[L'Ami Louis]

Hi,

Please click here to see my full post with photography: HERE

l’Ami Louis opened in 1924. It has not changed since.

The original owner was maître rôtisseur, Antoine Magnin. Easily identifiable by the red bandana that was always tied around his neck, he ran the restaurant up until 1986, when at the age of eighty-five, he sold the business to Thierry de la Brosse and Louis Gadby, the latter previously a waiter there. Under the terms of the sale, Magnin remained in the kitchen after the exchange, to be assisted by the sous chef who had been at his side for eighteen years already. However, a year on, in November 1987, he was obliged to check into a Paris clinic for health reasons; a week later he passed away. De la Brosse, who is also co-owner of Aux Lyonnais with Alain Ducasse and who has been a regular at l’Ami Louis since he was seventeen years old, later said that ‘it took me about three years to convince him that I would be a good candidate to carry on his tradition’. He also let slip that the late, great roaster had two real loves in his life, ‘cooking and women, especially American women’.

In the 1930s, l’Ami Louis was one of the most famous restaurants in the city, serving, it is claimed, more game, especially ortolons and bécasses, than anywhere else in Paris, as well as a hundred lobsters every day. During the Second World War, it is rumoured to have been a clandestine retreat, but today it is the haunt of celebrities and American tourists; and is supposedly a favourite of former US president Bill Clinton who was introduced to it by former French president Jacques Chirac during a 1999 visit. In fact, Chirac was a regular customer whilst mayor of the city. Even Mikhail Gorbachev has made it here. General sentiment towards the restaurant remains split: plenty criticise its high prices and the type of clientele it tends to attract, but plenty also applaud the quality of the food. In October 1997, le Figaro concluded in its ‘notre classement des meilleurs poulets rôtis’ survey that l’Ami Louis had the best roast chicken in the capital. There is also an anecdote wherein a Michelin inspector is to have told Magnin that the inadequacy of access to the eatery’s bathrooms was all that was holding it back from winning any stars; in reply, Antoine asked, less delicately than put here, whether people go to a restaurant to eat or to go to the loo.

Sitting in essentially an alley in the less than fancy third, l’Ami Louis is a testament to pre-war Paris. Simple shop front of dark, lacquered wood and sign-printed windows, semi-swathed in red-checked curtains, obscure a museum-like interior. Blotchy rusty-auburn walls, lined with coat pegs beneath shelves that run along the long walls on either side of the narrow dining area, are littered with port-hole shaped mirrors and black-and-white prints. On the far side, a large fresh fruit stand stands in front of a telephone booth and across from the bar/prepping station. The tiny, cramped kitchen is hidden behind these. Half-way into the room, a stainless steel stove pipe, running off an antique oven fireplace, runs across and then out the ceiling. Salmon pink and flower-embroidered linen is laid over square tables that are tightly set either side of a central aisle, the Escher-ish patterned tiles of which have been worn away by waiters’ walk. Bright bulbs shed a distinctly artificial light. The crockery is Apilco. The décor is shabby, but purposely so. Larger-than-life waiters, dressed in white jackets, are led by the biggest of them all, part-owner Louis.

The carte is crammed full of classics: scallops, snails and duck confit starters precede plats principal such as agneau de lait and côte de veau. I decided to order the two dishes that the restaurant is arguably most famous for, the foie gras followed by the roast chicken.

Entrée: Foie Gras de Landes. Three bricks of thick, house-made foie gras from Landes were teamed with a tower of toasted baguette slices and block of unsalted butter. Each pinkish slab of pâté came skirted and streaked with yellow fat. Firm at first, the foie, having begun melting once upon the hot toast, became creamy and soft on the tongue. The taste was rich and indulgent yet surprising light and clean. The portion was realistically just enough for me two three and though I had resentfully decided to relinquish my dish half-way through (coincidentally at the same time as the bread had cooled and butter depleted), the production of another plate of fresh-grilled baguettea forced me to reconsider…

Plat Principal: Poulet Rôti (entier). One whole, wood-oven roasted Coucou de Rennes, peppered with watercress, came in the cocotte it had been cooked in; a mountain of matchstick frites followed. Before I saw it, I heard its sizzle; before I heard its sizzle, I smelt it. The bird was a beast. I have seen bigger, but never been served one – however, when a single breast is sufficient to fill one’s plate, there is no reason to complain. The skin crackled; its meat was succulent and juicy with real flavour; and the gravy was rich, hot and delicious. My only disappointment was that the innards were overdone and thus inedible – the liver literally became a biscuit.

The chicken, roasted in l’Ami Louis’ famous wood-fired stove that is still intact but now encased in stainless steel, was first coated in butter then finished in goose fat before being cooked at a very high heat on a rotisserie. This specific breed is an ancient Breton one that almost disappeared just twenty years earlier. One hundred years ago, the Coucou was winning awards for its quality, but slow-growing, it had been slowly neglected mid-century in favour of more competitive, meat-producing breeds. In 1988, a few of the last surviving specimens were adopted by the ecological museum in Rennes and the race saved from extinction. It is now an AOC-protected species, raised free-range and organically.

The shoestring chips that accompanied it were fairly crunchy, but a touch greasy and ought to have been warmer. That being said, once dipped in the jus rôti, they become more than palatable. I was just about coping when the infamous galette de l’Ami Louis arrived unannounced. In this unadulterated rendition of pommes Anna that the restaurant has made it own, Desirée potatoes are steamed and fried, before being baked with goose fat and butter and garnished with raw garlic, chopped parsley and a little black pepper. Its crisp, golden coat concealed piping hot, creamy centre. This ‘cake’ was so good it almost made me regret every bite of foie gras and each skinny fry, which at this point only seemed to prevent me eating more of this utterly tasty dish.

Shamefully, not only was half the galette left behind, but half that considerable chicken. ‘Waste not, want not,’ as they say – I had the leftovers à emporter. For the record, a couple of days later, the remaining breast made an excellent snack meal, still full of savour.

Forgive me, but for the first time in fifty-plus meals, I was forced to forgo dessert…

Let me point out first that just two dishes are a flaky foundation upon which to build a solid judgement of any restaurant, but indulge me whilst I at least share some of my thoughts. The cuisine here is easily described: excellent, often humble, ingredients cooked consummately and served generously. It is old-fashioned, country-style food, the sort that your grandmother would love to prepare for you if you only took the time to visit her – provided she were French (but then she would be one’s grandmère) and that possibly she lived in a village. All such technicalities aside, it is hard to argue (and resist) a good roast chicken. It is simply one of cooking’s most classic pleasures. Indeed, in this respect, I found l’Ami Louis hard to fault – the quality of the bird, its plumpness, tenderness, its taste and texture were great. The galette was gorgeous; foie gras very good; although the chips were a minor marring. Normally, prices are not a subject I dwell on (and even that is an exaggeration), however, it would be difficult to mention l’Ami Louis without mentioning what it charges. Needless to say, prices are dear and evaluated on a dish-by-dish basis, they are difficult to excuse. Although, if a group of two or three were to order how I did, I am certain they would be left neither hungry nor bitter with the bill.

The staff, though interaction between us was rather limited, came across as friendly, patient and attentive. Superficially sluggish (these were big guys), they were quick to scurry across the dining room at the slightest hint that I was going to serve myself more chicken whilst freshly toasted bread for my foie gras arrived without me needing to ask for it. They also, midway through the meal, surprised me with a date-stamped menu as a souvenir; I am not sure whether this is usual practice, but it was a nice gesture nonetheless.

With regards to the atmosphere, I may have missed out on the notorious l’Ami Louis experience. Arriving for an early Sunday lunch, the restaurant had only two other tables taken besides mine; both by French couples. No tourists and no noise; no hustle and no bustle. Some would think it a disappointment, some a blessing, but personally I am probably equally happy with either scenario provided that the food is toothsome and service of good standard.

Reading the glowing remarks of better authorities than myself – it was beloved by the late R.W. Apple, still is by Thomas Keller and Ruth Rogers; highly recommended by Patricia Wells; and where Simon Hopkinson would want his last meal – is enough to convince one of the merits of l’Ami Louis, but the question stands whether I would return.

The answer is most likely no. However, there is something so attractive about the rustic excess and heartiness of it that it is hard to ignore. If I were to return, I reckon it would be for another Sunday lunch, but certainly not alone.

[Best Pizza in London]

Haven't made it here yet - mainly because it's only open for lunch - what are the chances of them opening for dinner?

←

I believe that whilst at their current premises, the chances would be zero.

I remember reading that the reason they are only open 12-5 is because those are the hours that the arcade the restaurant resides in opens...

[Pre Catelan]

Hi,

This is a report from my lunch at the restaurant in early January.

Click here for the full write-up with photography: HERE

As of 1976, Le Pré Catelan has been part of Lenôtre, the eponymous and celebrated catering company founded by one of France’s foremost pâtissiers, Gaston Lenôtre. This former dairy farm, however, was first opened by a respected Parisian restaurateur as du Pré Catelan in 1906. To attract customers, he charged what he advertised as bourgeois prices. To his own cost though, locals did not agree with his interpretation of bourgeois whilst the moneyed Americans that pervaded Paris turned their noses up unanimously at any thing that even smelt of cheap. Therefore, he was forced to quickly sell out to the eminent Monsieur Mouriez, who already included the Café de Paris, restaurant d'Armenonville and the Abbay Thélème in his stable of iconic dining/drinking institutions. He made immediate changes, namely raising prices, which actually worked wonderfully well at attracting hordes of American tourists, but he also kept some of the restaurant’s old customs like bringing cows into the dining room to be milked by the more adventurous clientele.

In its current incarnation, Le Pré Catelan spent most of the nineties under the charge of Roland Durand, during which time Thomas Keller and Andy Needham both passed through the kitchen. In 1997, incumbent chef, Frédéric Anton took up the reins. He had prestigious pedigree. Originally from the Lorraine spa town of Contrexèville and graduating from l’École hôtelière de Gérardmer in 1978, he had his first employment at the nearby Grand Hôtel. He then went to Le Capucin Gourmand (1*) in Nancy to work under Gérard Veissière, whilst simultaneously pursuing a diploma in pastry and chocolate making. Next came Le Flambard (2*) in Lille with Robert Bardot before the big move to Gérard Boyer’s Château des Crayères (3*) in 1986. Five years on, Joël Robuchon took him on as chef de partie at his fabled restaurant Jamin (3*), where he rose to chef de cuisine by 1993, the same year that the pair moved to avenue Raymond Poincarré together. In 1996, Robuchon relinquished his stars to Michelin and his restaurant to Alain Ducasse; Anton stayed on for the next six months, supervising the transition, prior to eventually joining Le Pré Catelan.

Robuchon’s protégé, who as a youngster had no desire to cook and ‘thought it was for women’, was given full control and total freedom of this kitchen. Within two years he repaid this faith shown in him with two Michelin stars. The following year he was named Meilleur Ouvrier de France. More recently, in 2005 he was endowed with an espoir ahead of the real thing two years later. Anton has a reputation for being meticulous and precise. He is said to run a tight ship and have a keen eye for detail.

Le Pré Catelan itself is found deep within the Bois de Boulogne, a forest on the western fringes of the 16e and of Paris proper. These woodlands, which can trace their origins to the fifth century, were once filled with oak trees and a royal hunting ground. Actually, it is from Louis XIV’s Captain of the Hunt, Théophile Catelan, that the particular pré or meadow that the restaurant rests within takes its title. Le Pré Catelan, whose gardens date from the mid-eighteenth century when Baron Haussmann was hired to redesign the whole bois before it was gifted to the city, is housed in a Napoleon III style lodge and its property shares an entrance with the Jardin Shakespeare, which holds specimens of all the plants mentioned in the poet’s plays.

