Finally, we arrived in Y-ville, drove down a quaint, unassuming road, and parked in front of this rather modest-looking restaurant. Across from it there was this field, which contains a small vegetable garden. We were theorizing that the F.L. people grow some ingredients there; I suppose it's possible.


Here three of us are, grinning like idiots.


The sign is pretty much the only way you can tell what kind of establishment you're walking into. Otherwise, I would have guessed it was a Mexican-American War Re-enactment Society or something of the kind.


We walked around to the side of the restaurant, where there was a small courtyard and a cluster of small buildings--the restaurant itself, the kitchen (or was that an extension of the main building?), and the wine cellar. I wanted to walk around the courtyard for a few moments, but one of the staff must have been peeping through the window and waiting for people to arrive, because the hostess opened the door and invited us inside right away.

We followed the hostess upstairs, past a very small, very classy anteroom, and to our table. Our table was in a small side-room containing one table of four (ours) and two tables of two.

Here is the fancy napkin with its napkin-holder (I'm sure there's some kind of pretentious French name for it). This was for keeping. The restaurant's phone number is helpfully printed in back, you know, for last-minute reservations or something.


And here's the unspoilt bread-plate with a bread/butter knife: