a regular here and the food is wonderful. We asked if it’s ok for children and she responded saying they love children. I don’t know who this woman is or what her motives are, but I’m sold.
We’re given a seat at the window and eat what I consider to be the best meal of our ten days in France. Nana, Pap Pap, and I each ordered escargot to start, while Carl opted for the burgundy egg, a regional dish of a poached egg swimming in a hearty, red wine based meurette sauce. For mains we had trout with olive potato confit, beef carpaccio, and pork with eggplant confit. This was all accompanied by a very nice bottle of, what else, burgundy. Everything was stunning.
Charlie was a tiny little dream at dinner. He sat politely in his high chair and ate mostly baguette, but was willing to try escargot. If ever he got fussy we’d take him across the street into the quiet plaza at the Archives Municipales de Dijon where he could run freely over cobblestones, surrounded by a gorgeous centuries old building. One of the things about France that boggles my mind is the abundance of beauty and history becoming commonplace. “Oh that? That’s just a 16th century mansion in the heart of Paris whose stone facade holds cannonballs from the French revolution. There’s a hedge maze and public garden in the back, but we don’t go there because the next block over has a really good matcha cafe”.
For dinner that evening Charlie wore his fanciest outfit, a sage green linen set that looks impressive, but is mercifully textured, hiding a multitude of wrinkles and the dozens of stains it accrued on our trip. He looked like a tiny prince playing in the empty plaza. A green dot among the aged and yellowing stone.
In the morning we grabbed pastries from Au Pain de Mon Grand-Père and walked to Jardin Darcy, a nineteenth century neo-renaissance garden just outside of the old town. Charlie got his very own hazelnut croissant and we had the pleasure of watching him absolutely beast on it while he sat comfortably snuggled in his stroller.
After de-crumbing, Charlie spent the morning exploring the garden. He climbed the balustraded fountain stairs, hobnobbed with some local children in the playground, and followed the winding pathways to wherever they led. The only difficulties were keeping him from grabbing a very plush looking tiger stuffie from an unattended stroller and trying to keep him from noticing the park’s merry-go-round which was closed for the morning in preparation for a children’s birthday party.
There are times in adulthood where I get a pang of envy for a childhood experience I never had. Seeing a table decorated with peonies and pony place settings next to a small carousel and concession stand, all shaded beneath the trees, I’m having such a moment. The party looks like something out of a book I would’ve repeatedly checked out of the library as a child. A gold four foot tall sign covered in balloons surrounding the name “Maya” tells me the name of the girl living the dream on her sixth birthday.
At nap time Charlie and grandparents went to bed, leaving Carl and I free to peruse local shops and collect bits and bobs for dinner. In lieu of a restaurant we decided to stay in and have a “small foods” dinner. Essentially a smorgasbord of bread, cheese, tomatoes, salad, fruit, spreads, and any other no-prep item that catches our fancy, we coined this term a decade before “girl dinner” lit up the internet, and it’s since become a weeknight staple.
It would be an affront to come all the way to Dijon without trying its namesake mustard, and the mustarderie La Moutarderie Fallot is our first stop. Edmond Fallot mustard is made in the next town over of Beaune from a mill that’s been independent and family owned since the 19th century. Small batch mustard made from local Burgundy seeds is a rarity these days, and most dijon is actually made from Canadian mustard seeds.
We went into the boutique mustard shop thinking this would be a quick grab and go operation. Instead, there are walls of mustard varieties. There’s the standard traditional dijon, and then there’s flavors like blackcurrant, tarragon, green pepper, and pinot noir. We opted for the Burgundy wine variety since it seemed regional and not too niche. I had to practically shield my eyes to get out of there without buying a dozen mustards and vinegars that I’d have to cart around for another three weeks throughout Europe. My mom would’ve spent hours here buying up armloads of mustard that would inevitably go uneaten or gifted as stocking stuffers until they’re well past their expiration date.
Next up was Mulot & Petitjean. This brand has been baking up gingerbread in Dijon since the turn of the 18th century. Gingerbread was a booming industry in Burgundy, with a dozen gingerbread houses in Dijon alone during the 20th century. Today, Mulot & Petitjean is the last surviving factory in Dijon. Like the mustard shop, I went into the gingerbread joint thinking “how many kinds of gingerbread can there be?” The answer is, a lot. Carl and I become paralyzed with indecision after five minutes. Do we want a pack of miniature gingerbreads called “nonettes”? Fig and honey bread? Blueberry? Caramel salted butter? Time is ticking and we want to stop at the Tartin’art Boulangerie next door before it closes, so Carl heads next door while I make the final purchase.
I settled for a loaf of the classic honey gingerbread, figuring that would be about as traditional as it gets. Outside I found Carl wandering around holding two baguettes. He’d intended to get just one, but with the boulangerie closing in a few minutes and only a few baguettes left, they offered him the full stash for the price of one.