Arriving at Port Dauphine almost late already, I stood near the large roundabout in an attempt to attract the attentions of any passing taxis. For some time, none came. Then a few finally did appear, though these were all filled. At last, one stopped. ‘Où?’ He demanded. ‘Le Pré Catelan, s’il vous plait,’ I squeaked. ‘Jamais entendu cela,’ snapping that he had never heard of it, he drove off. It’s a restaurant, I called out, but it was too late. I started walking. I should have been at the restaurant fifteen minutes earlier, so I called to let them know I would be a little tardy, but I was still coming. On the phone, they asked me where I was, but after informing them that I was making my way there on foot, they would have none of it and ordered me back to the roundabout with instructions to wait there. I did as I was told. Within five minutes, a car had pulled up alongside, a tuxedoed and bow-tied gentleman behind the wheel, ready to whisk me away to my destination…

The main dining room sits in the larger of two small châteaux on the site. In 2007, Pierre-Yves Rochon redesigned the interior; his briefing was ‘to celebrate the natural surroundings’ of the historic building. Inside, a sprinkling of spotlights on the fifty-foot high ceiling, quadruple-decker chandelier suspended in its centre and triple-forked wall sconces that surround its sides make the space glisten. Tall mirrors, intermingled with marbled Grecian columns, rim the room. Classical capitals are intricately crafted and carved friezes follow Caran d’Ache stencilling. A fireplace is the focus of one wall, which is also bordered with lush, myrtle banquettes; opposite, a spacious bay is wrapped with tall windows. The floor, carpeted fern-green to evoke the garden outside, is filled with circular tables and dark wooden serving stations topped with black vases bearing white orchids, chrome urns and onyx pots. Grey silk curtains correspond to the grey undercloth beneath the white that has been laid over the well-sized and spaced tables. These are straightforwardly set with silver salt-and-pepper shakes; a single white rose stowed in a small, sterling boule; and monogrammed ebony and ivory Bernaudaud crockery. The room is elegant and ornate but clean, fresh and open. The mood was comfortable, merry and spirited.

I was welcomed and shown to my table by maître d’hôtel, Monsieur Jean-Jacques Chauveau. After speaking with him, I asked if he would order for me and he obliged with the Menu du Pré…

Amuse Bouche 1: Potage chaud d’oignons; crème de champignons de bois. Frothy wild mushroom cream was poured at the table into a bowl of warm, silky onion soup. Earthy, woody and sweet trompettes de mort, pieds de mouton and champignons de Paris came combined with caramelised onion. This had strong and comforting savour.

Les Pains: Baguette et pain des céréales. The bread basket brimmed with baguettes and cereal rolls made on the premises. The former were crunchy if a little dry, whilst the latter were nicely flavoured, light and seedy. Circular cakes of Pré Catelan-embossed butter, both salted and unsalted, were supplied by Pascal Beillvieve. This smooth, rich beurre was very good.

Entrée 1: La Sardine: A l’huile, Capeaux de Beurre et Pain aux Olives; Sardine et persil plat frits; Gelée de Bouillabaisse, Sauce Rouille. A triptych of pearly plates of differing size and shape were served.

First and largest of these was a big bowl bearing shallow gelée de bouillabaisse de sardines; its ritual rouille rested atop, embodied as creamy white dots of garlic and gold of saffron with interspersed silver spots of sardine. Reduced and jellified fish stock, vegetables, tomato and white wine had clean, lively savour and smooth consistency. Its topping had subtly spicy bitterness and conspicuous fishiness. The presentation of the plate was appealingly unusual, but the overriding flavour was an underlying slight harshness.

Secondly, a long rectangle featured three sardine/pilchard cross-sections, lightly breaded, filled with parsley then fried; the middle morsel bore some butter whilst a slice of lime lay on the side. The simply and well cooked fish, coated in crunchy breadcrumbs and egg, were completely greaseless. Their herb farce had crisp grassiness, whilst the lime was a competent and classic acidic counterpoint.

Last, little olive oil suffused sardines, garnished with coriander, Thai garlic, thyme, stitchwort flowers and another curl of butter, were teamed with toasted olive bread. These literally flash-fried filets had surprisingly delicate taste and were distinctly infused with quality, fruity oil. There was faint citrus and freshness from the trimmings as well as slight sweetness from the garlic (Thai being less aggressive than European). Brittle bread with great olive essence went well.

Entrée 2: La Saint-Jacques: Cuite au Plat, Jus de Pommes à Cidre; Galet « chaud »; Crème de Noix écrasées et torréfiées; Fines Lamelles juste tiédies, Zestes de Citron vert. A second course of scallops was composed of four component-plates.

Upon a big, black, white-hot basalt pebble, a single half-scallop, soused in soy sauce, was sprinkled with spring onion. The shellfish was decent with a soft and creamy texture; the onion offered crunch; whilst the soy, nice saltiness. Although the sizzling stone was to some extent sensational, it was certainly more for show than anything else. The Saint-Jacques – which had unwontedly (in France anyway) and unwantedly been bisected – was heated only from beneath, which meant that without one’s immediate attention, the scallop would either be left raw on one side, cooked on the other or cooked on one side, overdone on the other.

A whole scallop, firm without yet moist within, sitting in an apple, cidre brut and honey emulsion was crowned with chive and Grenoble nut kernel pulp that also contributed an interesting consistency. Reinette d’Orléans and Granny Smith apples added sweet acidity as did the dry cider, zing. The garlic and shallot in the sauce struck a chord with the chive crest, whilst the honey in it offset the slight bitterness of the nuts (the only in the world classified as A.O.C.).

Another Saint-Jacques, nicely caramelised, came floating atop a zephyr of hazelnut oil and sprinkled with more of the same nut, crushed and roasted. Made also with cream and agar-agar, this zephyr was light and cool in contrast to the hot shellfish and had strong, noticeable nuttiness.

The fourth formulation of this theme comprised a tepid trio of scallop-slither sandwiches containing caviar d’Aquitaine and covered with lime butter. Each ‘sandwich’ consisted of a couple of thin, supple slices of Saint-Jacques (each segment one sixth of a single scallop) that made a pocket packed with French caviar. This caviar was rather salty and lacked the creamy burst of Iranian and Russian variations, but the aromatic beurre de citron vert was invigorating yet light.

Plat Principal 1: La Langoustine: Préparée en Ravioli, Servie dans un Bouillon á l’Huile d’Olive vierge, Au parfum « poivre et Menthe »; La Coque, Beurre de Corail; Nem de Langoustine frit, jus de Romaine et Cacahuètes torréfiées. An Eastern-influenced, four-pronged play on langoustines was presented next.

Opaque olive oil foam, perfumed with pepper and mint, mewed a langoustine raviolo. The shellfish filling, sweet and confit-like in consistency, had been poached in stock before being stuffed into the delicate, soft pasta. Both pepper and mint were rather faint. This was somewhat reminiscent of a Cantonese wonton.

A tray had two tempura, one of langoustine and another of romaine lettuce, on one end, a cup of peanut sauce on the other; a demitasse, on a different dish, held dark green romaine lettuce jus. The shellfish, wrapped in warka pastry with a little mint and fried in peanut oil, was clean and crunchy; again the meat had nice savour. Romaine leaf, prepared in the same manner, had pleasing springiness but was a touch greasy. The cold lettuce jus had a very vegetal concentration with a hint of bittersweetness from nutmeg; neither was it unpleasant, nor particularly pleasing either. The peanut concoction, conversely, was intriguing and addictive. It had complex, heady flavour – spicy, nutty, smoky, sweet heat – that came from a mix of lime, Birdseye chilli, sugar cane and poussin jus (fish sauce – fermented fish paste popular in Southeast Asia) and may have been an adaptation of traditional Thai satay sauce, just without coconut milk.

A langoustine, still resting in its shell, was roasted in coral butter and brought out with broccoli froth brimming forth. This example had good firm texture, but tasted quite mild, whilst the broccoli was bland. The fact that it was the final plate of four also meant that, once eventually reached, it was no longer warm.

Plat Principal 2: Le Chevreuil: A la façon du « Senateur Couteaux », Pâtes au Beurre demi-sel. The meat main course meant a return to customary one-plate convention, although all creativity was not lost, as the crockery used was quite unusual. The recipe itself was classical too: venison confit, smothered in sauce poivrade partnered with penne pasta, layered with parmesan wedges and drizzled with truffle butter and more poivrade. The roe deer had been cooked long and slow until it had begun to melt and lose its solidity – this was the first time I had had this meat prepared in this fashion, but found it very agreeable. The superimposing peppered brown sauce was of vegetable and venison stock, reduced and thickened with the deer’s blood and red wine to which bouquet garni and juniper berries had also been added. These ingredients imparted intense flavour – the wine, from Rhône-Alpes (I assume from north of the river), was full-bodied, meaty and slightly spicy; the hearty juniper, always good with game, worked well here again; whilst the blood brought a new unexpected, but not unwelcome punch. The pasta, prepared in milk, was harder than expected however, but at least its garnish gave off some whiff of truffle.

L’honneur referred to here is Senator Aristide Couteaux, alleged creator of the legendary lievre à la royale. In November 1898, instead of his usual political column in Le Temps newspaper, he published notes of his week spent in Poitou hunting hare and of, once catching the ‘right one’, taking it Paris and having his famous chef-friend, M. Spüller in Rue Favart, prepare it. This recipe, also retold in Elizabeth David’s A Book of Mediterranean Food, was included: one requires (and I summarise) a hare, ‘cleanly killed…so not [to] have lost a drop of blood’; goose fat; bacon; good wine vinegar; red wine; twenty garlic cloves; forty shallot cloves; carrot; onion; bouquet garni; plus optional cognac for the hare’s blood. The meat is stewed for hours in wine and sauce thickened with blood; if properly prepared, it is ‘needless to say, that to use a knife to serve the hare would be a sacrilege. A spoon alone is amply sufficient.’ These instructions must have inspired Anton and, with mild mitigation, he applied them to roe deer. For the record, he serves it with a spoon.

Dessert 1: La Pomme: Soufflée croustillante; Créme glacée « Carambar »; Cidre et Sucre pétillant. Seated in the centre of the plate was a perfect shimmering sphere of harlequin green, its shadow traced by spots of silvery apple sauce of ascending size. Ostensibly impenetrable, access in was allowed with the aid of a spoon and a smart smack. The fruity-fragranced, sugary shell withheld a milky, effervescent mousse of sweet-sour cider scattered with small squares of Granny Smith. Underneath this was concealed crushed Carambar (a caramel bonbon each child in France would be familiar with), caramelised riz soufflé (rice crispies), crushed Bréton biscuit and pop rocks; all upon a Génoise sponge stand. It may read like a mishmash collage of confectionary, but it was fun, individual and, most importantly, yum.

Dessert 2: Le Café « Expresso »: En Saboyon, Ganache fouettée; Créme glacée « Brûlée »; Amandes ecrasées. A slim biscuit Joconde, the base beneath chocolate mousse layered with crushed, roasted almonds then topped by ‘burnt’ ice cream, was finished with overflowing coffee sabayon; this verrine was enwrapped in a sugar candy cylinder. The Joconde, an almond sponge named after the Mona Lisa (la Joconda), naturally matched the roasted nuts, while the chocolate mousse, thick and toothsome, was a classic combination with the strong coffee cream. In between, the cold ice cream had good taste with distinct caramel that was neither overpowering nor sticky.

Dessert 3: La Banane: Tartelette fondante au « Peanut Butter »; Crème glacée rhum raisin. Pâte sablée surrounded banana compote, suffused with rum and spread with salty peanuts, below a bavaroise of peanut butter and single slice of banana; this tartelette was teamed with rum and raisin ice cream. An excellent crust was well-flavoured and crunchy; the buried nuts were excellent; but the peanut butter was very plain; it had none of the dense savour or the gooey viscosity one expects. This was enough to make the dessert a disappointing one. In any case, the quenelle of ice cream contained both plump currants and golden raisins and had a good shot of oaky brown rum.

Petit Fours: Nougat chocolat; Guimauve; Pâte de fruit; Café chocolat; Caramel au beurre salé. A box boasted squares of chocolate nougat, marshmallow, apple fruit jelly, coffee chocolate and salty caramel. The nougat was full of hazelnut and pistachio, but hard; the very light guimauve had little taste; and the nutty caramel was decent. Apple gelée and café chocolat were the best of the bunch – one, strongly fruity and with a pleasing wobble; the other, sapid with good grainy texture.

The staff were quite terrific. Each serveur was friendly, full of smiles, attentive, informative and knowledgeable. Monsieur Jean-Jacques Chauveau was charming and warm whilst the gentleman who took more constant care over me, but whose name, I regret, I forget as I write this (maybe Jean Claude – answers on a postcard please…), was amusing, engaging and talkative – his having worked previously at Le Gavroche in London meant we had plenty to discuss. The general mood is a relaxed one; service may be in bow-ties and tails, but it is certainly not stiff. There was animation, bonhomie and enthusiasm; it was actually perfectly suited to this belle époque retreat, deep in the fanciful Bois de Boulogne. I mention once more the utterly lovely and unforgettable gesture of picking me up from Port Dauphine. Needless to say, when I finally arrived at the restaurant, I was in a decidedly merry frame of mind, eager to see what would follow.

