Perhaps getting tipsy isn’t the best preamble to visiting a former Cistercian and Benedictine monastery.
Regardless, I use what remains of the afternoon to venture around to the western shore of the lake to see Hautecombe Abbey, which juts into the water from a narrow promontory. For centuries, this was where the counts and dukes of the House of Savoy were buried, until the French took the region over in 1792. In the mid-1800s, a Pied- montese architect rebuilt the tumbledown abbey in an exuberant faux-medieval style; the result is a fairytale castle that manages to be both ersatz and evocative at the same time.
Back at Le Bourget-du-Lac is another historical site: a priory with rambling gardens that extend to the wetlands on the lake’s southern reaches. My favorite spot, however, is the village’s small beach, which is filled with laughter and hollers as teenagers, bold with the bravado of youth, taunt each other into doing backflips off the old lifeguard stand. Lying on the grass, I can see a solitary raptor circling in the thermals, while down on the lake’s surface, clouds of midges and dragonflies hunt for quarry of their own. Although appearing bluey-gray from a distance (a hue that has earned it the nickname Lac Gris), up close, the lake is crystal clear, right down to its pebbly bed. The water is warm and eminently swimmable—just the thing to work up an appetite.
There’s just enough time to squeeze in one more Michelin-starred meal before I leave, and the choice is easy, as chef Gilles Blonay’s La Grange à Sel, which occupies an ivy-draped stone barn built in the 17th century to store salt, is closed for renovations. So instead I head to Auberge Lamartine, not 50 meters from La Bateau Ivre where I had my first meal. Named for the poet who waxed lyrical about Bourget’s gloaming glades, it’s the largest and most crowded of the three restaurants I’ve visited, with a terrace overhung with pine trees and filled with well-dressed patrons.
By now, I’m accustomed to the drill. Course after course of immaculate dishes is brought before me: artisan breads; amuse-bouches of melon, ham, foie gras, and olives; an emulsion of bacon with crostini; saddle of rabbit with red-wine jus and shallots. Just as I’m feeling faint at the thought of more food, the waiter brings out a familiar-looking fillet of fish.
“Oui madam, brought by Monsieur Parpillon this morning.”
“Lavaret?” I ask.