On the way back to the apartment we stopped at Notre Dame church in the old city to locate the famous stone owl carved into the church. Local lore has it that if you stroke the owl’s face with your left hand and make a wish, the bird will make it come true. Over 300 years its face has been smoothed down by visitors so that all identifiable owl features have been worn away and it now looks half-man, half-duck. This little figure has become Dijon’s mascot. The tourist trail throughout the old town is dubbed the “owl trail” and the church is located on “Rue de la Chouette”, or “Owl street”. Carl and I each take a turn rubbing its knobby face and make a wish.
For a post-nap activity we walked to the Arquebuse Botanical Garden where Charlie had a run-about the grounds. It rained on and off during our garden jaunt. Charlie was undeterred. The theme of our Burgundy visit was quickly becoming “it rained, but was lovely”.
Our dinner spread that night was the cheese trio from Le Chalet Comtois, mustard and baguette alongside salad, tomatoes, and strawberries. We opened a bottle of burgundy, and dove in. Charlie made a significant dent in the cheese, particularly the double cream which was so soft and creamy it was not far off from eating straight butter. The Moutarde de Bourgogne mustard was incredibly horseradishy and potent. I’d mentally prepare myself for a wee bit of eye watering each time I took a bite, but couldn’t stop eating it. An addictive kind of pain.
Dessert was gingerbread. The only letdown. Everyone took a piece and no one finished theirs. You know dessert isn’t great when a toddler refuses it. We agreed it tasted stale and over the coming days the bread sat abandoned on the counter, only to be thrown out.
We took an early morning jaunt to Place de la Liberation in old city, the main city square that looks onto the Palace of the Dukes of Burgundy. The square and palace facade were designed by Jules Hardouin-Mansart, the royal architect for King Louis XIV, who also designed the iconic Palace of Versailles. The palace facade is regal and elegant and now houses Dijon’s city hall and museum of fine art. However, I was here for what’s outside in the square: jetted fountains built directly into the yellowed limestone floor.
Charlie was suspicious of the fountains at first, never having seen anything like them. Like a good toddler he looked at Carl and I for approval before engaging. We nodded and put our hands in the stream of water to show him the fountains were in bounds. He shyly reached out, touched the water, pulled back, tried again, then it clicked. Within a few minutes he’s walking across the jets, water geysering right into his crotch. Nana and Pap Pap want nothing to do with this. They sit on a far bench looking in every direction except Charlie’s, like they’re trying to avoid eye contact with a distant acquaintance standing across the street.
It was a slightly chilly May morning and I’ll admit that corduroy overalls and cowboy boots probably weren’t the best outfit for this venture, but the visual of our boy playing in the fountain is so endeared to me I painted a watercolor illustration of the scene that now proudly hangs on our wall.
Lunch was at Gril’Laure. Carl’s mom spotted this place within an hour of arriving in Dijon. She liked the look of it, gave a shout that she’d be back in a moment, then ran inside. We stood across the street for five minutes, luggage in hand, not entirely sure what was happening. When she emerged she let us know we had a noon lunch reservation in two days.
Inside were white tablecloths, heavy upholstered seats, and a massive wood burning pizza oven. It reminded me of an American steakhouse where the decor is weighty, with burgundies and mahoganies meant to prepare the diner for eating too much red meat and guzzling too much red wine. Our lunch that day was appropriately rich given the environment. Over two courses I had foie gras and sweetbreads in a morel sauce while Carl ordered a terrine and duck in a cassis sauce. Charlie ate…baguette. At this point in the trip he was subsisting primarily off of white bread and fruit and veggie puree packets we pulled from the diaper bag in moments of need. He could make it through ~90 minutes of a meal, or two courses without issue, but when Nana and Pap Pap started talking about dessert we decided to train to the nearby town of Beaune (pronounced bone), or suffer the toddler meltdown a 2+ hour meal brings.
The twenty minute train ride dropped us outside the old city, requiring a meandering walk around the town’s city wall that dates back to the 12th-16th centuries. We entered the old city at a passageway shaded in massive trees where ivy crawled throughout the worn stones. Tres medieval.
For it being a Monday in May the streets were more congested than I’d expected. Our group was stuffed from lunch and had no need to stop into a restaurant or cafe, but we still managed some gelato. Charlie loved the cassis, fitting, since creme de cassis was first produced in burgundy and is a regional specialty. Our slow wander took us to the Basilique Notre Dame de Beaune which very quickly served as our shelter for a hail storm.
We waited outside under the cathedral’s gothic porch for the storm to pass. Charlie explored the exterior while we listened to the thundering rain and hail, watching it move in waves across the stone streets. It was a warm spring day and we had nowhere to be. There are worse places to be than here.
On the train back to Dijon Charlie rested peacefully on Carl’s chest. I sat watching the French countryside blur outside the window and breathed primarily in sighs. Back in Dijon children played in piles of hail that had pooled on the uneven old city streets.
Dinner was unfussy — Rice and curry at Bangkok Factory, finished off with a load of mango sticky rice. After putting Charlie down Carl and I went out for a quick post-dinner beer while Nana and Pap Pap cozied up in the apartment. He and I sat outside at a cafe in the leaf strewn Émile Zola square and watched the city’s college students drinking, smoking, and laughing into the night.
In the morning Carl strapped Charlie into the carrier and the three of us made an early jaunt to Les Halles Market to grab breakfast. The hugely popular indoor market has limited hours and is closed on Sundays, Mondays, and Wednesdays. With a half day wine tasting ahead of us for the day, 7:30AM was the only time we could visit.
Most stalls were still empty this early, but we wandered around taking in the gorgeous light filled space. Vendors were starting to set up shop, placing out blue veined wheels of cheese and speckled terrines. If the market had been open earlier in the week I would’ve happily parted with too much money for our small foods feast and would’ve likely been unable to resist breaking for an aperitif, oysters, and some people watching at the small bar in the market’s center.
Unable to put down pate and shellfish for breakfast, we turned our sights to a tempting assortment of pastries and fruit from a silver haired vendor. The shopper in front of us, a small, sixty-something man, almost cleared the stand of local strawberries, stowing them in his canvas market bag. It’s always a good idea to buy what the locals buy and we were lucky to grab one of the remaining pints of jewel red berries, as well as an almond croissant, oranais aux abricots (apricot pastry), pomme tarte, and a gougeres (a cheese puff pastry that originates from Burgundy).
Charlie munched the croissant on the walk back, continuing his crusade of chomping his way through all the butter and flour in the region. Back at the apartment the adults supplemented our wares with what was left of the cheese in the fridge, because unlike foie gras, I am able to house double cream cheese before nine.
We met our wine tasting guide Joachim at 9:30. German-born, he’d been living in France for decades and looked like a local. He was tall, sinewy, white haired, and chambray-clad, with a resting smile developed from working in the tourist industry. A trio of retired women from Arizona completed our small group, and we all clambered into the van then drove into the countryside.
The level of trust we put into complete strangers in foreign places when they tell us to get into an unmarked white van always strikes me as incredibly naive. After driving for thirty minutes Joachim pulled off the road next to a vineyard and instructed the group to get out, directing everyone onto the grass. Suspicious. Instead of making us dig our own graves he kicked off a monologue on Burgundy’s soil, climate, preferred grapes, etc. I caught only the first ten minutes. Charlie began squirming like a bag of snakes so I took him for a walkabout and he was content to plop down and play in the tall grass under the pillowy clouds.
Joachim put everyone’s newfound grape education to use in the village of Gevrey-Chambertin. With a population under 3,000, the town boasts dozens of wineries and nine Grand Cru vineyards. In Burgundy, every vineyard is classified into a quality hierarchy, with Grand Cru being the top tier.
Our group was taken to Phillip LeClerc for a tasting of five wines, including their Grand Cru golden child. The space itself was heavy and eclectic. I was surrounded by dark woods, exposed stone, knobby ceiling beams, and an assortment of decor that included grandfather clocks, carved chairs, and taxidermied animals. Classy, no. Curious, certainly.
Joachim talked his way through the wines, and what I’d call a heckling from the Arizonians who’d apparently deemed themselves sommeliers. He’d offer an opinion or pose a question to the group and one of the trio would invariably offer an interjection.
Joaquim: Can you taste the notes of currant? That’s common in..
Them: No. I get black cherries.
Joaquim: This wine was aged for three years in oak barrels. Notice the…
Them: At Alcantara winery at home they age theirs longer.
It was like watching Statler and Waldorf taste wine from their muppet balcony. Everything warranted an opinion. None were helpful. Most critical.
Years ago we’d eaten a small group dinner at our riad in Morocco where one of the guests was a retired woman from Arizona and I remember how this fact quickly became their personality. They interacted with the dinner group in a very similar manner to these women.
Dinner guest: I like how the medina is a bit of a maze. It feels..
Her: It’s too tight for me. I’m from the Verde Valley and need space.
Dinner guest: What a hot day. The sun was scorching.
Her: This is nothing. The heat is worse in Sedona.
After this tasting the mere thought of a seventy-something Arizonian heightens my anxiety levels. Luckily, after twenty minutes Joachim started to heckle back. Charlie ate slices of baguette during all of this from his front row seat in Carl’s carrier.
That evening Carl and I went on a pre-dinner cocktail date while the grandparents watched Charlie. Today, May 21st, was our wedding anniversary. The two of us usually remember our anniversary half way through the day (often reminded by my mom’s celebratory texts) and consistently forget how many years we’ve been married. I’m reminded it’s been six years after a quick confirmation from Google Photos shows we eloped in 2019.
To celebrate we went to the cocktail lounge Monsieur Moutarde. The space was inviting, if a bit too on trend with its mint green walls, velvet furniture, and shelves filled with books stacked page-out, rather than spine-out (the latter being a decor choice that always irks me). Carl ordered an egg white cocktail and I drank a kir, a cocktail first created in Dijon at the turn of the 20th century consisting of creme de cassis and crémant. We played cards and reminisced about our married years together, including eloping in Joshua Tree, Covid, and having Charlie. Our relationship has been many things. Adventurous. Stressful. Loving. Trying. Never boring.
Cheers to many more anniversaries in surprising places. Charlie (and now little Marlow!) along for the ride.
american-alchemist 