Dinner in the diner / Nothing could be finer.
When Mack Gordon and Harry Warren wrote those lines for “Chattanooga Choo-Choo”-back in the ’40s and long before Amtrak and the microwave oven-they expressed a universally accepted truth that today has become a universally unfulfilled longing. The thought struck me one afternoon during a hectic month of riding the rails in Europe. After three weeks out there, the stations had blurred into a single generic travel machine filled with backpackers, hustlers, ticket-window bureaucrats and trinket vendors.
That afternoon I had boarded a train to somewhere, and across the platform, on another track, I saw something quite rare in my experience-a restaurant car. The windows glowed with warm light. An attendant had placed a vase of flowers on each crisp-tableclothed table. A lone passenger occupied one of them, a young woman sipping a cocktail and writing postcards.
Scribbling away in the shadows, she could have been a Nighthawk, free at last from the depressing glare of an Edward Hopper diner and ready for the pleasures of the real thing. At least that’s the way I romanticized the tableau.
My own train, I knew, lacked any such possibility. I could expect an attendant pushing a cart loaded with tasteless $6 ham sandwiches and $2 packets of brackish instant-coffee mix. Or I might find a snack bar provisioned with nitrites in all shapes and colors. On overnight runs, typically, there would be no food at all. The tiny crossed knife and fork denoting a full-service restauration du voyage had not been printed on my schedule.
This paucity of railroad menus seemed a particular affront in France, where I racked up most of my mileage. Of any people in the world, the French should appreciate that specific link between long journeys and the cravings they engender, both libidinous and gustatory. Napoleon’s army traveled on its stomach; modern railroad passengers, even in France, usually must serve as their own mess sergeants.
A tip sheet printed on the Eurail map that came with my ticket said nothing at all about nourishment. And as if to prepare passengers for the short supply of dining facilities in the days ahead, Eurail brochures strongly suggest “picnics” on the train. What fun-gorging on the pate, cheese, sausage, seafood, bread, fruit and wine we’d surely find in local markets!
That method proved rewarding on a couple of occasions, but it entailed shopping, which in Europe, with its amusing exchange rates, involves a lot of calculator-punching and a reluctant bye-bye to the more exquisite but outrageously expensive creations of the boulanger, confiseur and patissier. At those prices, I want bread and confections heaped upon a silver tray passed by a waiter . . . on a dining car.
Besides, “picnic” to me means inconvenience, and a picnic on a train is inconvenience compounded. A bottle of Burgundy, a baguette, a wheel of Camembert . . . add it all up, and you’ve packed a serious piece of baggage to lug with all other encumbrances up stairs and through aisles. The thought of debarking later on burdened by leftovers encourages overeating, on the theory that a load in the gut is easier to trundle than a grocery sack.
The foldout tables in the average train compartment are barely adequate to hold a small plate of canapes, which means getting crumbs on the cushions and squeezing bottles between the knees. And then we must consider social niceties: Compartments in first class hold six passengers. A couple dining in splendor might feel compelled to share with the strangers who occupy the other seats, leading to a whole catalog of awkwardnesses and multiplying the mess.
Some French terminals do provide a wide range of dining facilities-another hint, perhaps, that one should stoke up before the train leaves.
Fearing that I might never encounter a full-fledged dining car, I indulged one afternoon in a sumptuous lunch with a friend in the fabled Train Bleu restaurant, which dominates one end of the Gare de Lyon in Paris. That was more heavenly than even the gilded cherubs on the mirrored rococo walls might suggest. With its carved paneling, massive chandeliers, huge paintings, obsequious servers and substantial menu, Train Bleu whisks its customers back to the 1920s, when its lavish coaches, operated by Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-Lits (the Pullman of Europe), plied southern France, departing from the magnificent Belle Epoque-style Gare de Lyon.
Train Bleu, the restaurant, tries to maintain the classical standards, and we showed it the proper respect by wearing jackets and ties. The grand staircase swooping from the platform area to the dining rooms would seem to indicate that the proprietors expect nothing less, although we observed plenty of shorts and open shirts when we arrived-one more sign that dress codes no longer necessarily fall into synch with imposing architecture.
