Food Snob

Julien, it's funny how different our own experiences have been. As mentioned, I have had the most amazing meals at Gagnaire's restaurants when he has been present and forgettable ones whilst he was absent. Conversely, at l'Arpège, I have had just two relatively disappointing meals (not necessarily bad, but just below average) – both of which when Passard was in...although my best meals were cooked by him of course. ‘My’ average here has been tremendous - and that's why I return. That said, I have a friend who feels the opposite = it is always better when Passard is home. (this may be a psychological issue though ) Regarding service, I have had different experiences this time to Roosterchef21. I was actually a little uncomfortable at Gagnaire's. On the hand, I love the staff and service at l'Arpège (I may be biased...). I think Hélène is the best maître(sse) d'hôtel that I have seen, although she probably has the hardest job to do! However, I concede that whilst I find it friendly, easy and intimate, others may think it less polished compared to say l'Ambroisie. Regarding price, I have felt neither overly expensive. I have paid all sorts of prices at l'Arpège, but always thought, whatever the cost, they always made sure it was value for money.

I would go to l'Arpege. Unless Gagnaire happened to be in the kitchen (and ideally cooking for me ), I would find it difficult to even consider visiting one of his restaurants. (Not necessarily intended as a criticism of his chefs, it is just that I believe completely that the meal would be better were he there). P.S. I have never had a great meal at a Ducasse or Robuchon restaurant (or one run by a former pupil of either).

I don't know about in the States, but in the UK and major European cities (Paris, Copenhagen, Berlin that I am aware of), there is a thriving supperclub movement

Hello, Maybe predictably, we returned for dinner that day. Please click here for full commentary + photography: HERE Perhaps we were just lucky, possibly there had been a cancellation or non-arrival…or maybe it had been the expensive bottle of wine we ordered…whatever the reason, before we had finished our lunch, we were assured that a table would be ready for us at dinner. For our second meal, we took the second extended tasting menu - légumes & nature – which obviously focused on vegetables, whilst supplementing to it and changing dishes we had tried already. I will not dwell on repeated items that have been described elsewhere. Amuse Bouche: coques-mouillettes. Entrée 1: le temps de l’été; la lotte juste raidie sur une vinaigrette noire; côtes de blettes, des chicorées…; peucedanum (cadeau). An immaculate ivory morsel of Mediterranean monkfish, merely poached in black olive oil, sat in the plate’s centre fringed with ribbons of grilled red pepper and surrounded by a small pool of the ebony vinaigrette; a blanched rib of chard checked the dressing on one side whilst alabaster and blue borage blossoms, chicory and peucedanum were sprinkled overtop. One of Bras’ proudest creations is his ombre & lumière, shadow & light – this is not that dish, but there exists the same play between black and white here. The pearly piece of fish, served cool (quite fittingly it seemed, set as it was in the dark liquid – the shade), was meaty, pleasantly fibrous and suggestively sweet; it contrasted well against the bittersweet black olive. The accompanying components each added something definite. Fleshy pepper had strong veggy-sweet smokiness; crackly chicory, citric tanginess; peucedanum, touch of pungency; and the borage’s refreshing savour matched the moist, cucumber-like blette. Entrée 2: aujourd’hui « classique »; le gargouillou de jeunes légumes; graines & herbes, lait de poule à la cistre. This was the only dish tried twice. Notice the stark difference in contents and composition from the version eaten just hours earlier. The impact was the same – thorough fixation. Entrée 3: mûrie, comme il se doit; une bonne tomate dite steack à l’olive, des fleurs & des basilics; une touche de poutargue. Half a skinned cross-section of steack tomato, resting in olive oil and in between a bundle of shaved fennel and dried bottarga, was jestingly held straight with sprigs of baby chive; embedded via an incision along the fruit’s top was a flowery bouquet of red and regular basils, tajete, bergamot and violet. Pleasingly light local olive oil from Clermont-l'Hérault, which also featured as a mousse, was complemented by the citrus-tinged flora and crispy fennel. Basil naturally works well with tomato, but although this one was certainly succulent, it was actually quite dull, lacking any real flavour. The bottarga too offered really only crunchy texture and little else. Entrée 4: tout le printemps; un jeune navet, des pousses de pois, des pois avec les champignons de saison; oseille & cresson alénois. Sautéed morels and both yellow and green peas were laid about and over a small baby turnip that stood in the various vegetables’ emulsified cooking juices alongside wilted water spinach, cress, pea sprouts and sorrel leaf. The morels, clumped together by the creaminess of the sauce, might admittedly not have looked especially appetising, but their taste and immediate aroma were excellent. The tender turnip beneath shared a strong nutty note with the mushrooms, as it did a sweet one with the green peas. Jaune pois from Planèze were earthier whilst the water spinach, mild and sorrel, nicely lemony. Entrée 5: la saison des curcubitacées; une courgette fleur grillée et le pâtisson farci; amandes, anchois et huile moussée à la reine-des-près. Celebrating the cucurbitaceous season, an anchovy-chard-stuffed patty pan, topped with grilled, unripe courgette flower, came with the almost-whole actual fruit in an airy reine-des-près foam; peeled almonds and a short streak of orange powder were placed upon the plate’s lip while rau răm had been strewn over most the elements. As it was at lunch, the meadowsweet and almond’s affinity was made advantage of. The juicy, fresh courgette was accompanied by its delicate, unique-tasting blossom; the pâtisson had bite and a filling that was firmly salty yet not overpowering. The orange dust was intensely sugary, but interestingly so. Rau răm or Vietnamese coriander contributed an uplifted lemon scent as well as slightly spice. Entrée 6: dans l’esprit d’un farçi, le poivron doux sweet-banana; sur une vinaigrette au jus de viande; huile de navette en crème, touche d’ail frais. Three bright green banana peppers, abutting the brim of the bowl and partially blanketed with mustard leaf and a mélange of anise herbs, were set in a thin bath of rapeseed oil laced with jus de veau, wherein a roulé de pomme de terre aux anchois was also found whilst a filet of the same fish rested on the rim. The first sensation was the smell of the warm coil of potato – crisply-coated, moist within, the anchovies’ flavour had infused throughout and this was quite an indulgent taster. Garlic-tinted rapeseed oil was flavourful yet smooth and subtle, allowing the sweetness of the supple peppers to come through. The sistre, dill, rocket and chervil had their own peppery-sweetness. A minor complaint was that the fishy strip adjacent had not been sufficiently deboned. Plat Principal 1: d’eau de source; l’omble-chevalier juste raidi à la carotte & la badiane; côte & feuilles de kailan, lait de noisette. Flash-fried freshwater char, coated in carrot and star anise, was served atop kalian, with girolles in hazelnut milk and encircled by mustard and garlic flowers. The fish had nice firmness and fine flake; the liquorice-like badiane and carrot went well with its mild richness and gentle caramelisation. Kailan or Chinese broccoli had mellow, near-sweet leaves whilst the mushrooms and creamy hazelnut froth were a natural combination. Plat Principal 2: chez nous, on l’appelle l’oreille; la pièce de Boeuf Aubrac - pure race - poêlée, une pomme de terre farcie, du jus aux truffes de Comprégnac. A (presumably) tenderloin cut of Aubrac beef, briefly pan-fried, had been butterflied to reveal a beautiful, rosy cerise centre. Sprinkled with fleur de sel, the filet skirted a dark, mottled mere of Comprégnac truffle jus as did some haricots verts and another roulé de pomme de terre, this time lined with the very thin brisket of beef. Once more, the latter is was very tasty and satisfying, its meaty middle having almost melted. The truffle sauce was earthy and just a little sweet whilst the greens, besides being a pretty touch, tendered crunch. The steak, whose cross-slicing left it resembling a pair of ears, was especially tender and had a certain charred-ness to its savour. Dessert 1: sur une interprétation du coulant, originel de 81; le biscuit tiède de chocolat au riz coulant; riz grillé, crème glacée au thé vert Matcha. Dinner’s coulant came inspired by Japan. The chocolate fondant, filled with milky rice cream, sat inset in a rectangular pancake of grilled rice and set with a scoop of green tea ice cream. Once more, the execution was impeccable with the soft shell holding smoothly flowing contents. The herbally bitter matcha had a soothing effect on the richness of the rest whilst the orange sugar added a trace of sweet fruitiness. The rice ‘fritter’ was a delicious touch with its crisp crust encasing grains of creamy rice. Dessert 2: comme là-bas, c’est le temps; qui se mêlent de fruits sec, de canelle, d’anis, de semoule, de miel… Dessert 3: à grignoter, une gaufrette de pomme de terre; crème à la pomme de terre, pignon & safran. Multiple leaves of potato had been baked together into a single, coarse undulating layer; two of these brittle wafers sandwiched potato mousse spiked with pine nuts and saffron. This unconventional millefeuille had unexpected texture (given the firmer pastry) and a flavour more savoury than sweet; well-measured saffron added honey aroma. Mignardises: canailleries; billes chocolatées (chocolat noir réglisse; chocolat blanc sureau), billes glacées (fruits prunes rose; fruit abricots gingembre); canard… crunch. We drank a 1995 Meursault ‘les Rougeots’, JF Coche-Dury and 1997 Hermitage, JL Chave alongside the meal. The ambience was once more superb and delightful. Dinner began with a beautiful lightshow of blended blue and rosy hues as the sun set and ended with the starry-lit stillness of an Aubrac night. The crowd was a little dressier this time and more international too with foreign voices oft overheard. The welcome we received was very warm and we were able to speak at a little length with Véronique Bras, who was even sweeter and friendlier than before. Furthermore, our young serveuse’s knowledge of what she was serving was also rather outstanding. What was especially noticeable about these plates was the effortless way in which they followed each other and again their aesthetic strength. Each was of an excellent standard – easy to eat, full of flavour and well-constructed. The lotte juste raidie, gargouillou and jeune navet were perhaps the tastiest of the selection whilst desserts were better on the whole than at lunch with this Oriental coulant decidedly more pleasing than the Caribbean one prior. In spite of all this though, there was one course that did not do justice to the others: the bonne tomate dite steack. The tomato itself was simply dull and lifeless; this was without doubt the worst dish of the day and the only stain in two otherwise spotlessly executed meals. It seems as if a comparison between the regular and vegetable menus is inevitable and necessary. Personally, even if Bras maybe best known for his vegetables, it was his meat preparations that remain most memorable – along with the gargouillou. The chef himself has said, ‘it hurts me when people say I am a cook of plants’, labelling that image a ‘caricature; it’s only part of what we do’. Nonetheless, the more legume-orientated recipes were still very satisfying and Bras’ ability to raise these (mostly) common greens to such a level was worthy of note. On a larger scale, some of the strongest elements that determined Bras’ style during the first carte were of course still evident. There was the effective, colourful presentation that caught the eye with its lush greens and welcoming yellows so evocative of spring and the countryside outside. The same influence of memoria gustative that speaks so sympathetically to the modern Spanish chefs and Bras’ use of his surroundings as his muse were seen reiterated in the menu’s mainstays – coques-mouillettes, gargouillou and biscuit tiède de chocolat – whilst reinforced by the immediately local Aubrac boeuf and very personal monkfish creation. However, both of these themes have already been addressed. What was new now, which was certainly not felt as keenly before, was the prevalence of foreign products. This whole meal was marbled with hints of the Far East, including such exotic smatterings as rau răm, poivron doux sweet-banana, badiane, kalian and thé vert Matcha. Even though Bras boasts that ‘Aubrac runs in our blood. We were born on the plateau, we spent our happy childhoods here, now we work here. [it] provides us with our inspiration, our reason for living,’ he also readily admits that ‘if we ate only what comes from the Aubrac, we’d have nothing but potatoes, pork and cabbage’. The chef has travelled the world – maybe lately increasing so – but wherever he has been, he has been reminded of his own home: ‘the stone walls of puech brûlat [recall] the architecture of the Andes. The streaks of light across the paddy fields in Indonesia bring back memories of the rows of mown hay in our meadows. In Afghanistan, chiryakh [or in the East, yuba] I liken to our own milk skin. The bentô-ya, from the land of the rising sun, fulfils the same function as our own picnic baskets.’ Bearing this in mind, it becomes easier to understand the unexpected inclusion of these ingredients. After serious contemplation, I would go as far as to say that none of the dishes today wowed me. Probably not even the gargouillou if judged on deliciousness alone (although it was immensely remarkable, unforgettable and in no way disappointing). Although, on the other hand, all the cooking proved almost absolutely flawless and, most importantly, tasty. Yet as I have said before, the Bras experience extends beyond what is upon the plate. There is personality and a sense of place. The cuisine, its concepts, the courses, everything down to the very design of the restaurant is a reflection of Michel Bras. It was as if whilst eating here, I was sure of exactly where I was and I knew that I could not be enjoying this cuisine anywhere else in the world…and that did wow me.

Hello, These are my thoughts on my meal here at the end of June. Please click here for full commentary + photography: HERE Bras [se prononce Braz] – in Laguiole [se prononce læ-jol]. Michel Bras always found it too difficult to leave his native land of Aubrac. Born in Gabriac, he attended grammar school in Espalion before moving to Laguiole, where his parents ran a little restaurant – Lou Mazuc. He has remained there or thereabouts ever since. That might be an understatement. Working away in this ‘isolated desert’ (his words) somewhere in France’s central massif, Michel Bras changed gastronomy. ‘His influence is massive. What he planted seeds for was a culinary revolution,’ asserts David Chang whilst Wiley Dufresne admits, ‘he has been copied by every chef in the world. We've all taken a page out of the Bras book – the smear, the spoon drag, putting food on a plate like it fell off a tree.’ Luc Dubanchet, Omnivore’s founder, goes even further: ‘he's like the godfather of cuisine...the pope. He built his own cuisine...’ To the avante-garde chefs of Spain, he is certainly the most, perhaps the only, revered Frenchman. At just twenty-five, he created a dish – le gargouillou – whose repercussions have been as profound as they have profuse. He, with few others, was the vanguard that paved the way for the New Naturals whose influence grows today. So indeed he did stay in Aubrac, but he also gave the world a reason to come to him. The Bras family came from humble beginnings. His father, Marcel, had found himself unable to support his family as a blacksmith so, together with Michel’s mother, Angèle, he opened a small café; ‘we served workers, that’s all.’ Although it was here he had been taught by his mother how to cook at an early age – he merits her for his sense of taste whilst ‘from my father, I get precision’ – he himself had other aspirations: ‘I dreamed of doing something with chemistry or physics. There lies my true passion.’ Nevertheless, while still studying, both his parents fell ill and, as the eldest of three children, he had to take charge and take over the kitchen. His talent soon became obvious to others as did, to himself, the pleasure he derived from cooking. As already mentioned, Bras was always more compelled to remain at home than to leave it – he never joined the Tour de France or went to work in one of the great kitchens of Paris or elsewhere. Instead of such classique training, he taught himself. He followed his initiative, voraciously reading gastronomic literature (as well as more philosophical stuff by the likes of Saint Augustine, Lamartine and Saint-Exupéry) all the while continuing to learn the local culinary traditions from his mother. Even in those days, rambling woodland paths and strolling through the countryside, he was always gathering, collecting, nibbling and tasting. It was at this same time too that he met Ginette, his future wife and another lover of things natural. By 1979, the couple had taken full control of Lou Mazuc with Michel as the chef and his wife, the sommelier. Their cosy restaurant with barely forty seats was immediately recognised by Michelin and awarded its first star. Eventually, in 1987, they had a second. Here, Bras’ distinctive use of herbs and flowers was already taking shape and his cooking was attracting diners and critics from all over France and even further afield. Still, the two realised that if they were to continue their ascent, they would need a larger, improved space. The place the pair decided on was le Puech de Suquet. In 1992, Architects Eric Raffy and Philippe Villeroux were charged with the ‘realisation of [the Bras’] perfectly mad project’. ‘Wishing to get as close as possible to nature,’ the family chose a spot sitting on the crest of le Suquet’s summit, some four-thousand feet above the plateau beneath and four kilometres from the town. Slowly revealing itself as one approaches, amidst the rolling hills, the reine des prés, gentiane jaune, potentille dorée, violette des Sudètes and sixty or so other flowers and surrounded by the grazing Aubrac cattle noted for their obsidian eyes, their creation is at once a seamless extension of its surroundings whilst simultaneously in violent divergence to them. Concordant with and expressive of his culinary style, the chef wanted the structure to spring forth from the land. Thus it appears half in and half out of the hillside, seemingly embedded within it on one side whilst exploding into the ‘unexplored space, unseen and unlimited frontiers ahead’ on the other. Sculpted in slate, schist, granite and glass, the edifice is ‘in tone with [the land’s own] tones and materials’ and even resembles a traditional buron – the little cheese-making stone huts that litter the locale. The new restaurant had been a costly endeavour however and initially it struggled, its troubles culminating in an eventual bail-out, part sponsored by the tourist board. Things turned around towards the end of the decade and, in 1999, Michelin finally bestowed Bras a third star. Subsequently, the same chef who once refused to set up in Paris, launched Michel Bras Toya Japon in Hokkaido in 2002, citing the area’s similarity to Aubrac as his motivation. Sébastien, Michel’s son, having grown up in his father’s kitchen and after graduating from the Paul Bocuse Institute, apprenticed at Guérard, Gagnaire and the chocolatier Bernachon in Lyon before returning to his father’s side in 1995. It has been a successful, smooth partnership: ‘my values are those of my family. I am not interested about magazine covers and I am all too aware that Sébastien will never be Michel. Customer satisfaction is all that counts for me. Between my father and me there has never been conflict, break ups or a generation gap.’ Séba may indeed never be Michel, but in an interesting twist, it was him in charge of the kitchen in 1998 when, with his parents away on business, the manager of the Guide Michelin arrived ready to dine…the very next March, his father had his three stars. In 2003, Sébastien’s increasing involvement convinced his father to rename the restaurant simply Bras (dropping his own name). The junior chef’s wife, Véronique, also joined that of the senior’s in the dining room. More recently, although he still likes to help with the gardening, Michel – now sixty-plus – has stepped into a semi-retired role. Reached via the meandering roads that run throughout Aubrac – local farmers are said to have bribed road workers with bottles of wine not to build across their properties – a simple sign by the roadside suggests the entrance to the Bras compound. Following on from a short ascent, a blossom-bordered footpath points to the revolving doorway and reception. To the left is the lounge. Wrapped with windows from floor-to-ceiling, the entire area is a levitating ledge over the valley beneath, balanced between earth and sky. The effect is nothing short of spectacular: a still-life of lush landscapes and verdant scenes stretching for twenty kilometres across the horizon. A ring of cream coloured chairs from Vincent Sheppard circle a long granite slab under which fresh-cut wooden logs lie and over which a small fireplace is suspended. A flight of steps between here and the entry lead down and out to the other two buildings housing the bedrooms that reside either side of an old cattle drive – draille – that used to run from the hotel’s entrance to Laguiole’s parish church. Opposite the salon, almost anchored into the rocks is the actual restaurant. The room is long and narrow and accessed by crossing one of the bridges resting over the small stream running between the kitchen and the dining area. State-of-the-art, the former is partially visible from the latter and stands besides a humidity-controlled wine cellar. There are two rows of large, circular tables with those abutting the panorama windows sectioned off in pairs by semi-transparent mesh screens. Every seat has an excellent view. It is ‘a place bathed in light with an uninterrupted view of infinity’. The interior is minimalist, meditative and unemotional – the intention is to not distract the diner from experiencing the food. For the same reason, resting upon mineral-slate-blue tablecloths, Bernaudaud crockery is immaculate white. Adjacent these, legendary Laguiole cutlery, custom made to Bras’ specific instructions, sits poised upon specially designed metallic stands. A small message from the family accompanies the blade. In 1829, combining the regional, fixed-blade capuchadou with the Catalan navaja pocket-knife brought back from Spain, the son of a Laguiole innkeeper, Pierre Calmels, created this iconic instrument. It quickly became an essential tool for shepherd and peasant alike and, at the end of the century, when many migrated to Paris, those who left, left everything behind bar their blade. Thus it became a symbol of identity amongst the Aveyronnais away from home. Nowadays it is the knife of choice amongst connoisseurs and at Bras this heritage is celebrated with diners, adhering to local custom, retaining the same Laguiole throughout their meal, just as an Auvergnat peasant would. One final mention concerns the sistre – the herb picked by Bras as his emblem. Also known as baldmoney or fenouil des Alpes, this is a local wild fennel breed that cannot survive exposure to synthetic fertilisers – the choice is a poignant and emphatically figurative example of the chef’s own principles and commitment to nature. On this warm, late June day, we took the evasion & terre; découverte & nature menu with a supplement. Amuse Bouche 1: coques-mouillettes. Atop a dark wooden tray lay Michel Bras’ recette du bien-être, upon which two bantam eggs, set in shining silver cups and stocked with bright yellow, bubbled yolk, stood; the corners of the inscribed card were crowned with stacked, thick-cut, three-cheese mouillettes. The little eggs’ contents had been removed, warmed, whisked and then returned to their shells with a little grassy parsley oil. Accompanying wholegrain soldiers of Laguiole, Roquefort and chèvre, were strong, seedy and crisp. The simple recipe underneath called for a slowing down, for a return to the dining table, for families to cook and to eat together again… Amuse Bouche 2: Trio de cuillères – betterave, chou romanesco, agrumes; consommé langoustine, matignon de légumes; canard, feuille de moutarde, cornichon. A threesome of short-stemmed sterling spoons were served carrying three different, very colourful concoctions – one of vegetable, one of fish and one more of meat. Earthy-sweet beet gelée came with firm romanesco cauliflower and citrus rind; a flavourful jellied langoustine consommé was embedded with cooked-down mirepoix; and some shredded duck confit was partnered with gherkin, subtle mustard and its leaf. Les Pains: Pain de campagne; croustillants aux épices et lavash; pain au levain et pain aux céréales. Already at the table, a loaf of braided rustic, home-baked bread rolls was bundled up in a napkin blanket; as amuses were eaten, the serveur proceeded to separate the buns into a wooden basket. Alongside these, implanted within a black basalt pebble, were savoury pain aux épices and lavash croustillants. Soon a second bin was brought about bearing slices of pain au levain and pain aux céréales. These last two offerings – fluffy sourdough and crusty, dense-crumbed seed – were significantly better than the average country-bread, cumin-spiced crisps and plain, coarse crackers. Bordier’s beurre de baratte demi-sel was delivered on ebony slabs bearing Bras’ baldmoney. Entrée 1: aujourd’hui « classique »; le gargouillou de jeunes légumes; graines & herbes, lait de poule à la noisette. Before service began, some couple dozen different vegetables were peeled, shucked, sliced, mandolined and/or chopped. Leaves were plucked from another possible dozen plants or stems and an anonymous number of flowers, just picked that morning by the chefs themselves, were prepared and readied for plating. As required, the jeunes légumes were quickly blanched with a little salt in separate pots of water then shocked in ice water; seasoned individually, they were subsequently held apart in foil containers. All these greens, blossoms and blades, plus some fruits, grains and seeds too, were then carefully assembled upon the plate to create Michel Bras’ masterpiece - le gargouillou. The precise produce depends not just on the season, but on the very day and today, faintly framed on all four sides by vibrant wisps, dabs and spoon drags of red and yellow pepper, pistou, sorrel and of olive, courgette, cucumber, celery, kohlrabi and runner beans mingled with Granny Smith apple, yellow peas and patty pan….edible ferns, fennel fronds, beet leaves and rocket mixed with rose petals, phlox Carolina, tajete and borage. At the table, hazelnut-infused eggnog was sparingly sprinkled over the colourful cluster. The stunning standard of the ingredients stuck at once. Arriving mildly warm, as if just gathered and still warm from lying in the sun, the peculiar savour of each product was amplified and yet absolutely pure. The minimal saucing added a little moisture to the already succulent greens whilst niacs – according to Bras, a ‘combination of visual, smelly, tasty touches that awake our sensations for new discoveries…’ - of lait de poule à la noisette as well as sweetened dried black olive crumble added animation and unanticipated hints. As one eats, unearthing unseen elements, discovering new flavours with each forkful and new textures with every taste, what emerges is a mesmerising sense of fascination and gripping engrossment. One finds themselves eating ever slower, the whole course taking unexpectedly long to finish – the dish arrest one’s attention and literally moves you to silence. Entrée 2: avec de la peau de lait comme nous l’aimons; le turbot poêlé au beurre demi-sel & roulé dans du vinaigre; cornichons frais et ciboule. A golden gamboge crusted fillet of pan-fried turbot from Saint Jean-de-Luz, dusted with vinegar powder, came laid in a salty butter sauce, mizzled with a little more vinegar, and surrounded with fresh gherkins, sautéed spring onions and some spinach; garlic flower buds were strewn overtop whilst a trail of immature marguerite daisy petals climbed one corner of the plate. Brought from the Bay of Biscay, this thick tranche of fish was very agreeable and nicely cooked even if it was not an especially gelatinous cut. The sauce, not as heavy as anticipated, was warm, light and gently spiked with vinegar and a little garlic. The hot vegetables were a pleasing and an interesting combination. Entrée 3: parfum et fruits d’amande; la tranche de foie gras de canard grillée; des amandes, figues noires & fenouil; citron & reine-des-prés; sansho, carvi, para. Foie gras, slowly grilled until umber and crisp, sat in a shallow bath of meadowsweet, sansho and cresson de para the cusp of which was partly smudged with black fig compote; the broad brim of the dish was further furnished with a thicket of shaved fennel, smear of lemon, blanched almonds and caraway grains. The good portion of foie from Poitou-Charentes had pleasantly livery savour yet remained clean and not overpowering; it was well matched by the airy emulsion that was itself very herby, minty and aromatic. The meadowsweet wherein this frothy mixture – and specifically its almond-like perfume – proved a natural link to the encircling, crunchy nuts. Lemon purée provided acidity and the fig, some grainy spicy-sweetness. Caraway and fennel shared subtle hints of anise whilst the later also added another texture. Entrée 4: sur une base de cereals; la galette; cèbe, courgette, poivron…sur un jus aux truffes de Comprégnac. A long wedge of buckwheat waffle, sandwiching oignons de Lézignan la Cèbe, courgettes and mixed peppers and barely obscured by a big blade of pak choi, balanced across the brim of a bowl bearing a dark pool of summer truffle jus from closeby Comprégnac that also circumscribed a cluster of grated chou petsai. Rich, deep and musky, at once the truffle’s scent surprised with its strength. Its earthiness married ably with the mild flavour of the galette, which was deliciously crunchy without and sweet and moist within. The faintly sweet and crispy Chinese cabbage underneath was a welcome foil. Michel Bras is famous for finding inspiration within his native environs and the presentation of this course was unavoidably evocative of the colossal Viaduc de Millau a little south of Aubrac… Plat Principal 1: d’origine Aveyronnaise; le carré d'agneau Allaiton rôti sur os; artichauts et boulgour à la coriandre; fleurs & huile de serpolet. Double cut rib of slow-roasted Allaiton lamb rested in its own reduced cooking juice seasoned with a touch of soy and wild thyme oil that almost concealed a very thin base of pommes mousseline; against the chop sat three segments of artichoke heart and some spinach whilst alongside came coriander-bulgur and assorted flowers. Supplied by Bernard Greffeuille, this breed of lamb is widely considered one of France’s finest. The cherry pink meat, tender and silky, was indeed tasty and had a pleasingly succulent, alabaster strip of fat attached – although this could have been a little crisper. The intense jus beneath was rich, slightly spicy and tinted with lemon, whose savour was echoed by the purple blossoms dotting the plate’s border and by the coriander in the fluffy, light cracked wheat. Very flavoursome sections of artichoke also mimicked the shape of the rib. The baby lamb’s pairing with the serpolet was an intuitive one as the former habitually roam around the same fields that these wild herbs grow – it is in fact oft said that the sheep that graze on wild thyme are the best. As this main course was almost complete, the serveur arrived with a large bowl of aligot. This regional speciality is said to have been first a peasants’ delicacy – hungry pilgrims on their way to Santiago de Compostela would request ‘something’ to eat from local monks who would in turn offer them this. Something being aliquid in Latin, the dish actually takes its name from this word, evolving over time into aliquot before settling as aligot. It is prepared with mashed (white pulp) potatoes (ideally Instuit de Beauvais), cream and the area’s emblematic cheese, fresh tomme de Laguiole. This last ingredient imparts a subtle nuttiness to the taste as well as an incredible texture – the serveur was able to stretch each spoonful into long, elastic threads which he then spun into a bobbin, depositing the serving as a bright, putty-like bundle upon the plate that quickly melted away once on the tongue. Michel’s elderly mother, Angèle, still comes into the kitchen some mornings to prepare the day’s aligot... Plat Principal 2: dans l’esprit d’une salade tiède; la poitrine de pigeon poêlée au beurre de paprika; datte au cumin & pois jaune de la Planèze, la déglaçage. Three maroon smears of cumin and date purée, disconnected by fervent, freckled tenné patches of paprika-spiced, deglazed jus formed the canvas upon which burgundy-skinned magenta morsels of pigeon breast were placed amidst more slivers of mercure artichoke heart, dull amber yellow peas from Planèze and a single medjool date; tajete, rampion and agapanthus flowers plus torn date leaves were strewn across the plate. The succulent bird had beefy flavour and delicate smokiness; it was equally complemented by the sweet heat of the paprika and cumin as well as richness of the date. Artisan pois jaune, milder, a little earthier and nuttier than green peas, worked well texturally and visually whilst tying-in agreeably with the artichoke. Additionally, the blossoms brought interesting citrus and anise notes whilst the warm sauce was especially tempting and the fleshy medjool, a treat. Fromage: les fromages de l’Aveyron & d’à côté. A considerable cheese chariot carrying many varieties from the vicinity, plus a host of Laguiole serving implements, was wheeled about. Six samples were selected and these were presented with apple, walnut and onion chutney as well as walnut and raisin breads. Tomme de Laguiole, made from the unpasteurised milk of native Aubrac or Simmental cows according to a nineteenth century recipe created at the local monastery, reappeared aged six-months and was creamy, lightly perfumed and almost spicy. From Provence, sheep and goat’s milk Tomme de l’Ariège had crumbly rind, runny pâte and strong aftertaste. Ecir de l’Aubrac, named after the cold wind that graces the plains of this plateau and whose manufacturing methods remain a firm family secret, is a soft cow’s milk that was mild, grassy and faintly flowery. Auvergnat Chabrol, from pasteurised cow’s milk, was mildly fruity and smooth. Yielding ewe’s Lacandou, also from the same area, had yeasty sweet smell and was gentle. The potted fromage blanc en faiselle was a bland fresh cheese. Dessert 1: sur une interprétation du coulant, originel de 81; le biscuit tiède de chocolat/rhum coolant; sorbet banane-caramélisée au beurre demi-sel. Set in the centre of the plate, a circular column of chocolate sponge supported a large scoop of banana sorbet, which was swathed in a salty caramel sauce that slowly trickled over it and down onto the dish. The warm, peanut-encrusted biscuit crust cracked open easily, issuing forth hot rum-imbued, raisin-scattered chocolate sauce. In 1981, Michel Bras made the world’s first fondant. Since then, ingredients and temperatures have constantly changed; today its composition took an exotic twist. The Weiss 68% coco sponge and its crispy coolant filling were perfectly executed even if the Martinique rhum was a little strong for my liking. Meanwhile, the molten caramel covering the icy sorbet on top was delectable. Dessert 2: c’est le temps; des cerises confites au thym d’ici qui se mêlent de fruits sec, de canelle, d’anis, de semoule, de miel… A frilly-edged bowl bore what resembled deconstructed cherry cheese cake. Along its entire length a line of mint crème had been piped then partly enveloped by a mound of cherries – found natural, fried and confit in Aubrac thyme – upon one end and on the other by toasted chestnut crumble blended with cinnamon, honey, anis, and semolina (amongst other such stuff). The sweetness of the fruit was nicely cut by the lemony herbs and freshness of the mint; the chestnut added crunch and toasted savour. Dessert 3: à Murat le cornet est fourré de crème; ici la corolla d’hémérocalle du jour est garnie; d’une saveur fraîche & épicée, jus de fraises, feuilles & fleurs. In nearby Murat, the cornet is an important symbol that commemorates the salt-horns its farmers once carried as they tended their cattle. The shape is now remembered in the form of the town’s famous pastry and still celebrated with the annual Fête du Cornet de Murat. Here, Bras has played with this idea, serving a sweet, crisp daylily as an edible cone crammed with gingered, citric crème fraîche and fringed with delicate strawberry coulis. Mignardises: canailleries; billes chocolatées (chocolat noir réglisse; chocolat blanc brioche), billes glacées (fruits prunes rose; fruit abricots gingembre); canard… crunch. Two frosted vases, one filled with blue-hued, iced stone pebbles and another with grey, also held chilled spheres of fruit sorbet and cold chocolate respectively. The former, flavoured with rosy-prune and apricot-ginger were strong and distinct whilst the latter, of liquorice and brioche, had crisp skins and velvety interiors. After these, a black slate was brought with sticky cubes of overly intense grape brandy. Attended by a pot of crystallised mint, a couple of sizeable shot glasses contained creamy liqueur de lait over toothsome syrups of raspberry and of coffee. Finally, small squares of chocolate au lait and chocolat noir cashew en soufflé were both agreeable. Alongside these dishes, we drank a 1989 Vosne-Romanée ‘Cros-Parantoux’, Henri Jayer. Sergio Calderon, an Argentinean who has been at the restaurant for over fifteen years, simultaneously manages the dining room and acts as sommelier whilst Ginette and Véronique Bras hostess. Today, only the latter of the two ladies was on duty, but she and Sergio proved a charming, welcoming pair. Both were attentive, engaging and extremely friendly. The numerous general staff, dressed in loose-fitting shepherd’s smocks, were efficient, helpful and very obliging, even if a little reticent. In the dining area there was manifest a real tranquillity yet celebratory tone with a few tables marking special moments. In fact, the two qualities that stood out and heartened the most were the sense of being at a family-run establishment and the innate comfort that came through because of that and also the awareness of occasion that suffused the meal. Furthermore, the effect that the magical Aubrac backdrop has on one’s experience is undeniable: one is subconsciously immersed in these surroundings. Lunch began brightly if not spectacularly with quaint coques-mouillettes and the trio of attractive spoons that were more a visual delight than anything else. The first of these two was an initial illustration of how intimately intertwined Michel Bras the man and his cuisine are. These little dainties are his nostalgic reminiscences of a childhood spent sneakily stealing neighbours’ eggs of and eating them raw. One need not wait long at all to taste what is the restaurant’s most famous dish and one whose name has become synonymous with that of the chef - le gargouillou. This deserves more than a cursory scribble, so more will follow on this course shortly. Next came le turbot, which was nice, but not nearly as memorable as the parfum et fruits d’amande. The thoughtful and complex connections between the collected components here was most interesting; for instance, the almond’s aroma that was reiterated by the reine des prés emulsion or the caraway seeds whose anise nuances were reinforced by the fennel alongside. The foie gras (apparently an always present part of the menu dégustation) is also a second childish remembrance, this time of the very special days during the year when the delicacy was available – such as at Christmas after midnight mass. This ingredient is important to Bras as it ‘represents what I call “the flavour of Aubrac,” this intimate space in which I include all these foods of emotion: based more on love than on science, these flavours of our youth.’ Then came the galette, which was, a little surprisingly, one of the most appetising items of the carte. Its resemblance to the Millau Viaduct was also an amusing and clever nod to the chef’s region. Le carré d'agneau Allaiton was very satisfying whilst the aligot was simply gratifying. Additionally, the latter was another example of how entwined Bras and Aubrac are: it is something native to the area, that must be made with its cheese and whose identity is interknit with it. Everyone gets a taste of this. The final savoury of pigeon was a highlight too and the quality and quantity of cheeses was excellent. The already legendary coolant was not as pleasing though; its execution was faultless, but the rum was a little overpowering for my preference. The cerises confites were better, but le cornet was the best of the sweets. The meal ended with a generous array of mignardises. The obvious dish that demonstrates best Michel Bras’ cuisine is his gargouillou. ‘This has had enormous influence on a whole generation of chefs around the world, many who took the idea and built their own theme into it,’ tells David Kinch, an influential chef and one who has (like another talent, Andoni Aduriz) his own interpretation of it. Bras found its inspiration in June of 1978, when everything was in full bloom, and on one of his long runs (‘inner trips’) through the country: ‘it was beautiful, it was rich, it was marvellous. I decided to try to translate the fields.’ However, the ‘gargouillou’ actually already existed. An old, polysemous onomatope from gagasse (a Francoprovençal dialect) derived from the gerund, gurgling, it referred to the flowing sound of the area’s small streams, a method for cooking broth as well as the rumbling noise that the body makes when hungry. Furthermore, it was also traditionally applied to a concoction of ‘potatoes, moistened with water and flavoured with a slice of mountain ham’ that formed a staple part of the Aubrac diet. The chef took this recipe and made it his own – essentially a composition of the entire contents of the immediate countryside served up in a single course. Le gargouillou is an excellent expression of some of the elemental themes material throughout the menu. Paramount is the chef’s commitment to home; showing off the bounty of his native land, he garnishes his achievement with an indigenous title. Just as patent is his individual touch. The idea was conceived by Bras himself and remains immensely personal to him: ‘[it] has been a milestone in my life as a chef; it reflects my symbiosis with nature. Its elegance, its movement, its colours, its odour, its explosive flavours and its sensuality; all these elements express my way of being, represent my vision of today, my own vision of the terroir.’ One other factor typified by this course is the arresting aesthetic of Bras’ creations. Natural, fresh and unfussy, plate after plate comprising outstanding produce, preserved for the most part intact and consisting of vibrant, vivid shades that mimicked the colours of the pastures outside the picture windows, was presented. Each was attractive and appetising. Moreover, their simple-seeming appearances belied the immense effort and time spent assembling them. Dining at Bras is an experience. One’s enjoyment encompasses not only the edible, but extends beyond this to the entire event. On this occasion, we wanted to extend our own enjoyment even further. Thus, during lunch, we decided to ask whether there was an available table at dinner that we could take. Sergio told us he was uncertain, but would return with an answer before we were ready to leave. We waited.

It appears the sous chef from la Grande Cascade has been hired as the new head chef: http://www.blogitexpress.com/twitt/171/60144

Hi, Here are my thoughts from my meal at Pic last June. Please click here for full commentary and photography: HERE In the town of Valence, there was once a famous jurist called Jacques Cujas. He had an even more famous student, François Rabelais, who would go on to become the writer of note and notoriety from the Renaissance. Besides author, editor, friar, doctor, curate and lecturer, he was a lifelong cook and his works are peppered with quaint edible expressions – ‘the appetite grows with eating,’ for example. One little-known fact about Rabelais was that whilst in Rome, as the personal physician to the ambassador to the Vatican, he collected and took back the seeds of plants unfamiliar to the French; he was even responsible for the introduction of Cos lettuce to France, which subsequently took the name Romaine there. The Valence which Rabelais left behind on his way to Rome lies halfway between fertile Provence, abundant with its rich bounty, and Lyon, widely accredited as France’s culinary capital. Maybe more renowned for its vineyards – Crozes-Hermitage, St Joseph, St Péray, Côte Rôtie, Cornas – the sleepy, Roman town is also home to one of France’s oldest kitchen dynasties – la Famille Pic. It was in 1889 that Sophie Pic opened the Auberge du Pin, a small café near Saint-Péray, and began a one-hundred-year-plus family custom that continues today. For thirty years, she toiled away, slowly raising the restaurant’s reputation and attracting ever larger crowds, until her son took over around 1920. André, having spent his childhood watching his mother at the stoves and having himself apprenticed at some of both Paris and Lyon’s finest, was able to build on what Sophie had already achieved. In 1934, his progress was recognised with the reward of three Michelin stars. Concurrent with Andre’s commencement as chef, another factor played a prominent part in the promotion of the Pic legacy – the dawn of the automobile age. Now the French had the car, they were more than willing to travel for good fare and travel they readily did to the small restaurant. Shortly after receiving the stars though, André realised he needed to move if the business was to blossom. Thus, in 1936, he uprooted to Valence and l’Auberge du Pin became Maison Pic. Its new location, on the avenue Victor Hugo, placed it on the Route Nationale 7, part of the Autoroute du Soleil – the iconic motorway that winds down from Paris to just beyond Cannes. Once again, André’s timing was perfect; this was the year that paid vacations for employees were instituted in France. Maison Pic became the pit stop à la mode for chichi sun-seekers from Paris heading south. Furthermore, he confirmed the family name’s place in French gastronomy after Curnonsky identified him, alongside Escoffier and Point, as one of the ‘three creators of modern cuisine’. Success did endure indefinitely. After the Second World War, André was stripped of first his third star and then his second. These disappointments were not disregarded by his son; although as a child enchanted by the motorway and keen to be a car mechanic, once older Jacques chose to succeed his father. Whilst the latter is remembered as ‘big, strong, male [but] big-hearted’, the former is described as ‘more shy [and with] a great inner strength, a quiet reserve’. Spurred on by his father’s failings, by 1973 he had won back both the lost stars. Not longer after this, it was the turn of Alain, Jacques’ own son and heir to his toque, to start his career in the kitchen; staging at l’Auberge de l’Ill, Illhaeusern; le Vivarois; at l’Ecole Lenôtre in Paris; and with master chocolatier, Pierre Debroas, before returning. Jacques, however, had two children and Alain had a sister: Anne-Sophie. Whilst the son was being groomed to follow the father at home, the daughter was desperate to get away. At eighteen, finishing school, she left Valence for Paris and entered the ISG business school on an international programme that saw her next in New York then Tokyo – ‘I needed to know that world,’ she later revealed. Stints at Moët & Chandon and Cartier ensued; during this time she also met fellow Valentinois David Sinapian, her future husband. Opportunities in marketing lay before her, but on a Norman family holiday shortly before graduation she realised something: ‘I took a step back, pictured the career mapped out for me and told myself, this isn’t me. I want to do something concrete.’ ‘I realised…I wanted to become a chef. I immediately called my father to tell him I was coming. He thought I meant for the weekend, but I told him for life…that I want to become a cook. He began to cry.’ In the summer of 1992, at twenty-three, Anne-Sophie was back in Valence. Jacques immediately set her at work in the kitchen and arranged for her to attend a local hotellerie. Suddenly, the subsequent September, after service one evening, Jacques passed away. Their plans were devastated. Anne-Sophie, alone and uncomfortable in the kitchen, lasted only nine months more before moving on to the administrative and hotel side of the business. In 1995, three years on, Maison Pic lost its third star. Whilst indeed a catastrophe, it did also provid the impetus Madame Pic needed to get her back behind the stove. She remained worried that she lacked the necessary experience – although literally raised above the restaurant (her bedroom, now the patisserie, was on top of the kitchen) and having spent her childhood playing with her father’s pots, pans and spoons, she had never actually had any structured training. The fact that she was a woman in addition to the former boss’ daughter, were further issues. But still, in spite of all this, with her mother’s support, ‘I put on an apron, walked into the kitchen and started cooking, which was probably the bravest thing I’d ever done.’ Admittedly, there were teething problems. The older, male chefs were unhappy with and resentful of her presence; one disgruntled gentleman even brought a lawsuit for abuse against her (later dismissed from court). She preserved. Her father had given her the very basics and taught her early on ‘how to taste’. ‘I worked at every kitchen station to learn the trade. I became a kind of boss apprentice. Experience can’t be handed down, but I believe a lot in destiny.’ In 1998, her brother left. She and David took over the entire enterprise. Her husband managed the hotel whilst Anne-Sophie dedicated herself to two tasks: ‘regaining their third star and creating a new kind of cuisine.’ Her efforts began reaping recognition in 2001 when she was elected chef of the year by Pudlo, before being made a Chevalier des Arts et des Lettres and winning the World Cookbook Award (for Au nom du Père). Then, in 2007, she finally received the call that she had been waiting almost fifteen years for – Maison Pic had three stars for the third time in its history. This made Madame Pic the first French woman to hold such an honour since the legendary mères Lyonnaises fifty years previous. David was not idle whilst his wife worked the kitchen. The hotel was renovated into a modern boutique of nine unique rooms and raised to Relais & Châteaux standard. A trendy bistro was added as a wine store (Cave du Pic) and cooking school (SCOOK) were opened too. The couple are also partners in a joint-venture with local vintner Michel Chapoutier to produce their own wine. More recently, in Lausanne earlier this year, a second restaurant was unveiled – Anne-Sophie Pic at the Hôtel Beau-Rivage Palace. The original Maison Pic meanwhile still resides on the Route Nationale. Larger-than-life silver stencilled letters spell out the family name above an arched, maw-like opening that punctuates its stuccoed, copper façade. Resembling a riad, the sober face hides a considerable villa that revolves around an open, central courtyard. To the right of the entrance is the hotel lobby that leads onto several ‘living rooms’ and the bar before finally three interconnected dining rooms. The interior, recently renovated by designer Bruno ‘Maverick’ Borrione, is a mix of minimalism and kitsch. Vaulted ivory rooms are sparingly filled with colourful, comfortable furnishings; walls carry huge reproductions from Renaissance masters and of Flemish still-life whilst the turtle-shell patterned carpet is harebell mauve. The showpiece is a long display cabinet that boasts (very nearly) all the Michelin Guides rouges since 1900, interspersed with Pic family photos and souvenirs. The old bourgeois restaurant is spacious and sophisticated. Large French windows limit the rooms and allow ample light to steam in to pleasing effect. Pastel linden greens, beiges and creams cover the space whilst the floor is slate grey and echoes the smart suits worn by the staff. Generously spaced tables are well-sized and dressed in immaculate linens. Atop them, Limoges plates, Riedel glassware and personalised cutlery were accompanied solely by long-stemmed, blue lilies of the Nile. Today, lunch began with amuses and apéritifs in one of the living rooms before resuming with the menu proper in the main dining room. Amuse Bouche: Boule de foie gras vinaigre; guimauve cacahuètes salée; mousse onctueuse d’anchois; et macarons aux tomates confites. Impaled on separate trident-like picks, the meal commenced with a set-mousse sphere of foie gras, encasing creamy, lightly pickled Granny Smith centre which complemented the scattering of vanilla that infused the shell, and also a nicely-made marshmallow entirely dusted with grated salty peanut that gave it a taste reminiscent of peanut butter. Firm macaron of tomato confit sprinkled with the same fruit’s powder was a little chewy, although sweet whilst a pinkish bubble of anchovy, lemon and crème fraîche, littered with green and red radish filings, had an almost spiciness to it. Les Pains: Baguette; pain au blé noir; à l’huile d’olive; et au sésame. A smooth, clean beurre demi-sel from Vercors accompanied a choice of four breads borne upon a large, dark circular tray. Crunchy sesame and crusty buckwheat rolls were a little dry whilst the mini olive oil brioche was decent and crumbly within. The yeasty baguette, although not as crisp as desirable, was possibly most successful. Entrée 1: LES PETITS POIS ET LE CAVIAR D’AQUITAINE; coulant de petits pois et caviar, blanc mousseux d’oignons cébettes. Two vibrant green half-globes that resembled a single petit pois sliced across its centre, each crowned with an alabaster spring onion emulsion, sat poised amid dainty dots of green (pea) and white (onion). Carving each orb open revealed a nucleus of runny pea purée and, underneath the foam, an ebony deposit of Aquitaine caviar. The whole dish was a delicate balance between sweet and salty – the petit pois and spring onion gently countering the mild briny beads of roe. Additionally, the differing structures – especially the fine mousse and coarse effuse – together tendered a very pleasant mouth-feel. Entrée 2: LA SOLE DE PETITS BATEAUX; cuite lentement au beurre demi-sel, aromatisée aux baies de genièvre, poireau fondant à la bergamote. A pristine filet of line-caught sole, slowly poached in salty butter and served with melted bergamot, leeks and crushed juniper berries, came mizzled in a beurre monté infused with more juniper. The fish had been cooked very well – its flesh firm and succulent – and had subtly buttery sweet flavour, which married well with the tasty sauce and mellow, caramelised leeks. The bergamot contributed uplifting citrus notes whilst the aromatic, woody juniper also worked well to cut through the richness. It must also be mentioned what an outstanding pairing that the wine – Beaune du Château Premier Cru, Bouchard Père & Fils – proved to be with this plate. Plat Principal 1: LE HOMARD BLEU; en aiguillettes, aux baies et fruits rouges, blanc mousseux de céleri branche au poivre vert, jus corsé. Rose-tinged and crimson-crusted slices of blue lobster from Bretagne, laid atop a brushed line of berry coulis and meticulously assembled over celery crème and a range of red forest fruits, had more celery emulsion added at the table before a spicy jus of green and Szechuan pepper was poured around them. The seared then roasted lobster was again excellently prepared, its meat still moist and lissom and full of natural sweetness that was at once in harmony and contrast with the tart blackberries, strawberries and blueberries. The celery, which shares an affinity with these fruits, was also a warm moderator to the fragrant and tinglingly spicy, but not pungent sauce. Plat Principal 2: LE CHEVREAU DE LA DROME; morceaux choisis confits longuement aux épices douces, mousseline d’oseille, fondant de kumquat et poivre Tifda. Local venison from the Drôme woods had been rolled, slowly cooked for thirty hours with sweet spices in its own juices and then served in two semi-cylindrical segments separated by a blade of sorrel along with its jus de cuisson. A pinch of Tifda pepper, girolles, fondant cubes of kumquat and sorrel mousse, distributed onto either diagonal at the table, completed the course. The soft chevreau itself was mildly gamey yet seriously flavoursome. Lovely, velvety sorrel cream had the barest bitterness that was met pleasingly by the acidity of the kumquats whilst the exotic Tifda – a Nepalese Szechuan pepper – had presence without sharpness. Fromage: LE CHARIOT DE FROMAGES FRAIS ET AFFINES. The cheese chariot was impressive with an assortment of more than forty samples sourced from two affineurs and in excellent condition. A small selection of Saint Marcellin, Fourme d’Ambert, Comté and Brin d’Amour was delivered with buckwheat and ciabatta-like sourdough. The latter two – the strong, nutty Comté and mild, herby Brin d’Amour – were the choicest of the four. Pre-dessert: Abricots; crumble. A simple pre-dessert consisted of sweet and fruity apricot confit showered with crunchy streusel and finished off with a quenelle of apricot sorbet. Dessert: LA RHUBARBE ET LA CACAHUETE; crémeaux et coulant à la cacahuète torréfiée, marmalade et sorbet rhubarbe. An almost inflated-galette-esque pale pink structure of thin pastry, sealed with golden caramel and topped with silver foil whilst planted in a super-still, scarlet-coloured rhubarb jus, was filled with roasted peanut cream, rhubarb compote and its sorbet. This was a twist on traditional peanut butter and jam and, although the dessert was well-constructed, the flavours were somewhat muted. Mignardises: Frais des bois; pomme Manzana; et Chocolat caramel. A trio of treats were proffered from upon a white porcelain slab. A large red-and-pink macaron of wild strawberry and ylang ylang was fruity, sweet, chewy and crunchy. A small biscuit basket holding Basque manzana apple confiture covered by its pastel green mousse had nicely controlled acidity and sugar. The third morsel – a Tainori 64% chocolate cookie carrying a golden globule of liquid coffee – had to be eaten in one bite and had lingering savour. Café et Petit Fours: Chocolat framboise. Shimmering rondures of mottled carmine and scarlet were in fact rather delicate chocolate raspberry truffles with molten tart middles. Long-standing sommelier Denis Betrand took the initiative and selected these wines for our lunch: Laurent-Perrier, Champagne, Cuvée Rosé Brut; 2007 Pic et Chapoutier, Saint-Péray, Blanc; Beaune du Château Premier Cru, Bouchard Père & Fils; 2004 Nuits-Saint-George, Domaine Méo-Camuzet, Vosne-Romanée; and l’Eau de vie de Marc de Château Grillet, Neyret-Gachet. Service was excellent throughout this meal. It was Denis and his second, Patrice, who shouldered most of the burden of responsibility for our table; friendly, attentive and diligent, they were both superb hosts. It may be noted that less senior staff were more formal in their manner, but nonetheless performed efficiently and respectfully. The mark that remained was that this restaurant was a carefully, deftly run establishment focused on the diner and delivering them a memorable, comprehensive experience. Although quiet, the room was not hushed – in the background there was just the hum of guests enjoying themselves in a very sophisticated setting whilst completely at ease. After an able assortment of amuses bouche, four attractively presented and very flavoursome courses followed. LES PETITS POIS ET LE CAVIAR D’AQUITAINE was an easy introduction to Madame Pic’s cooking and, although LE HOMARD BLEU was delightful, it was LA SOLE DE PETITS BATEAUX that was for me the day’s highpoint. LE CHEVREAU DE LA DROME was again satisfying and cheeses left one spoilt for choice. The proceeding pre-dessert was straightforward – maybe too much so – whilst the dessert was easily the nadir of this meal and actually forgettable. Given that the chef de pâtisserie here, Philippe Rigollot, not too long ago won a pastry world championships, this was a surprising turn. However, the breads were also a weak point – this was not really a material concern, it is mentioned as these are usually also prepared by the pastry section. The carte that we were served was actually one volunteered and chosen by the chef herself. Although, I would personally have preferred a few more dishes to help better substantiate an understanding of the cuisine, there were still some very strong themes manifest across the menu. The strongest impression was that of a very elegant, very graceful style. Amuses and petit fours were more elaborate and intricate, but the plates themselves were meticulous, sophisticated constructions comprising quality ingredients arranged appealingly, simply and without fuss. It might be cliché to suggest, but it did in fact sincerely feel like a feminine hand had crafted them. There was a brightness and refreshing lightness to recipes too. No doubt inspired by her favourite cuisines – those of Provence and of Japan – courses were minimal and to-the-point whilst enlivened and lightened by the precise use of acidity. ‘Acidity tempts me a little more each season’, the chef says and LA SOLE was an excellent example of her adept use of it. Here a seemingly heavy emulsified butter sauce was both surprisingly delicate and also effectively tempered by the citrus-tart bergamot (as well as the piney juniper berries). Straight after, LE HOMARD BLEU, demonstrated the same similarly as well, teaming together successfully the sharpness of the forest fruits and the sweetness of the lobster. This leads to another marked motif of Madame Pic’s cooking – upon each dish there was the palpable presence of sweetness. Not overly so nor sickly, but every plate contained a distinctly sweet element usually offset with something just as savoury. Her sense of balance was obvious across the meal and it was no surprise to discover that her favourite kitchen implements are her tasting spoons. A case in point was LES PETITS POIS, where the caviar was the salty counterpoint for the peas in this opulent and loose play on petit pois à la Française. This modernisation and elevation of the simple, but familiar and classic combination of garden peas and onions also signifies other aspects of the chef’s style; namely, her light-heartedness and desire to include an emotive component in her cooking. ‘Taste evokes emotion. This idea of emotion is often linked to the past and so to childhood memories that are a major inspiration today.’ The peanut butter and jam reworking was another illustration of this. ‘You are the outsider, so the men don’t know what to expect of you.’ As a woman in a ‘man’s world’, Madame Pic considers herself freer to find her way; she feels more at liberty to experiment with products and flavours than most. Inspired by ‘the thinking chefs [who] pushed back boundaries’, especially the similarly self-taught Michel Bras, she seeks to deliver her own ‘cuisine d’auteur’. Originality at this level is essential indeed and it was indeed the case today that a majority of the courses included ingredients combined and expressed in ways that I could not readily recall having seen and tasted before. Briefly meeting the chef before the meal, her energy and enthusiasm struck me instantly and reminded me immediately of Pascal Barbot. This verve came through on the plate with fresh recipes that remained within a very refined framework and which, together with the gracious service and charming surroundings, presented an experience best described as delightful.

I would strongly recommend going and going carte blanche. Lunch is E120 and dinner, I believe, E250.

Just for the record, I felt compelled to confirm that 'eye candy' is not my term... Thanks, PhilD. I agree with your comments too. I would certainly be back - actually most of my Parisian French have urged me to return with many describing it as their favourite cantine. I am not especially familiar with Daniel Rose or really Aizpitarte either of course, but I cannot picture the latter working at his best (or maybe wanting to work at all) in a very 'formal' kitchen.

Thank you, CMLing - that's always lovely to read.

Hi, These are my thoughts on my meal here at the end of June. Please click here for full commentary and photography: HERE Iñaki Aizpitarte could be the coolest chef in Paris. Tall and swarthy, wearing three-day-old stubble and pastel yellow socks, he can often be seen behind the bar of Le Chateaubriand entertaining his regular chic clientele that includes actors, artists, media-types and, of course, foodies. Recently, the chef has received serious praise and been invited to show off his cooking in such cities as Madrid, Copenhagen, Melbourne and nearly New York (he was unable to participate at Omnivore NYC as he had forgotten to renew his passport), but in actuality, he became a chef really by accident and relatively late in life. The youngest of five children, Aizpitarte was born in Besançon then brought up when a teenager in Hendaye – basically the closest French town to the Basque homeland from which his parents fled to escape General Franco’s regime. After finishing school, he set out on his own only eighteen and penniless. A string of sundry jobs followed: he was a stonemason with Compagnons du Devoir in Angers (‘they were too strict, it lasted two months’); a landscape painter alongside his uncle in Dax (‘I enjoyed the mornings in the gardens’); before arriving in Bordeaux to study oenology (he attended five lectures in five years). In 1999, with only five-hundred Francs to his name, the twenty-six-year-old Iñaki decided to visit Israel. There, he ended up washing dishes at the Rozata restaurant, where he ‘helped when they were in the juice’ – no surprise then that Midnight Cowboy is his favourite film. Impressing the Serbian chef, the Frenchman was soon put behind the stove – ‘he taught me the basics,’ he says, ‘I knew instantly that’s what I wanted to do. That was it.’ A subsequent spell touring Latin America preceded his return to France and arrival in Paris. Cooking school was not an option financially so he taught himself whilst working his way through the city’s kitchens. He began at Café des Délices under Gilles Choukroun, who would later become influential as head of one of the new waves rippling through French gastronomy. In 2003, Aizpitarte moved to la Famille in Montmartre where he first caused controversy and won acclaim for his creative cooking. Two years on and he was at Transversal, Laurent Chareau’s restaurant within the Mac/Val modern arts museum in Vitry-sur-Seine, just outside of Paris. Dishes here were inspired by the exhibits – the chef once served a course comprising just a single, peeled apple pip. Another two years later and he was ready for his own venture. Thus, together with Frédéric Peneau, the former owner of Café Burq whom he first met whilst at la Famille (the pair were practically neighbours), he bought a historic bistro near Belleville in April 2006. it was an instant hit with its immediate success underscored domestically by being declared Le Fooding’s Best Restaurant (2006) and worldwide by the San Pellegrino Breakthrough Prize (2008). The old bistro, once a grocer, was a serendipitous discovery. Located on a large, sycamore-saddled avenue close to Goncourt, the restaurant’s wide-open façade sitting within its small burgundy frame barely sticks out from the street’s shops. Having kept the same name, Aizpitarte and Peneau also kept the same time-worn, masculine interior. A vintage zinc bar rests upon dark rosewood on one side of the space with espresso machine, heavy-duty slicer, shelved drinks bottles and chalk-scribbled blackboards behind. Hard chairs and naked tables, snugly set as if in a canteen and fashioned from the same deep, roseate timber, clutter the colour-speckled grey mesh-mosaic floor. Creamy, almost empty walls are skirted by a metre-or-so of burgundy. A third, much larger blackboard bearing the names of the chef’s friends hangs in the room’s centre whilst a wall-to-wall mirror lines the backend of the restaurant near the somewhat exposed kitchen. Lighting is from two chandeliers, three glass globes and a perforated skylight on the high ceiling, but the space still remains rather dim. A service station on which loafs of bread are freshly cut stands near the bar. Tables carry cutlery and simple glassware. A photocopied piece of paper dictates the day’s menu… Amuse Bouche 1: macquereau, shiso, pastèque. A neat slab of watermelon, overlaid with a sliver of olive-oil-marinated mackerel, sat in smoked Japanese rice vinegar along with two more morsels of the macquereau; shiso and crushed raspberries, whose bright red juice dribbled into the dull yellow vinegar, were sprinkled sparingly over all. The fruit and mellow vinegar’s light acidity cut the richness of the tasty fish whilst the latter also added some welcome woodiness. The watery, sweet melon balanced the shiso that was at first bitter then peppery and slightly astringent. Le Pain: pain de levain. Bread was bought in from arguably Paris’ best baker – Poujauran. The sourdough, freshly sliced by the serveurs as needed, was fluffy with tangy, yeasty crust. Butter was not served. Entrée 1: veau de lait, langoustine, truffe d’été. A heaped pile of cherry pink milk-fed veal chunks, crowned with skinny cross-sections of radish, was semi-submerged in an opaque langoustine jus littered with large shards of summer truffle and blades of red basil; deep green pistou glacé came smeared across the top of the tartare as well as afloat. Supplied by the city’s finest boucher, Hugo Desnoyer, the delicate and tender meat’s quality was immediately clear. However, it was also completely overwhelmed by the strong shellfish jus, itself almost spicy, whilst the truffle proved little more than decoration. The herby pistou provided a slight relief, but not enough. Plat Principal 1: lotte, jardinière de légumes. Pan-fried slice of monkfish tail, coated with vadouvan, was accompanied by a collection of vibrantly-coloured vegetables drizzled with a dab of olive oil and garnished with toasted fennel fronds. The familiar yet exotic scent of curry came through slowly, but convincingly from the blend of onions and Indian spices that stained the ivory skin of the nicely-seasoned, succulent fish, which, barely cooked, retained its juicy firmness. The fresh greens, simply served whole, halved or quartered, unpeeled and tops intact, arrived in various degrees of rare – from well-charred spring onion to untouched petit pois. Plat Principal 2: carré d’agneau de Lozère, artichaut, chèvre, olive. Double-cut Lozère lamb rib chop was plated with bisected baby artichokes and a streak of fromage de chèvre Ardéchois that was peppered with olive crumble. Another Desnoyer delivery, the lamb was delicious – the carnation rose meat almost raw with just the fatty outer coat cooked and crisped amber. The classic combination of artichoke, creamy goat’s cheese and black olive at once suggested Provence, although the crumble was actually rather dry and lacking taste. Dessert 1: fraises, chantilly. A bowl bore deconstructed pavlova aux fruits rouges or even Eton mess. Sweet, plump strawberries were the base upon which brittle, sugary meringue was set, before both were immersed in a cloud of velvety smooth verbena Chantilly cream. Beneath the alabaster blanket were buried chips of sucre pétillant whose surprising effervescence corresponded pleasingly with the herbal verbena. The staff here, all men and almost all long-haired and bearded, are often labelled as eye-candy – but this description detracts from the fact that they are actually good at what they do. Efficient and helpful, they were also relaxed and friendly; even as the evening wore on and the restaurant filled, they remained patient and eager. Indeed these very fittingly macho, but affable Basque-esque characters only contributed to the charm of the place. In addition, there was an undeniable, sensible buzz about the room from the intimate bobo crowd that pervaded the space and nearly spilled out onto the street through the bistro’s open front. My thoughts on the menu itself were mixed. Watermelon and mackerel, being an unusual yet intriguing combination, made the amuse bouche exciting to receive but, although decent enough at the time, eventually forgettable. The entrée of veau and langoustine, an interesting take on terre et mer, was effectively bland and all the worse given the excellence of the meat. Dinner only really began with the lotte, jardinière de legumes. This straightforward dish was light, tasty and quite right for summer. The next course was the best of the evening. The mouth-watering carré d’agneau was superb, even if the artichokes were admittedly unmemorable and olive, unsuccessful. The dessert was a refreshing, fun finish. Simplicity and deconstruction appear to dominate Aizpitarte’s style. The chef has a reputation for taking recipes apart and reforming them, nominally – and this was seen thrice today. First, the veal and langoustine was a luxurious reinvention of the common bistro combo of steak and prawn – surf and turf – that can be found on most menus. Secondly, the plat principal was a traditional concoction straight from the Côte d'Azur that was dismantled into its rudimentary elements then plated as primarily as possible. Lastly, as mentioned, a reworking of classic meringues with red fruit was a light, bright note upon which to end. Creativity is key to this chef. He is eager to ‘amuse’ and excite the diner ‘with very distinct flavours colliding and eventually marrying’. To achieve this, he is not afraid to stray from the hip locavore label and to include ingredients from around the world, thus underlining his role as a leader amongst the Génération C collective which, started by his former mentor Choukroun, aims to offer an affordable cuisine of modernised classical techniques and foreign flavours. His cooking is not fusion though, but informed by his many travels throughout South America, the Middle East, Asia as well as Southern Europe. This modern, cosmopolitan theme is in stark contrast to the very restaurant wherein it resides: contemporary cooking in a classic bistro; colourful food within sombre walls; cold ingredients served in a warm setting. The only pattern that pervades both plate and space is an explicit lack of clutter and fuss. This minimalism was not limited to presentation, but extended to the treatment of ingredients. Cooking was considered an extravagance; heat, an indulgence. Tonight, everything – meat, fish, vegetables – was either raw or barely-heated through. Furthermore, this lack of material modification also meant that products remained, as much as possible, in their original states – for instance, the legumes were often whole or just sliced once, at most twice, and also served with their skins. Saucing too was sparse with nothing thicker than a light (but concentrated) jus employed. But none of these are criticisms, necessarily. Aizpitarte reasons for this approach can only be intimated at. He is clearly after clarity in his cuisine: ‘I just hope people can understand what I am trying to accomplish each time and that by having fewer and fewer flavours, the essential becomes more distinct.’ This, coupled with the state of the restaurant’s small kitchen which has changed very little since the chef first took it over, might go some way towards explaining his attempts to deliver ‘something pretty quick’, whilst the lack of cooking may meanwhile be just the consequence of his constant ‘challenge [to him]self to simplify and simplify.’ On the one hand, there could be two negatives construed from this. First, regarding effect, there is the almost inevitable corollary to such methods as these – a new menu each day that depends on the least number of flavours, bound by almost nothing but themselves, merging for maximum effect will sometimes ‘miss’. Sometimes, this relentless deduction of elements will be to the detriment of the dish. Secondly, regarding cause, it might be argued that perhaps the chef is not exerting himself to his fullest and thus not revealing his true potential with each plate. Although I am almost embarrassed to admit it, this thought did niggle at me afterwards. On the other hand, this haute cuisine at reasonable prices – Aizpitarte’s ‘cuisine de vagabond’ – is a worthy pursuit: ‘I don’t want to only have rich patrons. I want a place where my friends can come from time to time; a place they can afford. So it’s really important for me to have both affordability and creativity’. The aforementioned concessions may be the costs of such an egalitarian ambition. Whilst in admitting mood, I must also confess that expectations possibly played some part in my muddled enjoyment of this meal. Given the chef’s inclusion in Gelinaz! (a clique of cooks) along with the likes of Fulvio Pierangelini and Davide Scabin, and later, together with the latter, his contribution at Cook it Raw!, working side-by-side with Redzepi, Barbot and Adrià, among others, I basically wanted le Chateaubriand to surprise and impress me. In reality, it was only pleasing – and maybe this is why my emotions are conflicted between the fact that dinner at Le Chateaubriand is arguably the finest meal one can have in Paris for under fifty Euros and my certainty that a talented chef offering one menu should be offering a great menu – which evidently was not always the case this night. Nonetheless, there were positives; there was potential; and there is always the attraction inherent in the gamble that an ever-changing carte entails. The necessary question that remains then is whether I would want to risk another roll of the dice... Strangely enough, yes. Definitely.

Desserts were the best part of my Le Pre Catelan meal. But the savouries I thought poor.

Camille Lesecq at Le Meurice has a good reputation. I personally also like the desserts at l'Arpège and l'Astrance.

Hello, These are my thoughts on the event that took place on 22 September 2009 Please click here for full commentary and photography: HERE Half-an-hour across London. An hour-thirty on the Eurostar. Taxi from straight outside Gare de Lille Europe. ‘Dranouter, S'il vous plaît.’ ‘Où?’ il m’a demandé. ‘Dra-nou-ter, en Belgique à Heuvelland, quarante kilomètres d’ici,’ je lui ai dit. ’OK, je pense que je connais la direction. Pas de problème…’ One hour and ninety Euros later, having asked four times for directions, one might at last find themselves at a quaint renovated farm amidst the rolling Flemish fields of bucolic Flanders. Here is In de Wulf. Meaning ‘inside the wulf’ (a wulf being a farm protected upon three sides by greenery), this was the setting that three neighbouring chefs chose as a stage on which to make a public statement; a platform to prove and promote the potential of their native cuisine to an assembled, invited collection of chefs, journalists and would-like-to-bes bloggeurs. The evening’s event, ‘Identity Crisis – Service à Six Mains’, was organised by resident, Kobe Desramaults, along with accomplices Alexandre Gauthier (la Grenouillère) and Filip Claeys (De Jonkman) respectively, to champion Flanders and celebrate its uniquely special terroir. This restaurant, actually once the chef’s childhood home, was originally a cottage that his parents had converted into a pub then modest brasserie and inn. As a teenager though, the youthful Kobe had no ambition to enter the family business with the arts, particularly drawing and painting, dominating his interests instead. His mother had her plans (and her way) however and upon his seventeenth birthday arranged an apprenticeship for her son in the kitchens of the Picasso in nearby Westouter. After two years here mastering the basics, he made the step up to three-star Oud Sluis on the Belgian-Dutch border. The initial months living in the Netherlands were the hardest of his young life, but under Dutchman Sergio Herman, he persevered and ‘[his] eyes were open for good’ with a fondness found for innovative technique and creative cuisine. Two more years later, the chef wanted to move on and, leveraging Herman’s Spanish connections, went to Commerç 24 in Barcelona. There he worked ten months, learning about molecular gastronomy from Charles Abbelan, an el Bulli graduate. He wanted to stay longer, but was needed back in Dranouter and so, in 2003, returned to take over his mother’s restaurant. At first, still finding his feet, Kobe kept the established classic menu whilst offering a more experimental second. It was hard work, but in 2004 a favourable review from an influential journalist put In de Wulf on the map. Soon the dining room was full and the chef able to expand, renovating the kitchen, dropping the older carte and refurbishing the building. In 2005, Kobe was made the youngest Michelin starred chef in Belgium. The second Belgian cooking at In de Wulf was Filip Claeys. He had been inspired by his father who worked at La Souricière (1*) in Adinkerke: ‘I knew that I wanted to be a chef when I was a very little boy…When I think back to my childhood, I really grew up between the pots and pans. At the age of four, I recognised the difference between a perfect Camembert and Brie. When I was eight, I could even beat a béarnaise. The passion for cooking was always there.’ This passion led him to hotelier school at first Ter Duinen Koksijde then Ter Groene Poorte before his first position at Le Fox (1*) with Stefaan Buyens. Twelve months here and he was off to de Karmeliet (3*), where he spent six years under Geert Van Hecke, eventually becoming his sous chef. He then moved, like Kobe had done, to Oud Sluis as Herman’s number two and remained there for the next five years – and this was where he met his wife, Sandra, who worked in the dining room. In 2006, the pair, feeling themselves ready to run their own restaurant, took over the locally-renown De Jonkman in Sint-Kruis on the outskirts of Bruges. The chef, whilst winning his own star, has since spent time in kitchens in Tokyo and San Sebastian to further improve his cooking. The third chef was a Frenchman. As fate would have it, Roland Gauthier had acquired both a restaurant - l’Auberge de la Grenouillère in la Madelaine sous Montreuil – and a son within only ten days of each other. It was almost inevitable then that Alexandre, just like Filip, followed his father’s footsteps into the kitchen. His career started with an apprenticeship at neighbouring Le Toquet’s Hôtel Westminster with William Elliot prior to spells at Clos des Cimes under Régis Marcon, Olivier Brulard’s Résidence de la Pinède and with Grégory Coutanceau at les Flots, all by the age of nineteen. A stint in Paris working for Michel Roth at Lasserre came next as did various stages across the world in Beijing, London, St. Moritz and Palermo. Meanwhile however, in 2001 his father’s restaurant had lost the Michelin star it had held since 1936, accelerating Alexandre’s return. Cooking his self-defined cuisine délurée, this avid adventure-sportsman (scuba-diving, climbing Mount Kilimanjaro) rapidly attracted attention. In 2005, Alain Ducasse invited him to Plaza Athénée to cook; fierce François Simon singled him out amongst Génération C chefs (a movement embracing world flavours); even Ramsay praised his handling of frogs; and most recently, he was part of a select clique of Frenchman in New York at the Omnivore Food Festival and running one of David Chang’s ‘four f****** dinners’. He won back the missing star in 2008. Throughout the day of the event, as the three chefs prepped their plates in the large, modern In de Wulf kitchen, diners drifted in from North, South, East and West. As they arrived, out on the terrace, in the lounge as well as within the cuisine itself, they mingled with each other and with their hosts. It was an open, familiar atmosphere where interaction felt easy and natural yet the air was charged with a certain sense of occasion that was embraced by all. At a little past eight o’clock, everyone entered the spacious dining area. Here the refined rustic aesthetic was accentuated by unvarnished woods, exposed brickwork and bare tiled floor. Tables, dressed in thin and loosely-fitted linen, were considerable in size and set wide apart. A fireplace, replete with two stacks of fresh-chopped lumber, lay on one side whilst latticed windows formed the wall opposite. It was a bright room with homespun charm and a pastoral austerity that was honest, refreshing and comfortable. It was the romantic ideal of a rural farmhouse. A short speech from Kobe and the meal commenced… Amuse Bouche 1: Bulots – Kobe Desramaults. Local whelks and their mayonnaise, made with white vinegar and peppered with cèpe powder, arrived in individual, pitted pebbles shaped by the sea that invoked the sea snails’ natural habitat. The poached whelks were sea-fresh and tender, but with bite whilst the mayo, formed from a reduced bouillon of the bulots, was dense, creamy and nicely flavoured. Amuse Bouche 2: Porc Soufflé – Kobe Desramaults. Fried pork rind, fashioned almost as a shell, was laden with cubes of meat layered with chervil in honey-vinegar dressing. Le Pain: Pain de levain – Kobe Desramaults. Rustic bread suited the rustic surroundings and came from the baker Bril in nearby Bailleul. As accompaniments, butter from a neighbouring dairy farm and traditional smout – salted pork dripping with spices – were supplied. Amuse Bouche 3: Tasse d’eau de mer – Alexandre Gauthier. A small glass held slivers of rouge-tinged raw sea bass, oyster, steamed spinach leaf, olive oil and sprigs of chervil and basil. Into this, a dram was dispensed from a bottle plugged with a shot-measure pourer and containing mineral water infused with wakame, nori, lemon and sel gris de Guérande. The bottle, with its cloudy contents, looked as if it had been filled straight from the ocean – and it tasted like a shot of the sea. The aquatic aroma struck first, giving way to the briny savour and distinct textures of fish and oyster, each enlivened by salty spinach and lightly acidic lemon. A final bite of basil and chervil left a refreshing linger on the palate. Amuse Bouche 4: Joue de raie – Filip Claeys. Skate cheek, cooked at low temperature in beurre noisette, and a single hazelnut, its skin carefully etched in circumscribing circles, were coupled with a cream of exotic spices, purée of the same nut and a blade of basil. The warm morsel melted on the tongue, its brown butter finish in inherent harmony with the crunchy nut and its appetising mousse. The sweet-pungent mayo of cinnamon, cardamom et cie was another delightful addition. Entrée 1: Bar de mer du Nord, herbes sauvages, légumes saumurées – Kobe Desramaults. Raw North Sea bass, creamy pink in colour and interspersed with pickled vegetable’s picked from Kobe’s own garden, came sitting in light herb emulsion and scattered over with herbs that had been plucked from the local woods. The acidity of the subtly vinegary vegetables – cucumber, cauliflower, onions and baby mange tout – provided a fine foil to the chunky, quality fish, as did the wood sorrel. Entrée 2: Grand vive, fenouil, blette, arroche des jardins – Filip Claeys. A fillet of grand weever, marinated in fennel oil for a day before sealed sous vide with it for four minutes and seared shortly in the pan, lay atop dark green Swiss chard leaves and under its vibrant stalks, themselves covered with deep cardovan red orach; fennel mousse and fennel purée completed the plate. The weever, a rockfish that buries itself in the sand hiding the poisonous spikes that skirt its body, is a local species that Filip explained to each table his father, a fisherman, once caught but was often thrown away by others who thought it useless. It had a delicately rich savour, surely from its diet or crustaceans and shrimps, and surprised with its succulence. The fennel’s anise was a classic match for its sweetness whilst the more bitter chard and salty orach offered balance. Entrée 3: Cornichons, tarama – Alexandre Gauthier. Gherkin, halved and only just char-grilled on its inside, was set on one corner of the dish as if washed up on a bright green tide of tarragon-tarama that had yet to fully recede. Like a surfboard, the pickle carried Ventrèche and the leaves of the fresh herb; a little olive oil marked the tracks of the ebbing wave whilst ground white pepper played the spray. Gauthier seemed clearly intent on making a mark with his minimalist, provocative plating. By sitting the elements off-centre and allowing the paste of herby-cod roe to run off over the rim, the chef had done two things shockingly simple yet both very radical. This was not a conceited challenging of convention though; the creamy, sweeter roe was an excellent complement to the crunchy and faintly tart gherkin that remained nearly raw. Peppery-anise tarragon also added aroma whilst the white pepper, some sharp, but blunted heat. The room almost immediately filled with unexpected pine-like, flowery perfume. Plat Principal 1: Homard, genièvre – Alexandre Gauthier. Suddenly, a small bush of juniper was presented – some of the branches were singed and still visibly fuming. A barely perceptible pink coil lay secreted within the shrubbery. Separating the stems revealed a whole lobster nestled like a foetus. Poached for forty-five seconds it had been smeared with juniper butter that had already melted; although admittedly lacking much sweetness, the cuisson was incredible. Eaten with one’s fingers, the lobster had only really been warmed and retained tremendous moisture and suppleness. The bittersweet juniper was a lovely counterpoint whilst some of the charred berries, still attached to the boughs, tendered hearty bursts of flavour. Plat Principal 2: Pigeon de Steenvoorde maturé et cuit au foin, légumes ’Zwartemolen’, jus au foin – Kobe Desramaults. Shown off prior to being served, these Steenvoorde pigeons, supplied by Alex Dequidt from the most northerly department of France, had spent two weeks stuffed with and buried in burnt hay, before oven-roasted en cocotte with more of the grass. A single rosy pink breast from each plump, mahogany pigeon rested alongside a single, skinny, golden parsnip that was placed atop turnip purée sprinkled with roasted onion powder; juniper seeds, broad beans, their white blossoms and shiny yellow turnip flowers straddled the root whilst hay jus sat in the middle of the dish. The tender bird had a nice gaminess that was tempered with some subtle sweetness from the hay, which also emitted an aromatic fragrance. Juniper cut through the richness of the meat and the Zwartemolen vegetables, from due east of the restaurant and prepared al dente, retained their earthy, nutty savours. The onion dust brought complexity and an interesting hint of barbecue with it. Plat Principal 3: Canard sauvage ’Damme’, girolles, jeunes oignons, jus de sureau – Filip Claeys. An almost cylindrical, carmine-coloured fillet of wild duck from Damme, near Sluis, having spent two hours marinating, had been cooked sous vide very quickly. A tuile cradle carried a quenelle of confit thigh pâté mixed with rillette of the duck’s liver while raw girolles, aubergine purée as well as one onion microwaved, one pickled and their purée littered the elderflower-infused jus cuisson that had been poured tableside. Once more, the meat was excellent – juicy and flavoursome, both it and the more intense pâté-rillette were countered well by the sweetness of the floral, slightly citrus elderberry sauce. Onions were nicely savoury and proffered crunch; the mushrooms, a touch of fruity pepper; and aubergine, some velvety smokiness. Plat Principal 3: Boeuf ‘Flandres Occidentale’ – Kobe Desramaults. West Flemish red is a rare pure-race breed of cattle whose origins in this vicinity can be traced back to the sixteenth century. Less than fifty or so of these cows remain thus only three or four are culled a year. Today Kobe, spontaneously and very generously, allowed guests an ample taste of it. The steaks were treated as minimally as possible; just quickly seared, sliced and set in the centre of tables for diners to take with their hands. Although only aged for two weeks, this well-marbled meat was very tender with clean yet full, meaty savour. Dessert 1: Chocolat blanc, framboise, menthe chartreuse – Filip Claeys. A glass bowl was set down; in it stood nothing but a white chocolate boule. Slowly, warm rooibos tea, brewed with chartreuse mint, wakame, lemon and cacao, was sprinkled over the sphere causing it to immediately collapse, consequently exposing a hidden chest of yoghurt inlaid with raspberry, vanilla sablé, cacao nib, red basil and sancho pepper. There was a wealth of taste and texture within – crunch, fruitiness, aromatic spice, umami, crispiness, sweet-nuttiness, smoothness and more. All the elements however married very agreeably to produce something unusual, verging on the exotic and quite satisfying. Dessert 2: Craquelin de porc et bière brune ‘Pannepot’ – Kobe Desramaults. This was the combination of two local staples – beer and pork. Here they were manifest as cracking overlaid with dark beer ice cream. Dessert 3: Poignée de sable – Alexandre Gauthier. Vivid pastel emerald mousse that resembled the excess plaster left behind by the wipe of a dirty spatula resided to one side; the smear’s perimeter closest to the plate’s middle was scattered with golden sand. A spoonful of each suggested the familiar, but in combination, created something new and difficult to determine whilst the juxtaposing grittiness and creaminess of the two components proved pleasing. Soon enough, it was revealed that the green was parsley and the yellow, banana. Dessert 3: Oseille sauvage, citronelle – Kobe Desramaults. Lemon balm ice cream, nearly smothered with a cluster of mint granité, was garnished with wood sorrel, which also reappeared as a shot alongside. This was a refreshing, acidic dessert that left one’s palate clean and ended the menu on an uplifting note. Petit Fours: Gâteau de miel avec citron – Alexandre Gauthier. As a delightful departure before the mignardises, Alex then served his signature post-meal treat. Following the final course, la Grenouillère’s maître d’hôtel, Pascal, proceeded to each table, carving small fingerfuls of local flower honeycomb to which he had applied a soothing squeeze of lemon. Mignardises: Truffes au chocolat et frais des bois – tous. As guests began to mix, the chefs filled tables with their individual afters. These included ripe and green wild strawberries; chocolate covered rice; and custom-made truffles from Dominique Persoone’s Chocolate Line. The wines on the night were… Crémant d’Alsace Marcel Deiss; Entre Deux Monts Westouter, Chardonnay-Pinot Gris, 2008; Movia, Rebula Slovenie, 2006; Savennières, Clos de Coulaine, Claude Papin, 2007; Brett Brothers, Pouilly-Vinzelles ‘Les Quarts’, 2003; Moric, Blaufrankisch, Autriche, 2007; Tandem, Alain Graillot, Marocco, Syrah, 2007; Struise brouwers, Pannepot; Maculan, Dindarello, Italie, 2006; and Champagne Gobillard & Fils, Blanc de Blancs. The staff was composed of a collection from all three restaurants and also included the wives of two of the chefs, themselves maîtresses d'hôtel at In de Wulf and De Jonkman. Although this was the first chance that the team had had to work together, everything went very smoothly. Furthermore, such family-orientated service added a sense of comfort and intimacy to the scene – there is always something classically charming about a gentleman cooking and his wife serving. Thus, it was genuinely quite warming to hear, ‘let me just ask my husband about that’, when seeking certain dish details. Kobe, Filip and Alex also all took the opportunity to introduce their own courses, circling the groups of seated guests to explain each dish and tell each recipe’s story. This only contributed to the conviviality and esprit of the occasion, binding every plate mentally to its maker and building a bond between diner and chef. The aim of the evening was not necessarily to give those eating sufficient evidence with which to evaluate fully the three cuisines. It was rather to whet the appetites of those assembled and give them just an indulgent sample of what each could do and what was actually on offer in this oft-overlooked corner of Continental Europe. That being said, there were some marked themes commonly expressed throughout the courses of all three cooks. Kobe’s dishes seemed relevant to the new naturals. He revealed a delicate, subtle sensibility that focused on very local, very good ingredients prepared according to traditional recipes, but with the application of modern methods. Here both his Flemish roots and Spanish inspiration became clear. There was a proclivity for acidity and minimalism also evident as well as a penchant for gentle, accordant colours. Filip was arguably the least familiar of the chefs and therefore somewhat of an unknown quantity. His courses impressed with their precision and calculated combinations of flavours that betrayed his collaboration with Belgian food scientist Bernard Lahousse. He showed an inclination for less noble ingredients and his plates certainly felt distinctly ‘Flemish’. There were some clues of the influence that working at Oud Sluis for so long has had on his cooking, but the chef had clearly found a style of his own and separate to that of his old mentor. Whilst Filip was understated, Alex was confident. He appeared intent on one thing – getting everyone’s attention. His creations were certainly the most distracting and suggested serious potential. Recipes may have seemed superficially simple, but they were direct, focusing on few elements combined well and thoughtfully with an artistic presentation almost confrontational to established custom. However, this rebel also had a cheeky, playful side with a fondness for shades of green (evocative of the frog, the emblem of his restaurant), which dominated his dishes. All three chefs delivered. All had an individual voice and all brought something different to the table. Literally. Yet, in spite of their diverging styles, this meal followed a smooth segue and the trio of menus felt a consummately integrated one. After dinner, diners were eager – and many, already conspiring – to visit the three chefs’ one by one. This was a memorable affair. Many of those present already knew or knew of each other and throughout dinner and following it, discussion was lively with people clearly enjoying the experience. But the cooking really was the centre of attention. Dishes were digested in silence before opinions were exchanged and thoughts expressed. By the evening’s end, with eaters satisfied and enticed to return and with the attraction of Flanders fresh in their minds, guests were thanked and chefs applauded. Most lingered on late into the night, a hardcore few even into the early hours… And as clichéd as this may be…it really was a case of three chefs, each with un macaron Michelin, delivering a three star meal.

Hello, this are my thought on my meal here last June. Please click here for full commentary and photography: HERE Noma = Nordisk + Mad = Nordic + Food. A simple name reveals a simple aim. There is a movement (for lack of a better term) in gastronomy towards a cuisine that is, above all, natural, but also generally fiercely local, seasonal and with a focus on superior ingredients. It is a style that was enabled by institutions such as Bras, l’Arpège and Mugaritz and is now embodied by the likes of Ubuntu, el Poblet and noma. These ‘New Naturals’ are unique restaurants offering a special insight into the terroir they occupy. It is the last of those, noma, which concerns this account and its story begins with Claus Meyer. Little known outside of Scandinavia, Meyer is Denmark’s most famous foodie. First television chef, now restaurateur, business man and farmer, this venture is his vision. For more than two centuries, the Grønlandske Handels Plads in Copenhagen’s Christianshavn quarter was a busy centre for trade with Iceland, the Faeroe Islands and Greenland. Hence, it was common for immigrants from these lands to take their very first footsteps upon Danish soil here; thus it was considered, at the turn of this century, a fitting site for what would become Nordatlantens Brygge – North Atlantic House – a shared address for these northerly neighbours. To accommodate this grandiose project, one of the harbour’s most impressive structures was selected – the five-story, seven-thousand metre-squared former warehouse that resides at the end of the Strandgade. It was the wish of those masterminds behind this undertaking that it ought also to encompass a gourmet restaurant that showed off the culinary wares of these nations. Henrik Pedersen, the well-respected chef at Babette, was offered the chance to make this happen. However he, although interested and having already drafted in Claus Meyer to assist him, had to pull out over his concerns about running two restaurants simultaneously. Meyer, on the other hand, with Pederson’s blessing, remained very much involved – the attraction for him ‘had much more to do with the possibility of generating…a compellingly stringent and beautiful culinary concept, which the world had never seen before.’ As Pedersen’s replacement, Meyer approached Paul Cunningham. The Englishman was more than curious, but had already agreed to open a new restaurant in the Tivoli Gardens – a deal he was unable to free himself from. In his stead, he recommended two others. One was Bo Bech, who had just ended his partnership with Jan Hurtigkarl. The other was René Redzepi. Redzepi, at that time, was sous chef at Kong Hans (1*) in Copenhagen and had spent several years working in the finest kitchens overseas, but, in truth, had sort of strayed into a career as a chef. Half-Danish, half-Macedonian, he spent his childhood between the two countries, often spending months at a time with his father’s family in the Balkans. There he lived the more bucolic life: ‘if we wanted a chicken my uncle had to slaughter it. If we wanted milk my aunt had to milk the cow.’ Although unappreciative of the experience as a child – ‘I was very embarrassed about it’ – now he values those times. Although, it was not this intimate connection with food that inspired him to cook; at school, undecided on what career to pursue, he enrolled in cookery college because his best friend had done so. Nevertheless after just two days there, during a cooking competition, he sensed a ‘sudden feeling that this was exactly what I wanted to do.’ Upon graduating, he joined Pierre André (1*) in the Danish capital, where he spent four years studying classical French cuisine. This inspired him to make the move, in 1998, to France and the Pourcel brothers’ Jardin des Sens (3*) in Montpellier. Disappointed to find ‘a lot of shouting in the kitchen. A lot of aggression,’ he left soon enough. However, before he did that, he visited a restaurant just over the Franco-Catalan border that he had heard great things about; it was in Rosas, it was el Bulli. ‘I was blown away. It wasn't the specific dishes that did it. It was the sense of freedom. Up to that point I had assumed all grand cooking had to be French.’ He soon returned, but this time to cook; in fact, he was so eager, he worked the 1999 season unpaid. Redzepi spent the subsequent year in miscellaneous consulting positions prior to a summer spell in 2001 at Thomas Keller’s French Laundry, in California. After this, he was back in Copenhagen working under Thomas Rode Andersen at Kong Hans, which is where Meyer found him two years later. Seemingly keener than Bech, it also quickly became apparent to Meyer that Redzepi’s and his own ambitions were similarly aligned; he therefore offered him the role and a partnership in the business. However, the chef had a condition; he wanted to have an old friend from école hôtelière days – Mads Refslund – join them as a partner and his sous. Meyer acquiesced. The team’s first task was a four-week fact-finding expedition through the North Atlantic; they were seeking new ingredients and new methods native to the Nordic region that they could take back to noma. Their trip was fruitful – treasures they unearthed included huge, forty-five-year-old horse mussels in the Faeroe Islands; biodynamic pearl barley, arctic char and rye bread steamed underground in Iceland; and, in Greenland, six-year-old shrimp, small and fatty capelin and crowberries. Furthermore, it left an immense impression on Redzepi: ‘Here, where we are, nature is as it wants to be and I began thinking about how to reflect that nature, express it on the plate.’ Once home, they opened noma in November 2003. ‘They called us the stinking whale,’ the chef remembers. ‘Everybody thought Scandinavian cuisine was a joke when we started.’ Coupled with the tremendous difficulty realised importing all the incredible products they had uncovered, the restaurant faced a challenging initiation. But Redzepi was undeterred and less than ten months later had even organised a special symposium to which the region’s leading chefs were invited. At this event, the New Nordic Kitchen Manifesto – a set of ten commandments specially scripted by the chefs – was penned and a quiet gastronomic revolution engineered. Soon people paid heed. Supply lines were secured. Success followed. In 2005, noma was awarded its first Michelin star and, having been bestowed an espoir the next year, subsequently won its second in 2007. Now Redzepi has a network of producers three times as strong as the average Danish restaurant whilst also employing five foragers to scout the area for new produce. Additionally, the chef was further recognised with his appointment as ambassador for the New Nordic Food program by the Nordic Council of Ministers and also his selection as the president of Denmark’s Bocuse d’Or team. Noma’s address could not be more apt: the restaurant reclaiming Nordic cuisine sits on an island of reclaimed land. In the early seventeenth century, Christianhavn was created as a merchant town that provided protection to Copenhagen proper. With its canals and tall, bright, multicoloured buildings (and today its bicycles too), the town built by Dutch architects was modelled on the Dutch capital. One hundred years on, this was where the Royal Greenland Trade Enterprise could be found; the focal point for shipping and commerce between Denmark and her former colonies of Iceland, the Faeroe Islands, Greenland as well as Finnmark. Another hundred years later and these same streets were those favoured by Kierkegaard on his long walks – and he certainly liked to walk. Nowadays, the old warehouses that line the waterfront have been refurbished. This includes the afore-mentioned culture and arts centre, Nordatlantens Brygge which, once housing salted herring, whale blubber and skins, spelt and dry fish, is now home to the Icelandic embassy and permanent representations for Greenland and the Faeroe Islands, along with noma of course. The rough-hewn, mottled gray brick building with pitched red-tile roof and narrow, sandy yellow stucco skirting was constructed in 1766 by master-builder J.C. Conradi. It is a formidable, but beautiful frame for the restaurant. Noma’s entrance itself is discreet and distinguished only by a pair of upright pikes in front of the door, carrying caged gas candles, and the noma name stencilled in three-dimensional, lower-case letters to one side of it. The interior is quintessential Nordic. Created by Signe Bindslev Henriksen, the space marries old-world charm with clean, uncluttered modernism. ‘I knew that this was the place, it had such a warmth about it with its wooden beams. I was sick of luxurious, palatial restaurants,’ tells Redzepi. Indeed, woods dominate. Floorboards of Pomeranian pine; ancient and limed pillars supporting rugged exposed timbers; with grainy, smoked oak tables, seats and serving stations, together form a warm counterweight to the seriousness of the cracking white-washed brickwork walls. Floor-to-ceiling, arched windows set in arched recesses, encircle the space allowing in plenty of sunlight and imparting impressive views out over Københavns Havn. Well-sized tables are well-spaced and surrounded by spindly, sixties-styled Scandinavian chairs; most unusually and authentically, each bears a fluffy, white sheepskin. Extravagant excess is eschewed; naked tables are topped sparingly with Royal Copenhagen china, Spiegelau stemware, wild Danish flowers and a thick-cut candle. Away from the dining area, besides the doorway, stands the more contemporary, stainless steel kitchen which, although behind paned glass, is nonetheless easily accessible by eye. Amuse Bouche 1: Syltet og røget vagtelæg. An oversized brown and tan-speckled porcelain egg was placed at the table. Instructed to consume the contents within just ten seconds of opening the container, one lifts the lid. At once, an aromatic cloud of smoke sluggishly floated up and away, revealing a single, little quail’s egg nestled upon straw bedding. Eaten entire, the small, pale amber ovule, pickled in apple vinegar before smoked over apple wood, quickly burst to imbue the whole mouth with its warm, unctuous yolk whose mild smokiness was tinged with fruity tartness. Amuse Bouche 2: Rugbrød, kyllingeskind, stenbiderrogn og rygeost. Smørrebrød, the traditional Danish open sandwich, was turned on its head, literally: the ritual rugbrød base became the topping with chicken skin the bottom and hay-smoked cheese blended with dill and lumpfish roe in betwixt the two. Once again, the appearance of this amuse was superb with the matted gold folds of skin and russet gleam of the toasted rye interrupted by bright white cheese interspersed with pinkish rose pearls of roe that mimicked the grains of the bread above it. The smoky, salty, sweet savours of the filling balanced excellently whilst its creaminess, punctuated by the poppy eggs, contrasted against the grainy, brittle rye and super-crispy skin. This last element was the highlight here – deliciously rich, it was a reminder of [my] childhood when one does not needs not think twice about devouring such wicked items like the fatty crust of a roast chicken. Although instantly familiar, like this the skin also tasted brand new. And although a little naughty, it was of course very nice. Amuse Bouche 3: Radiser, jord og urteemulsion. Planted upon the table, a terracotta garden pot came filled with dark soil from which sprouted large, vibrant leaves. With cutlery withheld, one is informed that everything within is edible. Holding onto one of the leafy tops, a radish was easily extracted, exposing, as it came out, brilliant green cream beneath the earth that still clung to the root. Peppery and almost sweet, these snappy radishes were from Lammefjord and belonged to Søren Wiuff. The foamy herb emulsion that they had been buried in was composed of sour sheep’s yoghurt flavoured with tarragon, chives and chervil; it was an addictive match with the crunchy malt, beer and hazelnut crumble that covered it. Amuse Bouche 4: Toast, vilde urter, pighvarrogn og eddike. An undulating layer of crisp bread was sprinkled with vinegar powder and dotted with turbot roe cream; each of these spots was pierced with precisely placed wild herbs and their flowers. This little cracker was a lesson in contradiction: delicate and surprisingly light, the flavours it offered were surprisingly strong. The first bite of the wavy wafer unleashed a small mist of vinegar dust that filled the air about the mouth. It was also extremely tart, although not unpleasantly so, before being quickly assuaged by the faintly buttery roe – a Finnish speciality – and herbal, flowery plants that had been freshly foraged. Brødet: Spelt og Manitoba. A square-shaped felt pouch was brought to the table; its leather ribbons were unravelled. Inside its cloth-lined belly sat two sorts of bread. Both were baked onsite and both were piping hot (as they remained for some time). One was Manitoba sourdough which, made with hard, highly refined wheat, was crunchy and dense. The other, spelt, had nice crust and fluffy middle. Alongside these, a platelet of organic Danish butter was served. Whipped through with skyr – a cheese from the fermented milk of Icelandic cows, a breed traceable to the time of the Vikings – this had great lightness and soft tang. Entrée 1: Blæksprutte og grønne jordbær; Fløde og dild. Almost translucent, ivory ingot of raw squid, deftly diced into identical, little squares, its contrary corners crowned with a couple of green strawberry slices standing upright against each other whilst a small mound of their granita rests on another, was topped with dill and toasted rye kernels; the shellfish sat in fresh cream laced with dark green dill oil. A picturesque plate already, it also suggested something of Scandinavian springtime: the rolling landscape; the green breaking through snow white; the snow itself…Furthermore, to most interesting effect, this recipe indulged the Danish love of berries and cream. Combining seafood and dairy is uncommon, but the cream worked delightfully well with the tender Danish west coast squid. The milky former enriched the latter whilst unripe strawberries added an exact acidity and the uplifting oil, subtle herbiness. Entrée 2: Rå rejer og tang; Rabarber og urter. A thin, bright blanket of sea lettuce, beset with beach herbs, cubes of pickled rhubarb and drizzled with the fruit’s juice, concealed underneath small uncooked shrimp from Smögen. Considered Sweden’s finest, these delicately sweet specimens melted in the mouth, their savour countered by the springy, subtly sour rhubarb and barely bitter algae. The surprise was strandsennep or beach mustard, whose blades and blossoms, collected by the chefs from along the seashore, had definite peppery heat. Entrée 3: Tatar og skovsyre; Aromatisk enebær og estragonemulsion. Tartar of Danish beef, arranged in a neat rectangle and besprinkled with toasted rye breadcrumbs and grated horseradish under wood sorrel and rings of onion, left a trail of ground juniper in its wake; a matching belt of vibrant tarragon emulsion shadowed the beef and its hoofprints. To be consumed without cutlery, one uses the heart-like leaves of wood sorrel to clasp the just-chopped meat, smear it through the tarragon then swab it in specks of juniper. The initial pleasure came from the presentation. Vivid and colourful, there was also simplicity, freshness and purity on the plate. Roughly cut yet trimly set tartar; cluttered though carefully fixed sorrel; coarse, but deliberate sprinkles and daubs presented rustic precision. Additionally, the leaf-topped tartare over the green row immediately evoked a dynamic image of the animal itself grazing across the field. The beef, mild yet clean and flavoursome, was enlivened by the lemony spark of the sorrel, spicy horseradish and warmth of the mustard oil from Gotland. Aniseed tarragon and stimulating, woody juniper were both distinct and balanced delicately well; whilst the rye added crunch. This course considered all the senses, pleasing more than simply the palate and provoking sensations both amusing and intellectual. Eating with one’s hands makes this instantly more than just another dish. Foremost, it is fun; a challenge to social convention and expectation too. However, on a deeper level, it also connects the diner to the food – the textures manifest no longer only in the mouth-feel, but on the tips of one’s fingers; or through the lemon scent that stains their hands, for instance. Moreover, there is the romantic vision roused; one realises and appreciates that this is how our ancestors – and/or how the Vikings – long ago once ate. Raw food with bare hands. Entrée 4: Knivmusling og peberrodssne; Persille og dild. Myrtle cylinder of parsley jelly, concealing local razor clam, came laid across the bowl, leading from its centre to its cusp; a deep, loose line of horseradish snow skirted its length. Tableside, juice from the clam, mingled with mustard-dill stock, was poured. The plating here was very interesting, in particular, the inescapable likeness to a sewage pipe – razor clams are actually an invasive species in the region, thus this suggestion of waste or undesirability could have been a nod to that fact. The tenderness and sweetness of the clam exceeded expectation whilst the parsley wrapper was pepper cool with slightly gelatinous texture. The icy blend of buttermilk and horseradish (once a common companion to raw shellfish), although cold, was unexpectedly potent with an agreeably creamy consistency. The cool effluent was intense and crisp. Entrée 5: Friskost og friskblomster; Brøndkarse. Over a bed of fresh cheese, a richly-coloured array of just-picked flowers, interspersed with croutons, was showered; a sauce of watercress and parsley lay in attractive swirls to one side. Both the cheese had been made and the wild blossoms gathered by the chefs themselves that same day. The ethereal, buttermilk-based cheese worked well to showcase the springy assortment of rocket, parsley, nasturtium, mustard and more florae. The watercress, at first dulcet, become stronger and spicier as its savour lingered while the parsley proffered a grassier note. Entrée 6: Jomfruhummer og söl; Persille og havvand. A warm basalt stone, plucked from a Gotland potato field, was presented. A single, surprisingly sizeable langoustine from Læsø lay on it. Randomly placed, bright green beads about the rock were composed of oyster and parsley emulsion and crowned with rye crumbs; grated Icelandic dulse – söl – left sandy magenta streaks across the surface. It was as if the sea had washed up its most prized prawn upon a stone on the seashore; the roasted seaweed dust and barnacle-like outgrowths redolent of the sea itself aided and abetted the analogy. Once again one uses their hands to enjoy the shellfish, which barely cooked, was scrumptious; luscious, fat and so sweet. It was even possible to feel the little fibres that encircled the plump body snap as the meat was bitten into. The mineral emulsion and briny söl became almost afterthoughts. Entrée 7: Asparges og skovmærke; Humle og dunhammer. Søren’s white asparagus, chopped to varying lengths then set laid or standing, surrounded sous vide wild duck egg; over all these, fiddlehead ferns, hops and bulrush were strewn and rough rings of woodruff sauce were drizzled. The Lammefjord greens again amazed with the al dente asparagus juicy and tasty, its flavour accentuated by the woodruff and bulrush, to give the dish a surprisingly sweet nature. However, the richness of the unctuous egg had taming effect and proved an excellent balance as did the crisp and subtly bitter hop shoots. Additionally, bulrush and fiddlehead fern – here found as fronds that had been diligently detached from the unfurled, scroll-like head – both share an innate affinity with asparagus which reinforced the vegetable’s distinct essence. Entrée 8: Aske og porrer; Blåmuslinger og kongekrabbe. Alternating cylindrical couples of jet black and scarlet-swathed white occupied the centre of the plate. Frothy mussel emulsion was spooned out, almost completely covering these, before golden toasted breadcrumbs were shaken overtop. The two tubes were in fact leek stems rolled in hay ash and poached Norwegian king crab thigh-meat. The latter, so succulent with lovely brininess, seemed almost liquid-filled, whilst the former were startlingly delicious. Using ash as a spice is an ancient Nordic tradition mainly applied to herring and it imparted a complex, intense caustic savour like edible smoky soot; the dark coating then quickly dissolved on the tongue, releasing the leek’s mellow flavour. This was a totally new taste sensation. The mussel sauce was strong and acted as salty seasoning whilst the brittle breadcrumbs bestowed crunch. Plat Principal 1: Pighvar og vegetabilsk stilke; Syltede hyldeblomst. Tranche of roasted North Sea turbot, its skin appetising dark amber and laden with unripe elderberry, caper and shallot garni, was teamed with stems of watercress and leek, all scattered with sprigs of strandtrehage and strandsennep; celeriac purée and a thin sauce made from capers completed the recipe. The turbot’s breeding season lasts from April to August, during which time, the fish stores more fat in preparation for procreation. A side-effect of this it that its meat is even more mouth-watering than normal and this specimen was indeed rich and toothsome with some of that elusive, excellent melting fattiness to it. The berry and caper garnish brought a pleasingly acidic burst whilst the crackly, moist stems had contrary sweet touch. Beach herbs, with their latent heat and citrus, were also welcomed. Plat Principal 2: Råstegt hummer og salat root; hybenrose og ribs vin. Sautéed Danish blue lobster, blanketed with red currant wine and sat atop lobster jus, was buried amidst roots of salad, shoots of wild beach pea, their little purple flowers and rosehip petals; a streak of lobster coral accompanied. The dish, decorated with different shades of splendid red and lush green, was simply beautiful – and it tasted just as good too. The lissom lobster, very nicely-timed, had juicy, supple flesh and was full of natural sweetness. The tangy rosehip, reinforced by the nearly sugary beach pea, was a splendid bridge between the lovely shellfish and fruity-tart red currant wine. The coral was concentrated and the lettuce, succulent and snappy. Entremet 1: Læsøløg; Løgkarse og ramsløg. Læsø’s renown is not limited to its langoustines; this time, its onions took centre-stage. Onion compote, carpeted over with prast ost and encircled with onion slices – half of which were soaked in beer, the other half pickled – was peppered with chive flowers, chickweed, ramson stalks and onion cress; tableside, onion bouillon with thyme and tapioca was served. This preparation was both an ode to onions and its relations whilst the beer-cheese-onion combination insinuated classic pub snack (cheese and onion crisps with a pint of beer). The compote had relish; its savoury, slightly strong skin of a Swedish mature cheese skin akin to cheddar, a natural companion; whilst the warm, pungent, pearly bouillon was fairly intense and gently melted the prast ost, becoming syrupy as it did so. Ramson and chive contributed hints of garlic and the two sets of onion were both crisp, with one rather malty and the other salty-sharp. Entremet 2: Marv og syltede grøntsager; Krydderurter og bouillon. Crudités of various vegetables, pickled in six varieties of vinegar, were arranged in curls and bouquets studded and bestrewn with such herbs as mustard, rocket, leek flowers and pea shoots as well as small rounds of poached bone marrow, all mizzled with a little oxtail stock. Although amounting to only a small cluster upon the plate, this course abounded with colour, vivacity and curiosity. Each bite was fresh, crunchy and subtly tart, but each was different too thanks to the mixture of marinades. The vibrant clutch, dense and solid, also invited one to delve in and thus dig up peppery blossoms or anise leaves that they had not yet already discovered. Shimmering, soft slices of marrow also hiding amongst these tendered some richness whilst the bouillon beneath was deep and delectable. There was a deft balance between sweet and sour here, which also worked to cleanse the palate after the previous onions. A leather-bound, reindeer horn-handled puukko knife, handmade in Lapland, was placed upon the table. Rustic yet carefully crafted, even the noma knife has become somewhat iconic. Plat Principal 3: Moskusokse og mælkeskind; Spæde hvidløg og ramsløg. From Greenland’s west coast, a mahogany haunch of musk ox, resting in gamboge jus suffused with ramson, was teamed with alabaster folds of milk skin and grilled baby garlic and cucumber whilst dressed with capers and mini, mauve garlic flowers. The meaty fillet was well-marbled, tender and flavoursome. Its sticky, concentrated sauce was delightful, the ramson linking nicely with the young garlic. The milky skin, literally the skimmed off coating that forms on the surface when cooking milk, was reminiscent of yuba and slightly tart-sweet; this was interesting both texturally and taste wise. Dessert 1: Birkesaft og birkesirup; Sødskærm og honning. Broken birch slates of meringue, overlaying birch sorbet and jelly made from mead and honey, were embedded with bright, baby sprigs of Spanish chervil. This was instantly resonant: the coarse-cut meringues, matching the gray plate, impersonated the stony earth; the sorbet resembled the sap and roots; whilst the herbs were little saplings breaking through and growing forth. The sorbet was mildly sugary and clean; jelly of mellifluous wine and honey collected from a beehive only a few miles away, was stronger; whilst the Spanish chervil like liquorice. The meringues, made using the water in which birch bark had been bathed, were excellent – light, grainy and not at all cloying. Dessert 2: Rødbede og skovsyre; Creme fraiche og syltet hybenrose. A circle sat in the dish’s centre, split into two halves. On one side, there were compact maroon crystals of beet and pickled hip rose granité; on the other, pastel green sorrel mousse was crowned with pale hip rose tuile topped with the grated fruit. Crispy, crunchy and smooth; sweet, sharp and earthy – this was more complex than its simple appearance suggested. The subtle savours were also very well poised. Dessert 3: Valnødde pulver og is; Tørret fløde og tørrede bær. Walnut ice cream came covered in three crude strips of cream powder, walnut dust and dried blackberries. This was another dessert that seemed more straightforward than it really was. Tasting the three toppings together proved extremely astringent, quickly absorbing away all the moisture from the mouth and leaving just fruity-sour essence before the soft, moussy walnut ice cream quickly supplied gentle succour. Building on the natural relation between walnuts and blackberries, this worked to delicious effect. Petit Fours: Flødebolle med rødbedeskum. Chocolate covered marshmallow treats can be found across Europe in varying national guises, but their widely acknowledged origin is Denmark (and it remains the largest producer of these today – apparently, the average Dane eats fifty a year). Petit fours entailed this traditional dainty, with a twist. Served on a cold stone, as the flødebolle began to melt as soon as it was touched, thin, fine quality chocolate case and malt cracker base bordered fluffy, mild and yummy, pink beetroot mousse. Alongside this menu, Ulf served a champagne-heavy flight of wines... I have been very lucky in my dining life so far – not only have I rarely been on the receiving end of substandard service, but I have been subjected to some of the kindest imaginable. Bearing that in mind, the treatment on offer here is some of the very finest that I have seen. I really was impressed by the quality of care and genuine consideration conveyed by all those at noma. Interestingly, Redzepi encourages his chefs to serve and explain many of the dishes themselves. Not only is this a pleasantly unexpected twist, but it also undeniably adds another layer of openness and intimacy to the restaurant experience. Additionally, given that many in the kitchen are actually British – ‘they are battle-hardened. They are good, strong. Ready for anything,’ Redzepi says – speaking with them was interesting and entertaining. It was fascinating to watch the front-of-house staff at work. One would expect the introduction of chefs into the dining room to complicate, possibly even disrupt them. But not so. Instead, it was continuously calm and co-ordinated with servers gracefully and confidently wending their way between tables and chairs. They were always relaxed and always made time for the guest. I conversed with many over the course of the meal and all were very affable, engaging and thoughtful – having spoken to Kim, Ulf and Laura most, I single them out especially. Together, they are led by Lau – simply the consummate maître d'hôtel – who is earnestness, charm and niceness personified. Everyone seemed to really enjoy what they were doing and it showed in the little details. For instance, it was a delight to note that not only did the staff smile at diners, but they smiled at each other too. There is a warmth and avidity shared by all – and it is contagious. Over lunch I was also able to meet and talk a little with René Redzepi. His boyish mien and unassuming nature automatically engendered rapport and admiration. The more we spoke, the more I was overwhelmed by his generous and good spirit. Clearly impassioned and clearly relishing his work, I was certainly stirred by his enthusiasm. The meal itself was just stunning. The amuses were arguably the most engaging I have ever been served – satisfying taste, intellect and emotion individually and collectively. From the courses that followed, it is difficult to select either my favourites or those I liked least. If pushed, I would pick rå rejer og tang; rabarber og urter and friskost og friskblomster; brøndkarse as two that were less memorable than the rest, but again, these were only relatively weaker courses rather than flawed or weak in themselves. Those that I found the most appetising included blæksprutte og grønne jordbær, the classic tatar og skovsyre, asparges og skovmærke (the best asparagus-egg dish I have ever eaten), aske og porrer, råstegt hummer og salat root and from the excellent desserts, valnødde pulver og is. The first four offerings from the kitchen were delicious and revealing. Starting with the vagtelæg, presented in its Matryoshka-esque ceramic casket that played the shell to the already peeled quail egg, so much was shown with a single, bite-size morsel. Simple yet intelligent and delectable, there was also an element of intrigue, mystery and maybe even magic from the swirling, steaming smoke which, whilst adding animation, almost convinces the diner that the egg is still cooking. Furthermore, essentially Nordic – these eggs are regularly consumed here; pickling and smoking are both basic Scandinavian preparation methods; and apples, staples of the diet – this was a fitting opener. The second course was nostalgic, indulgent and my favourite. Once again, working with (stereo)typically regional ingredients, this was a witty reinvention of something common and customary. Different characteristics of the cooking became evident with the next treat, radiser, jord og urteemulsion. Here, the highest quality raw materials were showcased in amusing, whimsical fashion. The presentation, original, clever but mostly convincing, created a sense of adventure and implied a return to nature; the playfulness patent here may have been nurtured whilst Redzepi worked under his most influential mentor, Adrià. In addition, as it so happens, this particular recipe has also been inspirational to other talented chefs, such as David Kinch and Heston Blumenthal. Amuses ended on a delicate note with another item just as reminiscent of the outdoors – a curvy cracker carrying what seemed frost-kissed wild herbs, but which were actually dusted in malty vinegar. The tatar og skovsyre: aromatisk enebær og estragonemulsion has become somewhat of a noma signature. It is understandable why. As Redzepi tells it, ‘when [we] first opened, this dish almost seemed a provocation. The Copenhagen restaurant scene really was dominated by these old, fussy French places. And then along comes this restaurant where they want you to eat raw beef with your hands like you're some Viking.’ The effect of this course is two-fold – it relaxes those unaccustomed to fine dining, whilst teasing amusing those that are. And it does this brilliantly: one really cannot help but laugh whilst feeding themselves finger-fuls of tartar. The dramatic aesthetic, gamesome expression and sensory satisfaction have all already been alluded to earlier, but there is also an inescapable awareness that one is eating something distinctly Nordic. The locally-sourced ingredients, all of ancient regional relevance – juniper and tarragon being both especially bonded to the territory – served naturally with minor manipulation, suggest a specific place as well as a specific time. This was a rare transcendental dish. The issue of aesthetic previously touched upon is of special importance. Whether from the rich colours, the minimalist arrangement of elements evocative with imagery and meaning or the eloquent use of empty space on the plate, there is something almost austere here – a noble austerity – that encapsulates the severity, but also the purity of the Nordic terroir. It is as if Redzepi, having tamed the savage, but strikingly beautiful North, has distilled it into his dishes. Noma is inevitably exciting as it affords one the opportunity to discover unique ingredients such as strandtrehage, strandsennep and musk ox; and taste uncommon techniques like pickling, smoking and spicing with ash. It is an introduction to Nordic cuisine – a new cuisine to many. However, beyond the novelty, there is a fundamental superiority in the creativity and cooking. Not a single misstep in execution was manifest today with thoughtful dishes, cleverly designed and delivered with deliberate care. But the adventure here does not end with trying new products or methods – one hallmark of noma’s cuisine is that each course is in itself an exploration. As one eats, they uncover different, dynamic and fresh flavours and textures. This is just one trait that characterises Redzepi’s distinctive cooking, though; to gain a good understanding of the others, one need only read that Manifesto he helped author. Some additional qualities that stood out from my lunch were the light saucing of plates, preference for raw foods, precise use of acidity and willingness to mingle modern and ancient cookery. Butter, cream, stocks and wine, standard in most sauces, were shunned in favour of beers, ales, fruit juices and homemade vinegars. The latter have become essential tools, also applied as seasoning (limiting the use of salt) and to produce that sweet and sour profile that is so very Nordic. Elderberries, unripe strawberries, capers and such are included to offer uplifting and bright acidic notes whilst the prevalence of raw ingredients only aids the natural and feral sense of style. Noma was not always a success; René Redzepi and his partners’ ambitions to create a restaurant solely focused on Nordic cuisine were at first ridiculed whilst the business model proved difficult to implement with sourcing from across the Northern Atlantic much more challenging than expected. In spite of everything though, they persevered, remained resolute in their aims and maintained a strict obedience to them whilst personally scouting out new produce and establishing stable supply lines across the region. Today, few would question how far they have come or what they have achieved. Possibly forged during those times of struggle, there is a sense of purpose so strong and dedication to it so certain that it suffuses all that noma is. Consequently, one’s meal at noma is about more than only food. When someone first enters, they are immediately confronted by a décor that although contrary to what one might expect to find at a fine-dining restaurant, is incontestably in keeping with the Nordic ideology. This is then reinforced by the compelling details that are woven into one’s dining, such as the felt bread-holder or the hunting knife that arrives with the main course. However, it is really the people that make being here so special and truly an experience. The staff, as said already, are terrifically keen and interested, but there is the added interaction with the chefs too. Breaking down any imaginary boundaries between customer and kitchen, there is also something very emotive and effective about this approach. Chefs, as they proudly present them before the diner, describe their dishes with the natural affection that the maker has for what he has made – and rightly so. After all, what they are achieving with these is worthy indeed: with each plate, they are giving back Nordic cooking its identity. The consequences of this are not only felt by noma’s guests, but are spread across Copenhagen. Once derided, now the restaurant is congratulated by critics and colleagues. It is a mutual fondness. There is a tremendous sense of camaraderie between the city’s chefs – not only are they genuine friends, routinely cooking for each other and organising charity events together, but they even share suppliers. When one discovers a new ingredient/source, he tells the rest; for example, Lammefjord has been referred to as noma’s garden yet everyone uses Søren’s vegetables. Noma may be Copenhagen’s catalyst and René Redzepi might have set the bar high, but others are rising to the challenge. This is not news per se yet the quality and consistency across restaurants is still (superbly) startling. Eating around the capital, this fraternity and impetus is truly tangible, inspirational and indeed infectious. Parallels have been drawn between Copenhagen and San Sebastián, where in the seventies local chefs created nueva cocina vasca, a cuisine that was motivated by nouvelle cuisine, but remained solidly Basque in character. There too existed this same sense of solidarity and unity with chefs working together – traditional txokos were just one illustration of this in practice. However, recently, the spotlight has swung from Donostia onto other regions; principal amongst these being California and Copenhagen. Even Adrià has conceded that ‘if Spain was the new France in culinary terms, then Nordic must surely be the new Spain.’ This shift is exemplified by a movement from innovation-based cuisine to ingredient-based ones. And it is the latter of the two, which I believe, to surely be the more sustainable. On a final note, for someone who lives in London (like I do), noma presents hope. Some of Britain’s chefs have already noticed what is happening across the North Sea – Stephen Harris claims that ‘René makes me feel like a total lightweight. He's in a different league’; Marcus Wareing describes his meal there as ‘brilliant’, saying it ‘captured Redzepi's country and his immediate surroundings perfectly’; Jason Atherton believes that ‘every now and then a chef comes along and makes a difference and René’s one of them.’ However, what is really exciting is the thought that eventually, the British chefs working in Copenhagen may decide to come home – after all, Great Britain’s climate and environment is not vastly different to Denmark’s and much of its natural flora and fauna have long been overlooked. Redzepi appears to feel the same way: ‘if the world is going to come to its senses, then we must all develop our own awareness and consciousness of our own terroir. This can happen everywhere, we all have our own resources. England is the same. If we can do it here, it can be done anywhere.’ Implementing the ideas they have learned abroad, these returning chefs might even ignite their own renaissance over here… If my praise was not sufficiently purple, be left in no doubt, this was one of the greatest dining experiences I have been fortunate enough to enjoy. As I floated walked out of noma, I knew I had already been won over by the charming staff, René Redzepi’s delicious cooking and by the potential of Nordic cuisine. René Redzepi is a magician without tricks. There are few others capable of producing dishes so powerful, poignant and so provocative that they are able to leave one at a loss for words (or at least unable to utter anything but a whimper or whispered wow). Often, as the memories fade, meals are remembered only by a moment or two. My meal at noma was a meal made of such moments. The moment when the smoke drifted out of the speckled egg shell; the moment that I clumsily clutched my beef and smeared it across my plate; quickly followed by the moment I found myself hunched over my warm pebble, using both my hands to pull apart a huge langoustine. And more, until finally, the moment at lunch’s end when I noticed crumbs of malty-hazelnut earth still caught under my finger nails and giggled to myself – that…well, that was the moment I found my hygge.

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Hi, These are my thoughts on my meal here last June. Please click here for full commentary and photography: HERE Søllerød is a village on the northern cusp of Copenhagen. Although small, it boasts a serious history. Its medieval church dates back to 1100 AD whilst a number of its eighteenth and nineteenth century country-houses can claim to have once lodged illustrious local and international artists and poets alike – including the country’s most-loved, Hans Christian Andersen – who regularly called on this quaint community. One such eminent address, for example, is the Mothsgaarden, wherein Edward Grieg composed his Magnus opus and one of Scandinavia’s most celebrated piano pieces, Piano Concerto in A minor, Op. 16, during his 1868 stay. Besides its famous visitors, famous church and famous houses, this village also possesses a famous coaching-inn. Søllerød Kro traces its origins to 1677 when the local vicar was given permission to open a place where parishioners and those passing through could stay. Today, three hundred years on, it remains as it did then, nestled in between the same church, wood and village pond, but within, now resides a gourmet restaurant. For some twenty years, Søllerød Kro has been a dining destination in Denmark. During the nineties, the establishment also held a Michelin star as its kitchen played host to a score of notable chefs, including Søren Gericke, Michel Michaud, Francis Cardenau, Jan Petersen and Englishman Paul Cunningham (currently running his own restaurant, the Paul). However, in 1999 that star was lost. That same year, the restaurant appointed Jan Restorff to manage the front of house. Originally from the Faeroe Islands, Jan was born into hospitality with his parents running the Hotel Hafnia Tórshavn that his grandfather had first opened. Once he had completed school, in 1988 the young man left for Denmark to undertake an apprenticeship at Glostrup Park Hotel. This was where his interest in wine was ignited by the cellar-master there who took him under his care and instructed him in oenology. By 1990 Jan had moved on to the SAS Royal Hotel in the capital during which spell he entered the Sommelier Society of Denmark (1991). Here he remained until joining Søllerød Kro where he not only supervises the FOH, but also the wine cellar with its 1700-strong bin – the largest in the land. In 2002, Jakob de Neergaard became the restaurant’s head chef. This Allerød native had grown up in a family where good food was important – his childhood memories are filled with recollections of the ‘homemade jams, gherkins, compotes, pickled and fresh vegetables, herring and eggs from the neighbouring farms’ that his grandparents would prepare whilst he stayed at their Ørby cottage. It was also as a youth that family trips to south-eastern France, especially the Pyrenees, instilled within him a love of the region and its flavours that would be influential later in life. His passion for the kitchen became apparent very early and he interned at Restaurant Nokken in Rungsted Havn whilst still only at school. Responsible for chopping parsley, he recalls the experience fondly: ‘I think I was awakened by the smell of parsley!’ Once his studies ended at sixteen, he apprenticed at Hotel Marina in Vedbaek then Kong Hans under Daniel Letz. In 1993, Jakob left Denmark, joining the navy as chef to an admiral; the role lasted a year and included six months in Greenland. After this, he moved to Belgium, working first at ‘t Convent then Bruneau in Brussels, which he credits with introducing him to truffles. 1996 saw him reaffirm his affinity with France whist in Provence at Le Prieuré. A year on and he had made it to Paris and Taillevent. The Ritz followed, then Alain Ducasse. Finally, after a stint at the Danish Embassy, he returned to Denmark after six years away. Upon his arrival, he was made head chef at Theodore’s Restaurant in 1999 ahead of two years spent at Jacobsen. Together, the pair has taken Søllerød Kro from strength to strength, amassing a host of individual and collective awards along the way. In 2007, they also won back that lost Michelin star. The inn itself is approached via a path that winds around a picturesque pond surrounded by tall trees. Previously greens and oranges dominated the building, but after its 2007 renovation, the exterior is immaculate white, punctuated by dark rimmed windows and crowned with mossy green thatching. The building is bordered by neatly trimmed hedging and an alabaster mast carrying bright red Danish flag. Entering through its gate, one is in the inner courtyard that features a new fountain and doubles as an alfresco summer dining setting. Inside, a couple of antechambers lead onto the first dining area – the entire space being composed of a number of interlocking rooms. Ceilings are fairly low-lying, but the outside walls are all lined with wide windows that create an open impression. Much of the panelling and beams are the originals, but the present colour scheme comprises light shades of pastel green with gold piping. Furnishings are wood; fresh lilies are plentiful; and wine bottles and other oenological effects fill out the décor. Considerable tables, fringed by soft, comfy armchairs, are generously spaced further enhancing the spacious feel. Bright white linens cover tabletops that are laid with silver candleholders, salt and pepper shakers and the restaurant’s tailor-made cutlery. I opted for the Prestige Menu, but allowed Jan the freedom to tinker with it. Lunch began with an aperitif - JL Vergnon Champagne Brut Blanc de Blancs Grand Cru. Light, but robust and effervescent, this had plenty of acidity and was rich in lemony hints. Amuse Bouche 1: Grøn gazpacho – Sorbet på oliven – Sne. A snow white, smooth scoop of olive oil sorbet, sitting atop its ice, had pastel fern gazpacho of green melon and cucumber poured around it at the table. The frosty Italian olive oil had herby, peppery kick and contrasted nicely against the mildly cool, velvety soup. Les Pains: Wheat sourdough; and Beer-honey roll. A brace of homemade mini buns were brought out warm. The lighter, a cake-like wheat and apple pain au levain, had open, moist crumb and subtle sweet acidity. The darker, made with Danish (Baltic) Porter beer and acacia honey, was denser with crisper crust; the floral, gentle honey and toffee, malty beer made this reminiscent of soda bread. Both varieties were excellent. Hundred-year-old Pamplie’s salted butter from Poitou-Charentes and an unsalted organic local version mixed with whipped sour cream accompanied. Entrée 1: Rossini caviar – Fjordrejer – Grønne asparges. The initial entrée’s advent was designed to dazzle. Resting within a shimmering silver vessel, a tin of caviar d’Aquitaine – custom created for Søllerød Kro by Rossini – came with a small mother-of-pearl spoon. This was a cheeky ruse: the all-embracing crust of glimmering ebony beads strewn with bright specks of shrimp coral, actually secreted lower layers of creamy fjord prawns and green asparagus. Admittedly, the taste of farmed sturgeon eggs was less pronounced and on close inspection proved less than perfectly fresh, but they did manage to at least season the other ingredients. The minute prawns, fished from the Northern Atlantic, are a local delicacy; the asparagus played off their notable sweetness, whilst its own elemental note struck a chord with the caviar. Entrée 2: Kammusling – Østers – Peberrod. A plate was presented peppered with halves of roasted Danish scallop, quarters of local new potatoes, Brittany oysters, wafers of radish, cress and salicorne, over which oven-dried leek powder, dill oil and horseradish emulsion were sprinkled. The lovely scallops, just cooked through, were succulent, sea-sweet and matched by the marenne d’Olréon that had subtle, but increasing savour. The potatoes added substance; sea herbs, saltiness; whilst the combination of cress, horseradish and radish provided spice and bite, which the touch of mellow leek, aromatic dill and watery length of sous vide cucumber alleviated. Entrée 3: Ristet jomfruhummer – Grønne asparges – Pink grape. A roasted twosome of langoustines from Læsø, laid alongside a spear of green asparagus, were scattered over with the same vegetable’s shavings, sprigs of chervil and chopped supremes of pink grapefruit as well as splashes of coral butter sauce. These langoustines - from the small, but fruitful Danish island of Læsø, north of Copenhagen, where the jomfruhummer festival is held annually to celebrate them - were simply delicious. Firm yet moist, their sweetness seeped out as they melted in the mouth. A few drops of lemon confit and the grapefruit offered some acidity to cut the richness of the coral and enliven the sweet and tender asparagus. This was another noteworthy ingredient, coming from Lammefjord in Jutland. Upon these reclaimed sea-beds, arguably the best farmer in Denmark, Søren Wiuff, has been growing and harvesting by hand asparagus since taking over his father’s farm in the early eighties. His vegetables are much sought-after by the majority of the country’s top restaurants. Pol Roger’s Vintage Champagne Brut Extra Cuvée de Réserve 1999 was full-bodied with shades of caramel and fruit and had long, sweet finish. Incidentally, ‘this was Winston Churchill’s brand of choice,’ Jan whispered as he poured –the Englishman himself did say about it, ‘in victory, deserve it. In defeat, need it!’ Plat Principal 1: Hummer – Portulak – Knoldselleri. Danish black lobster tail, arresting Venetian red and laying with its sundered pinkish claw, rested atop garlic purée grated over with coral whilst garnished with purslane and celeriac ribbon; tableside, burned oil and lobster vinaigrette were tendered. Included last, but tasted first, the burned oil-broth had intense sharpness and smokiness giving the dish great complexity. The lissom lobster itself was lovely with delicate savour, emphasised well by the celeriac. Some crunchiness came from the raw ribbon and pourpier with also a littlie salty-sourness from the latter. Plat Principal 2: Pighvar – Morkler – Hvide asparges. Two golden crusted tranches of turbot, pan-roasted and partnered with bisected stems of white asparagus and morels, were bathed in a ladled bouillon whose colour mirrored that of the fish. The turbot had serious flavour and great, crisp surface; morels had soaked up plenty of the excellent, rich juice; and lemon balm brought an uplifting tang. The real star here though was the asparagus, also from Lammefjord, which was so sweet, supple and possibly the best example of this vegetable that I have ever eaten. Plat Principal 3: Foie gras – Trøffel – Dyrekød. First-of-the-season local venison tenderloin, cooked sous vide and bedecked with breadcrumbs, chive and its pretty purple blossoms, was served with a couple of cubes of foie gras, ‘green-white’ asparagus, salsosa and flakes of pickled winter truffle. Atop these, truffle-infused jus was spooned out before fresh summer truffle was grated. This dish was a lovely vision: the vibrant colours, especially of the chive flowers, giving the almost masculine recipe a feminine quality. The nicely rested, tender meat had strong gaminess while its onion-like crumb coating was an agreeable touch. Similar to agretti, crisp salsola – which, when it dries, turns to tumbleweed – had tanginess that countered Søren’s sweet asparagus. Pickled truffle was at first disappointingly tame, but soon became rather deep and yet clean. The light jus was pleasingly flavoursome. Pre-dessert: Gulerød - havtorn. A frothy, but thick foam of sea buckthorn almost completely covered carrot brunoise embedded in carrot sorbet. Dense on touch, the mousse was light on the tongue and effervescently acidic sour. In contrast, the carrot combo beneath was crunchy, cold and sweet. This would have been excellent, if not for a slightly cloying aftertaste. Dessert 1: Citron med skovsyre og hvid chokolade. Large scoops of lemon sorbet, medium spheres of its mousse and small splashes of white chocolate laced with its rind, were littered with wood sorrel, crushed blanched almonds, tuile biscuit circles and scrapings of lemon skin. The temperature contrast between the cold sorbet and crème and warm chocolate was a pleasant surprise. Both the cooler elements also had very good texture and acid sweetness which was complemented by the lemony sorrel – an intuitive match. Dessert 2: Hindbær, fløde og hasselnød. A bowl brimming with baby Breton sablés, hazelnuts and their chocolate praline purée, fresh raspberries, their sugar tuiles, pâtes de fruits, all around a quenelle of their sorbet, was filled with cool Danish cream at the table. A classic combination in Denmark, this dessert was delicious. The sorbet was excellent in both taste and consistency; sablés were thick and toothsome having absorbed the delectable double cream; and the nutella-like chocolate dissolved instantly in the mouth. Dessert 3: Jordbær, fløde og mandler. A cluster of almond-vanilla cream pipings, boules of nearly-jelly, whipped strawberry mousse, brunoise and chunks of the actual fruit all topped with its sorbet, were intermingled with chips of almond, biscuit diamonds and baby mint. The mousses were most interesting – they were as if spherificated but still full within (an effect possibly achieved with a little gelatine). The mint had welcome cooling action whilst the almond crème was especially flavourful. Dessert 4: Rabarber, hyldeblomst og vanilje. An elderflower jelly carpet came coated with small cubes of sandkage, elderberry caviar and flowers, wood sorrel, meringues, baked bricks of rhubarb, its sorbet and its cream. There was an excellent harmony between the sour and sweet here. The consistency in quality of the different sorbets was again maintained, whilst the blocks of rhubarb, gummy and grainy, proved particularly enjoyable as did the sandkage that was reminiscent of shortbread. The zingy elderberry caviar was another nice addition. Dessert 5: Felchlin-chokoladedesser. Upon a streak of chocolate sat a train of chocolaty components – meringues painted with it, its whipped jellied cream, mousse, sorbet, a tuile of it encircling its ganache over biscuit and topped with lemon cannelloni, and its eggs as well as those of lemon, some lemon balm and broken bites of sachertorte. This Viennese cake was crunchy and nutty; the mousse, dense and rich; whipped choc jelly, cold and tasty; and meringues, delicate. However, overall, this was the weakest dessert; the different parts just seemed to fail to gel as successfully as they did with the other afters. Dessert 6: Cru Sauvage Bolivia-chokolade og Macadamianødder. A bar, superimposed with gold leaf, choc streamers and sorbet, was enrobed with glossy dark chocolate and encased a thick layer of ganache over a compact base of macadamia nuts and cream; Tahitian vanilla white chocolate ice cream accompanied. The Bolivian wild chocolate by Felchlin – so called as its beans are hand harvested from naturally growing criollo cocoa crops – was very good with citrus hints and minimal bitterness. Its mousse had substance yet was smooth whilst its nutty segment was crunchy and scrumptious. Tahitian vanilla had more fruitiness that other varieties and linked well with this chocolate. Petit Fours: A. A two-tier sterling serving tray carried truffles of fruity-strong Armagnac, good hazelnut, subtle coffee bean, milky-smoky cappuccino, milky choc and tangy passion fruit. Alongside these were also a crisp and mild lemon macaron and fantastic Tonka financier with aromatic sweetness and delicious nearly-pasty texture that resembled those of Eric Kayser – incidentally the best I have ever had. Service at Søllerød Kro is superb and Jan Restorff is the consummate host. Considerate, attentive and a self-confessed epicurean, he was always willing and also keen to engage me in conversation – and given his own impressive restaurant-touring, this was interesting indeed. I was able to observe him entertaining other tables too and noticed how at each he found a topic, whether it be food or wine, with which to relate to his guests. Jan was well assisted by the capable Henrik, who was also friendly, diligent and very patient. In addition, it is a tranquil, nearly isolated setting within which one can engross themselves in the experience and allow the staff to indulge and spoil them as they do. After my meal, I enjoyed a conversation with chef Jakob as well. He came across as just as genial, thoughtful, warm-hearted and just as great a foodie himself as Jan. His enthusiasm and interest were charming to see. The fresh amuse was a fitting start to this warm June day’s lunch. Bread was excellent and deserves its own mention. The first course of caviar, discounting its shortcoming, offered a sharp insight into the cuisine – a point that will be expounded later. The quality of the subsequent savouries was consistently high, making it very difficult to single out one dish that I would firmly consider my favourite. For example, the burnt oil in the hummer or the pighvar’s white asparagus were both very memorable, whilst there was something actually very captivating about the dyrekød. Desserts sustained the high standard, but were distinctly different in delivery – being a lot busier and making a point of using the same ingredient in multiple ways. Of these, only the Felchlin-chokoladedesser was disappointing, failing to come off as well as the other sweets, whilst it was the Hindbær, fløde og hasselnød, followed by the Cru Sauvage Bolivia-chokolade og Macadamianødder, that I liked most. It is worth contemplating again the initial course, Søllerød Kro’s signature Rossini caviar. At once sophisticated and attention-catching, it is actually rather simple. Composed with essentially three ingredients sitting in discrete layers, the dish depends on the careful harmony of each component with the others. This is a common characteristic of chef Jakob’s cuisine – crystal clear flavours working in unison. Another of his merits is the balance achieved between different savours, like salty and sweet here. As can be said about all his food, this was also easy-to-eat, unexpectedly light and made with the best that Denmark has to offer. That the caviar was not at its freshest was unavoidably detrimental to its enjoyment though and meant that this was not as good as it could have been. As an aside, Søllerød Kro happens to sell more caviar than any other restaurant in Northern Europe at around forty kilograms per year. Another dish that had particular impact was the dyrekød. First, the presentation was special: dark and golden hues interrupted by bright greens and conspicuous purple. Then there was its serving – the white-gloved waiter grating truffle overtop was a sumptuous stroke. The uncomplicated recipe itself, comprising only a limited number of elements, relied on excellent execution, but also delicate and unusual nuances such as the pickling of the truffle and chive-crumb coating. What was a quite traditional plate with heavy, bold flavours became something graceful and refined – a great summertime course. In fact, this dish embodied what contemporary classic cooking ought to be. Contrary to these almost minimalist savouries were the multiplex sweets. These, though still centred around two or three ingredients, were filled out with numerous interpretations of the same component. However, even though more complicated, they depended on the same principles as the earlier courses, namely a sense of balance and first-class raw materials. The former fact was expressed by local, garden-fresh fruits and fine chocolate, whilst the former was keenly evident in all but one dessert. The meal proffered a perceptive understanding of the cuisine at Søllerød Kro. Set within a classical framework, dishes are defined with the choicest Danish ingredients and designed in line with Mediterranean values. Chef Jakob, who refers to Louis XV in Monaco as ‘absolutely the greatest total experience of pure taste [and] in short, perfection,’ and whose own culinary education was carried out in traditional kitchens, has not ignored the lessons learned in them nor does he stray too far from his own tastes. Each recipe is distinctly embedded in this approach, but interpreted with local produce – Danish black lobster, Porter beer, vegetables from lammefjord. Thus these plates are recognisable, but brand new. It is an immensely refreshing approach to classic haute cuisine that really does renew ones appetite for it. One sweeping generalisation of Mediterranean cooking that can be made is its focus on preparing and serving excellent, fresh materials nearly minimally. It was whilst he worked at le Prieuré in Provence that chef Jakob first found his fondness for this region and its attitudes: ‘summer 1996 in Villeneuve-lez-Avignon taught me respect for vegetables, there they prepared seafood from the Mediterranean Sea as austere, simple but elegant.’ Today, these precepts are patent on his own plates. Colourful, animated at the table with the addition of saucing and with a discernable preference for preserving the natural form of ingredients, the chef pursues an appetising and clear aesthetic. Fussiness is eschewed in favour of deceptively simple dishes almost deconstructed in their arrangement. The aforementioned superior produce left a considerable impression. Given Denmark’s position, bounded as it is by the Baltic and North Sea’s cold waters, terrific seafood was expected, but local delicacies such as those tiny fjord prawns and feted Læsø langoustines still delighted. The real surprise however, and I appreciate I am repeating myself now, was Søren Wiuff’s vegetables from Lammefjord; these were just incredible. Dining here is a tremendously satisfying experience. It is clearly the objective of both Jan and Jakob to not only please their guests’ palate, but to also pamper them. This is achieved through the luxury ingredients that litter the menu, the generosity of the house and the great affability of all its staff. Not far from the city, but far enough to be secluded, this retreat is an idyllic getaway. Once within its grounds, one is cut off from the world and allowed to relax. And one inevitably does. Søllerød Kro can be concisely summed up simply as lovely. Really lovely.