The single amuse was nice, but nothing thrilling; that said, apparently, one should always start a large meal with a warm soup (it being better for one’s digestion). From the sardine course, naked filets dressed in only a little olive oil and three slices of well-fried fish, a lime wedge left alongside for the diner to squeeze themselves, showed well-measured simplicity and well-placed confidence; deconstructed bouillabaisse however, without a doubt attractive in appearance and applaudable for effort, thought and inventiveness, did not deliver on taste, for me. Saint-Jacques were better; my only complaints would be practical – the hot stone, curious and exciting maybe, was not effective – and with reference to the inferior French caviar – at this (price) level why not use the best ingredients and if costs prohibit this, why use any caviar at all; as it was, it did not add anything benefic. La Langoustine was forgettable really. Once again, nothing was necessarily awry (slightly oily lettuce leaf excluded), but bar the superb peanut sauce, nothing stood out. The next course, le Chevreuil, was more traditional yet interesting and actually more pleasing; the meat was toothsome, the sauce had force, however the pasta was possibly surplus. The kitchen seemed to shift into a higher gear with desserts. The apple soufflé was very good and maybe the most memorable dish of the meal. I thought the playfulness of it accurately judged and never at the expense of one’s eating enjoyment. The second dessert, a customary combo of coffee and chocolate, was well-executed and able indeed. On the contrary, le Banane failed to fulfil its promise – its peanut butter bavaroise was unforgivably vapid. The petit fours were again average and migniardises noticeable only by their absence.

As an aside, having disapproved of the use of pop rocks in my review of Gordon Ramsay’s Royal Hospital Road last December yet contrastingly complimenting Le Pré Catelan for it, I should attempt to pre-empt any criticism of my critiquing now. The cause of my contraposition is basic: at RHR, the dessert that comprised these gastro-toys was a rather rudimentary vehicle (SPV if you will), its lone purpose being just to deliver the pop rocks (for the record, they came buried in a fruit cocktail); on the other hand, at Le Pré Catelan, the sucre petillant was but one aspect of the recipe which would have been agreeable still, if admittedly a little less, in their absence. Additionally, unlike at RHR, their inclusion was not a gimmick, but spelled out clearly in the course’s description.

Thus, unfortunately, the food proved a disservice to the service. That may be a touch harsh as there was nothing catastrophically wrong with the fare or any unforgivable errors in execution – there were even some favourable moments and my meal was a pleasant experience – but, and it is a big but, I do feel that within the three-star ‘galaxy’, there are other restaurants I would want to revisit or try before returning to Le Pré Catelan. If I were to go back, it would be more out of appreciation for how welcome and comfortable I was made to feel (…or as someone else’s guest) rather than for the simple deliciousness of the cooking.

I am a big fan of beautiful food so I appreciated the extra attention and care that went into the arrangement of Anton’s dishes. The absorbing patterns, elaborate layouts and parade of plates that topped the table were emphatic and attention-grabbing. It was an impressive performance. Additionally, the visual expression and structure of the courses also revealed two things about the chef: first, he is a big fan of Pierre Gagnaire – ‘J’adore l’homme, son côté artiste décalé, un peu marginal’ – with his favourite table, the rue Balzac; secondly, in his spare time, Anton is an artist, a painter in fact. Neither detail should come as a surprise.

Le Pré Catelan is certainly different. In creation, composition and construction, the chef seems to want to differentiate himself and shape a distinctive, identifiable style of his own. I admired his willingness (possibly even determination) to be different. Connoisseurs do claim that one ought to be able to tell great chefs apart from just the look and taste of their food and, if this is true, Anton is at least on the right track. Another aspect that I liked was his choice to centre an entire course on the sardine, thus giving it the same respect he showed the noble scallop, langoustine and deer. These humble fish are tasty and versatile and the chef showed modesty and deference to nature here serving them so minimally.

That being said, upon contemplation, ‘all that glisters is not gold‘ is one expression that comes to mind; ‘everything in moderation’ is another – these two slogans seem to sum up well what was amiss with my meal and, as it so happened, what I had at first liked was what I turned out to dislike the most.

As I alluded to above, originality and inspiration in presentation are to be esteemed and encouraged, but should be applied precisely and effectively. I hate to see this taken too far with savours suffering for superficiality’s sake and I must confess that sometimes it felt like additional dishes and elements on those dishes were there for reasons other than to please my palate. Some items seemed present solely to appease the eye or excite the diner, which though (rarely) justifiable, can really never be so when it is to the detriment of the food itself. Another critical point pertains to the multi-component courses, which indeed rousing on arrival, occasionally proved impractical. La langoustine was an example of this: by the time I had worked my way through the raviolo and then the spring rolls, the roasted langoustine was already cold. This same issue applied to a lesser degree to the ensemble of scallops (and especially the afore-addressed galet). The first course, in retrospect, seemed better planned, in that the last plates to be had had come already cold. In addition, there was a paucity of and plainness to the presents that came before and after the meal proper. I do not pretend to have left Le Pré Catelan hungry, but after being spoilt at Paris’ similar-standard restaurants, the singularity of the starting amuse, dearth of pre dessert and deficiency of friandises were keenly felt – not to mention in confusing contrast to the pageant that proceeded in between. I have always thought these occasions as opportunities for the kitchen to have some fun, experiment or indeed amuse the diner – here they appeared to be but an afterthought. In all fairness though, any glaring lack of generosity on the table was made up for by the hospitality of the house.

These concerns could almost be overlooked or may never have arisen, if it were not for this next contention.

Anton apparently has a motto, ‘even if perfection is not of this world that is no reason not to try to achieve it’. He also has a reputation as a scrupulous and rigorous cook, who believes that quality raw materials are paramount to quality cuisine. I was therefore a little let down by what I found at Le Pré Catelan. I cannot say any of the produce was substandard, but I can state that it was not of the very highest standard that is the standard amongst three-stars. I feel right writing this only after having had both langoustines and scallops vastly superior in taste, texture and measure everywhere else. To tell the truth, I am surprised that produce condition and calibre would be a matter that warranted any comment at all as, for years, Anton was the very man responsible for buying, then checking, every morsel of meat, each cut of fish and all the vegetables that entered the Jamin kitchen.

Something else that I have noticed since, but had no bearing at the time, is the staleness of the carte. The menu degustation especially appears to have evolved very little. Reading the reviews of others, the same dishes – la Saint-Jacques, la Langoustine, la Pomme and le Café « Expresso » – are each cited repeatedly (along with l’Etrille, le Ris de Veau and l’Os à Moelle). This lethargy is also common in the aesthetic methods employed: the bouillabaisse’s deconstructed jelly-and-dot design, which I liked, is one that is regularly employed including with such combinations as tomato-mozzarella-basil and urchin-paprika. This might be explained by Anton’s studied, serious technique that favours careful, meticulous and calculated recipes. If proof of this was required, one need only to look at his recently released cookbook, Anton, Le Pré Catelan, wherein instructions call for 4g de sel, 3 grains de poivre, 4g de beurre etc. A slow-to-change carte is, however, a complaint mutual to many ‘modern’ restaurants. The Fat Duck, for example, has had practically the same tasting menu for two or three years. This ‘stagnation’ is a result of the research, experimentation and preparation that this kind of cookery calls for. It is not easy or always possible to devise new dishes or amend and modify them in the heat of the kitchen or even every couple of months. Personally, provided that the result is successful, this is not a problem. Provided the result is successful.

With regards to Anton’s style, besides the prevalence of his proclivity for the pictorial, the most pertinent impression made was that of the chef’s readiness and, in fact, keenness to manipulate his raw materials. This is another manifestation maybe of his drive for differentiation. Whilst many other kitchens are adamant, in adherence to the nouvelle norme, to preserve the integrity of their ingredients – pure flavours, total forms are fundamental – this chef is not afraid to play with his produce. For example, he splits a scallop into six slices; melts down his venison meat; bisects a sweetbread gland; and, removing the fat from a marrow bone, refills it with vegetables. Anton the technician is not an unfitting epithet, but he supplies his own; ‘moi, je voulais être ébéniste’ – ‘I wanted to be a cabinetmaker,’ he says. ‘I am a handyman, and what I like in the cabinet is the transformation of matter. But at hospitality school, I realised that cooking is taking a raw material and changing it.’

In summary, a meal at Le Pré Catelan can certainly be enjoyable. I thought it an interesting cuisine, highlighted by an enthralling aesthetic and reinforced by charming service in an attractive setting. However, I also found myself rather growingly concerned and disheartened by the superficiality of it. As mentioned, the dependence on display, but principally, the unexceptional produce, left a sour taste. There is nothing wrong with pretty plating, original recipes and novelty so long as it is governed by a genuine goal (which should be something loosely along the lines of achieving the tastiest flavours actually achievable).

Unfortunately, I found the cuisine distracted. However, I – ever the dreamer – would like to imagine that my issues with Anton’s cooking arise from his trying too hard. A little refinement; a little more focus; a greater effort in sourcing; these are what are required here, in my humble opinion. As it is, I hesitate to recommend Le Pré Catelan to cultured diners. That said, I do think it might be a restaurant with which to introduce one to fine dining. Though it could come across as such, this is not meant to be condescending to any of its fans. Instead, I think the show and sparkle of the food and plethora of plates, as well as the impeccable service and great setting, will be enough to satisfy and charm many. More cynically though, as I do think there are better places one can eat, this would set up an abecedarian diner well for the future – after all, it would be nice if one’s first experience was not their very best, maybe.

[Michel Rostang]

Hi,

I had dinner at Michel Rostang in January.

Please click here for my full report with photography: HERE

A meal at Michel Rostang was on, then off, then on again and off again – but such are the vagaries of life. Although it was already late on Friday evening, I decided that I did not want to waste an opportunity. As it was such short notice, I decided to call on a local friend, who secured me a table. Thus, with Julot’s recommendation and help, I made my way to rue Rennequin.

Michel Rostang hails both from Isère near the French Alps and from a long line of chefs, starting with his great-great-grandpère and succeeding down the family tree. 'I never asked what I would do,' he admits, ‘I am the fifth generation of chefs. My grandfather had a two-star Michelin restaurant. My father had a restaurant near Grenoble. When you are involved in the restaurant since you are a child, it is natural to follow this way.’ After apprenticing under his father, Jo, the young Michel went on to hospitality school in Nice. The subsequent sixties saw him spend his first spell in Paris as a commis chef at Lasserre and La Marée, before moving to Laporte, Biarritz. He returned to Paris before long, joining Lucas-Carton. At 25, however, he went back home to work in the family restaurant in Sassenagne, just outside Grenoble, which allowed his father to open La Bonne Auberge in Antibes. Back at his ‘old restaurant in the Alps’, he continued to miss Paris and after five years, he was just unable to resist her any longer. In 1978, he and his wife, Marie Claude, moved back to the capital, buying the tiny Chez Denis on the rue Gustave Flaubert (17th). Within one year he had one Michelin star. Within two years, he had two (this same year his father was awarded three). Soon he was able to relocate to bigger premises on the rue Rennequin, only around the corner and where he continues to cook today.

In the late eighties, Rostang launched three bouchons Lyonnais – Bistrot d’à Côté Flaubert, Villiers and la Boutard. His first, opened in 1987 next door (à côté) to the main restaurant, was followed (within weeks) by more casual ventures from the likes of fellow Isérois Guy Savoy and later Jacques Cagna, Gérard Boyer and Marc Meneau. It can be thus argued that Rostang began the ‘bistro moderne’ movement that has been generally credited to Camdeborde et Cie. In the mid-nineties and then naughties, Michel unveiled three more neighbourhood restaurants, l’Absinthe (1995), Dessirier (1996) and Jarrasse (2005). Today, he has help running these from his wife as well as two daughters, Caroline and Sophie, both of whom are very much a part of the family business.

Another passion that the Rostangs share is for collecting and visiting markets. This is a hobby that Michel has fostered since his days as a young chef at Lasserre, when he would go each Sunday to Paris’ flea markets, searching for eighteenth century cookery books. ‘I am a chineur,’ he confesses. Nowadays, this old distraction is discernible in the dining rooms of restaurant Michel Rostang, of which there are four fitting up to seventy guests. Two of these are private spaces: the ‘Art Nouveau’ room with stained glass ceiling and enamelled sculptures; and the ‘Lalique’ room that seats fourteen and features original glasswork and an Aubusson tapestry. The establishment’s main area is the ‘Contemporary Arts’ one, showing off Arman and Niki de Saint Phalle artwork and a compressed car by César, ‘purchased long ago, when possible and they were my friends’. Finally, the ‘Robj’ room, wherein I sat, which borders the kitchen, into which a picture-window offers an entertaining view. In here, pearwood bookcases bear over two hundred Robj figurines. Walls are Venetian red; chairs, upholstered ecru or scarlet; and tablecloths, pastel cream. Dim lighting is from recessed bulbs and spotlights; there is one window against the back wall, but it has been blocked out. Tables are laid with Bernaudaud crockery, Voglux Ortevre cutlery, Baccarat crystal-ware and a small dug-out orange candle. It feels very much as though one is eating in the home of an eclectic, eccentric and cute elderly couple.

Rostang has a reputation for his truffles, therefore opting for Le Menu « Truffes » seemed obligatory – with a couple of amendments…

Amuse Bouche 1: Cromesquis des sardines. Two little ladles, each bearing a small batter-encrusted sardine sphere sitting atop some tartar sauce, started dinner off. These were surprisingly pleasing – their dry coats crunchily ceding creamy, warm filling. The fish flavour was clear and rich without being in any way overpowering. Perky, herby sauce tartar was its excellent and customary counterpoint.

Les Pains: Baguette et pain bis. Bread was of two sorts – baguette and brown – though there was no choice as to which to have when. I was allowed to try the baguette first; this was rather hard and dry, though not inedibly so. Later, brown was brought, which was decent. Fortunately, butter was Pascal Beillevaire. From Machecoul in the Loire, it boasts excellent little crystals of Noirmoutier fleur de sel and has a smooth, superb savour.

Amuse Bouche 2: Les deux petites bouchées; ‘Goût de Truffes’. A porcelain platter presented a ‘taste of truffles’ in two mouthfuls – a shot of Jerusalem artichoke purée layered with black truffles then topped with egg yolk and embedded with a fried bread frazzle; and a beetroot jelly square packed with a scallop-and-truffle farce and garnished with green apple slice and julienne of more truffle. The former egg-and-soldier arrangement had velvety yolk over earthy, silky artichoke; there was also a nice, subtle nuttiness from both the topimbour and truffes. The beet box was soft, delicate and had a hint of sweetness; the scallop supplied a new firmness; the apple, crunch; and, within, diced beetroot bits promoted further the play on textures. Regrettably though, the truffles failed to have any influence here.

Entrée 1: Le terrine de foie gras ‘poireaux-truffes’; poireaux vinaigrette. Three rectangles of thick foie gras sandwiching two layers of sautéed leek were capped with truffle consommé and thin truffle chips; a whole baby leek lay on one side of the this terrine, a long sweep of truffle vinaigrette on the other. The buttery foie had strong, clean flavour, but the lukewarm leeks, with their delicate mellowness, worked to enhance the foie’s inherent sweeter aspect and thus lighten its livery heaviness; these greens also had a pleasant springiness to them. Truffle jelly atop added subtle acidity that cut through any remaining richness. Demolishing this savoury millefeuille and smearing it upon a separately served crunchy slice of toasted pain de campagne was quite enjoyable.

Entrée 2: Le millefeuille de coquilles Saint-Jacques crues et lamellas de truffe en salade. Overlapping laminae of alternating raw scallop and black truffle were overlaid with a mound of mesclun, sprinkled with tiny crouton cuts and finished with truffle vinaigrette. Sourced from Erquy on brittany’s Côtes-d'Armor – France’s coquille Saint-Jacques capital – these were fine examples of this shellfish indeed. Firm yet creamy, sea fresh and sweet, they were complemented by crisp, mustardy rocket and frisée leaves and pungent peppercorns. The dish was elevated by its especially good seasoning.

Entrée 3: Les pâtes ‘taglierini’ aux truffes. Taglierini, tossed with fresh-truffle-infused sauce à la crème carrying more truffle diced, was sprinkled with even more truffle twigs. It was an obscene amount of pasta – but I am not one to make a scene. My eyes appeased, my sense of smell was struck second – the truffes, for really the first time during dinner, pronounced their presence in olfactory fashion. The pasta was cooked nicely until a touch softer than al dente. The sauce – blatantly buttery so sinfully satisfying – was rich, but not at all cloying or sickly. It had been absorbed well by the flat pasta from Piemonte that also formed an indigenous duet with the black truffle. This Tuber, employed three ways – ground, brunoise and julienne – offered grainy, bitty and brittle textures.

Plat Principal 1: Le ‘sandwich’ tiède a la truffe fraîche; au pain de compagne grillé et beurre salé. Michel Rostang’s creation comprised toasted pain au levain buttered with Beillevaure’s beurre cru baratté à l’ancienne and spread with peelings of thick truffle – so basically bread, butter and truffle – the two slices sealed together and left overnight in the refrigerator, were then broiled barely (just enough to melt the butter) on both sides in a salamander. The result was a crusty-edged, moist-middled sandwich with salty, earthy-mushroom filling. The truffle flavour had suffused through the bread, which oozed a warm, welcoming odour. This was possibly the best ‘sandwich’ I have ever eaten. It was teamed with a token salad of rocket dressed with sherry vinegar, olive oil and truffle.

Plat Principal 2: Le feuilleté chaud de truffe noire; epinards frais au foie gras de canard. A golden pastry pillar packed full of foie gras cuts, sweetbread bits, truffle cubes and spinach écrasé, was served with jus gras poured over it at the table and a mesclun side salad. An inviting savoury smell impelled the piercing of the pâte feuilletée; the crumbly case was thinner and softer than suspected. Within, creamy ris de veau, earthy truffles and smooth foie formed a meaty, substantial stuffing. The surrounding bourgeois jus gras – chicken jus rôti, chicken and veal stock – was not as sinister as its name suggested. Absorbed by the base of the feuilleté, it provided flavour and moisture; the salad supplied some vert refreshment.

Dessert 1: La poire caramélisée et crémeaux de ‘chocolat lait’; dacquoise à la fève au Tonka, gelée de chartreuse et croustillant glacé. Chocolate mousse, strewn with moist Williams pear pieces and covered with a wafer-like biscuit, came encased within sponge, sitting upon a milk chocolate tray and with pear crisp inserted into one side; atop this construction, pear and Chartreuse cream was rolled in cigarette tuile whilst a dollop of Chartreuse jelly was doled out at the table. The dacquoise – creamy, crunchy, moist and soft – had mild yet long-lasting Jivara chocolate with strong notes of vanilla. The cylindrical cracker was crammed with light, sweet and zingy crème; whilst the grainy gelée alongside was slightly spicy and very interesting.

Dessert 2: Le soufflé chaud au caramel beurre salé; sorbet aux poires Wililam, poivre de Tasmanie; brioche de Saint-Genix. A small sterling saucepan, spilling over with rusty-coloured soufflé, arrived with a quenelle of Williams pear, Tasmanian pepper and St Genix brioche in a similarly-silver spoon. Once tabled, the treat was slit and liquid salted caramel siphoned in. In return for its substantial size, an even, flat surface had been sacrificed. A sticky skin concealed piping hot, fluffy centre. This middle, mixed with caramelised hazelnuts, was light, yet dense with flavour. Caramel butter was well-judged, neither too salty nor too sweet. However, the star of this course was the sorbet: complex, sweet, spicy, grainy, peppery and wholemeal – it was delicious. Tasmanian (or mountain) pepper is an Australian condiment noted for its short but intensive piquancy, whilst the brioche de Saint-Genix, a Norman butter bread baked with red-sugared almonds.

Migniardises: Grand collection des sucreries. Dinner ended with a tray moulded like a young mademoiselle wearing a long dress, the hem of which was laden with a plethora of French pastries. These included a canelé; macaron au pomme au four; financier des agrumes; caramel au beurre salé from Henri Roux; baba au rhum; pâte à la cannelle avec confiture aux fruits rouges; moelleux à la noix de coco; praliné feuilletine; religieuse à la vanille avec boule coquelicot; and boule au chocolat blanc. The canelé was crisp without, mushy within; fruity, moist financier made with gooseberries and kumquats, was sweet and sharp; the baba had delicate crème de Chantilly and a whopping big hit of alcohol; and the praliné feuilletine was good and crunchy.

Arriving at the restaurant, I was greeted first by Sophie Rostang, then by Monsieur Michel Braillard, one of the two maîtres d’hôtel (the other one being Monsieur Bruno Grimault, who was not in that night). Both were very welcoming and friendly. Throughout the meal, Monsieur Michel was excellent – charming, hospitable and with a playful sense of humour. The other serveurs I encountered proved informed, inquisitive and attentive; and the chef de patisserie even took the time to come out tell me about the mignardises, which I thought a nice touch. The staff certainly seemed a tight-knit team and involved me in some of the pleasant banter that passed between them. In spite of all this, service was nearly spoilt by one serveuse. I almost hate to mention it – and nearly feel guilty doing it – because the others there were so genial, but she really was the very image of misery. Sour-faced and stingy with her smiles, parsimonious with her answers and simply standoffish, she made the first half of the night more challenging than it ought to have been. However, midway through the meal, there was a violent revolution in her manner – for the better. Suddenly, she had time to talk, a willingness to be nice and seemed to have discovered that to grin was easier than to frown.

With respect to the food, there is one issue to address before I go through the dishes and it concerns the effectiveness of the truffles. I do not doubt their quality – after all, Rostang uses the same supplier, Monsieur Pebeyre, as Pacaud does – but their strength was suspect nonetheless. In the chef’s defence though, this seemed a characteristic common to most of the Tubers I had been served recently in Paris, leading me to assume that it was simply too soon in the season to actually enjoy them. As disappointing as the situation was, I did not hold it explicitly against this restaurant.

Across the courses, I found myself constantly surprised – this was mainly from the little, unexpected nuances that littered them. With the terrine de foie gras ‘poireaux-truffes’, I thought I would find strong, deep flavours, but instead it was pleasingly light and subtle. Maybe this was evidence of a softer, feminine touch – there did seem to be an unpredictably high proportion of women in the kitchen. For all its simplicity, I was actually startled by how good the second entrée was; evidence that good products speak for themselves. The third was just as basic, but tasty and certainly filling. The ‘sandwich’ – shamefully, the real reason how Rostang’s name worked itself onto my dining card – did not disappoint. It was a delightful indulgence. And how often does one get the chance to eat haute cuisine with their hands? Although I came for the sandwich, I stayed for the feuilleté. This dish may have stolen the show; it was today’s hearty, gratifying cuisine classique at its best. The desserts met the measure set by the savouries. The poire caramelisé was intricate yet delicious whilst the soufflé, a good finish. Actually, the accompanying pear-pepper-brioche sorbet was one of the yummiest things I had eaten in some time.

The cooking is, of course, very traditional. Classical combinations, slow cooking and rich sauces are all standard. Maybe most symbolic of Rostang’s style was the feuilleté’s ‘jus gras’ – heavy, unmitigated and full-on in the face of nouvelle cuisine. The chef embraces quality ingredients (like coquilles Saint-Jacques d’Erquy), incorporating these into refined, family recipes that have been passed down from generation to generation. This is home-cooking in the very best sense. The chief concern is satisfying the diner: challenging them, testing their intelligence, keeping up with current culinary trends – such things are eschewed in favour of fulfilling food and fond flavours.

Dishes are solid, substantial and generous (regardez les tagliarini), but at the same time, the kitchen showed it could be just as gentle and subtle as it was bold and blunt: the coquilles Saint-Jacques was straightforward yet tasty; the terrine de foie gras, mellow and delicate. There is a cheeky side to the cuisine too and this comes through clearly with the truffle sandwich, which takes confidence and humour to serve. One of the most impressive items on the night – that sorbet – also showed that Rostang is not afraid and unable to be creative when it works.

The restaurant’s curse if you are cynical / challenge if optimistic (delete as appropriate) is that the cooking here seems to be of a nature that contravenes Michelin three-star criteria. From my experience, food at the highest level has a prissiness if you are cynical / daintiness if optimistic (delete as appropriate) that is the exception at Rostang, not the rule. This cuisine is robust, hearty, satisfying and gratifying – it is also technically adept – but this, again judging on my own observations, is not the sort that is awarded les trois étoiles.

Rostang stood out as an especially good meal. It may have helped that my dinner here was, effectively, a departure from the norm – nouvelle cuisine – and thus more interesting for that reason, but this seems an excuse for my enjoyment. The intimate, more informal atmosphere was appreciated on the cold night I ate there; the hospitably offered was warmly received too. Able to view the kitchen from my table, it seemed this easiness in attitude was present there too – both those in the FOH and the chefs really did seem to enjoy their work and to me, the customer, this came through in the fruits of their labour. One thing I liked about Rostang was that the food left me feeling nourished; another is the generosity – the importance of which I have mentioned many times, but is always worth repeating. This can take many guises and here was apparent in (almost all) the staff, the simple spirit of the restaurant and, of course, the portion sizes…

To quote a friend, Michel Rostang offers something ‘serious’.

[Le Meurice]

Hi,

I was at Le Meurice for lunch in early January.

Please click here to read my full review with photography: HERE

Le Meurice in question was one Charles-Augustin Meurice, the entrepreneurial postmaster of Calais – the Continent’s first port of call for British aristocracy visiting Paris or setting off on their Grand Tours. Here in 1771, he started greeting these tourists and providing them with accommodation at his coaching inn within the town whilst also arranging their transport to the capital or elsewhere aboard his coach service. Business was good and in 1817, he expanded, building a second inn in Paris. After his deathin 1835, the hotel named after him moved to its present, sublime site on the rue de Rivoli, where it also earned another label, the ‘City of London’. This was on account of it being the abode of choice amongst well-to-do British travellers. Even author, William M. Thackeray recommended it: ‘If you don't speak a word of French, if you like English comfort, clean rooms, breakfast and maîtres d'hôtel; if in a foreign land, you want your fellow countrymen around you, your brown beer, your friend and your cognac - and your water - do not listen to any of the messengers but with your best British accent cry heartily: 'Meurice!' and immediately, someone will come forward to drive you straight [there].’ Even Queen Victoria stayed here during her 1855 state visit.

For the following century and a half or so, the hotel’s reputation grew as it played host to royals and world leaders; the succession of kings, princes, sultans, maharajas, dukes and duchesses that frequented it or, literally, called it home, secured it its second sobriquet, ‘l’Hôtel des Rois’. When Alphonse XIII of Spain was dethroned, he moved into Le Meurice; the Shah of Iran was dethroned whilst he stayed here. Picasso had his wedding at the hotel; Dali spent a month each year there. And, of course there are some stories – any Parisian institution worth its salt has a Dali tale to tell – including, for instance, that he demanded a flock of sheep be brought to his room only to fire blanks at them. Another time he asked for a horse, although the hotel’s employees knew better by then; he paid staff five Francs for every fly they caught him from the Tuileries Garden across the street; whilst he gave others autographed lithographs as Christmas tips.

A top class, five star hotel must have a top class, three star restaurant – and indeed it does. Restaurant Le Meurice earned its third étoile in February 2007, making it currently Paris’ only palace hotel* offering such an haute standard of cuisine. However, it was only as recently as 2003 that it boasted just one star, but under the aegis of Chef Alléno, that swiftly changed.

This Lozère native with modest beginnings was inspired to cook by his mother or, more specifically, her pots and their intoxicating odours. After growing up in Saint-Cloud, one of Paris’ western suburbs, and completing his CAP in cooking, then baking, he was introduced to Manuel Martinez by his father, with whose help he landed a position as pastry apprentice at the Lutetia Hotel. A year on, he moved on to the Hôtel Royal Monceau as a commis for Gabriel Biscay. The next year, Alléno spent some time in Japan, where the sophistication and attention to detail of the local cooking impressed him immensely. On his return, he joined the Hôtel Sofitel Sèvres with Roland Durand before becoming chef de partie at Le Meurice, at that time headed by Marc Marchand. After two years, he moved to Drouant as an adjoint under Louis Grandard – from whom he claims to have learnt most of his trade and the essence of the profession: ‘he taught me everything you can learn including meticulousness’. In 1999, he represented France at the Bocuse d’Or, bringing home the Bocuse d’Argent (the silver). The competition raised his profile greatly and was the start of a rewarding relationship between Paul Bocuse and himself. In fact, the former referred Alléno to the Hôtel Scribe, who then appointed the latter as head chef at its Les Muses restaurant. Here he won a Michelin star that same year and then another in 2002. In 2003, Le Meurice wanted him back, but this time, in charge. He accepted and gave up his unassuming basement at the Scribe for the palace dining room on the rue de Rivoli.

As soon as he arrived, he refurbished the kitchens – three sit alongside each other underground – adding new ovens and a rotisserie as well as installing thirty-three of his former staff in both kitchen and FOH. The rewards were immediate; within six months he had a second star and the next year, an espoir. As mentioned, the missing macaroon came in 2007: ‘this third star was my dream! It is the result of twenty-two years of work, passion and a desire to be the best at all times. Yet it also marks the beginning of a new life. This third star is a tremendous responsibility and it is now up to me to make it shine.’ This last point is one that he seems reassuringly concerned about – ‘the guide gives us confidence and we must not disappoint our customers.’

Nearly two hundred years of history had taken its toll and, in 2007, über-designer, Philippe Starck and daughter Ara, were called in to refurbish the whole hotel, including the restaurant. Manager, Franka Holtman, stated ‘I see Le Meurice as the most French of places…I want to make it a new destination where people will…be transported by gastronomy. I asked Philippe to…create a mood that would enhance and respect the beauty and proportions of this magnificent palace. His response is what I had secretly dreamed of.’ Evidently, Monsieur Holtman was having dreams of Grand Siècle grandeur as this response was a redesign of Le Brun and Hardouin-Mansart’s late-seventeenth century Salon de la Paix at the Château de Versailles.

Four low-hanging crystal chandeliers; epic, carved marble fireplace; double-barrel marble columns with gilded capitals circling the room; antique, tall, bevelled mirrors in each corner; big bay windows bordered with more rare marble; are all only some of the fabulous furnishings and features of the restaurant. On one side of the room, a central ice sculpture is surrounded by white settees, immense square tables and Louis XVI-style ivory armchairs; on the other, stand decadently distanced circular tables, all upon a mosaic floor featuring laurel wreaths against buff backgrounds. Three Theophile Poilpot paintings, relics of the room’s first renovation in 1905, frame the space; one round picture rests above the fireplace and is reflected by another on the opposite wall, while the third, larger, oval piece covers most of the twenty-foot high ceiling. A champagne table and six-hundred-and-sixteen bottled, walk-in, refrigerated wine cellar that opens onto the dining room are more modern modifications. Immaculate white linen tabletops are laid with little bouquets of red roses, silver salt and pepper shakers, Christofle cutlery and custom crockery. This crockery is made by J.L. Coquet, but is actually a collaboration between the Limoges porcelain company, an elite car designer and Alléno himself. It took the trio two years to create the Plate Onde – an inner, white dish stamped with the chef’s initials in relief that sits atop a reversible, treated porcelain ring (the bronze side used during savouries and then flipped to reveal its golden surface for the sweets service). The plate has a small hook in one corner; the result of a chip in a trial run, which Alléno liked the look of and incorporated into the finished motif. Along with these, he also helped create a new carbon tray, using the latest technologies from the car industry that is both lightweight and ‘literally unbreakably’. The room’s faux-Baroque interior is tasteful, elegant and, in my opinion, rather lovely. There is a lightness and brightness to the room that is welcoming, sumptuous and serene.

The menu at Le Meurice is a lively one. You can be sure that it is very seasonal, but little more besides that. Alléno likes to draw up recipes depending on what the markets are offering and creates some hundred new dishes each year. The carte is even printed in-house, allowing him to chop and change it as he likes. When it came to deciding what to order myself, I was unsure of how to proceed. Actually, I did know that the chef de patisserie, Camille Lesecq, is a talent and the desserts here were something special, but little else. For that reason, I enlisted the help of Monsieur Wilfried Morandini, the maître d’hôtel, whom I had been informed beforehand had excellent judgement. For the record, Monsieur Morandini has great pedigree having worked at la Tour d’Argent and l’Espadon, then le Manoir aux Quat’Saisons (at the same time that Marco Pierre White was there). After returning to France, he spent five years as assistant maître d'hôtel at Louis XV in Monaco, followed by stints at Le Cinq and Le Bristol prior to his appointment at Le Meurice. I asked him to compose a menu for me…

Amuse Bouche 1: Gelée de langoustine, crème d’avocat et crevettes. First amuse to arrive was a bowl bearing a small bright green mound of mashed avocado at its base bathing in lucent, auburn langoustine gelée; a gavotte, garnished with a streak of grey shrimp mousse and marinated whole prawn, balanced over the cup’s mouth. The jelly was instilled with a surprisingly strong shellfish savour, which found a natural counterpart in the coarsely crushed, buttery avocado; a little lemon here helped bring out both aspects. Crunchy crepe dentelle readily gave way to the crème de crevettes grisses it carried, which was also packed with deep flavour whilst the crevette bouquet burst with sweet, light fruitiness imparted from its olive oil marinade.

Les Pains: Baguette; pain complet; pain au sarrasin; pain au levain; et pain aux céréales. A pleasing silver platter proffered five breads that had been baked on the premises. The baguette with bite was yeasty and well-seasoned; wholemeal and pain au sarrasin were both decent; while sourdough was crisp and slightly tangy. The cereal roll, seedy and crusty with almost moist middle, was the best of the bunch.

When it comes to butter, anything other than Bordier and it is a compromise; I mean I will still spread it on my bread, but I won’t be smiling silly as I do it. That being said, I think I have finally found an excellent stand-in – Pascal Beillevaire’s beurre cru de baratte à la fleur de sel de Nourmoutier. This maître fromager’s creamy, soft unpasteurised butter is from Machecoul in the Loire and flecked with fine, salty crystals of sel gris that accentuate both its taste and texture.

Amuse Bouche 2: Oeuf Brouillé et mouillette avec beurre d’algues. Gilded open egg shell, brimming with sea urchin emulsion that concealed scrambled egg, was served with a toasted soldier and seaweed butter in bonbon wrapper. The warm, airy froth was briny-sweet and surrendered rich, runny semi-firm oeuf; seaweed butter (also Beillevaire’s) accentuated both. On a practical note, even though already small, the mouillette’s width made it difficult to dip into the egg.

Entrée 1: Fins coquillages ouverts à cru au corail d’oursin, gelée de chou rouge relevée au genièvre. Alternating raw elements of oyster, romaine lettuce, red-cabbage-marinated scallop, cockle, sea urchin roe and barnacles, all garnished with grated juniper berries and dotted with sperificated seawater-oyster juice, surrounded red cabbage jelly. The odour of the ocean was obvious at once and evidence of the dish’s freshness, as were its bright colours. The scallops, thinly sliced, were succulent, sweet and firm whilst the juniper berries picked up on the earthier cabbage, bringing the woods to the waterfront. The shellfish had clean, marine savours, with the mineral oyster especially standing out; bubbles of oyster juice and sea water added briny sharpness whilst the cabbage jelly had been pickled, preserving its redness and giving it a sweet-sourness that lightened the iodic intensity.

Entrée 2: Poireaux à la Béchamel; Truffes cuites en papillote avec un beau morceau de moelle. A single leek, its bulb and most its stem bound in Béchamel sauce, sat alongside three thick slivers of black truffle, brushed with jus de veau and vin jaune and topped with wholemeal croutons and cubes of bone marrow. At first sight, the skin of white sauce appeared heavy, even viscid. Looks can be deceiving; this mother of a sauce was light and delicate, its mild richness drawing out the mellow sweetness of the leek. The truffles, croutons and marrow had been baked ensemble with the Château-Chalon, jus and a little walnut oil en paillote or in a tightly sealed pouch. Each ingredient’s flavour infused the others and all the flavours fused together to deliver subtle spicy, savoury nuttiness. The unctuousness of the moelle was matched by the crunch of the croutons whilst the veal jus mixing with the Béchamel evoked La Varenne’s original version.

Plat Principal 1: Queues de langoustines aux agrumes confits; Fines feuilles de navet et cuisson foisonnée à l’huile d’avocat. The dish, drizzled with avocado oil and turnip honey then strewn with thin slices of turnip and warm crumbs of citrus fruit, was crowned with a couple of the chubbiest langoustines, shelled and stuffed with fennel shoot and its feathery flowers. Lime green avocado oil had an interesting nutty warmth that worked well with the turnip, itself sweet with distinctively nutlike. The moist shavings melted in the mouth. Sour morsels of mandarin, lemon and grapefruit had been cooked ever so slightly giving them a faint crispiness. The langoustines, whose aroma had filled the air, were tender, fat and juicy. Within, al dente fennel has firmness that contrasted with the soft meat and delicate aniseed that had harmony with it.

Plat Principal 2: Poitrine de pigeon frottée aux baies de genièvre; Chartreuse modern de légumes d’hiver; Cuisses preparées en cocotte aux truffes, comme une alouette sans tête; Purée moelleuse de pomme de terre. A pair of roasted pigeon breasts encrusted with juniper berries, sat either side of two winter chartreuses that stood in jus rôti and trickled with vegetable butter. Cooked extremely well, the delicate, crimson meat imparted just a little bit of blood. However, it lacked the gaminess expected from it and although the hearty, sharp berries tried their best, they were unable to bring the bird to life. What surprisingly stole the show were the chartreuse crammed with cauliflower, yellow and orange carrot, beetroot and fennel, enclosed within crisp, bubbly cabbage. The snappy vegetables burst with freshness enhanced by the light butter and underscored with the beefy, intense jus.

To my delight, as I devoured this dish, another smaller one was delivered. The pigeon’s thighs had been cooked with truffle and foie gras all rolled together to resemble a headless dove (alouette sans tête – an allegorical name for a Provençe recipe of stuffed beef). This plump boudin had punchy depth and serious aroma; the truffled cooking juice it lay in was just as tasty, whilst the mash, indeed moelleuse, but substantial and seasoned well.

Dessert 1: Mousse légère de marron rafraîchie à la mandarine; Segments glacés et jus en petites perles acides. In the plate’s centre, a couplet of columns, both composed of mandarin sorbet and its caviar encased within gavotte cylinders and crowned with chestnut crème and confit, gold leaf and meringue baton, were partnered with three separate pairs of mandarin segment each glazed in Bourbon vanilla gelée and upon its particular smear of mandarin coulis. As complicated as this was to describe, it was that easy to eat. The fruit wedges, exuding the full-bodied fragrance of vanilla, were lovely and juicy, their sugariness contrasting with the spicy, sticky coulis. The wafer-thin cracker-like wrapping offered crisp texture and toasted flavour before the cold, refreshing sorbet spiked with bubbles of tart-sweetness was tasted. This was surrounded by the smooth, earthy chestnut mousse and then comforting confit, which worked off the starchiness of the gavotte and biscuit base of each brace.

Dessert 2: Pâté d’amande imprimée aux pétales de rose; Fraises de bois au jus réduit de grenades. A roule of rose mousse, its marzipan manteau embedded with rose petals, was layered with chunky lemon caviar and lay in between two banks of wild strawberry quintet, both dressed with reduced grenadine jus. With the fragile pâté d’amande fractured and cream rummaged, a sablé bar buried in the roll’s middle was revealed. This had a nice crunchiness that complemented its thickly whipped, Chantilly-like medium. The delicate essence of rose was unmistakeable here, as was the distinct almond of its envelope. The petites boules de citron it bore had stimulating, creamy zing whilst the ethereal petal was delicious and strongly sapid. The strawberries were fruity and forceful, dissolving on the tongue into a grainy, seedy, sweet paste; the sugary-sour grenadine that covered them was equally potent.

Petit Fours: Poire rôti et crème de marron; choux à la crème; et biscuit de chocolat avec menthe. A sterling tray supplied some extra treats. Le moins petit petit fours was a shot, half-filled with honey roasted pear imbathed in its jus rôti beneath chestnut crème, the glass capped with a fine caramel circle. The airy, fluffy chestnut and light, crackly tuile were very good, but the sweet pear was a little watery. Pâte à choux, piped full of vanilla cream, peppered with pistachio and surmounted with caramelised hazelnut was light, nutty and reminiscent of Ferrero Rocher. Finally, two squares of salty chocolate biscuit sandwiching mint choc mousse were very tasty – the brittle, bitter cookies coupled pleasantly with fresh, cool, clean menthol.

Migniardises: Gâteau citron glacé sucre. To finish, iced lemon cakes decorated with more gold leaf. Well-made, spongy and sugary, their sour citron savour cleansed the palate.

The service was everything one can expect from an institution such as this – attentive, polite, friendly as well as adaptive and reactive. With a staff of seventy-four serving forty-five covers this should not be a surprise. All the serveurs I spoke with were well-informed, patient and obliging. Monsieur Morandini was the model of a maître d’hôtel. Hospitable, gracious and enthusiastic, he would drop by my table to see how I was doing, ensuring all my whims where met. As service was wrapping up Chef Alléno came out of the kitchen to speak to each of the remaining guests. This is a regular habit apparently, but not an exercise in vanity – he has admitted to modifying recipes based simply on post-meal remarks he has received. After we met, I was certainly impressed. Whites stained, shirtsleeves rolled up, he looked the sort of chef who was not afraid to get his hands dirty. Focused, interested and full of energy – he also had tangible intensity and charisma.

As to the food, I am sitting on the fence, but scouring for a safe place to land. On the positive side. Everything was cooked flawlessly, ingredients were excellent, presentation appealed, but I was just not overwhelmed by deliciousness. The amuses were decent; the first better than the second. The coquillages course did what it was supposed to – delivering the sea to me – but I doubt I would order it again (as a matter of personal preference though). The poireaux was good, the flavours pleasing, but there was almost the sense that something may have been missing. The langoustines were tasty – delicate and subtle; simple and refined. The pigeon that followed was very capable; hearty and rich for sure, but it did not wow. The marron and mandarine dessert was probably the pinnacle of the meal with a wealth of textures and savours coming together brilliantly. The dessert that followed this was also enjoyed, but had a hard job trying to better the first.

What I wanted to see more of was the originality and imagination of Alléno, which I had read much about. Ingredient combinations were more traditional, or at least tried-and-tested, rather than inventive or surprising – although it has to be said that one of the few new parings I tried, mandarin and chestnut, worked tremendously well. Additionally, flavours were definitely distinct, but not really moving or thrilling – they were harmonious, subtle and composed instead.

Alléno himself describes what he does as ‘Parisian cuisine’ and has often been quoted as saying, ‘Paris has no soil, France is its garden.’ Considering that the city lies firmly in the country’s butter half and its local produce – peas, asparagus, mushrooms, beef, veal, pears, apples, cherries, wild strawberries – were rarely seen, he maybe referring to the capital’s culinary classicism. The seat of kings and birthplace of Carême, his approach plays to that image of refinement and exquisiteness – whereby recipes have been worked and worked until an ultimate, superior absolute is achieved. I am not staying that this was achieved, but it is what the aim seemed to be.

If I were asked to ascribe Alléno’s cooking to a specific style, I would find it very difficult. Nouvelle cuisine is the term that appears to offer itself most readily, but I would not claim it a perfect fit. There is indeed a focus on fresh ingredients; a healthier aspect to the food; and use of modern methods and equipment. However, though the chef may practise some of this school’s axioms, he is certainly not constrained by them; some heavier sauces can be found; classic cooking and dishes inspire some of his repertoire; and beyond but a superficial simplicity, the food is at times intricate in thought, technique and implementation. To develop on this last point, take for example, the fins coquillages ouverts à cru. Nominally minimal – a ring of shellfish around red cabbage – a closer look reveals hidden sophistication. First, the shellfish are of five varieties; the scallops have been marinated in red cabbage; the central chou rouge itself has been made into a jelly and pickled with vinegar; juniper berries have been grated on top; and amidst all these, meticulously made spherificated beads of oyster juice and seawater had been secreted. As already pointed out this was not even a course I particularly liked, but it was effective and appreciated.

In my opinion, some of the themes that dominate Alléno’s cooking are the relative, but not absolute lack of saucing; the finite use of herbs and spices; significance (but not subservience) to a fundamental aesthetic; a preference for using produce in its natural form and entirety; and a strong seasonal bias. The poireaux, as a paradox to the nouvelle notion, boasted the heaviest, most classical sauce of the meal (with the Béchamel), but it still felt to me to need more/a stronger binding element. That said it does nonetheless illustrate those initial points – no discernable herbs or spice added; a clean, uncluttered arrangement; the leek whole; and fresh produce at its organic optimum. For the record, regarding his raw materials, the chef sources the majority from Parisian market, Rungis, but as evidence of his thoroughness, he has a total of one-hundred-and-twenty individual suppliers.

In a word – rigorous – is how I would summarise this cooking. These dishes are the rigorous result of vigorous effort. Painstaking, methodical, light-handed, confident, restrained are other adjectives I would add were I allowed to waffle on. An extreme care has gone into these meals, no short-cuts taken or corners cut, which may not be clear at first, but it is certain. There is a profound restraint, which though it may not have come off every time, can be commended – the temptation to add and alter a dish is difficult to resist, often leading to an overworking of the produce or overcomplicating of the plate. In this respect, Alléno shows self-assurance and an appreciation that less can be more. The technique displayed today was very impressive to say the least. However, I cannot help but feel I did not experience Le Meurice at its best. This might have been because I did not order myself, but this was not the restaurant’s fault – in truth, I hold it to Monsieur Morandini’s credit that he tailored me a carte based on what he discussed, rather than just serving the existent tasting menu. Additionally, I have read that the restaurant may be enjoyed more in the summertime when Alléno’s delicate touch can be felt better, but I have also heard that the winter months, with their wild fish, shellfish and ‘forgotten roots’, are his favourite – indeed the fish-course was my favourite of the savouries – this may have been a reflection of the chef’s fondness for Japanese cooking and its affinity for seafood.

The fact that the kitchen produces so many new dishes – eighty to a hundred and twenty a year – is intriguing. Such a terrific rate suggests that either Alléno is still searching for a ‘style’ of his own or is testament to the hard work and creativity of a perfectionist. I believe it must be a mix of both, but I really cannot judge so much on a single meal.

Whatever the case may be, I know that I liked Le Meurice. The grand, hate-it-or-love-it dining room (and though I know it is essentially an ersatz majesty, I was quite taken with it – read into that what you will); the pampering one receives from an army of serveurs; but most importantly, a clearly talented, driven chef who seems still to be maturing (i.e. getting better); were more than sufficient to leave me satisfied.

I think that one of the nicest compliments one can give a restaurant and a true testament to its quality is to pay it a return visit. This is precisely what I hope to do.

[Ledoyen]

Hello,

I was at Ledoyen for lunch last January.

Please click here to read my full review with photography: HERE

Ledoyen by name, le doyen by historical fact. This is Paris’ oldest restaurant. It is indeed also one of les grandes tables du monde, but its beginnings are humble, having started as a modest inn serving fresh milk from the cows that grazed its grounds around the Champs-Elysées. In 1791, under the reign of Louis XVI (just), Pierre-Michel Doyen leased the land and converted the site from a guinguette (drinking/dancing venue) into a restaurant de qualité – Doyen. This was at the height of the French Revolution and the years that ensued were the years of the National Convention and Robespierre’s Reign of Terror. It is even said that whilst Citizen Maximilien enjoyed lunch at this restaurant, in one of the meeting rooms upstairs, the Montagnards plotted the Thermidorian Reaction (aptly named given that that is where the kitchen and dining room are now).

The restaurant survived the Revolution intact, but fared less well twenty years later following Napoleon’s defeat at the Battle of Leipzig and the Allies subsequent occupation of Paris when Cossacks were bivouacked by the Champs-Elysées gardens. When they left the capital, they left behind desolation (as well as their word for quickly – bistro). Under Louis-Philippe and the July Monarchy, state architect Jacques Ignace Hittorff (think Place de la Concorde, Gare du Nord) was commissioned to renovate the city and in 1842, he refit this pavilion in the neo-classical style. These works were later augmented with an Art Nouveau architectural roof in 1909.

Over the next century, Ledoyen was oft frequented by artists, writers and duellists (pistol fights were common in the nearby woods). Impressionists Manet, Degas and Cézanne; writers Zola, Flaubert, Cocteau, de Maupaassant and Gide; were all regulars, with the latter group remembered today by the Les Litteraires meeting room named after them.

Originally owned by the family Desmazures, its recent ownership has been the subject of a little controversy. Through the years, the building had become the property of the City of Paris, but its lease was almost sold to an Italian entrepreneur, Carlo de Benedetti, behind the then-mayor’s back (the mayor at the time being Jacques Chirac). When he and his officials found out what was happening, via the newspapers, they were furious and rescinded this deal, retendering the lease. Legendary nightclub owner, Regine, beat nine others to it. She eventually sold out to Vivendi, who were in turn bought out by investors, Group Epicure, for whom the restaurant is an advertisement for their catering business and thus is not necessarily under pressure to turn a profit. This succession of owners has inevitably meant a succession of chefs. Notable cooks that have passed through these kitchens include Jacques Maximin, Joël Antunès and Ghislaine Arabian. The last, gave up the reins to current incumbent, Christian Le Squer, in September 1998.

Born in Morbihan, on the Breton coast, at only eight years old, Le Squer knew he wanted to be a fisherman, although he had to wait until fourteen to finally make it out to sea. It was on this fifteen-day virgin voyage that he was introduced to the kitchen and decided that being a chef might be better; ’I really wanted to transform the fisherman’s catch into something delicious’. At twenty, his parents sent him to stay with friends in Paris who owned a boulangerie/patisserie. He liked it, but realised that his future lay in haute gastronomy. Therefore, he enrolled in hotel school, where he found himself rather the talented potato peeler – ‘a turn of the wrist, simple, but very important’. After graduating, he worked his way through some of Paris’ most famous restaurants – Le Divellec, Lucas-Carton, Taillevent and l’Espadon (at the Ritz) – before becoming head chef at l’Opéra, at the former Grand Hotel (now The Intercontinental). This is where he made his mark, winning two Michelin stars in the process. Two years later, Ledoyen came calling and Le Squer answered. From l’Opéra, Patrick Simiand (maître d'hôtel) and Nicolas Gras (chef de pâtisserie) followed him to his new post. He has a reputation for being a humble, hardworking perfectionist with a great sense of humour. In the kitchen, he places the emphasis on ingredients, preferring to keep his cuisine pure and simple. His goal is ‘to have flavours etched in the memory of those who dine in my restaurant. They must always remember the meal they enjoyed here’. As recognition of his success, in 2002, Michelin awarded him ‘a wonderful gift from the heavens’ – a third star.

The Pavillon Ledoyen, sitting within the Jardins des Champs-Elysées, neo-classical pediments and engraved Grecian columns gracing its exterior, is now a historical monument. Once within, one makes their way, via a tall staircase, upstairs to the spacious Napoléon III dining room, which was restored by Jacques Grange in 1994. It is long and narrow and fits close to fifty. Wide bay windows that wrap the whole room are draped with heavy carnelian curtains and cream blinds. Along the opposite wall, bevelled mirrors are bordered with decorative panels whilst the high, dark wood ceiling, from which chandelier basins are suspended, is stencilled with ornamental patterns. Several decorated wooden chariots dot the room. Tables are at a discreet distance and double-covered with white tablecloths over burgundy ones. Gold and venetian red narrow-striped armchairs are comfortable. Monogrammed napkins and plates; a large gilded charger; and heavy, silver cutlery clutter tabletops. The room is bright, smart and nostalgic.

Amuse Bouche 1: Macaron betterave avec anguille fumé; foie gras, fruit de la passion et tuile d’épices; royale de cèpes et persillade; l’eau de truffe coagulé; tuiles de polenta; et chips de pomme de terre violette. A colourful assortment of four amuses appeared on a porous black tablet from which the serveur insisted one was taken before placing it on the table. Beetroot macaron, filled with cold, smoked eel mousse, had an almost polystyrene feel, but melted away on the tongue immediately leaving an intense savoury sugariness. Gingerbread croquants encasing foie gras layered with passion fruit jelly followed. Flavours and textures were contrasted well here; first spicy crackle, then tart, smooth fruitiness; finishing with rich foie. Strong mushroom aroma emanated from a petite, parsley-peppered circular cup of cèpe and persillade (garlic and parsley sauce) cream. Upon bite, its delicate, crumbly shell snapped spouting delicious, velvety soup. Last and alas least liked, there was truffle à la Adria. This spoonful of spherificated black truffle was technically adept, but unpleasantly pungent.

Crispy, rustic-cut shards of polenta and vitelotte triangles came separately. The former were light and flaky with faint corn taste whilst the latter were crunchier and supplied some salty smack. Vitelotte is a South American breed of blue-violet potato, curiously also called le truffe de Chine.

It must be mentioned that these amuses were, all in all, some of the best I have ever eaten.

Les Pains: Baguette; pain au speck; pain marin; et brioche aux céréales. Four forms of bread were baked onsite – baguette, speck roll, squid ink rye and cereal brioche. The baguette was crunchy with charred tips and fluffy centre. Pain marin, made with squid ink, was the most interesting and visually striking variety. It had thick and yeasty crust; dense, cake-like interior; and strong, smoky squid taste that was reminiscent of krupuk (prawn cracker). Seedy, crisp-coated brioche was very nice with the lightest, moist middle. I was not able to try the speck roll as it had Tyrolean ham cured with juniper berries. Butter was excellent; it was Bordier.

Amuse Bouche 2: Le potage d’Adèle Pidou, revisité. A variegated verrine of varied layers arrived. Cream-coloured royale of foie gras, implanted with pink salpicon of lobster, was coarsely covered in vert avocado Chantilly and topped off with ebon toasted breadcrumbs and truffle. At the table, warm wild mushroom consommé was decanted atop the concoction, transforming it before one’s eyes. The calm, smooth surface of green and black blended and bubbled until settling, rolling and scraggy, like moss green mountains showered with swarthy snow.

Straight away, the smell of mushroom and subtle earthiness issued forth. Every layer had unique taste and texture: grainy, smoky soup; herby cream; sweet, lissom lobster; soft foie mousse. And it worked. The components were continually mixing, changing the complexion of the glass and composition of each spoonful; each bite was different to the last.

One might wonder what the chef had in mind with such a mish-mash of miscellaneous elements. Well, there is a story; actually, it is from a story – La vie et la passion de Dodin-Bouffant, gourmet. Written by Marcel Rouff and published in 1924, this book is full of fictional tales about the foodie Dodin-Bouffant (some say modelled on Brillat-Savarin). The one that matters to us here is from its most celebrated chapter, which concerns the culinary duel between this gastronome and the greatest gourmand of his day, the prince of Eurasia. The latter, eager to earn an invitation for dinner and thus a chance to sample the cooking of the former’s incredible chef, Adèle Pidou, prepared a sixty-course-thirty-wine spread for him. Dodin-Bouffant, instead of being impressed, was indignant at his host’s indulgence and decided to repay him with a humble, four-course, bourgeois meal. Many have heard of the pot-au-feu – basic, but brilliant – that formed the plat principal and humiliated the prince into realising the errors of excess, but less know of the entrée that preceded it – le potage d’Adèle Pidou. In the book, this soup takes over two pages to describe, composed as it is of such things as rump of beef, vegetable juices, egg yolks, white asparagus, artichoke, mushroom, champagne, cinnamon, chicken stock, carp roe, crawfish-and-melted-cheese croquettes…it was something so incredible, though so complicated that it could not be recreated. Le Squer has taken up this challenge, though modifying the recipe somewhat to make it more amenable to today’s palates.

Entrée 1: Oursins de roche au goût:iodé/végétal. Two open purple urchins, sitting side by side, but one brimming with avocado mousse and mounted by cold sea urchin soufflé, the other filled with warm tarama d’oursin and cauliflower cream and frothing with a foam of urchin jus, were both balanced upon bricks of fleur de sel. Starting from the right, the soufflé had an interesting, nearly spicy brininess that was countered by the creamy, cool avocado. Moving to the left, the second, whose foam had been audibly bubbling since being brought to the table, had much fainter flavours: the airy, emulsion was rather bland whilst the cauliflower-roe combination, mild then salty.

Entrée 2: Grosses langoustines Bretonnes, émulsion d’agrumes. Still-shelled, butterfly Breton langoustine tail, akin in appearance to a canoe, carried another tail, intwined and pan-fried in pâte de kadayif; a subtly smoky jelly of langoustine bouillon and agar-agar held the tail upright. Tableside, a thick mousse of citrus, coriander and olive oil was poured over the tail. The large, slowly-grilled shellfish was fresh and succulent – its seasoning of star anise, fennel, coriander and Szechuan pepper imparted sweet aniseed and lemony warmth without the heat. The onboard orb was composed of almost confit tail meat that melted in mouth and Turkish pastry crust – crispy and light – littered with lemon balm, mint, marjoram, chervil and tarragon that offered herby sweetness and minty lemon. The emulsion was intensely aromatic and had citric tartness made milder by the fruity olive; this dissolved into sauce as the langoustines were eaten. The quality and size of the shellfish was outstanding; their accord with the agrumes, certainly agreeable.

Actually, the sauce was so good, I had to ask for more. However, after slowing down to allow the kitchen time to accommodate my request, I was eventually told it could not be obliged.

Plat Principal 1: Blanc de turbot de ligne juste braisé, pomme de terre truffées. Big, braised block of turbot, precisely cut into a rectangle and branded with dark diagonals of brayed black truffle and breadcrumbs imbued with squid-ink, bathed in a truffled beurre blanc that concealed a bed of crushed ratte potato. Immediately, the class of fish, not to mention its immense size, as well as the skill and care employed when extracting the fillet, were all easily apparent. Its arrangement was also admirable; simple, yet elegant, incorporating the most basic contrast of black against white, emulated by the ebony plate and ivory emulsion and brightened by only the smallest sprigs of celery leaf. For all this, the taste disappointed. Cooked just through and thus still just translucent, it was more fictile than firm and its flakes did not fall off each other easily either. The meat had none of the rich, fatty deliciousness that turbot ought to have, especially when wild. It may sound as if I am being harshly critical, but to have such a generous slice of such a fine fish as this was is a rather rare thing. Therefore, to have it missing what intrinsically makes it so yummy, its unctuousness, is like receiving a huge, glossy, box on Christmas day but, after ripping the wrapping off, finding it filled with woolly socks. That being said, it was still a decent dish. The ecrassé of pommes de rattes – purportedly the potato of choice by Joël Robuchon for his infamous mash – had nice consistency; neither entirely smooth nor unfavourably lumpy, but treading the fine line in betwixt the two. Together with the velvety, rich beurre blanc it was very tasty. Although the truffle in the sauce shone through, that topping the fillet went unnoticed, instead the inky breadcrumbs they were blended with added an interesting, toasted note.

Plat Principal 2: Ris de veau en brochette de bois de citronelle rissollée, jus d’herbes. Whole roasted veal sweetbread, marinated in soy sauce then skewered with two stems of lemongrass and sprinkled with sweetbread-crumbs, was served sitting atop an atoll of salsify amidst a shallow, pastel viridian herb sauce. This was another dish that satisfied several of the senses: golden brown, white, vivid green – the clean, bright colours were beautiful. As soon as it was seen, it was smelt. Lemongrass, with its heady, exotic bouquet, blanketed the table. This time, thankfully, the flavours fulfilled their promise. The sweetbread, consummately cooked, was deliciously caramelised without whilst still creamy within; small morsels of the gland that had been oven-dried and applied as garnish gave added crunchy contrast. Textures aside, the taste was exquisite and unexpected. The citronelle was clear to see, but the thoroughness of its suffusion was a surprise; so much so, that I made a point of testing some of the flesh furthest from the stems and even this tasted just as strongly. Its soy marinade, a natural flavour enhancer and full of umami, meant the meat was able to stand up to the toothsome sauce – a collage of coriander, chervil, chives, mint, tarragon and parsley – that offered zingy, green freshness. For all the heavy, intense savours, this dish was delicate, refreshingly light and quite lovely.

Plat Principal 3: Toasts brûlés d’Anguille, réduction de jus de raisin. Grilled smoked eel, enveloped in Médoc sauce shaded deep burgundy, studded with a bar of dried shallot and beset on dense toast blackened with squid ink, was partnered with hollowed potato packed with horseradish and crowned with red shiso leaf. Balanced, elegant, faintly fruity and acidic, the complex and mellifluous Médoc reduction married superbly with the rich, smoky, subtly sweet eel. The toast was softer and moister than its dusky, solid disposition suggested yet still had full inky flavour. Shiso leaf was fennel-like whilst the peppery horseradish pleasingly opposed the cool potato. This was an adept reworking of the old Loire dish, matelote d'anguilles – a stew of eel, wine, shallots and garlic served over fried bread. Here, Le Squer successfully renews and refines this fisherman’s recipe creating something that was strong, but sophisticated; simple, but serious; and a very fitting climax.

Le “Grand Dessert Ledoyen” en cinq compositions…

Dessert 1: Levure glacée, râpé de chocolat blanc et d’amande. A perfect quenelle of yeast-leavened ice cream, crowned with shiny silver leaf, lay upon a steamed, sugarless marshmallow waffle wrapped in grated white chocolate and crumbs of almond. The smooth ice cream had a very interesting taste that verged on sour with a clean, muted sharpness; it was evocative of cheese, possibly parmesan, without its creamy milkiness. The marshmallow was an ethereal foam and essentially solely a vehicle for the subtle, though distinct white chocolate which, as it was so slightly warm, also encouraged it to melt to favourable effect. This was similar to a semi-deconstructed blancmange – the set mould manifest as the marshmallow, the almonds and white chocolate extracted and employed externally and as for the yeast, well I can only assume that cornstarch ice cream did not work.

Though designated the first dessert, this effectively cleansed the palate.

