Restaurant Le Yéti sur Saint-Leger-Les-Melezes

14/09/2026: I'm sitting at the foot of the slopes with a coffee. After the cold and wind of the past few days, not a breath of air. Olympian calm. Before me, it's not really the mountain that commands attention. It's the forest. Dense, deep, incredibly green. It blankets the slopes, embraces the runs, climbs wherever it can. A few traces of the resort appear among the trees: a run, a lift, a few pieces of equipment. But today, everything seems to have slowed down. Summer is still here, bright and peaceful. And I wonder if the mountain doesn't know that time is irrelevant. We're the ones who give it importance. In winter, we ski down the slopes. In summer, we hike up. And today, I'm doing neither. I'm just here. I'm letting time take its course. I couldn't get lunch (remember to book!), but the tiramisu was wonderful, and the aroma of coffee wafted around me. Inside, someone I met through writing was running between the tables. Last service, the final rush. Outside, I stared into the void. But a void bursting with life. With green. With silence. With cowbells. Right in front of me: about ten cows. They have plenty of space. They could choose their own little patch of mountain, live their lives as independent cows, graze at a respectable distance from their fellows. But no. They're all together. They barely move. They chew, sometimes swish their tails to shoo away flies, and their bells tinkle softly. A gathering. A committee. A co-ownership, perhaps. And that's it. Or perhaps absolutely nothing is happening. Which, on reflection, is a very tempting possibility. And in the sky, it's a grand parade. Paragliders floating without a compass, gliders gliding silently, small planes passing overhead, and up there, very high, a jet crosses the blue sky, very fast, with people watching a movie. The plane has an emergency. The mountain has none. Everyone has their own rhythm. The paragliders circle, float. The gliders glide. The small planes pass by. The jet speeds by. The cows stay together. The writer runs between the tables. And me, I do nothing. Well, almost nothing. I watch. For an hour and a half, I'm here. The coffee is there. The bells are ringing. And maybe that's what I like. Time doesn't care about me. I have nothing to ask of it either. No hike to complete. No performance. No philosophy to invent. Just a pause. A real one. The kind of place where you do nothing, and yet something happens. You watch. You listen. You breathe. You smell the grass, the soft air. And something else, hard to name. A feeling of completeness, perhaps. You hear the cowbells. You watch the sails. And suddenly, I find it magnificent. The forest is there, immense. The trails disappear among the trees. The sky is blue. And I have nothing to do but watch. Perhaps that, ultimately, is the ultimate luxury: having this whole forest before you, a spoonful of tiramisu, the smell of coffee, and doing absolutely nothing. Just being there. I watch the cows for a while longer. They don't move. Neither do I. For once, everyone has perfectly understood the plan. And then I finally get up. I have to go back to the world where people have things to do. I go pay for my tiramisu and my coffee. I say I'll be back. In winter, this time. To see the same place differently. With a bit of snow, I hope. The slopes bustling, the forest transformed, a different light. And above all, because this time, I'll make a reservation. Because tiramisu is all well and good. But after watching the plates go by and hearing about the cuisine during this hour and a half, I'm definitely keen to come back and discover other flavors. So yes. A truly wonderful break. And, clearly, not the last.

30/08/2026: We came 10 years ago and nothing has changed. Great experience, very warm welcome. The owner is very friendly. We enjoyed a delicious meal at a very reasonable price, featuring local products. Quick service and a pleasant atmosphere. I recommend this restaurant.