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He also seems unconcerned about the vegetarian craze sweeping the Western world, so much so that a veggie-loving friend to whom we recommended the restaurant was bitterly disappointed.

Ducloux is almost 80 and we had expected him to be somewhat diminished since our last visit. But as we trooped in we saw that he looked exactly the same as he always had, with shockingly black hair à la Ronald Reagan. He was even dressed in the same outfit we had always seen him wear: black clogs, dark pants and a white apron and toque. He was sporting his giant, Elton John-lookalike glasses, with thick black rims and tinted lenses. This time, though, he had a hearing aid behind one ear, the only sign of his 79 years.

Ducloux gave us the same slow yet breathless greeting we'd received each time we came. He pretended to remember us. How could he possibly recognize diners like us, I wondered, people who come only once in a long while? Thousands have patronized his restaurant over the last 52 years, from local wine makers to movie stars and politicos.

No matter. He pretended to know who we were, shook our hands and inquired after our health and that of our children (we have none). He seemed authentically delighted to hand us over to the maitre d' and the brigade of longtime, white-suited waiters that milled around. They outnumbered the guests: It was a rainy day, midweek, and we were early.

We'd reserved not in our own names but merely as "the hikers." That was because we were in the area to indulge our favorite sport: country walks. Mostly we'd wanted to excuse ourselves in advance for showing up at a luxurious, two-star restaurant wearing muddy clothes and hiking boots.

"Don't worry" the man with the Spanish accent who answered the phone had said. "Mud doesn't matter."

He turned out to be the same friendly Spanish waiter in starched whites who had served us over the years. He sat us at the same table we'd had at least twice, near the giant fireplace. Written across the chimney piece was the legend "Vinum bonum laetificat cor hominum." Even with high-school Latin I had figured that one out: "Good wine fills man's heart with joy."

I could see that it also filled woman's heart with joy. My wife and I sipped glasses of dry white Beaujolais -- nothing nouveau or pink about it -- and crunched on the delicious goujon cheese puffs set out to keep us occupied while we studied the menu. It was a menu we knew well.

Several tables filled up with French provincials, the men in natty suits or blue blazers, the women wearing tailleurs. A young couple hid behind a giant bouquet of flowers; by their antics we guessed they were on their honeymoon. We hid our hiking boots under the long white tablecloth and looked back on the mock-1700s dining room -- rough plaster walls, faux roof beams, flagstone floors -- built against the authentically ancient ramparts. There was the telltale bulge of the defensive tower and a hole where a cannon once sat.

Hanging on the walls were dark oil paintings, presumably in the style of Jean-Baptiste Greuze or at least intended to evoke him. The heavy, upholstered chairs had a mock-medieval look, as did the faux stained-glass windows.

Everything was the same as it had always been, an antique fantasyland. And I found that wonderfully comforting.

In a fit of nostalgia my wife ordered the quenelle de brochet pike dumplings, on which Jean-Baptiste Greuze was probably weaned, if not Louis XV or earlier kings. I went for the chicken liver terrine with foie gras à l'ancienne -- possibly a favorite of Saint Philibert himself, if not Augustus Cesar, who stopped by Tournus in 52 B.C. on the way to the battle of Alésia, where he defeated the Gauls.

As second courses, my wife ordered jugged hare, a medieval treat, and I opted for Charolais beef in pinot noir wine sauce. The beef was practically a modern dish; it couldn't have been around for more than a thousand years, I estimated, unless Saint Philibert's monks had also been cattle ranchers.

We spent the next two hours or so savoring the luscious, pre-modern richness of these dishes, watching the waiters perform their theatrical tricks, catching snatches of conversation from other tables about wine, cattle and real estate. Southern Burgundy is what people call la France Profonde -- deep, rural France. The region itself exists in a time warp and Greuze is the tunnel in its center.

Our Spanish waiter followed his boss's example and also pretended to remember us. He probably does that with everyone, we figured, but he pulled it off so skillfully that we were flattered. It was like visiting a card reader. He remembered that we came through the area regularly (we'd mentioned that on the telephone), that we loved wine (he could see that from the way we were swilling it) and that we liked to hike (our boots told all).

"Didn't Madame order this the last time you came?" he guessed as he wheeled a silver cart over and flourished a silver platter and serving tool. "Or was it the time before that?" Indeed, it was the last time: Statistical chance had won out again.

He sliced two slabs of the chicken liver pâté I'd ordered and lifted them from a huge white serving dish. It was enough for three, but was all for me.

The pike dumplings, napped with a lobster sauce, were orange-hued grenades bursting with the flavor of fish, shellfish and cayenne pepper. One would've been enough but my wife got, and devoured, several.

Midway through our meal Ducloux had already worked the rest of the dining room and decided to join us at our table. He waved his hands like a true thespian and told us his life story (again).

Next page | Two Michelin stars -- but why not a third?