Thank you again. You're very kind.

Hello, This is my write up of the meal I had here last April. Please click here for full commentary and photography: HERE In one of Germany’s most westerly corners, where France, Luxembourg and the federal republic collide, resides a Renaissance castle amidst the Mosel vineyards. Dating back originally to the twelfth century, Schloss berg in little Nennig, a village literally leaning against Luxembourg’s border, is more schloß than it is berg – the latter generally being medieval, defensive structures whilst schloßes were later-built luxuries inspired by fairy tales and the like. Today, this building, completely restored after the second world war, is no longer some prince’s pleasure palace, but instead part of Victor’s Residenz-Hotel Schloss Berg. The lodgings themselves are housed in a Mediterranean-style villa close by, but within the castle itself, Germany’s youngest-ever three-star chef has sovereign rule. Here, Christian Bau reigns in the kitchen whilst his wife, Yıldız, runs the dining room. The pair first met whilst Bau was only just an apprentice at Hotel Götz Sonne-Eintracht in Achern. Born in the Black Forest, this position was the Offenburger’s first although it was actually his second stint at this restaurant: at fourteen he had completed a six-week internship here. Finding cooking a release, he returned two years later to begin his training proper. Three years on, having gained a classical groundwork, he left for the hotel-restaurant Talmühle in Sasbachwalden. For a year, he worked under Gutbert Fallert and learned the essentials of haute cuisine prior to twelve months completing his compulsory military service - in the officers’ mess of course. Subsequently, he passed 1992 at Le Canard in his hometown before moving onto the kitchen that would influence him most – Schwarzwaldstube at hotel Traube Tonbach in Baiersbronn. Bau, quickly becoming sous chef there, spent five years with iconic German chef Harald Wohlfahrt, considered by many as the country’s finest. During this period, Christian and Yıldız – nine years after following each other from restaurant to restaurant (except for the latter’s brief return to Hotel Götz Sonne-Eintracht and spell at Alde Gott whilst the former was in the army) – married in 1996. The very next year, the couple had their big break: visiting a close friend near Nennig whilst on holiday, they met the owners of Victor’s who, coincidentally happened to be eager to add a gourmet restaurant to their existing hotel and casino. They approached Bau to manage it. He agreed and the new establishment was effectively built for him. The owners gave the new chef complete control over operations and their faith was immediately vindicated by Michelin who awarded him his first star that first year. A second followed the following year. Praise and prizes came from local and international publications before Bau won his third in 2005. The old castle rests adjacent a formal knot garden, itself of some renown. Its immaculate ivory walls and turrets, crowned with ebony mansard roof and sprinkled with golden window sills, give it a striking silhouette against its verdant, rolling environs. Entering the small, walled, cobbled courtyard that surrounds the schloß, the restaurant is reached after ascending the red carpeted steps before the front door. Guests can take nibbles upon chesterfield furnishings in the atrium inside before moving into the thirty-four seat dining area or private room in the former chapel. The interior was fully refurbished in only January this year. The new, more contemporary décor boasts slate grey walls, wood floor and decorative wooden ceiling. The room is long and narrow with the inside lined with drinks cabinets and the outer with large windows, fringed with pastel olive green curtains, that allow the sunlight to flood in. Spacious tables are well-spaced, their tops covered in white linen over cream. They are set with crockery created by Stephanie Hering of Hering Berlin (credits include Per Se, Ryugin, the Fat Duck, Guy Savoy…) as well as one of her playful porcelain figurines and two lipstick red vases replete with white roses. Custom-made chairs are able to swivel, allowing the diner to get up from the table without moving his seat out. In the far corner, there is a glass-cased fireplace whilst arresting abstract oils in navy, red and white punctuate the walls. Souvenir menus in one’s language of choice are prepared in advance and await the guest at the table… Amuse Bouche 1: Kroepoek, Salpicon of oyster and swordfish, green apple foam; tomato, pesto and olive tartlet; yellowfin tuna, avocado cream and olive tapenade; soup of orange, olive oil and basil; roll of avocado/chorizo cream. Airy prawn cracker, filled with meaty swordfish and mineral oyster, was topped with sweet-acidic apple mousse. Thick, fluffy tart was layered with semi-dried slivers of tangy tomato and flavoursome pesto. Toothsome kroepoek, smeared with subtle, buttery avocado, was covered with clean, firm ahi and drop of deep, veggy tapenade. Subsequently served, small shot of fruity orange was finished with herby basil and grassy olive oil spume; and brittle, little crisp rolls were crammed with either chorizo or avocado. Amuse Bouche 2: Cornet of smoked eel cream, beef tartare and Imperial Oscietra caviar from Iran. Delicate cornetto, loaded with cream of eel and brimming with a boule of beef tartare, came crowned with Iranian Imperial Oscietra. The nutty, briny caviar cut through the tasty, fresh meat and rich, smoky fish deliciously well. Amuse Bouche 3: Chilled tomato gazpacho with olive oil, buffalo mozzarella, calamarini. Spherificated buffalo mozzarella and baby basil blades floated in clear tomato consommé and Calabrian olive oil within which sat a scoop of tomato sherbet and calamarini. Zesty tomato, buttery Southern Italian oil, minty-sweet herb and explosively milky bonbons were a classic combination. The baby squid were tender whilst the olive ciabatta tuile, crunchy. Amuse Bouche 4: Goose liver, black truffle and parmesan mousse. Bubbly, alabaster coat concealed an indulgent surprise. Distinctly cheesy-sharp parmesan hid silky smooth, warmed goose liver flan, liberally peppered with black truffle. This was a delightful treat full of intense yet not overpowering savour. Amuse Bouche 5: Raviolo of smoked salmon with oyster jelly, cucumber and salmon; sea vegetables and char roe. Brunoise of Giraudaud oyster and cucumber, encased in the shellfish’s jelly, came sheathed in a skin of thin smoked salmon with a crest of char roe; pourpier, passe-pierre, green apple julienne, spots of samphire purée and segments of asparagus were precisely scattered in a diagonal across the plate with apple foam resting to one side of the raviolo. The briny-sweet caviar contrasted with the subtly woody salmon whilst the creamy gelée within held elemental oyster and succulent cucumber. The fresh greens added juicy crispness and fruity froth, a little tartness. Die Brote: Focaccia with rosemary and thyme; baguette; dark rye; rye with sunflowerseed; sourdough; sesame roll; pumpkin roll; and poppy seed roll. First, following what seems to be German fine-dining custom, a crusty, soft slice of warm focaccia with rosemary and thyme was served. Then, removing the napkin that lay atop a wooden tray in the table’s centre, a treasure chest of assorted breads was unveiled – the recipes for which Bau collaborated with a local baker to create. Baguette was well-seasoned; pumpkin roll, fluffy; and rye, firm with nutty sunflower seeds. Sourdough lacked acidity, but was spongy; poppy roll was aromatic and earthy; and sesame, just decent. More Calabrian olive oil was offered alongside Échiré butter from Deux-Sèvres. Entrée 1: Taschenkrebs & Melone: Mariniert & gebacken / 2 x Wassermelone / Dashigelee. A tian of marinated crab tartare, overlaid with bright yet lucent dashi jelly, scattered with shiso and spiked with triangular seaweed tuile, sat within a vibrant mere of watermelon water and besides the fruit’s sorbet. Arranged about the tower, grilled melon diamonds, individual drops of Japanese mayo, pesto and kalamansi plus a rough ring of its powder, formed a colourful frame. The tender, lacy white meat of the Cromer crab was excellent; its slight sweetness emphasised by the watermelon. The light, but flavourful dashi was an effective counterpoint as was the barely bitter shiso. Mayonnaise, made with mirin (sweet rice wine) and a little sake, had moussy, spicy warmth whilst the kalamansi – a tangerine/kumquat cross much like a lime – had been allowed to age (and turn orange), becoming sweetly sour. Separately, a second rendition of crab came mixed with shiso, wrapped in kadayif pastry before being deep-fried. Crusty and clean, the little vermicelli-like threads around the bundle had been impressively cooked; the shellfish inside melted in the mouth. More of the mayo supplied pleasant piquancy. Entrée 2: Gänseleber aus dem Elsass; Grüner pfeffer / Gelee & Knusper vom Grünen Tee / Mangofrucht. A ‘gateau’ composed of two small circles of goose liver separated by crushed green pepper, overlain with a film of green tea jelly, capped with mini mango cube and set with semi-circles of green tea ‘crunch’, was accompanied by goose liver ice cream covering mango compote; more of the fruit diced and drips of cherry coulis decorated the dish whilst another smaller one carried a toasted disc of buttery brioche. The Alsatian liver was of superior standard. In its initial interpretation, it was smooth, delicate and balanced very nicely the grassy-sweet chips and jelly as well as the gently pungent pepper. The pacojet-produced second portion was cool and velvety with its stronger savour juxtaposed splendidly against the resinous mango. Entrée 3: Blue Fin Tuna: Tataki / Gartengurke / japanisches Gemüse / Ponzu. Three overlapping slices of seared blue fin tuna, daubed with dashi jelly and shiso cress, rested atop a compact slab of cured cucumber along with two effervescent pompoms of ponzu. A duo of auxiliary dishes delivered vegetable and abalone salad, lightly mizzled with kimizu; and tuna tataki in chilled cucumber and tapioca soup, topped with green apple-sake-wasabi ice cream. The vibrant trio were instantly appealing. The principal plate proffered first-rate tuna, firm, sinew-less and robust in taste. The textural comparison of the cucumber brunoise beneath was very agreeable as was the strength of the soy-citrus froth. The tenderness of the slowly-cooked abalone strips and perkiness of the kimizu – almost a Japanese hollandaise comprising rice wine vinegar, sugar, soy, dashi and karashi (mustard with horseradish) mixed with egg yolks – stood out amidst these crunchy, pickled greens that included carrot, daikon, negi and Japanese potato. The last bowl was quite something to behold – the bright pastel quenelle gracefully poised over darker green, adorned with a single, rich purple, baby shiso leaf. The pearly tapioca and cool, tart ice cream were enjoyable, but unfortunately, overall this was just a somewhat discordant dish. Entrée 4: Coquille Saint-Jacques: Gegrillt / ‘Meereswasser’ Tapioka / Karottenchutney / Schaum & Aroma von Raz el Hanout. A considerably-sized scallop was brought bisected, its bottom half sitting on ‘seawater’ tapioca and carrying a eye-catching spoonful of carrot chutney whilst the top, showing off its golden-caramelised surface, sat between ras el hanout spume and roasted quinoa; opposite, a tick of herby, rice vinegar hollandaise that also smothered the ends of some small asparagus, added embellishment as did another dabble of the spicy foam and frilly pea tendrils. The grilled shellfish, excellently-timed and evenly cooked, was very tasty. Its mild sweetness, accentuated by the tart carrot, also proved a great foil for the Moroccan mystery blend of hot spices. The briny tapioca of kelp, enoki and oyster water added a little saltiness and interesting consistency as did the nutty seeds. The chervil, coriander, mint and mirin mousseline was sharp and creamy. Plat Principal 1: Steinbutt aus der Bretagne: Sot-l’y-laisse mit Hoi Sin glasiert / Kräutersalat / Anchoisaromaten / Krustentierbéarnaise. A thick cut of roasted Brittany turbot, superimposed upon sautéed leeks and surmounted by mesclun, was teamed with a skewered pair of hoisin-glazed chicken oysters set in anchovy froth; at the table, a béarnaise of crayfish, langoustine and lobster was ladled either side of the plate. The fish, firm and crisply-coated, was cooked well, however, I must admit I do prefer my turbot to have an unctuous, fatty texture that is rare to find. Let this not detract from the standard of the fish though, which was indeed full of flavour. Crunchy leeks were mellow and sweet; anchovy, sapid and salty; whilst the sauce, ethereal, zingy and sated with the delicious crustacean’s savour. The highlights though were the sot-l’y-laisse. Found buried between the backbone and thigh, under the pope’s nose, these underappreciated morsels – essentially unused muscle – are succulently rich and confit-like. Here, they came with spicy-sweet barbecue-esque coating. Plat Principal 2: Blauer Hummer / in Butter pochiert / Spitzmorcheln / Dicke Bohnen / Vin Jaune. Butter-poached blue lobster overlaid with vin jaune beurre blanc, bordered by broad beans, morels and fried polenta disc imbedded with sprig of chervil, came sitting on a bed of spinach, drizzled in the shellfish’s jus glacé and bounded on both sides by two vibrant whips of pea purée. The lobster, softly cooked, was supple, meaty and delicious. Its sweetness was amplified by the shucked beans, peas, lush jus and wonderfully complex vin jaune. The mushrooms were superb and the best morels I had eaten this season. Polenta offered a touch of aniseed spice whilst the wilted spinach underneath, some substance. Each ingredient here was distinct yet all the flavours literally dissolved into one another. Plat Principal 3: Bresse-Ente von Mièral: Ravioli von der Kuele / 2 x Sellerie mit Orangenaroma / Entenjus mit Tamarinde & Café. A muscular fillet of Challans duck breast from Bresse, prepared viennoise, was partnered by a raviolo of the bird’s thigh, in addition to a small slab of celery purée covered with its leaf and sprinkled with orange rind; at the table, duck jus enriched with tamarind and coffee was poured. Supplied by Jean-Claude Mieral whose family have been rearing birds in the poultry capital of Eastern France for over one hundred years, the steak-like duck was appetising and tender whilst the well-made, light pasta was filled with savoury shredded meat. Velvety sauce, nearly syrup, was given enticing and intriguing intricacy by the lovely balance of sour-sweet tamarind and bitter, roasted coffee; the thin breadcrumb skin of the bird absorbed this to great effect, turning together into a delectable paste. Celery was a refreshing and cleaning savour against stronger others with the orange, of which only a hint was present, providing a nice, citrus uplift. Plat Principal 4: Golden Label-Beef ‘Japan-Style’: vom Holzkohlegrill / Auberginencrème / Gemüsetempura. Two gorgeous cuts of waygu beef, their brims char-grilled umber whilst middles remained a range of luscious reds between amaranth and crimson, were accompanied by a comet of smoked asparagus with miso and a tableside trickling of jus rôti. In a bowl besides, Japanese vegetable tempura was served. The American-raised, but pure waygu (not mixed with Angus) A10 beef was delicious. Smoky from the charcoal it was cooked with, the meat melted on the tongue to also release buttery beefiness. The creamy, sweet aubergine augmented the charred taste while miso controlled the richness. The notably greaseless and still moist greens – asparagus, broccoli, baby leek, crosnes, enoki – were all fried very ably, however for me, they really were rather extraneous: the solitary and simple plate of beef and aubergine by itself was sufficient to suffice as the climatic main course. Pre-dessert: Weiße Schokolade / Zitronengras / Pomelo. Before the actual afters, a pleasant space dust-studded white chocolate lollipop, containing spicy lemongrass and citrus-sweet pomelo ice cream, was served. Dessert 1: Rhabarber: Kompott mit Streuseln / Mascarpone / Ingwereiscrème. Rhubarb compote tart, strewn over with streusel; blood orange croustillant brimming with mascarpone cream and rounded off with sugared ginger baton; and a rhubarb crisp ladling ginger ice cream comprised the first dessert. The warm tartlet’s grainy, juicy filling was countered by the toothsome crumbs atop. Mild mascarpone cream and foam were nicely teamed with sweet, brittle tuile, but also awfully by a capsule of ginger that emitted harsh, alcoholic syrup that was far too overpowering. The best of the bunch was the toothsome, piquant ice cream and crackly, sharp rhubarb. Dessert 2: Interpretation >Sauerer< Zitrusfrüchte. Varied renditions of sour citrus fruits filled three plates: the biggest bearing kalamansi jelly topped with confit shards of pomelo and grapefruit, lemon tartlet and yuzu sorbet atop gelée of its skin; a bowl of Amalfi lemon ice cream over blood orange-vanilla salad; and grapefruit mousse with its fruit mixed with pomelo. Thick, smooth kalamansi was lime-sour whilst its sablé biscuit base, crunchy; syrupy-tart lemon had decent baked crust; and yuzu was pleasingly acidic. The ice cream of sfusato Amalfitan – queen of lemons – was deeply flavoured whilst the marinated orange, fleshy and juicy. Airy grapefruit mousse came with sugary mint and plump citric segments. Dessert 3: Valrhona Schokoladen ‘Erde’ / Maracujacrème / Knusper. A mound of crushed dark chocolate and coffee, littered with little bricks of passion fruit jelly, was encased in a large glass sphere. It was the most modern presentation of a dish yet and resembled some sort of intergalactic-take on a biosphere. The earth of Valrhona Guanaja was quite bitter and lingered on the palate. Maracuja had kick and played on the faint fruity note in the chocolate whilst coffee added smokiness. Petit Fours: Rose and orange marshmallow; milk chocolate almonds; lemon tartlet; cherry marzipan; Peach Melba; almond and apricot jelly; blueberry cake. A platter was presented with very light and spongy, but slightly dry blueberry cake; flavoursome almond-apricot gelée; moist deconstructed Peach Melba brochette; nutty, fruity marzipan chocolate; and tangy, crusty lemon wedge. Another salver served had chocolate-covered almonds with their skins interesting left on as well as one cup of rose and another of orange marshmallow tubes that were both very good. Mignardises: Valrhona chocolate truffles – Salted butter caramel; Baileys and white chocolate; rose milk chocolate; dark chocolate; white chocolate with passion fruit and coconut; thirty-year old balsamic; olive oil; coffee; saffron and verbena. A final sweet token came in the form of Valrhona chocolate truffles. Dark choc, saffron and verbena were particularly memorable Service was professional yet very personable. Led by Yıldız Bau, the staff – all females – were attentive, friendly and admirably knowledgeable. Sommelier Britta Jäger proved extremely patient and genial whilst Frau Bau herself was very enthusiastic, considerate and gracious. The atmosphere in the room was terrific. The serveuses and the surroundings all came together to create a very certain sense of festivity and event, which is precisely what I believe and expect dining at this level ought to feel like. At the start of the meal, we were bestowed with a nice array of canapés in the restaurant’s anteroom before a couple more (substantial) amuses once seated at the table, both of which (the goose liver and raviolo of smoked salmon) were technically and tastefully adept. Lunch proper began with taschenkrebs & melone – Bau likes to include a crab course in his menus and this delightful and attractive dish showed why. The ensuing two plates were both good, but it was the coquille Saint-Jacques that next stood out. This was a cleverly thought-out recipe executed very well. Steinbutt aus der Bretagne was hard to fault and, even though my contrary preferences regarding this fish, I still enjoyed the inclusion of the seldom-seen sot-l’y-laisse very much. Blauer hummer was simply delicious: (some of my favourite and) quality ingredients cooked consummately and balanced brilliantly. Subsequent servings of Bresse-ente von Mièral and golden label-beef ‘Japan-style’, each very appealing and showing much skill, maintained the momentum. When it came to sweets however, I thought the savouries simply better, but of the three desserts, it was the interpretation >sauerer< zitrusfrüchte that I liked most. Petit fours and mignardises were also of high standard. The timing of this visit was not without import. As it so happened, it was around this time that my true tastes vividly revealed themselves, clearer and more concentrated than before. Although gastronomically curious and open-minded, I must confess that my own predilections lie less towards the classics and closer to the styles currently realised best by the New Naturals. Bau is clearly rooted in the former category yet despite that – but maybe more impressive because of it – I still thought this an excellent meal and left inspirited. What appealed to me most today was the intimate character of the cooking. Meeting Christian Bau ahead of and after the meal – ‘for my taste, good gastronomy begins with a warm welcome… [and] ends with seeing my guests off personally’ – he immediately stuck me as the modest, hard-working yet kind-hearted, keen perfectionist. This came through in the cuisine: intricately constructed courses that were technically faultless whilst vibrant, sometimes unexpected and even joyful. You sensed that the chef was enjoying himself in the kitchen and was proud and eager to share his cooking with you. As mentioned, Bau’s base is traditional French haute cuisine – something he picked up and practised to great effect under Wohlfahrt at Schwarzwaldstube. He learned about precision and discipline preparing this German legend’s pure and clean classical dishes that betrayed but a whiff of the modern – and such lessons are still evident today. Bau labels his own approach as a light and contemporary interpretation of French cuisine, stating that he wants to renew tradition and that he is from a new generation of chefs cooking for a new generation of customers. With this in mind, and working with complete freedom, his technique has evolved whilst at Victor’s into a simpler, leaner expression that increasingly incorporates more Asian influences. Beginning with exceptional ingredients – ‘I firmly believe that the best is just good enough’ – dishes are built around a more familiar, refined product supported by a cast of interesting and creative elements. Beurre blancs, hollandaises and béarnaises still abound as reminders of Bau’s roots, but chutneys, hoisin, ponzu and kimizu sauces inform one of his growing partiality. Indeed, embracing different cultures is fundamental to neue deutsche küche and this chef has certainly taken Japanese cookery to heart. He spoke very fondly of his latest visit there at the start of this year and was obviously excited by what he had found. Thus it was not unexpected then to see Oriental touches feature almost throughout our meal – what maybe was surprising was the seamlessness and seemingly effortless way in which these were integrated into dishes. The chef’s uncompromising standards and his genuine affection for the Far East were no doubt responsible for this. Another appreciated aspect of this lunch was its lightness. Courses were considerable in portion and number, but remained delicate and easy-to-digest. Even given the multiple-plate methods and complex arrangements of this labour-intensive style that abhors shortcuts, there was a deceptive unfussiness in presentation and flavour combinations. Additionally, whilst sauces had relish, they were not decadently applied. On a more minor note, a further apparent trait of the chef was his keenness for combining the humble with the luxury; the eel-beef-caviar cornet possibly being the best example of this. Having eaten at Vendôme only the day before, it is difficult not to compare Bau and Wissler – two chefs oft spoken of in the same breath as leaders of neue deutsche küche and each similarly assiduous, able and ambitious individuals. For me, the difference between the two restaurants was patently clear and may be summarised in a single sentence: at Vendôme it seemed like an army of cooks had prepared the food; at Victor’s, it felt as if a single artisan was at work in the kitchen. Bau believes ‘high-end gastronomy has a lot to do with personality’ – and I wholeheartedly agree. He allows and wants his to shine through and it does. The cooking is serious, but it is bright, caringly created and intermingled with subtle, individual nuances. Similar things can be said about the setting, which was elegant, but warmed with whimsy. There was a quaint charm here with an honest generosity that infused the entire experience. The already detailed air of celebration and occasion, expressed and emphasised most by Herr and Frau Bau themselves, really made the meal memorable. Furthermore, greeted, treated and then finally seen off by these two doting hosts, one is reminded of a small family restaurant. This in itself is equally winsome and endearing.

