A Taste of Normandy: History and Hospitality on Riviera’s “Gastronomy of the Seine”
The name alone promised a moveable feast — Gastronomy of the Seine. I pictured a week of culinary immersion: Normandy’s butter-rich sauces, its fabled cheeses, its Calvados warming the heart like a Norman hearth fire. In truth, the cuisine played a quieter role than I expected. But what Riviera Travel’s Jane Austen delivered instead was something deeper — a taste of Normandy itself, history and humanity served up in equal measure.
To start, the ship was a dream. I don’t think I’ve ever slept better — though perhaps the Calvados deserves partial credit. The cabins are elegant, the lounge civilized, and the mostly Eastern European crew struck that perfect Riviera balance of warmth and efficiency. By the second night, I was on a first-name basis with the bar staff and several passengers, a cosmopolitan mix of Americans and Brits who bonded as naturally as dinner companions at a long, convivial table.
Les Andelys: Apples, Cider, and the Lionheart’s Shadow
On Normandy backroads, Riviera’s tour buses glide like silk through the green patchwork countryside, where apple orchards and half-timbered farmhouses look plucked straight from an Impressionist canvas. It’s an easy place to fall into reverie — and a hard one to stay jaded in.
Our first stop set the tone. Les Andelys — a village of soft light and ancient stones — offered Calvados and cider tastings at an organic farm. After the first glass was poured, there it was: Richard the Lionheart’s ruined castle, keeping watch from its limestone perch above the Seine. Normandy, it seemed, was going to make sure that history came first and gastronomy, however delicious, would have to wait its turn.
Still, it’s hard to complain when your glass is full of amber brandy that tastes faintly of apples and memory.
Rouen: Julia Child to the Rescue
Rouen wasn’t meant to be one of the gastronomic highlights of the cruise, but I planned to make it one. While most of my fellow passengers set off on the guided walking tour, I opted for a pilgrimage of my own — one with beurre at the end of it.
Rouen is, after all, the city where Julia Child first fell in love with French cuisine. I wandered its narrow streets, pausing at pastry counters glistening with fruit tarts and boulangeries redolent of yeast and sugar, past stalls piled high with cheeses so fragrant they practically introduced themselves. The sensory overload was pure Normandy — lush, unapologetic, and gloriously edible.
Eventually, I arrived at La Couronne, the restaurant where Julia had her life-changing lunch. Up a creaky staircase, around a narrow bend, and there she was — Julia herself, smiling from a portrait so vivid I could almost hear her booming “Bon Appétit!” The dining room looked much as it must have when she first saw it: crisp white linens, waiters in long aprons, and that unmistakable scent of butter meeting shallots.
Scenes from La Couronne in Rouen, including its historic exterior, a portrait of Julia Child, and dishes served at the restaurant: oysters, Sole Meunière, and a Grand Marnier soufflé. Credits: Monte Mathews
Lunch was simple, perfectly executed, and deeply satisfying — a reminder that true gastronomy doesn’t need spectacle, only sincerity. It was, I thought, what Gastronomy of the Seine should always have been about: food with a sense of place, prepared by people who love it.
When I returned to Jane Austen that afternoon, the galley seemed newly inspired. Julia, I like to think, had worked her magic again.
Normandy Beaches and Bayeux: Bread, Memory, and the Sea
The next morning, the Seine gave way to open countryside — a landscape softened by light and story. You can’t come to Normandy without feeling the weight of history pressing gently on your shoulder. Riviera’s excursions handled this with grace: the beaches, the cemeteries, the hushed respect that lingers in every gust of Channel wind.
By midday, our group unfolded into Bayeux, a town whose modest scale belies its significance. The cathedral of Notre-Dame stands like a patient sentinel, once home to the Bayeux Tapestry — that thousand-year-old comic strip of conquest now on loan to the British. Around its cobblestone lanes, the air smells of butter and sea salt, the two foundations of Norman cooking.
Lunch, alas, arrived boxed — proof that even the best-organized tours can falter when faced with the logistics of feeding a busload of pilgrims. So I did what curiosity demanded: I went in search of my own sustenance.
And that’s how I found myself face-to-face with a plate of whelks — the modest sea snails that are a Normandy staple. They came simply presented: glistening in their shells, accompanied by a small pot of homemade mayonnaise and a wedge of lemon. I hesitated, as any sensible person might. Then curiosity won out.
The first bite was briny and firm, the second faintly sweet, and by the third I realized I was eating not so much for flavor as for the story. The whelks were a taste of the real Normandy — rugged, enduring, and unapologetically local. They demanded you meet them on their own terms.
Honfleur: Pancakes, Pilgrims, and a Saint’s Golden Finger
No itinerary through Normandy would be complete without Honfleur — and Riviera, to its credit, made sure we didn’t miss it. France’s most visited coastal town draws five million admirers a year, outpacing even the hallowed Mont-Saint-Michel. Once you arrive, it’s easy to see why. The Vieux Bassin — the old harbor — looks like an oil painting come to life, its slate-fronted houses reflecting in the still water just as they did for Boudin, Courbet, and a young Monet.
For me, Honfleur also carries a personal resonance. For a Canadian, there’s a small thrill — a patriotic flutter, even — standing where Samuel de Champlain launched his voyage that would one day lead to Quebec. That alone made the visit vaut le voyage.
