Bar Restaurant au Jardin: "Bar Restaurant au Jardin" Rennes-le-Château Restaurant Tip by Kaspian
Rennes-le-Château Restaurants: 1 reviews and 3 photos
I don't know if it's the thin air up here from the high altitude, the generally bizarre atmosphere of Rennes-le-Chateau, or what, but after touring "Sauniere's Domain", I really need to sit down, have a drink, and maybe something to eat because I'm feeling a little bit faint. My travel companion, Lynn, and I decide on a patio place, "Bar Restaurant au Jardin", so we can relax outside and enjoy the weather on this perfect summer day. ...And so she can get some sun. (It's been a rainy year in England and I've learned that, like drug-addicted fiends, the British will seek and soak up solar rays at every possible opportunity.)
The waiter hands me a menu and without really looking at it, I decide on the kitschy-tourist options--a bottle of "Abbaye" beer and the "Templar Platter". Lynn also orders herself a bottle of Abbaye.
It doesn't take long for the food and drink to arrive and I'm thrilled with the platter--tomatoes with mozzarella, lots of bread, fresh salmon slices, beets, coleslaw, and a generous helping of couscous. "Wow, that looks nice doesn't it? Very healthy!," Lynn remarks. I set about making delicious mini sandwiches with all the ingredients.
An elderly gentleman with snow white hair and matching beard calmly sits down at the table next to us, carefully removes a laptop computer from its case, adjusts his spectacles and green safari jacket, and is greeted warmly by the waiters. He's joined shortly by three well-dressed middle-aged people--two men and a woman, and they begin an animated conversation in French.
"That," I whisper, pointing nonchalantly with my fork, "is Henry Lincoln." "Who?," Lynn asks. "You know, the author of the book 'Holy Blood, Holy Grail' that you brought with you? ...He also wrote some 'Doctor Who' episodes." Lynn looks at me as though I've finally lost whatever marbles were left in my head. She glances at the man, then back at me, and repeats the motion several times over while I eat. "No way, you think?," she asks, "That would be a really weird coincidence!" "There's no such thing as coincidence in Rennes-le-Chateau," I say matter-of-factly, repeating a mantra I'd read many times.
Having finished my massive Templar lunch and paid our bill, I walk over to the adjacent table. Although I feel bad about interrupting the conversation, I have to be sure about this so I ask the man in French, "Excuse me, you're not Henry Lincoln, are you?" His bright blue eyes gaze straight up at mine and he replies with bluster, "I'm not? That's interesting. Very well then, I am not Henry Lincoln!" At this point, a brief, unspoken eye-locked mental battle ensues. I know that I am defeated as far as intelligence and quick wit goes, but he realizes that I have the upperhand because I've correctly ID'ed him yet he doesn't know me from Adam. I'm also well aware that this guy loves attention. I decide on something diplomatic yet sly in response, "Very well then, you are Henry Lincoln! ...Or is this another one of your Rennes mysteries?" He shifts his gaze down toward the table top and hangs his head, "Guilty," he answers (in French). Overhearing this confirmation, Lynn comes bounding over to the table to introduce herself. The sight of the tanned, young lady perks Henry right up--his posture becomes straight, a trace of a smile cracks his facade, and he lights a cigarette. Ah, cleavage always makes things easier. We ask if we can have our photo taken with him and he obliges, pretending all the while that it's an annoying hassle yet somehow unable to conceal pleasure with his own notoriety. Witnessing our photo session, other tourists begin to crowd around to shake Lincoln's hand and have photos taken with him and I begin to feel sort of bad for having exposed him in the first place. We say "thank you," and walk off toward the restaurant exit. Suddenly, I crack my head extremely hard on the concrete door frame. The world flashes in blue, green and yellow spots and I have to sit down on the curb. I touch a finger to a spot in my hair and it comes back covered with drops of blood. "You're shaking!," Lynn gasps, "Look at your hands!" My hands are indeed trembling uncontrollably. It takes a full five minutes to regain my composure, all the while I'm thinking, "This Rennes place is full of the Devil!"
Price Comparison: about average