CMLing & Ameiden: Thank you for reading it! Ameiden: I did indeed notice (and mentioned) the carte format...that is what first highlighted the similarities! I appreciate the differences between 'the Kingdom of Westphalia', NRW, etc, I was just careless writing just 'Westphalia'. I thought Signor Novillo was Spanish, but something I read changed my mind at the last moment. Having published the post, I changed it back to Spanish on site, but it was too late to edit the eG post! Joanna is another, not Romana (she did not look after us). The entire meal (Große Entdeckungsreise) took about 5/6hrs ...so average I have read your reports above and I regret my meal did not match them. I did leave thinking it was a very serious kitchen and the amount of work involved throughout lunch quite outstanding. I hope you have a fantastic meal and look forward to reading about it! Actually, I was looking at the latest menu and it seems Wissler is moving more and more towards reworking classic German dishes - and, to me, that sounds very interesting...

Hi, This is what I thought about my April lunch at Vendôme. Please click HERE for full commentary and photography: HERE Vendôme is the capital of Loir-et-Cher in northwest France. In the sixteenth century, the encompassing county was made a duchy and bestowed upon César, the illegitimate son of then king, Henri IV. César – thus the duc de Vendôme – had his private residence in Paris, at what has become the Place Vendôme. To discover then that the restaurant boasting so French a name as this really resides in Germany – in Westphalia on the outskirts of Köln to be exact – may be a surprise. However, it is a fact that Germanic fine dining is firmly founded on classical cuisine française – a convention started with the restoration of formal court dining when the nation’s Emperor and Empress, King Wilhelm and Queen Augusta of Prussia, hired legendary French chefs and co-collaborators on the culinary magnum opus, la Cuisine Classique, Urbain Dubois and Émile Bernard. This custom was then compounded over the next century with young Teutonic chefs moving to France to learn to cook the French way in French kitchens. The connection between the Place and the restaurant is twofold. In the latter stands a famous column that fashioned from one hundred or so of the enemy’s cannon from the battle of Austerlitz commemorates their captor, Napoleon Bonaparte – and, as it happens, not long after this victory, it was this French emperor who founded the Kingdom of Westphalia, wherein Vendôme now exists. In a final twist, there is a touch of irony in that within this restaurant nominally celebrating Germany’s gastronomic acquiescence to France works one of the most progressive of the country’s chefs and a leader of a new school - neue deutsche küche – that seeks to break away from this neighbourly reliance and refocus and remember traditional German cuisine. This chef is Joachim Wissler. Born in Nürtingen, he is a native of Baden-Württemberg – land of gaisburger marsch (beef stew); geschnetzeltes (veal in cream sauce); rostbraten (braised beef) and linsen mit saiten (sausages and lentil stew). At only ten years old, he began filling in for his parents at their inn cooking noodles and ravioli, before undertaking an apprenticeship at the legendary kurhotel Traube Tonbach at seventeen. Once he completed his chef assistant’s examination in 1983, he spent the next four years working his way around the Schwarzwald (Black Forest) at such establishments as Weißen Rössle and Brenner’s Parkhotel. He finally made it out the woods in 1991 when he became chef de cuisine at Marcobrunn at Schloss Reinhartshausen in Erbach. Here, Wissler started making his mark, winning several national honours before his first Michelin star in 1995, immediately followed by his second a year on. In 2000, German tycoon Thomas Althoff opened the five-star Grandhotel Schloß Bensberg and recruited the chef to run its luxury kitchen. In just a single year, Wissler had secured another star; within two, he had earned the title ‘Restaurant of the Year’ in the national press. A year later and he was crowned ‘Chef of the Year’ by the international Gault Millau and was also awarded another second star; one year more and he finally had his third. The aforementioned movement in German haute cuisine was coined neue deutsche küche by Jürgen Dollase, arguably the country’s leading food critic and the man who has also labelled Wissler as the ‘best in my country and who has the most advanced ideas’. The chef himself briefly summarises this new approach thus: ‘the idea of combining nature’s best products in the form of small successive dishes is not the novel feature. However, the ‘how’ and ‘what’ are the aspects that truly characterise this new step. In it more attention is also placed on some of the treasures of our own neglected cuisine.’ A man of simpler tastes – as a last meal, he would want sourdough, butter and homemade sausages – his greatest wish would be a return to the roots of German food culture. At the end of the seventeenth century, Rhineland Prince Jan Wellem, moved from Düsseldorf south to Bensberg to be close to his favoured hunting ground of the Königsforst. His (second) wife, Anna Maria Luisa de’ Medici, was rather taken with the area, reminiscent as it was of her Tuscan homeland, therefore he commissioned here the construction of a beautiful baroque castle – the second largest north of the Alps – modelled on Vienna’s Schönbrunn Palace. The property sits perched on the hills above Köln itself, its central axis deliberately in line with the city’s historic cathedral. Its glory days long gone, the schloss served as a hospital, cadet institute, barracks and school, before being purchased and restored by the Althoff hotel collection in 2000. The actual restaurant occupies the kavaliershäuschen or knights’ house adjacent to the principal building. The interior was refurbished in 2007. Formerly florid and elaborate, it is now open, natural and comfortable. The dining room is split into two – a narrow first room lined with tables and banquettes; and then, loosely portioned off by black string curtains, a second larger one in the centre of which stands a sleek serving station of contemporary design with very narrow base and wide, oval surface. Walls are mainly light travertine granite broken up by tall, latticed white-silled windows. Upon the inner side of the initial space a wide mirror is hung, whilst there is a portal into the kitchen on another. The main area is bordered with zebrano wood sideboards and floor-to-ceiling, back-lit stained glass imprinted with green-grey images of Paris’ Place Vendôme. There is room for about forty with well-spread tables skirted by swivel chairs of Reseda green suede. Thick tablecloths are subtle salmon and sparsely set with a single red rose in a slender vase, stemware and KPM porcelain, which traces its royal heritage to Frederick the Great of Prussia; other accessories such as Robbe & Berking silver are hidden until needed. The menu chosen was the ‘Große Entdeckungsreise’ or Big Expedition’ – a twenty-five course selection of dishes. Amuse Bouche 1: Smoked eel, cumin foam, pointed cabbage, dried fig; praline of goat’s cheese with watercress; braised poularde with papaya in pastry; baked polenta, marinated mackerel, seaweed and curry mayo. A quartet of little nibbles were delivered, each very different and each to be eaten differently. Sat in a small spoon, moist morsel of mackerel rested upon crunchy baked polenta; and in a bite-sized bowl, smoky eel’s richness was nicely matched with sweet fig and spicy cumin. Taken with one’s fingers, pieces of fattened chicken, wrapped in crisp pastry were mildly sweetened with papaya; and cool, creamy goat’s cheese semi-sphere, enlivened with peppery watercress, was impaled upon a skewer. Les Pains: Focaccia; buckwheat; saffron & ginger; brown; spelt; cumin; tomato & basil; rye with sea salt; red lentil roll; and black olive puff pastry. Before the bread basket was brought round, a single sliver of warm focaccia was proffered along with a cube of salty butter from Alsatian maître affineur, Bernard Anthony – a gentleman better known for his cheese. Unfortunately, the beurre was a tad bland. The selection of rolls and mini loafs was quite immense. Best was the red lentil with crunchy crust, soft middle and nice seasoning, but this ran out early never to return; other decent examples were the tomato and basil with good savour and spelt that was slightly sweet and quite absorbent. Worst were the especially dry buckwheat and black olive puff pastry whilst the remainders were forgettable. Amuse Bouche 2: Knäckebrot Krabben | Muscheln | Frankfurter grüne Sauce. Mussels, crab and crevettes grisse, sprinkled with coral, cress, almonds and Frankfurt-style green sauce, covered crispy cracker. The shellfish were succulent and flavoursome with the small gray shrimp standing out. Frankfurter grüne Sauce is, simply put, the local interpretation of salsa verde and comprises around seven fresh herbs (including dill, lovage, lemon balm), eggs, vinegar and olive oil. Dabbled about the biscuit, this was minty and peppery-sweet. Amuse Bouche 3: Blätterwald Gemüsekrokant | Ziegenjoghurt - Dip. A ‘deciduous forest’ was formed with ‘vegetable brittle’ of seaweed and spinach (dark), beetroot (red) and cauliflower, celery, leek and artichoke and accompanied by goat’s cheese yoghurt. The seaweed was salty and crunchy whilst the spinach slightly bitter. Artichoke grew in force as it was eaten; the leek was sweeter; and cauliflower, distinct. The common complaint with these chips was their sticky texture (meaning they frequently became caught in one’s teeth) and their almost too-sugary taste. The dip was creamy and decent, but could have done with more sourness. Amuse Bouche 4: Coralle Parmesan | Foie Gras | Basilikum - Pistou. Nappy reef of parmesan ‘coral’ topped with tomato salt and the cheese’s spume; quenelle of foie d’oie garnished with ancient amaranth grains; and puddle of pistou were presented with parmesan candyfloss sprinkled with raspberry coulis, separately. The texture of the tasty cheese-cloth was most interesting – firm as fabric yet soft, melting in the mouth. Smooth, silky goose foie was nicely complemented with crunchy, malty-sweet grains. Provençal pistou of crushed basil, garlic, parmesan and olive oil – basically pesto without the pine nuts – was fresh and herby. Sharp balsamic strew the plate whilst truffled tapenade dotted it. The floss was sugary and fruity. Although parmesan was an almost continuous chord, there was little to link each component to the others making this a somewhat discordant course. Amuse Bouche 5: Auster Grüner Apfel und Sauerkraut | d’Aquitainekaviar. Adjacent to apple-wasabi foam and resting amidst sauerkraut crystals, two skinny strips of Granny Smith, joined at either end, the meeting points marked with mâche leaves, encased a single Gillardeau oyster set besides a small scoop of Aquitaine caviar, inset with lettuce sprigs that imitated bull horns. Crisp, juicy and mildly acidic, the apple was an excellent addition to the sweetish, nearly nutty, fleshy oyster – from the Gillardeau family who have been farming some of France’s finest oysters for over a century. French shellfish was coupled with French caviar, whose brininess and minor nuttiness brought out the savours of the other ingredients agreeably. Hazelnut-like, crisp lambs’ lettuce struck a similar note whilst the transparent pearls of sour cabbage and spicy-sweet wasabi brought lovely balance. Entrée 1: Langoustine Sushi gegrillt | Tonic und Ingwer. Adorned with the fanned-out tail-end of its shell, a sizeable grilled langoustine, crowned with pressed piping and sprinklings of its coral, came laid over basmati rice purée punctuated with green almonds; along with a small piece of asparagus and seaweed, it lay as if arising from a pool of tonic water and ginger ale laced with verbena, rose petal water and spring onion. The fragrant, creamy rice with succulent, faintly tangy almonds (only available a few weeks of the year thus considered a delicacy) matched well and, coupled with the hot prawn, justified its grilled sushi label. The langoustine itself however was awful: although appetising in size and appearance, it was in fact mushy and cottony. A shame considering the complex and punchy sauce, which was additionally an extension of the Indian theme whilst a play on the cocktail, gin and tonic, this drink having been first drunk on the subcontinent whilst it was under British rule – soldiers would mix gin with their medicinal (malaria-averting) Indian tonic water. Ginger is also a popular spice in the country. Two folded-over flakes of amber dashi ‘paper’, sandwiching bright shiso cress, were intensely flavoured and verging on bitter. Entrée 2: Octopus Sepia | Tintenfisch Marsh Mellow. A cuttlefish salad of seaweeds, roasted rings of spring onion and cucumber shavings, dressed with peanut vinaigrette, thickened with creamed white beans, had miso mayonnaise added to it at the table; a separate small tile carried a spiked tempura marshmallow of sepia, sitting in breadcrumbs, and saddled with cress, cuttlefish and seaweed crème. The mayo, made with a darker miso, was slightly harsh and not particularly pleasant, but the tender seafood slices and crisp, fresh vegetables were; the candied, crunchy peanuts a pleasing touch. The viscid dressing, almost gel-like due to some xanthum gum, was most interesting – its consistency, somewhat gooey, reminded one of an octopus’ slimy skin. The caramelised marshmallow, dipped in toothsome crumbs, was very good with delightful fluffiness and strong squid ink savour. Entrée 3: Leipziger Allerlei Bachkrebse am Waldrand. Off-centre, a dimple in the dish, dotted with morel jus, was filled with white asparagus foam, over and around which were scattered oven-baked breadcrumbs, sugar peas, cold whole morels, mustard seeds and stone crayfish overlaid with julienne white asparagus. This symbolic recipe is said to have been invented in Leipzig after the Napoleonic wars when locals made popular this humble vegetable dish to discourage those seeking a wealthy populace (explicitly beggars and tax-collectors) from staying in the city. Its classic components were incorporated here in an arrangement designed to remind one of a woodland scene: any reminding was due more to the shades of brown, pink, white and, naturally, green than anything else – however, there is little else more evocative of the forest than a morel. Stone crayfish, indigenous to Germany, were firm yet succulent. Rather symbolic here and nicknamed white gold, the sweetness of the white asparagus or spargel, married well with that of the shellfish and peas. On the other hand, the mushrooms, initially sautéed, were oddly allowed to cool before being served. Brought in a twisted demitasse with this was a bouillon of shellfish infused with Madeira, port, cognac and tomato. Warm, bubbly, creamy, thick and very rich, this was a real treat. Entrée 4: süsses Wasser Seeforelle | Meerrettichkren | Saiblingskaviar. A fillet of smoked lake trout from Bavaria, coated in bright char caviar and its fried skin, was presented with a pair of sphericated horseradish and apple. Tableside, first a sauce of bay leaf, chive and cucumber was poured over, before a little rape seed oil. The visual impact was immediate: vivid, vibrant hues of yellow, orange and gold surrounding those of gentle pink and white. The fish was light and lean with delicate, smoky-sweetness; whilst the skin atop seriously flavoured and crispy. Explosively creamy roe effectively seasoned the trout. The faintly apple bubbles were refreshing and the oil, quite soft. Entrée 5: salziges Wasser Rochen | Kurkuma - Koriandernage | Reisgnocchi. Grilled skate wing, charred amber and sprinkled with golden caramelised peas, was partnered with soy sprouts covered in coriander and basmati rice gnocci sitting in curcuma-coriander-coconut milk sauce. The initial appearance was reminiscent of raie au beurre noisette, but a subtle Indian imitation of this classic French creation with snow-white gnocci resembling potatoes; the dark yellow sauce, beurre noisette; and peas, capers. The tasty skate, in intricate, meaty ripples, was coupled with crispy-sticky peas. The aromatic, delicate dumplings were set in an exotic strong, spicy, bitter-citrus bath, to which curcuma, a type of turmeric, added warmth and muskiness as well as colour. Entrée 6: Weinberg Schnecke umhüllt. A pair of pristine porcelain ladles lay in their custom-made tray; each bore a blotchy olive-brown spherification of snail jus, enclosing snail stew, sitting with parsley purée in morel emulsion and dusted with their powder. Cracked glass caramel-vinegar paper atop offered an unpleasant sour-sweetness that gave way to earthy mushroom. The sphere itself had grassy, deep flavour and crumbly texture. Parsley tempered some of the overall strength. Entrée 7: Thun Fish & chips | Pommes frites nicoise. A German rendition of a traditional British dish featured a French twist. Fish meant seared tuna belly implanted with its bone and garnished with capers, tomato and rosemary; it came upon a plate, just encroaching dill-tomato powder and next to a crystallised black olive that emitted an upstanding sugar tuile train. Chips were rather regular and lay along the cusp of a tall bowl of crème of tomato, white beans and vadouvan. Unfortunately, the deconstructed Niçoise proved an entente discordante. The saccharine olive was rather pleasant, but the rest was not. Bean purée had rather crude with a disagreeable dulled harshness; chips were soggy and a little oily; but the worst offender was the toro. This was simply greasy and slimy. Entrée 8: Kabeljau vom Kopf bis zur Flosse. Cod, head to tail – or in Wissler’s words, head to flipper – comprised belly fillet bordered on either side by grilled tongues; radish, chive, peas and their shoots dressed the fish whilst sugar snap pea sauce was served at the table. The nearly raw tummy was almost crunchy and very tasty whilst the firm yet unctuous tongues, a delicacy in Spain, Norway and Newfoundland, were even better. The greens added peppery sweet crunch, which the smooth sauce intensified. Plat principal 1: marmorierter Mascarponeravioli | Périgordtrüffel | Brachpilz. A base of field mushroom soup, concealed by white tomato froth and mascarpone, was lidded with a lucent square of tomato jelly; poised atop this, Périgord truffle tapenade was studded with a sprig of chive and Madeira marinated truffle julienne. A ring of balsamic vinegar was drizzled on tableside. The familiar fragrance of pasta wafted from the plate. The thin, subtly tangy skin of this dismantled raviolo offered little resistance as the spoon pierced it. Above, the balsamic brought sweet sting, whilst beneath, mild mushroom ragout was warm and juicy, enriched with the mascarpone. Regrettably, the truffle, not surprisingly, had no savour at all. Plat principal 2: Bretonische Seezunge Klaffmuschel | Morchel | Spargel. Pan-fried Dover sole, glazed with breadcrumbs, was underlaid with morels and overlaid with their emulsion; around the fish, lay clams, their purée and white asparagus over all of which lemon hollandaise with tarragon and peas was spread. The fish itself was excellent, buttery sweet and firm, with a little browning; the spongy, saturated mushrooms went well with the nutty asparagus; and crumbs were an excellent crunchy touch. Hollandaise had faint lemony tartness whilst the clam sauce was thick and speckled with carrot. Creamy clams added brininess. Plat principal 3: Sauerbraten vom Ochsen “sous vide” | Holzofenbrot - sandwich. Marinated in red wine, vinegar and spices, ox meat, slowly cooked sous vide then adorned with a caramelised diadem of sunflower seeds, was plated with pureed stielmus that had been parted with a dribble of jus roti; coin of bone marrow; and oven-baked sandwich of sauerbraten jelly. A German national dish prepared with modern methods, this was an accomplished demonstration of how to merge the contemporary with the classic, well. The succulent, rich meat that came apart fibre by fibre was delicious; although the nutty seeds atop tended towards sticky. Juicy, minced meat and sour vinegar gravy in between pumpernickel toast was also very good, if a touch greasy. Stielmus, a seasonal green native to the Ruhr and similar to turnip tops, had some bitterness that countered the buttery marrow and beefy jus, which may as well have been labelled red wine syrup. Fromage: Fontina Auberginentatar | eingelegte makrele. Cream of Fontina, embedded with aubergine paste upon which was placed a little fillet of mackerel mounted with its roe filled the bottom of a bowl along whose wide rim foccacia tuile and tomato paper rested; mossy pastel green herb oil was poured in at the table. Fontina, an Italian cow’s milk, was very mild – suggesting it was possibly a version produced outside of Italy (maybe Denmark) – with good consistency. Its combination with the tasty, meaty mackerel, although unusual, worked agreeably whilst the subtly smoky aubergine tartar varied the texture. Dessert 1: Haut kross von der Milch. Mascarpone crème came inserted with milk skin, sprinkled with amaranth grains and mizzled with cajeta quemada. This syrupy caramel is in essence Mexican dulce de leche and combined nicely with the sweet-sour cream and barely bitter milk skin crisp. Dessert 2: Käsekuchen Eis | Mürbteig - Krokant. Atop an apricot plinth, cheesecake ice cream was soused in apricot sauce and grated over with almonds and pistachios. A classic German dessert, the cheesecake refreshé was soft and tart in contrast to the sticky sweetness of the fruit. Dessert 3: Schnee ball gefüllt. On one extended plate, a yoghurt ‘snow’ ball stuffed with rhubarb crème and encircled with sugar tuile, left behind a trail of mini meringues sitting on rhubarb confit and candy ‘bombs’. The intense dairy coat and cold tart centre contrasted well; the pastries were airy; whilst the fruit was crunchy sweet. A supporting bowl bore fibrous, sour rhubarb compote and crispy rhubarb paper separated by spicy, aromatic ginger ice cream. Dessert 4: Crème catalan tarte Tatin - Sorbet. Complex, creamy custard of milk skin and spices was layered with delicate caramel and interesting tarte tatin sorbet; balanced overtop was a bow of burned milk and cube of apricot gelée. Dessert 5: Macaron Fourme d’Ambert | Himbeersorbet. A macaron of blue Auvergne cow’s milk cheese, filled with raspberry jelly and sorbet and trickled over with lemon cream, worked surprisingly pleasantly, its tart crackly crust giving way to creamy macaroon and intense fruit. Dessert 6: Schaum kuss beschwipst. ‘Tipsy foam kiss’ translated as a teacake of dark chocolate, encrusted with caramelised Demerara sugar, covering ginger and bubbly rum mousse. Dessert 7: Magnum Vendôme am Stiel. The restaurant’s custom magnum lolly of bitter Valrhona Guanaja 70% chocolate and icy coconut ice cream was quite decent. Dessert 8: Mohr im Hemd Zartbitterschokolade | Eierlikör. Another dessert originally named before political correctness became popular (schaum kuss was once neger kuss and mohrenkopf), this Austrian treat traditionally looks like a Kugelhulf of nutty chocolate and whipped cream, but here, warm chocolaty sponge is smothered with crème of advocaat over a base of crunchy streusel and under tasty tuile topped with gold leaf. The moist, strong cake was nicely complemented by the creamy, rich cream that was essentially eggnog liquor. At this point, to allow the staff to ready the dining room for dinner, we were escorted through the courtyard and main building to the hotel lounge to partake in our petit fours and coffees. Petit Fours: Schokoladenpraline, Fruchtgelee, exotischer Weißwurzel. Earl gray, champagne, coconut and nougat pralines were all decent. Cigarettes of flaky pastry were piped through with Nutella-like milk chocolate. Passion fruit and papaya marshmallows were sweet and fluffy whilst tart rhubarb and elderflower jellies were toothsome. Vendôme’s young staff are led by Italian maître d'hôtel, Miguel Angel Calero Novillo and are very good. Swift, stealthy and alert, they looked after us well. Miguel was an excellent host – courteous, talkative and attentive – whilst special mention is also reserved for the deserving Joanna. Carrying out dual jobs of serveuse and sommelier consummately, she was charming, patient and delightful. I did however have one complaint regarding service. At the very end of our (long) meal, we were a little hurried and had to take coffee in the bar. This meant a considerable and winding walk to find said bar wherein we were charged additionally for drinks. I felt that given that they were aware the menu did comprise twenty-five courses and that we had arrived at the start of lunch service, they ought to have been prepared. It is a minor point though and I did leave very satisfied with our treatment. The first amuse showed that the kitchen meant business – four tasty, very dissimilar morsels that clearly involved some effort to make. The success of the successive appetisers though was varying: the blätterwald and coralle were forgettable, the knäckebrot just decent, but the auster, accomplished. The same has to be said for the entrées, my thoughts on which were again divided between delectable (kabeljau), terrible (thun) and everything in between. My opinion of the main plates was high and consistently so with the Sauerbraten being especially delicious. The fromage was something out-of-the-ordinary and enjoyable too. Desserts were also at a steadily good standard – the crème Catalan possibly being the pick of the bunch – whilst petit fours were unmemorable. Wissler is considered a leader of the neue deutsche küche movement and it is clear to see why. Universal, innovative, sensory, consisting of an extended series of dishes and drawing on local, global, luxury and lowly ingredients, this cuisine more than meets this school’s entry requirements. One aspect of the cooking that stood out was the incorporation of classic and classical German recipes and produce. Wissler is inspired by not only his current surroundings of Westphalia and his own Baden-Württemberg, but also by all the regional cooking of Germany; he also calls upon the country’s more esoteric ingredients. Early on, Frankfurter grüne Sauce featured from the west, Leipziger allerlei from the east, succeeded by schnecke (a Swabian delicacy) and Bavarian seeforelle from the south, before the state speciality of sauerbraten. Interspersed throughout were humble Germanic household foodstuffs such as sauerkraut, knäckebrot and meerrettichkren. Käsekuchen, schaum kuss and mohr im hemd extended this theme through to desserts. German chefs have long followed French footsteps in the kitchen and focused on extravagant materials – Wissler was one of the first among his compatriots to shift the spotlight back onto local food. For this he has won much praise and rightly so; personally, it being my first experience of German fine-dining, I very much appreciated the insight this approach offered. For Wissler however, this does not suffice; he is determined to put his own touch on these established dishes. Using Teutonic tradition as a base, he rebuilds recipes using the most modern of techniques. Thus the common schneckensuppe of the chef’s south-western home had been transformed into a single spherificated mouthful or the also popular maultaschen was remembered with marmorierter Mascarponeravioli. As mentioned, the sauerbraten was a most delicious demonstration of this with the sous vide ox meat. The chef certainly seems a fan of molecular cuisine – there is even a nod to Alinea at the start of the meal with Vendôme’s menu set out similarly and maybe even with the saiblingskaviar that was made popular by the Chicago restaurant a few years ago. Embracing Germany’s own cuisine is one aspect of the neue deutsche küche, embracing those of other countries is another. This Wissler certainly does, again putting his spin upon them. France was not completely forgotten, referenced with England in the thun and Spain with kabeljau. The chef did not limit himself to Europe though, incorporating ideas from South America – cajeta quemada – and Asia too – langoustine and salziges Wasser. Another prominent principle of Wissler’s style seems to be a strong aesthetic. Enticing colours are standard, successfully making everything more appealing. At the table, vivid sauces and bright, light oils are added. Some courses were also suggestive – the Leipziger allerlei attempted to resemble a forest by the shore; langoustine evoked the ingredient in its element; and even the pureed stielmus split with jus emulated the baby red chard besides it. The chef also appeared to be partial to presenting dishes on multiple plates and to using more creative crockery. Wissler holds a certain affection for modern Spanish cuisine – a fact hinted at today through the molecular touches, tableside drizzling, some ingredients as well as the extended tasting menu formula that was followed. Although the former were executed and employed, at the very least, decently, it was in the latter aspect that lunch struggled. Either courses too many in number or servings too substantial in size meant that the meal was both very filling and contributed to our being rushed at its end. The cooking was indeed intricate and labour-intensive – to produce so many dishes, each with so many components, was impressive, especially by a kitchen of some fifteen chefs – however, the consistency of quality throughout was less than consummate. The errors with the langoustine and thun come immediately to mind. On the one hand, I am sure there are some who will argue that if one orders a twenty-five course lunch, they ought to expect a lot of food and if one course or even two are off, it is only trivial in the greater scheme of things; but on the other, I am certain that a chef ought not to offer such an option, should they not be able to accomplish it faultlessly. If anything, it seemed that Wissler was trying too hard. Every dish, each calling for an immense effort to deliver, was loaded with elaborate elements with some even partnered with additional plates. One of my main objections was with these secondary sides – in no instance did one augment its principal. That being said though, the bouillon that was brought with Leipziger allerlei was delicious; so much so that this could even have been served solo. A last point on this was the repetitive sauce pouring. I do appreciate this practice – attaching theatre to the experience, adding animation to a dish, enhancing aromas and introducing new ones – however its constant use (once two were poured during a single course) become simply monotonous. Vendôme was enjoyable, but not impeccable. Wissler is a fine chef with clearly a lot of talent – his dishes showed great imagination, thought and technical ability – but this meal, in my opinion, could have been improved with a little refinement of maybe just filtering. I think he should be applauded for his part in the evolution and expansion of German fine dining, but there seemed some rough edges still to be ironed out. Neue deutsche küche is neue by nature though and it is something that is developing – with time, things are bound to improve. But today, it just seemed that somewhere within my good meal there was an even better one.

