Lyon: lust betrayed, as perhaps lust should be….

Day one in Lyon, we got there towards the end of lunch time and, worried about our chances if we went out, we ate at the bistro attached to our hotel: Le Silk, which has no website that I can see. We had traditional French dishes: tartare and fish with vegetables. Generous serves, prices ok. We decided to go back in the evening as we weren’t hungry enough to have a full scale meal in a restaurant and the weather was lousy. Plus I could satisfy a craving that I can’t explain.

I’d noticed club sandwich on the menu with a warning that it took 20 minutes to prepare. The thought was irresistible. Apparently I talk of club sandwiches with the same lust that the average man might summon up for a blonde at the bar. Lust? Club sandwich?

Put like that, I had to confess it was true. I don’t understand the origin of this lust, but it is undeniably there. I can only suppose that some time in my life long ago I ate a perfect club sandwich with the best fries at a divine five star hotel and it is etched into my subconscious ever since. I can’t consciously summon up this experience, but clearly it is there somewhere. Probably when my dementia gets a bit worse it will be a memory unlocked that I talk about constantly whilst forgetting ever to eat any more.

The theory was that we would share a Caesar salad and a club sandwich and then I could stop obsessing about the idea. In practice we got a really REALLY disappointing meal. The Caesar salad was mediocre. And the club sandwich wasn’t even properly hot – shouldn’t it be hot? I imagined hot. I imagined it would have hot egg in it, for example, whereas the egg was cold. And the bacon wasn’t in the sandwich, it was a garnish on top, 2 strips of it.

I don’t know where I stand now on the whole subject of the club sandwich. My lust was completely and utterly unsatisfied. But I feel shy of trying the whole thing again. I feel like the guy at the bar who risked a lot to get his leg over with the blonde only to find that it just wasn’t worth it. What did I risk? Well, the opportunity cost of my embarrassingly uncontrolled desire was a proper French meal. As I keep saying lately in these post: another time….


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