A Little Dijon on the Side

It turned out I was the only visitor for the last tour of the day. The guide -- young and somewhat bored -- led me through a door, and up we climbed 316 steps on a tightly spiraling staircase before arriving on a terrace that looked out in all directions over the city.

The rain had stopped temporarily, and from this vantage I could take in many of the details that give Dijon its distinctive feel -- the Flemish-style roof patterns made from brightly colored ceramic tiles, the Gothic church steeples, and the ornate gargoyles and towers of the 13th-century Notre Dame Cathedral.

Dijon is still known as the city of 100 church bell towers, which in this day is more than a slight exaggeration. The French Revolution, after all, helped greatly reduce the number of church spires. I asked the guide about how many were left. "Treize," he said, suppressing a yawn. Thirteen.

Dijon's most famous ringing tower was in full view -- the landmark clock known as Jacquemart atop Notre Dame. Originally a 14th-century war spoil from Kortrijk (Belgium), the pipe-smoking Jacquemart character in his floppy hat was given a bride, Jacqueline, to join him in the 17th century. When the clock failed to strike in the early 18th century, a poet warned that this was a bad sign for the couple. People began to talk. A son, Jacquelinet, was added to strike the half-hours, and in the 19th, a daughter, Jacquelinette, was made to strike the quarter-hours.

Royal Treatment

It was becoming clear to me that Dijon may be too big to be a village, but is certainly too provincial and quirky to feel like a city. And that can be a good thing.

That evening I dined at Les Oenophiles, a gastronomic restaurant with stone walls and lamps made from wine presses that is none of the things I expect from fine big-city dining. It was not stuffy, nor pretentious, and certainly wasn't hip. It simply was.

I will cut right to my appetizer -- a typically Burgundian dish of parslied ham. The waiter placed the plate down, filled my glass from a half-bottle of red Burgundy, then said in French without a hint of attitude, "Monsieur, I would like to wish you an excellent appétit ." And then he disappeared.

We all have our restaurant service stories peopled with servers the world over who are obnoxious, overly attentive, too familiar or too whatever. In my experience, outside of France's major cities and A-list tourist destinations, there remains in the country a level of restaurant professionalism unparalleled in the Western world. In Dijon and Burgundy in general and in Les Oenophiles in particular, I found examples of what service should be.

The main course was another Burgundian specialty -- beef cheeks in an almost black wine sauce. It came to the table covered with one of those silver service domes. A different waiter lifted the dome and, voila , stood back as the steam and aromas drifted upward. He wished me a bonne continuation . (" Excellente continuation" would have probably been a bit too much.)

This course was followed by my selection of cheeses from an ample cart that ended in Epoisses , Burgundy's legendary stinky cheese. Epoisses is a soft-centered cheese usually made from cow's milk with a rind washed in marc, the French equivalent of grappa. American foodies go crazy for it -- probably because the real stuff is unpasteurized and hence banned from import to the United States. I have lived in France five years, and this was my first Epoisses experience. This particular example lived up to its rep, smelling and tasting as it did like one very old, wet coat.

As luck would have it, by the time I was ready to leave from dinner, the rain had stopped. For whatever reason -- the bliss of a fine meal and wine or being nearly smothered by fromage , I left the borrowed umbrella at the restaurant. The upside was that this would give me a perfectly good reason to return.

The Dukes of Burgundy

The next day I headed back to the ducal palace -- the part that houses Dijon's art museum. I marched through many grand halls added to the palace over hundreds of years. They were filled with centuries of painting and sculpture, from Renaissance Italian and Flemish painters to French court painters and impressionists.