@Carolyn Sounds exquisite. I am green with envy (everyone get that?) @Reignking Sorry to hear about your visit. Obviously there is not much I can say. Each of us can only comment and judge by what we experienced. And from my experience, I would just like to add that having dined here on Sunday, I ate at Oud Sluis, a three Michelin starred restaurant in Holland on the Wednesday following, and Ubuntu (the informal, no starred Californian) was better for food, service and atmosphere...and probably around a quarter the price. In fact, that meal only emphasised how good Ubuntu was.

Hello, These are my thoughts from a meal here last April. Please click here for full commentary and photography: HERE Some might be surprised to read that over four hundred years ago, the southern provinces of the Netherlands, along with all Belgium and Luxembourg, were under Spanish rule for nigh onto a century and a half. Indeed, although not a historic amount of time, it was long enough to leave a mark on the tiny town of Sluis, which rests on the south-western rim of Holland, snuggling the Belgian border. The subtle Spanish stamp that remains can be seen in some of the ongoing onomatolgy of the area; Josés, Marcos and Marias still litter the telephone book. One named in the same vein is native Sergio Herman and he is chef-patron of the three Michelin starred Oud Sluis. This restaurant, or at least the building, has been in Herman’s family for three generations. It first belonged to his mother’s father, who ran it as a café and barbershop. In the sixties, Herman’s parents, Ronnie and An, took the business over and transformed it into a simple seafood restaurant, Roem Van Holland. Sat beside the Oosterschelde estuary, where those Spaniards once harboured their galleys, Ronnie had direct access to some of Europe’s finest shellfish. Soon enough, he – and his mussel dishes – had gained local fame. Although young Sergio may have been raised in his father’s restaurant, as a youth, it was not cooking, but football, late nights and ladies that he concerned himself with. That was until Ronnie decided what his son needed was discipline. Thus he sent him to nearby Bruges, where he attended the international culinary school Ter Groene Poorte. After completing his studies, he had a brief stint at Kaatje Bij de Sluis in Blokzijl before joining celebrated Dutch chef Cas Spijkers as an unpaid intern at De Swaen near Eindhoven. In 1990, a year spent here and having done a stage at El Bulli, his father, falling ill, asked that he return to the family restaurant. Initially the two worked side by side, but slowly his parents allowed him more and more responsibility until three years later, when he was given full control albeit with his parents in the background – his father managing the herb garden and mother doing the dishes. Herman decided that to go forward a new direction was needed, thus he abandoned the mussel-pan in favour of a more ‘gastronomic’ approach. The chef cites an early visit to Pierre Gagnaire as the moment true creativity was revealed to him, however, it is the molecular cooking of Heston Blumenthal and more so, the Adria brothers (with whom he has stayed in contact) that inspired him most. He also possesses a genuine interest in exotic cuisines, although it is the food of Spain that he is fondest of. ‘Oud Sluis is one large culinary experiment,’ he states, ‘we love the magic of special herbs and spices. Our chefs apply the ‘culinary entertainment’ concept and skilfully play with various textures, different temperatures and surprising presentations. A lot of time and energy is spent in the quest for originality.’ Herman’s approach worked; in 1995, shortly after he started managing the restaurant, Michelin awarded him his first star. The second came in 1999 and the third finally in 2005. Oud Sluis, almost ironically given that it specialises in seafood, sits in the Beestenmarkt or meat-market, a small square in the centre of this town. The restaurant’s building, once a farmhouse then later a merchant’s home, remains simple and unassuming today. The façade is brilliant alabaster and the terracotta tiled roof, a patchwork of copper and moss. An antique, dark green water pump stands before a great tree that grows only a couple of yards from the front entrance. The perimeter is lined with neatly trimmed square-shaped bushes in addition to the iconic, heavy-set stone post, chiselled with Oud Sluis Restaurant and carrying a red plaque that offers more information. Within, forty covers are split betwixt two rooms with a smaller one to the left as one enters and larger one to the right. The interior and kitchen have both recently been refurbished; ‘het wordt sexy chic’ according to Herman, ‘the dining area is a big area. The atmosphere I describe as sexy chic with a lot of black colour, a bit of a living room style with special seats of Spanish designers.’ The main space is modern yet comfortable with white woods along the outside wall and light ones panelling those inside. The roof is exposed beam and a wooden column, set in the centre, holds up the middle bar that bears the inscription, ‘Aiensiendoet gedenchen diet dendoit de maegarencken’. French blinds and long cream curtains limit the light let in; ceiling spotlights add brightness. Furnishings are sleek and jet black. Tables are decently spaced and twice-clothed with heavy white linen over drooping beige. They are well-sized, but quite cluttered with a couple of candles, yellow rose in oval vase, stemware, oversized bread plates, promotional literature, olive oil, salt and pepper grinders and their separate raw granules. Crockery is from several makers including Bernaudaud, JL Coquet and Piet Stockmans whilst sundry eating utensils are George Jensen’s. A single blue and white painting that portrays what could well be a swordfish eating its own tail is all that is hung upon the walls. Besides it, there is also a wide yet narrow viewing window into the kitchen – or, Herman proving all habits die hard, maybe into the dining room: ‘the kitchen staff always want to know if any young women are coming in. If there are, the front of house staff seat them at tables three, five and six. That way we in the kitchen get to enjoy the view as well.’ Amuse Bouche 1: Chips de legumes, crème de laitue et sauce BBQ. Three chips came sailing in on a wavy porcelain platter and partnered with herby lettuce-barbecue dip. Lacy, light copper Jerusalem artichoke crisp, splashed with varak – (tasteless) edible silver foil decoration from India popular on special occasions – and vodka diagonals, was almost sticky with increasingly strong savour; peppered beetroot tuile was crackly-thin; and dried sweet potato seasoned with herbs and salt, spicy and pleasantly textured. The sauce, of earthier lettuce and smoky-sweet BBQ, was creamy and well-judged with each ingredient distinct. Le Pain: Pain au levain. The bread is baked by baker Alex Croquet from Wattignies, just outside of Lille. And it is excellent – toothsome, crunchy, warm and with generous, soft crumb. It is no surprise that Monsieur Croquet, who abhors additives, chemical fertilisers, even tap water, grinds his cereals the old-fashioned way on a millstone and is rumoured to be so protective over his yeast culture that he carries it with him on his travels, is acclaimed by many as France’s best boulanger (Gagnaire and Ducasse are fans). If there remains uncertainty surrounding his superiority, there certainly does not regarding the butter; it is Bordier’s beurre de barrate demi-sel. Amuse Bouche 2: Sandwich de saumon en gelée de moutarde et d’aneth. The next amuse was distinctly Nordic in nature: a small, upright cube was composed of wafer-thin, seeded rye crackers encasing equally-sized squares of house-cured Scottish salmon and dill-mustard jelly, garnished with sour cream drops implanted with tiny dill sprigs. Brittle upon bite, then creamy and smooth, this was quite delectable. The ingredients were a classic combination, but balanced nicely with good, clean salmon set against spicy-sweet mustard and off-set by tangy cream. Amuse Bouche 3: Couteau mariné au codium. Almost akin to two boats buoyant upon calm, cornflower blue ocean, a brace of razor clam shells bore codium mousse, salicorne and zostera and the clam itself diced, all sitting in Spanish olive oil. The majestic blue, bright mossy and myrtle greens, mocha beige and golden emerald Arbequina oil made this dish a rather pretty sight. Briny sweet clam was slightly rubbery whilst the samphire salty and herby. Seaweed purée tasted earthy and Catalonian oil added nutty fruitiness. Each element had individual and contrasting flavour that together, though not clashing, failed to synchronise easily. Amuse Bouche 4: Boulgour a la crème de carottes, salicorne et coques; Maquereau, legerement mariné et artichaut surgelée. A tilted bowl was brought with baked and toasted bulgur, chubby cockles, purslane and salicorne with creams of both as well as of carrot; at the same time, marinated mackerel atop artichoke crème and dotted with lime jelly arrived alongside a cracker topped with beetroot-dusted scoopful of ‘deep-frozen’ artichoke. The curvature of the reflective bowl distorted and inflated the colourful contents interestingly if slightly at the price of practicality, but beyond this, the briny escabeche cockles complemented the saltier samphire and snappy pourpier. Carrot tendered its sweetness and the variations of cracked wheat varied the consistency agreeably. Intense lime jelly cut through the oily yet subtle mackerel as the artichoke cream lifted both. The additional artichoke mousse was rather cold and earthy. Amuse Bouche 5: Tomate, basilic, anchois et olives; Huitre, vinaigrette au kaffir et yaourt Thailandais. A second double-dish presentation comprised peeled tomato with anchovy cream and various structures of basil and olive on a shiny metallic plate, its edges curled towards the ceiling; and a transparent (fish-) bowl, its base filled with Thai yoghurt embedded with Zeeland oyster over which lay assorted toasted grains with green and purple shiso, mizzled with kaffir lime vinaigrette. The first melange was very Mediterranean and another very traditional teaming, although there was a twist in the multiple forms that the basil (snow, leaf, mousse) and olive (cake, tuile, tapenade, gel, raw) came in. This complexity, initially intriguing, became meaningless after discovering it tasted rather dulled. The second portion was better. Kaffir lime added exotic acidity to the local oyster that had a hint of sea sweetness to it. The bivalve and yoghurt was an unusual pairing, but worked nicely. Grains were again used to add some crunch. Entrée 1: Saint Jacques marinées, ficoïde glaciale, bergamote, fenouil et vinaigre de chardonnay. Olive oil and soy sauce marinated scallop was sliced thrice, each piece carrying a pale green disc of fennel crème crowned with a darker spot of ficoïde glaciale cream, a little of its leaf and tiny tuile circle. At one end of the wide bowl, scallop tartare topped shredded spring onion and fennel whilst, on the other, two smears of fennel (lighter) and ficoïde glaciale (darker) mousse scaled the side of the plate; olive oil, chardonnay vinegar jelly stabbed with baby bergamot leaf, the bergamot’s maroon blossom and its powder were all sprinkled throughout. The pureed ficoïde had salty tang that was countered by the anise-sweetness of the fennel. Slices of this same vegetable, along with the mild onion and brittle tuiles, supplied crackly texture. The minty-citrus of the bergamot shone through very strongly here, followed by the bright, fruity-tart chardonnay. Unfortunately, the sweetness of the scallop was lost. Entrée 2: Langoustine légèrement fumée et marinée, betterave rouge et radis. Radish – shoots, slices, carved tops, leaves – beetroot – raw, gelée, meringue, microgreens, powder – and cress – seeds, sprigs – salad was served strewn across the spacious circumference on one half of the plate; as these greens encircled a small lake of beet and truffle oils, on their cusp was set a smoked langoustine on its back whilst a cannelloni of langoustine tartare wrapped in beet jelly was nestled amidst them. Fat and sweet, the shellfish was a superb specimen; cooked just right, one could feel its stringy encircling tendons snap upon bite. Its tartare was decent, although did not have as much or as pleasing savour as the cooked. Much worse, the raw beetroot and radish were actually disagreeable; they had become so dry that they were astringent. Additionally, the truffle was not at all sapid and the dish, as a whole, somewhat under-seasoned. Entrée 3: Crumble de foie d’oie. A nugget of goose liver terrine coated with crispy rice, more of these grains, hazelnut sawdust and crushed Pedro Ximinez meringue covered a concealed sub-layer of this same sherry’s granité and green apple ice cream; atop the crumble, nitrogen-frozen pearls of foie d’oie were scattered whilst larger meringue flakes and tuiles studded it. As if having shot up from some soil, the upstanding pea tendrils added life and a natural context to the aspect. The larger foie fragment was silky and intense, its granular crust a contrast; the smaller beads disappeared on the tongue, leaving behind the same, clear flavour. Pedro Ximinez, a dark, sweet dessert sherry, was indeed potent. The buried apple was cool, sweetly-tart and rather useful in tempering the overlaying components, some of which were, when tried individually, just too strong to enjoy. Taken altogether though, these proved surprisingly pleasant. Entrée 4: Huître de Zélande au concombre, artichaut et pourpier, vinaigrette de fleur de sureau; croquante. A threesome of skinny cucumber slices and two miniature mounds of artichoke mousse were arranged around a poached Zeeland oyster smeared in sabayon; pourpier blades, cucumber cream dots and elderflower vinaigrette dressed the dish. Gigas by name, gigas by nature, the warm pacific oyster from the Oosterschelde was juicy and plump. Its subtle elemental-fruitiness was a good match with citrus elderflower whilst the lemony sabayon had real zing. Like the succulent purslane, cucumber was very refreshing and a very fine addition. A second side-plate was presented with a ‘crunchy’ oyster. Its shell, sculpted from the oyster’s juice, encased diced bivalve, apple and fennel drizzled with elderflower and was finished off with nitro-boules of oyster crème. Crackly, moist, acidic and mineral, this was a tasty morsel. Plat principal 1: Asperges blanches de Zélande, jaune d’oeuf légèrement fumée, crème de morilles et macaron à la bière, homard et jus de Bernardus et citron vert. Smoked sous-vide egg yolk with caviar crest of Italian Oscietra, morels, Bernardus whitbier macaron with lobster tartare middle and slow-cooked Zeeland lobster propping up Zeeland white asparagus all came clustered in the centre of an oval dish sitting in a sauce of mushroom, whitbier and lime. Black truffle dotted one side of the plate, but was utterly vapid. The huge yolk was thick and toothsome, however, the caviar, farmed in northern Italy, was absolutely horrid – salty and fishy. In contrast, the white asparagus was nutty sweet and the morels, flavoursome, if not particularly large. The hollandaise sauce, a nod to the country within which we were, was spicy and tasty; sadly though, the macaron, which was sitting in this, had become soggy because of it. Disregarding that fact, it was light yet concentrated. Bernardus whitbier is a Belgian abbey wheat-beer from Watou, allegedly made with water that fell at the time of Joan of Arc; like with other Belgian whitbier (as opposed to German Weißbiere) various exotic spices had been added including orange, lemon and coriander. This citrus element was in concord with the lime of the sauce. The local lobster, also from the Oosterschelde, is a distinct variety of the European family which has developed in this isolated estuary; it was difficult to distinguish it here though. Plat principal 2: Couscous épicé au crabe, crambe maritime et zostère, vinaigrette de ‘fingerlime’ et jus de crabe et épices. Stems of seagrass, sea kale swirled around them, sprouted out from a clutch of cracked wheat scattered with Cromer crab and fingerlime; adjacent stood a column of more crabmeat bound within green sea kale leaf. Tableside, a spiced crab broth was poured overtop, which was thick, rich and rather lovely. Salty-sweet seagrass was crisp, whilst the kale’s blades resembled cabbage though the stems were milder – both had faint nuttiness that married well with the crunchy wheat. The fingerlime, essentially bushfood, is an Australian fruit filled with small, sour, effervescent caviar-like capsules. This was acidic and delicious. Regrettably, the flavour of the crabmeat was unable to be found. Plat principal 3: Agneau de Lozère, barbecue aux tomates et assortiment de courgettes, burrata, basilic frais et roquette, jus d’agneau épicé. Spread with pesto and seated upon polenta, double-cut, French cutlet and braised shoulder of Lozère lamb, with various varieties of tomato, basil, rocket and courgette, formed a circular ring around a puddle of olive oil into which the meat’s jus roti was ladled at the table. Initially, the appearance of the not-inconsiderable lamb chop pleased. Lamentably, looks are not always what they seem: the outside was cooked too much, the inside cooked too little and the uncrisped fat left limp and oily. It was decidedly sorrowful. The out-of-season tomatoes (red zebra, Coeur de boeuf, Roman jaune), courgettes and patty pan did not fare much better bar one of the structures of courgette spaghetti that was texturally appealing at least. As this dish was nearly done, before the crockery cleared, the serveur delivered a small demitasse containing burrata doused in a little olive oil and covered with a thin, cloudy disc of clarified tomato jelly. The cheese was decent, but again the tomato was unnoticeable. What was more worrying was the timing of its arrival. At first, I accepted that it may have been intentionally served late, possibly as a sort of palate cleanser – after all, dairy does often accompany meat in some cultures to aid its digestion. Since this meal however, I have learned that it ought to have came together with the lamb. They had simply forgotten to plate it. Dessert 1: ‘Chocolate Rocks’, galangal, menthe et citron vert. Two rolling mountains of mint and vanilla custard, overlaid with chocolate mousse then completely carpeted with choc dusting, were separated by lime ice cream atop sablé biscuit, besprinkled with cocoa powder; galangal gel, mint leaves, broken meringue and more cocoa littered the plate. The chocolate mousse (Valrhona guanaja 70%) had deep, dark savour with velvety, almost ethereal lightness; the concealed custard mellowed the choc above whilst providing substance. Spicy galangal was a very good touch, sizzling on the tongue. Meringue crumbs were sugary and the ice cream faintly tart. Dessert 2: ‘Blanc pur’, riz, coco et cheese-cake, mangue épicée. Four ring-shaped meringues formed an ascending staircase, sprayed with lactic acid dust and set atop a smear of cheesecake cream; the first rung was rice pudding crème, the following, coconut macaron and lime emulsion, mango jus locked in a white chocolate sphere and finally, coconut sorbet with crumble and sugar tuile. The rice pudding had agreeable graininess; the second step, creamy sweetness; and eating the third, spicy mango exploded from its choc bubble. The cool sorbet was only average. Lactic acid added an interesting sour note to the dessert, although the cheesecake itself was insipid. Dessert 3: ’Trois herbes’, basilic, citron-mélisse, verveine, fleur d’oranger transparente et poudre d’amande. A trinity of cold quenelles – dark lemon balm granité, lighter basil cream, pastel verbena sorbet – each delineated by their original leaves, were decorated with a shiny sugar blade and copper strands, almond biscuit branches, soil-like golden granola and drops of orange blossom water. The lemony, herby scoops each had slightly different, distinctive taste and texture, whilst the additional elements contributed crunch and snap. The fragrant and citrus-sweet fleur d’oranger stood out especially. The arrangement here was clearly meant to be light-hearted and whimsical, but it left a markedly gimmicky impact – the elements appeared plastic and simplistic, even though much work had obviously been required to produce this little course. Petit Fours 1: Chocolat blanc et fruit de la passion. A rocky sphere of white chocolate, powdered with icing sugar, held crystallised passion fruit within. After a firm bite, the thick and creamy choc gave way to icy fruit, which had a solid tart kick to it. Petit Fours 2: Abricot et lait de soja; et tuile de rhubarbe. Upon a sweet cracker, apricot crème sat with soy milk ice cream, one studded with gold leaf (whose semblance to some sort of archaic medicine-man on bended knee I could not ignore), the other with sugar tuiles. The soy had rich, milky creaminess which provided an adequate foil to the apricot’s sugary confit-like savour. The long rhubarb sugar stick had an awkward sourness that was quickly replaced by sugary sweetness. Migniardises: Gelée de cassis; crème de pistache; duo; boule de café; sandwich de chocolate avec tonka; chocolat de cabernet sauvignon; et meringue de citron vert. A wooden box brought several elaborate sweet samples on black and white slabs. Jammy, tart blackcurrant cylinder was topped with baby meringues of raspberry and tart yoghurt; pistachio tyre was appetising yet its elderflower jelly drops were not; and white and dark chocolate sandwich had strange jellied consistency. Dry spuma of coffee came with weak vanilla cream; crunchy chocolate cake had aromatic tonka and nutty base; and floral verbena meringue, lime zing. Dominique Personne of the Chocolate Line in Bruges (an old friend of Herman’s since hospitality school) supplies both Oud Sluis and other local three-star Hof Van Cleve with a signature piece. Here it is the ‘Oud Sluis caramel’; a chocolate truffle with cabernet sauvignon vinegar – its domed shell was nicely crisp, its base filled with pine nuts, but the liquid centre far too harsh. It was an fascinating experience with the staff today. There may have been indigenous cultural issues at play I was unaware of, but the serveurs – all gentlemen, all fairly young – were distinctly glum. The service was indeed professional, efficient and thorough, but it was confusing too. Words were friendly, engaging and inquisitive, but faces were grim, smiles conspicuously absent. To the contrary, the mood in the restaurant was much livelier and sociable; an adjacent table of older Dutch ladies who lunch were even keen to start a conversation, asking our opinion of the food. Sadly, my opinion was not a high one. Lunch started well. A series of five amuses bouche, more if you count each component plate separately, was generous, curious and, especially in the cases of the sandwich de saumon, boulgour a la crème de carottes, and huitre, vinaigrette au kaffir, tasty. Saint Jacques, crumble de foie d’oie and huître de Zélande were decent as well, but not faultless. The langoustine dish amidst these was disappointing given the shellfish’s quality whilst the asperges blanches de Zélande was really just wrong. The agneau de Lozère was just as bad, but the difference between them was that the lamb could have been a good dish with better cooking and served in season whilst the asparagus and lobster was poorly thought through – the dreadful caviar, the poor lobster-egg combo. It is difficult to judge which of these two was worse. It was actually the course in between them that I enjoyed most, the couscous épicé au crabe. This was spicy, warm and bursting with flavour. Desserts were again not of great standard; for all their complexity, they were just not particularly memorable. Petit fours and mignardises finished the meal in the manner that it commenced – pleasantly and liberally bestowed. The amount of time, energy and effort that was incontestably and commendably expended on every dish, from appetisers to mains to petit fours, was satisfying to see. From the first plate presented – chips de legumes – it was clear that this was a serious kitchen keen to impress: three crisps, each made of a different vegetable and by a different method; furthermore, something unexpected was also included with the eye-catching varak. Everything followed in this same spirit, each course meticulously, painstakingly prepared. During only the amuses, bulgur was toasted and cooked; then five forms of olive were paired with three of basil; and almost all the entrées and plats principal showed off their principal ingredient two ways – scallop (carpaccio/tartare); langoustine (smoked/tartare); foie d’oie (terrine/frozen); and the list repeats like this until the lamb (braised/roasted). Another interesting element of Herman’s cooking is the juxtaposition of something local with something exotic. This is a typical Belgian tendency (Sluis is considered the most Flemish of Dutch towns…) and has its roots in the historic influx of foreign goods that arrived in these countries from their former colonies. ‘In Belgium and France, there is such a heavy food culture. In Holland, it's different. Since we have no culture for food, we are free,’ feels the chef. Therefore, he draws on what was once Holland’s own empire – much of modern-day Indonesia. From that region, there were native ingredients like kaffir lime, galangal and mango. Such products were married with Zeeland’s own produce in recipes that included oyster with yaourt Thailandais, Cromer crab with fingerlime and so on. The chef’s affection for Spain was also felt through the Arbequina olive oil, escabeche cockles, Pedro Ximinez and fleur d’oranger; although Italy’s incidence was just as strong. All the same, one of the real highlights was being able to taste the area’s own bounty, so their firm presence was appreciated and the chef’s determination to use them, encouraging. Lunch was also light. Herman, by and large, eschews traditional sauces, stocks and the application of butter in favour of olive oils and acidity. This lifts the meal and makes it easier to relish the many morsels presented. Of course, not all was well. Unfortunately, there is also an inevitable downside to such intensively laboured-over dishes – the odds of an error occurring, of sloppiness creeping in, are increased while maintaining the bar becomes only harder. The kitchen employs around thirty-five chefs, which is one cook per customer, but such are the recipes here, that this may not be sufficient. The cooking was, on the whole, faultless, except for two errors in execution that ruined those two particular dishes. With the langoustine légèrement fumée, the raw radish and beetroot slices were so acetic that they overwhelmed the fine prawn. They seemed to have dried out waiting, maybe, to be plated, but I am certain something additional must have been added to taint them thus. The agneau de Lozère, on the other hand, was blighted by blunder: the cuisson, frightfully careless and plating, slapdash. Admittedly, the absence of the burrata was but a minor oversight, which could have been overlooked had it not compounded an already dire dish. It may be argued though that there was some minor merit in their attempted reconciliation of this slip. A smaller flaw in the asperges blanches de Zélande was that the macaron, because it sat amidst the sauces, became sodden. This was in fact only fixed after my visit with the macaroon then delivered in a separate side-dish instead. The issue with the langoustine – the auxiliary elements savours’ subsuming those of the chief ingredient – seemed a prominent one. The same trouble was also seen with the saint Jacques, homard and crabe. Regarding the first and last, at least these were sill satisfying as they were, but surely one would expect them to have been even better had they been delivered with better balance; otherwise why include those components if they were not to be allowed or able to express themselves. One other feature common to many courses was the almost compulsory inclusion of something crunchy, which sometimes came over more desperate than well-intentioned. This complaint was exacerbated by the fact that this ‘something crunchy’ was often some sort of grain variant or, even more consistently, circular toasted tuiles – it was far too repetitive, agitating actually. There is a more trivial remark to be made regarding the amuses too – although rather decent, these had not largely changed since January, five months prior. For somewhere that prides itself on being exciting and dynamic, this did not fit that formula. On a final note, I was disappointed by the desserts; shiny, plastic and sugary, they simply seemed almost toy-like and not in a charming, whimsical way. All these were not problems of execution, but of design. I have tried to justify the mediocre quality of the meal – and only because friends have written unanimously well of their own experiences here – but I have been unable to. There were some signs of hope in the good ingredients, hard working kitchen and enticing combinations, however there was also imprecision in construction and implementation, all coupled with the rather sombre mood within which the food was served. In an attempt at their defence, I mention that Oud Sluis had only recently reopened after their Easter holiday. Could there have been some rustiness leftover from their rest or perhaps post-break blues? It is immaterial: the restaurant was open and I was charged full price. There has been mention in Dutch press of Herman wishing to expand his business, with Antwerp and Amsterdam thrown about as possible destinations for a second venture – ‘it is important for me to grow a little bit – to have new challenges, so I remain sharp.’ There has even been talk of him relocating altogether to Ibiza, although it is ‘nothing more’ than talk, he attests. Whatever the cause behind this seeming lack of focus, what was worthy noting was that literally a couple of days later, Herman and his maître d'hôtel were leaving for London. They would be dining at Hakkasan and Fat Duck, but the real reason for their excursion was the announcement presentation of San Pellegrino’s ‘Worlds 50 Best Restaurants’. Unbeknownst to anyone there (I presume…), we were dining at the twenty-ninth best restaurant in the world.

Sorry, Mrs. Foodies, but... It seems Ambassade is closing: Harden's Article Says that chef wishes to return to Lyon to concentrate on his restaurant there. The restaurant here will reopen as a bistro...

Well, the concept and how well it is implemented makes it all rather irresistible to be honest. I envy you! Ubuntu indeed seems to be getting better and better and so quickly too. You can see the evolution just from Chuck's photos! It is very exciting viewing.