Dinner in France is special. From the process of procuring a recommendation, to obtaining a reservation, to the greeting extended by the maitre d’hotel on arrival, through the perusal of the menu and the service, up until the moment of parting – the French do it better and more naturally than anyone else. Tonight was no exception. Baffled by internal clocks six hours out of phase and a sleepless trans-Atlantic crossing, we really had no clue what we wanted to do about dinner, let alone where we should be doing it.

After the obligatory recommendation of the hotel’s own restaurant (which, by the way, is excellent), the concierge recommended we try Dubern, a short stroll from the Grand Hotel de Bordeaux where we are ensconced at the present time. He offered to make our reservation, and we accepted with a sense of relief. (The human male’s facility, or lack thereof, with the virtually sacred language of Rousseau, Napolean, and Jerry Lewis returns to its somewhat suspect baseline only after the first week – and we were barely off the plane.) The afternoon drizzle had given way to a wonderful soft evening as we set out, umbrella at the ready but not immediately deployed. As advertised, the restaurant was easy to find and looked positively pleasant with comfortable tables in a room whose simplicity belied its elegance.

The host greeted us as welcome guests (contrasting nicely with our earlier TSA experience) and despite the unfashionably early hour didn’t allow his demeanor to show even the remotest inkling of horror. He actually smiled at the notion that our bio-clocks thought it was a late lunch in the offing, and reminded us that traditionally the big meal of the day was eaten at midday. He took Milady’s jacket, my umbrella and handed us a menu and carte du van, promising to return and translate as necessary.

Dubern is actually two restaurants in one. There is a Michelin one-star “gastronmique”, but there is also a lovely bistro out front. As far as I could tell, the menu we were handed and the accompanying wine list contain the same offerings – they share the same cellar, kitchen and apparently the same wait staff. We ordered a lovely 2006 St. Estephe cru bourgeouise which arrived even as we were discussing the rest of the meal. The wine was smooth, not really tannic, what we have learned the French call “feminine”. It was complex, a nice balance of fruit and acid, with a bit of cedar on the nose. Very easy to drink, and exactly the right poultice to apply to our wounded psyches. (For a complete account, see my Facebook post on the indignities Milady suffered at the hands of the TSA in New York.)

My meal commenced with nine (count ’em, 9) fresh large local oysters. They were remarkably deep-shelled and wonderfully sweet and perfectly briny with a salt tang. Milady indulged her passion for white asparagus, puff pastry, and snails with gusto. Unexpectedly, the puff pastry was a crispy rolled tube containing several stalks. The tube, deliciously wrapped in bacon, was bedded on watercress. The snails were walking in a line across the greens, almost like little ducklings following their mother across the park. The entire assemblage was gently draped with a sauce Maltaise.

I chose the filet de boeuf Islay, and was delighted. A lovely bavette had been marinated in Islay malt whisky and grilled. Ordered “saignant” it arrived as ordered – medium rare, with an accompanyment of exquisitely grilled vegetables. The vegetables were fresh and presumably local; a carrot, a stalk of fennel, two leeks, and triangular lengths of cucumber and squash. It was heavenly. Milady had one of her favorite finny fish – John Dory. The fish was gently grilled and bedded on more white asparagus, then topped with a perfect Mornay. I could see the tension of travel melt from Milady’s visage as she took her first bite.

Best of all, dinner concluded with a shared “tarte de citron” and mojito sorbet. The coolness of the mint a perfect contrast to the sweet sharpness of the lemon. We strolled back to the Grande Hotel more complete, physically, psychically and spiritually than when we had left our abode more than two hours earlier.