Culinarily, Honfleur finally gave the “Gastronomy of the Seine” a most satisfying pairing: crêpes and cider. The combination may sound humble, but there’s a particular joy in the ritual — the thin, buttery pancakes, the fizzing sweetness of cidre brut poured into rustic bowls. For those preferring sobriety, there’s always jus de pommes, but honestly, what’s the point?
And as if butter, apples, and history weren’t enough, Honfleur offers one more marvel: a touch of the miraculous. In the Church of Saint-Léonard rests a golden reliquary containing the finger of Saint Thérèse of Lisieux, Normandy’s own Little Flower. Local lore holds that she once interceded to save the young Édith Piaf, who in gratitude was later buried with the saint’s picture beside her. It’s an unexpected intersection of faith and chanson — equal parts reverent and surreal, and somehow perfectly French.
Giverny and Vernon: A Painter’s Garden and the Versailles of Normandy
By the time we reached Giverny, Normandy seemed intent on showing off. It was late in the year, and yet Monet’s gardens were still very much alive — dahlias bursting like fireworks, roses still bravely unfurling, the water lilies refusing to concede that summer had ended. The light had that pearly softness unique to the Seine Valley, the kind that seems to dissolve edges and blur reality until you feel you’ve wandered straight into one of the artist’s canvases.
There was no “gastronomy” on offer here — unless you count the visual feast. But honestly, what could compete with the sight of that green Japanese bridge mirrored in its own reflection? It was nourishment of another kind, proof that a place can still feed you even when no meal is served.
From there we continued to Vernon and the nearby Palais de Bizy—a splendid 18th-century residence once dubbed “the Versailles of Normandy”—Riviera arranged what was meant to be a grand finale: a tasting of local cheeses, cider, and a slice of apple tart. The house itself was magnificent, but its hosts had succumbed to a seasonal whimsy that felt more theme-park than palace. Cobwebs, pumpkins, and plastic skeletons draped over gilt mirrors—Halloween had staged a coup d’état.
Still, the Camembert was creamy, the cider crisp, and the apple tart redeemed the afternoon. If nothing else, it reminded me that in Normandy, even ghosts know their way around butter.
A view of the grounds at the Palais de Bizy in Vernon and a wheel of Norman cheese presented during a tasting. Credits: Monte Mathews.
Aboard Jane Austen: The Galley Hits Its Stride
Back on board, Jane Austen seemed to take a collective breath. After a week of apple orchards and abbeys, of cider and cathedrals, the ship felt like a sanctuary. Riviera’s onboard life has a rhythm all its own: civilized, unhurried, quietly elegant. The crew couldn’t have been more gracious, anticipating needs before they were spoken. Friendships deepened easily, the conversations flowing as smoothly as the Seine itself.
If the earlier days of the voyage hadn’t exactly lived up to the “Gastronomy” billing, the final evening more than made amends. The galley, at last, hit its stride. The farewell dinner was served with unmistakable pride—plates arriving with polish, wines chosen with care, and that lovely Riviera touch of genuine hospitality.
Dinner began with Smoked Duck Prosciutto and Porcini Cappuccino and a Crispy Crab Cake followed by a choice of two entrees – Herb-infused Filet Mignon or Wild Forest Mushrooms Wellington–all beautifully prepared, both served with a confidence that had been quietly building all week. There was laughter, a few misty farewells, and that unmistakable glow that comes when a voyage, like a good meal, has found its rhythm.
As we sailed toward Paris that night…
I thought back to where this journey began and Julia Child’s ghost smiling down from her perch in Rouen. In the morning, I would return to her adopted city, to its brasseries and boulevards, and to my own private pilgrimage: L’Entrecôte, where I planned to make up for any missed morsels with a plate of steak frites bathed in that legendary green sauce.
It seemed only right. After all, Julia’s first meal in France was Sole Meunière—and I’ve written about that moment myself on Chewing The Fat. Mine, on this voyage, would end with another classic: the secret sauce of L’Entrecôte, which I finally managed to decode for my readers.
Between those two plates—Julia’s and mine—lies the whole delicious reason we travel: to chase flavor, to gather stories, and to remember that even when the food doesn’t always meet the fantasy, the experience can still be utterly unforgettable.
Final Reflections: The Last Taste of the Seine
In the end, Riviera’s Jane Austen proved that a river cruise needn’t rely solely on what’s on the plate to be deeply satisfying. It’s about what unfolds beyond the galley doors — the warmth of a crew who remember your favorite wine, the easy camaraderie between travelers from both sides of the Atlantic, and the way the light along the Seine softens everything it touches. Normandy, with its fields and orchards, its saints and storytellers, leaves its mark quietly but indelibly.
And so the voyage that began with Julia Child in Rouen ended with L’Entrecôte in Paris — two meals, sixty years apart, both reminding me why I fell in love with France in the first place. For all its culinary surprises The Gastronomy of the Seine offered what every traveler ultimately craves: a sense of belonging, of being exactly where you’re meant to be, fork in hand, savoring the moment.
To read more about MS Jane Austen’s Gastronomy of the Seine Cruise, go to www.chewingthefat.us.com Monte Mathews Food Blog.