But our attire probably did command a bit more deference from the staff as we stumbled through the menu. A legend on the blue and white bread plate informed us, intimidatingly, that we were dining in a “classe monument historique.” Although Train Bleu rates no stars in the Guide Michelin, it does earn a mention as a “very comfortable” choice, and if one looked up from the slightly burnt toast that came with the foie gras, the dazzling array of murals (all with bleu skies) by the likes of Billotte, Flameng, DeBufe and Saint-Pierre easily atoned for the faux pas.
Our food-duck and veal entrees with all the appropriate sauces, vegetables, salads, wines and desserts-was, to be delicate about it, supremely filling. We bade a fond but dry-eyed farewell to $150 and considered that Le Train Bleu, with its impressive ambience, more than made up for its lapses in the kitchen. This wasn’t a traveling day for either of us, so we could linger over digestifs and pity the herds below us, passengers who had nothing better to anticipate than a snack on the TGV-the trains de grande vitesse-that hurl people down to Lyon at speeds in excess of 130 miles per hour. Apparently, the French now prefer a two-hour trip without much food to a leisurely journey with time for six courses. In that context, the meaning of the word “fast” takes on a new dimension.
TGVs do have their advantages. I once caught a morning train-of-great-speed in the Lyon Part-Dieu station and found myself seated with several men and women dressed for the Paris business day. Lyon-Paris is now a popular but breakfast-deficient commute. The early birds are limited to what they can forage out of a buffet car-perhaps a croissant and coffee. At other meal times, attendants do serve lunch or dinner at your seat, I’m told, and the major difference from airline food is that the passenger pays extra. Tray tables are part of the deal, but the ones I saw that morning mostly were serving as desks.
Again, it’s best to stock up. Lyon Part-Dieu is a newish terminal (the city boasts two major ones), and its main floor has been crammed with dining possibilities. At that early hour, only a bar-cafe with coffee and rolls had yet opened. Restaurant L’Imperiale obviously harbors Train Bleu ambitions, judging by a Menu Affaire posted outside the locked door. For 160 francs, including a bottle of local wine, one might order a filet grille au sauce au poivre or quenelle sauce Mantua or cotes d’agneau grillees or St. Jacques a l’Indienne avec pates fraiches, or the chef’s special. Included in the price is a cascade de desserts.
The other food outlets failed to offer a cascade of anything, but the variety was impressive. A sign at La Galaxie cafe offered terrace seating (the French, bless them, will put an outdoor cafe anywhere, diesel fumes be damned). The Cafe Brasserie menu brandished fixed-price seafood dinners for 60 francs and meat dishes from 52 to 72 francs.
And of course there were versions of the ubiquitous Croq’Voyage counters that appear at most major terminals in France. Since a croq-monsieur is a toasted ham and cheese, I deduced that Croq’Voyage means something like “a toasted sandwich for your journey.” But those cheerful white deli cases with their bright-eyed, green-aproned servers actually did put forth a tempting selection-toasted sandwiches or cold ones, fresh fruit, jolly pastries, beer, half-bottles of decent wine and coffee from the urn. I came to depend upon them when more elaborate picnics were out of the question.
Near the end of my travels, my schedule and a dining car came together at the Gare du Nord in Paris, and I boarded a French train bound for Amsterdam. The car coupled to mine was resplendent with rose tablecloths and flower vases. One young woman occupied it-an employee in a matching rose blouse and black skirt. I walked through the car, anticipating the delights that awaited me and savoring at last a space free of compartments and train seats and all the other confining paraphernalia that clutter up ordinary cars.
The place hadn’t opened yet, and her frown tried to discourage my tour, but I made it to the far end, where I saw a cubicle swathed in stainless steel and counters laden with identical plates of hors d’oeuvres that obviously had been assembled somewhere other than this stoveless “kitchen.”
Fighting back disappointment-not a chef in sight!-my seatmate and I made a reservation for the afternoon meal. If lunch was coming off an assembly line, at least it would be ending up in an attractive setting.
Signs posted in some French trains imply how the feeding system works: “Catering is in the capable hands of companies selected for their know-how and service.” One of those companies, I learned, was Servair, a subsidiary of Air France, a foreshadowing if ever there was one.
Another caterer, however, was Wagons-Lits, a proud name in European railroading since 1883, when its dark blue dining cars began rolling under the proud imprimatur: Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-Lits et des Grands Express Europeens. “Wagons-Lits” technically means “railroad cars with beds,” a radical concept in the 19th Century until somebody figured out that trains bearing ambassadors, counts, tycoons and opera stars on long-distance itineraries-such as the Paris-to-Constantinople Orient Express-naturally should be outfitted to resemble the finest Paris hotels.
Railroad historians salivated over the atmosphere and the dinners available in those pink-silk and gilt Wagons-Lits dining cars of the past: vintage champagne for the aperitif, foie gras, smoked salmon, fillets of beef with artichoke hearts, chicken with prune stuffing or a chicken casserole as only a turn-of-the century French chef could make it, fresh fillet of sole, liqueur-marinated fruit, a silver tray of cheese and, for dessert, the signature Wagons-Lits bombe glacee.
Wagons-Lits, which got out of the railroad car business some 30 years ago but still handles food service, would be our host on the Paris-Amsterdam run. As we rolled through French farmland, the attendant brought us a coupe d’accueil, a sort of welcoming cup of delicious punch with a strong aftertaste of papaya and not a touch of alcohol.
The pink menu on our table was as non-committal and non-descriptive as the list of daily specials in a high school cafeteria: salade gourmande, le plat du jour ou la grillade du jour, plateau de fromages, patisserie, cafe, carre de chocolat. But then, those generalizations would hardly challenge anyone’s high school French, either, and only the meanest waiter would answer the obvious question, “What is the plat du jour?” by snapping, “It’s the dish of the day.”
Our waiter was a strapping blond man with a glint of mischief behind his glasses and a tuxedo obviously inherited from Hercule Poirot. He handled the whole car by himself, a task that might have tested his humor if all 10 tables for four had been filled, but picnickers obviously had cut into the attendance. The pace of service allowed us just enough time to study the decor: white and yellow flowers (some wilted) in the vases, mirrors between the windows with built-in glass sconces, steel slats across the ceiling. Not grandeur, exactly, but not the Bagdad Cafe either.
Food arrived on white china-a smooth and savory pate, a colorful array of raw vegetables, fresh hard rolls, chilled beef slices with endive. My grillade du jour turned out to be a chewy but flavorful beef filet lashed with fake grille marks reminiscent of airline entrees-accompanied by overcooked green beans and potato au gratin (both of which also smacked of cuisine d’aviation). My companion ordered an anonymous sort of white fish slab, boneless but not quite tasteless, with a good saffron sauce and wild rice. Both went as well as could be expected with the 37.5 centiliter bottle of 1989 Listrec Medoc at 60 francs (about $11 at the time). Frequent fliers would feel right at home with today’s Wagons-Lits.
The plateau de fromages arrived with a bit more flair and slightly less standardization. The tray looked to be silver, and the waiter displayed the cheeses with a touch of drama, slicing the Camembert, brie, chevre and Swiss into precise wedges and offering a variety of breads that had evidently seen an oven within the past 24 hours. Next came a choice of tarts and coffee accompanied by a chocolate mint, packets of sugar and (genuine) cream.
The charming blue cups held nearly as much as American mugs, a pleasant surprise after weeks of European espresso thimbles, and they featured saucers that were permanently attached-no fooling around with wet bottoms or wondering how to gracefully pour back slopover or contending with saucers that stick until the cup is halfway to the lip. Built-in saucers, to me, stand near the peak of culinary genius.
I suppose that in the days of the old Orient Express, dining tabs may have been included with the fare or billed discreetly. In the Wagons-Lits of 1993, the smiling waiter comes around with a bulky change purse and a portable credit-card device. With an ingratiating smirk, he hit us up for 512 francs, about $95, circa the summer of ’93.
It was worth the damage, considering I had at last demystified for myself the grand European dining car. We had filled ourselves beside a constantly changing panorama no permanently anchored restaurant could match. However bland, train food in Europe cannot dilute the excitement; miles pass by the forkful. Destinations draw nearer with each new course. If this is coffee, it must be Belgium. Few things could be finer than that.
