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In our previous adventure, your editor had just reunited with his companions, waiting in de bureau of our French B-and-B.

I entered the office and met Phillipe and Anne-Marie who own the wonderful bed-and-breakfast where we stayed in Beaune.  

They've secured a perfect location just on the outskirts of the "old town" area.  Their property boasts a huge private garden and picnic area and a fully stocked wine cellar.  We had just arrived on the overnight train and had toted our luggage a mile across town (It turns out your editor's .7 mile estimate was incorrect).  We were tired and hungry, but Phillipe and Anne-Marie, being two of the nicest people I've ever met, put us at ease.  We relaxed a bit while they got us checked in.  They showed us to our rooms, demonstrated all the amenities.  And, of course, showed us where to come back later that evening for a private tasting of their wines.....everyone in Burgundy makes wine, dear reader....everyone.  

Although it's their primary income source, running the bed and breakfast is just a day job.  Every job in Burgundy is a day job.....but the real art is the wine and it seems everyone we met, from our cab driver to the handyman at the B-and-B is actually a winemaker at heart.  

Back to our tale:  Phillipe, thankfully, took out a map and showed us where the better restaurants in town were located...but he then issued a stern warning:  once they close for lunch, you can't get anything to eat in old town until dinner.....and you'd better make a reservation before they close for the afternoon.   Fortunately for our grumbling stomachs,  he also pointed out a few small cafes (not considered true restaurants to the French) that do stay open during the late afternoon hours.

Phillip and Anne-Marie were singlehandedly disproving everything I'd ever heard about the French being "aloof" or "rude."  I would wholeheartedly trust them to take care of anyone.  I simply cannot recommend them enough.  If you ever travel to Beaune, here's the info about their Bed and Breakfast.

As he handed me the keys to our room, just as we were leaving the little office, Phillipe said, "I will come to your room in a moment with zee wheefee."

"Ah, yes, the wheefee.  Thank you." we responded, not wanting to seem ignorant.  What in the blazes is a "wheefee?"

We had travelled to Burgundy for the wine.  Phillipe was a self-admitted wine-maker.  Your wine loving editor was sure that "wheefee" had its root in the word "whif."  Yes, this truly must be some wonderful French device to assist one in assessing the odor of a fine wine.  Indeed, I left de bureau sure that we needed the "wheefee" for the promised wine tasting with Phillipe later that evening.  So I looked forward to my receiving my very first French wheefee.

We arrived in our room and began to unpack.  I had forgotten about all about the "wheefee" when someone knocked on the door.

It was Phillipe.  "Here is zee wheefee as I promised."  He handed me a piece of paper.

It had nothing but letters and numbers written on it.  I looked at Phillipe blankly.  Perhaps it's a private code to access wine cellar?

"It is zee wheefee" he said, a bit exasperated, "Wheefee code!"  He pointed at my laptop.  "you know, for zee computor?  Your wife said you needed to work while you stayed wiz us."  WiFi!

"Thanks" I muttered.  Damn, I thought, now I have no excuse not to work.

I still prefer my definition of wheefee.  

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Jackpot:  The wine cellar at Jardins de Lois