Dessert 2: Croquant de pamplemousse cuit et cru au citron vert. Makeshift millefeuille arrived assembled upon a platform of candied compari and orange marmalade imbued with dill, mantled by raw segments of grapefruit marinated in lime, honey and spices, which were covered with cylinders of citrusy sorbet themselves finished off with a feuille de sucre sprinkled with some more dill; dots of basil and of candied grapefruit peel punctuated the plate. The confit confiture slab, clearly coloured by the compari, was bittersweet, sticky yet firm whilst the fruit, succulent and sapid. Sorbet was contrarily icy and bursting with citrus. The croquant contrasted with the softer consistencies it crowned and had some spicy tang from its embedded dill. The syrupy beads exploded with either heavy herby-sweetness or concentrated citric sourness. All the elements were well-thought out and well-judged with clean flavours and assorted textures. The bright, fruity hues – orange, gold, green, pink – were appealing too.

I must admit though that I was ever-so-mildly dismayed by the broken lower layers that had begun to tilt.

Dessert 3: Tarte rustique: Cidre, pommes. Enwrapped within warka pastry and hidden beneath cider mousse were moist apples immersed in sauce cidre; the croustarde came circled with jus de pommes vert. Pâte à brik (North African thin pastry) was very crunchy whilst the filling was soft with fruity apple and strong, punchy cider essence. The frothy foam had sparkling sourness and fermented fragrance whilst the coulis, real vigour and slight acidity.

Dessert 4: Givré de Litchi en Eau de Rose. Miniature fresh meringue semisphere, mounted with litchi mousse then crème, supported sugared pink rose blades as well as batons and laminae of more meringue; around this, shelled Réunion litchis and pomegranate seeds were arranged in rose syrup. Clear and crisp rosy meringue was matched with fluffy mousse, which made with lemon and mint, had fresh sweetness and was a spot sharp; the well-sourced fruit itself was juicy and delicate. The charming harmony that litchi and rose inherently have was a nice theme and although there was nothing wrong here, this was a little forgettable.

Dessert 5: Glacé de caramel fumé, pistils de chocolat. Ice cream Yule log of caramel encompassed with cream, resting on chocolate kindling, was shrouded with smoked milk and flaring nougatine tuile flames. The ice cream was quite delicious – caramel middle, rich yet not sticky; lighter, smooth outside – whilst the creamy mousse was very smoky, almost bitter. The pistils, held in place with chocolate sauce, worked to brilliant effect, breaking into tiny bits upon bite. The brittle, caramelised nut chips were another texture and another tasty flavour.

Petit Fours: Île flottante; boule au café; macaron pistache; et tarte cannelle. Petit fours were presented upon a stripy polychrome panel. Inverted île flottante involved sweet, almost liquid crème anglaise atop unbelievably airy meringue. Coffee boule that dissolved instantly in the mouth was slightly bitter; its espresso jelly accompaniment, on the other hand, much stronger. Light, crispy pistachio macaron had decent savour. Extremely thin tart was filled with thick, smooth condensed milk and dusted heavily with sweet, aromatic cinnamon.

Mignardises: Caramel au beurre salé et au chocolat; Kouign Aman; et amandes caramélisés. Lunch is never over until mignardises are munched. Squares of salted caramel were rather hard and chewy though had good salty-sweet balance whilst chocolate caramels had excellent taste and melted in the mouth. Kouign Aman is a traditional century-and-a-half old Breton butter cake from Le Squer’s birthplace that he has refreshed from something normally heavy and indulgent into a daintier brioche. This treat is now formed of layer upon layer of loose silky pastry folds encased in crunchy, caramelised crust. Almonds are typically an optional addition to the Aman, thus allowing the chef to apply his fondness for deconstructions here by serving these nuts roasted and on the side.

Staff were diligent, efficient and polite. The serveurs were well-informed, attentive and very, very professional (read rather serious), but in complete contrast, Monsieur Frédéric Pedrono, premier maître d'hôtel, who looked after me, was very friendly, hospitable and amusing. His face was always smiling, whilst those of those around him were always straight – although I think I wore even a couple of them down by the time I left. Monsieur Pedrono actually proved delightfully entertaining, a foodie himself and an avid reader of gastronomic history, he took evident delight in entertaining me with stories from culinary folklore. He had even more fun when reversing roles and challenging me to detail the dishes to him – the ris de veau’s six-herb sauce and yeast ice cream were his highlights. However, do not consider his behaviour overly familiar or at all unfitting; his attention was obviously welcome and his enthusiasm for the food infectious.

The food was really very good. I admit there were a couple of dull dishes, but from fourteen courses including extras, this is not a bad return. The starting amuses were simply some of the most impressive I have ever been served. To be honest, the oursins de roche au goût:iodé/végétal that succeeded these were really a nonissue and almost mistaken for another amuse; nothing bad, but nothing great. Things were back on track with grosses langoustines, a signature, but the turbot, another signature, was another course that failed to shine; again it was good, but not as good as it could/should have been. Next, the ris de veau was what I had been waiting for – what I am always waiting for – a dish that forced me sit up and pay attention and I was not allowed a moment’s rest as the anguille fumé that followed was so tasty I was not able to slouch back in my chair just yet. The desserts were, on the whole, very nice. Again, some were better than others with the tarte and rose-litchi included in that latter list. The levure glacée was very interesting; the croquant, punchy and pretty; whilst the glacé de caramel fumé was an excellent, indulgent little finish. It was not over though, not before well-made petit fours and mignardises were proffered and polished off.

Le Squer has a fascinating style. There is a seriousness in precision and execution equalled by light-heartedness in design and delivery. The choicest produce is procured – one needs only to look at the langoustine or turbot to see this – and cooked consummately; I cannot recall a single mistake in this aspect. Dishes were capricious in conception. With le potage d’Adèle Pidou, for example, as much as I liked it for what it actually was, I loved the whimsy behind it even more. I thought it maybe an insight into Le Squer, the man; good-humoured, creative, a gastronome, a romantic – none of which are bad qualities in anyone. The langoustines and glacé de caramel fumé, meanwhile, were presented with pleasing playfulness.

Un chef sans frontières, Le Squer seems to find inspiration in everything and from everywhere; he is happy to use whichever technique, product or idea is required to reach the best result. In this one meal, themes drew on classic recettes, his Bréton upbringing, former mentors, molecular gastronomy and even fairytales; this resourcefulness was not restrained to his influences, but stretched to his ingredients too – lemongrass, litchi, shiso, Szechuan pepper and kadayif pastry shared plates with truffle, parsley, potato and polenta. With the grosses langoustines and ris de veau, Le Squer remembered the lessons learnt at Lucas-Carton, under Alain Senderens and his penchant for reinventing and refreshing recipes of yesteryear – the modern-day matelote, witty rework of the blancmange – were exemplars on how it ought to be done. I found the chef’s eclectic attitude delightful, but for all their creativity and ingenuity, dishes remained distinctly within the framework of traditional French cuisine – and I mean this favourably.

The arrangement of all the plates was appealing, but nothing was showy for showiness’ sake. There were no tabletop theatrics either, or even tableside carvings and servings. There was a restraint, although maybe modesty or sensibility are more apt descriptions, with diners’ attention focused on the food itself and the tastes and textures therein. And the dishes do deserve undivided attention as Le Squer does not handicap himself to pleasing a single sense; he amuses the bouche, engages the eyes and entertains one’s nose – the food can even incite the intellect. Full-on sensory stimulation is on offer. There is the impression too that these are highly refined recipes that have been perfected slowly but surely. For instance, to make the sweetbread’s herb sauce – which I must admit is not admired unanimously – six individual herbs are required; this fact alone had me reflecting on the thought, tireless trial–and-error and practice that must have been needed before the final, desired fusion was eventually found.

Thus far, I have waxed complimentary about Ledoyen and indeed it is an excellent restaurant. However, there is something that prevents me, at the moment, from proclaiming it as my favourite. It is not so much the cooking – I ate the ris de veau and anguille fumé with my eyes closed – or the service – as mentioned, I formed a very pleasing rapport with my captain. If truth be told, I do not know what it is; really a je ne sais quoi.

If I must attempt to articulate it, it could be that the restaurant lacks warmth, although again I find that hard to write as Monsieur Pedrono was so hospitable and the food did have âme and élan. Possibly, even though it did not affect me directly, there was the faintest implicit reticent inkling of ‘rigidity’; a sort of sobriety and sense that suggested this was a place of business. Or perhaps it was the dining room – not that this would usually matter to me – which walks the fine line, or tightrope, between brimming with old world charm and being stale with the air of a faded relic. Actually, there was one tiny detail that did trouble me, but it is admittedly rather silly: the eel fillet and the croquant were cracked. I can imagine the princess-and-the-pea Andersen-esque analogies already – do not worry, I can take it – and I know this sounds so immaterial and trifling – and it is – but it must be remembered that this meal was in the midst of many (at restaurants similarly marked by Michelin). In this context such minutiae become more apparent than one would imagine; cooking at this level is of such a standard that such trivialities can, unfortunately, become striking.

I do not wish to end on a sour note though; Ledoyen does not deserve it.

The cooking is excellent and, at times, even better than that. Le Squer merges modern and classic methods to create a cuisine that is original and confident whilst fully respecting the traditional. Dishes are sophisticated, satisfying and crafted to showcase and magnify the finest ingredients and their innate flavours. The kitchen is also generous with guests receiving exquisite and ample amuses, petit fours and mignardises – which are also when the chef likes to have a little fun. By all accounts, Ledoyen is going from strength to strength too; having re-established itself amongst Paris’ culinary inner circle, it is now a contender for the title first among equals.

And this old man is showing no signs of slowing down.

[The Fat Duck 2009]

'London Tonight' on ITV just announced that the Fat Duck will reopen tomorrow

[Restaurant Aux Sportifs Reunis in the 15th]

Definitely not the Hidden Kitchen. I've been there, too. Maybe I should have named this thread "unmarked restaurant."

As described to me, it has a street front but there's no indication that it's a restaurant nor no window where you can see inside. Sounds more like an old time speakeasy.

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Does '21' on rue Mazarine not match that exterior?

However, it is a seafood restaurant serving, as far as I know, individual dishes...

[La Regalade, Paris]

Hello,

please click here to read the full review with photographs from my dinner: HERE

La Régalade is somewhat of an institution. It is also synonymous with Yves Camdeborde and if you know much about Paris bistros, then you know much about him.

The eighties were the heyday of Paris’ haute cuisine scene. These halcyon years saw upscale kitchens become crammed with hungry, young men attracted by their success and the promise that they offered. With each, came the inevitable aspiration to eventually own their own restaurant. The turn of the decade however brought with it recession. This meant that these impatient chefs no longer had the means nor the market to support the sort of restaurants they had become accustomed to. Their only option was to tone their ambitions down. This is exactly what Camdeborde did. In 1992, he left Les Ambassadeurs, found a little café in the 14th, bought it and relaunched it as a no-frills bistro.

Camdeborde had good pedigree; he had just won the Delice D'Or from Maîtres Cuisiniers de France and before Les Ambassadeurs, where he worked under Christian Constant, he was at the Ritz, Maxim’s and La Tour d’Argent. Bringing the technique that he was taught in these kitchens to rustic recipes, he unwittingly became a ringleader of the ‘Bistro Moderne’ movement.

‘In France, many chefs have forgotten that to eat well is to eat simply. So I decided to ameliorate this situation with La Régalade. I don’t want to play the chef’s role in a white toque every night. I want to cook!’ In addition to just cooking, he was extremely generous, always allowing guest to help themselves to his brother, Philippe’s, homemade pâtés, sausages and hams as well as ensuring that prices remained reasonable. When the restaurant first opened, Joël Robuchon himself came to scout it out, claiming afterwards that it would never work. Unfortunately for him, it did; soon enough, it became one of the hardest reservations to procure in Paris. It also inspired many of today’s chefs bistronomiques including Stéphane Jégo (Chez l'Ami Jean), Thierry Faucher, Thierry Breton and even his former mentor, Christian Constant, to follow in his footsteps.

By 2004, after a dozen years of running La Régalade, Camdeborde had become exhausted and decided it was time to sell; ‘I wanted to move on before I got lazy. I needed to discover new things. It’s the same with food and wine: there’s more to eat than lobster, more to drink than Bordeaux.’ The chef who bought the restaurant from him was Bruno Doucet.

Chef Doucet came from a similar culinary past to Camdeborde. A native to the Touraine and born into a ‘family of hunters’, he chose cooking over astronomy (he was rather good at mathematics) and at fifteen, started as an apprentice at Charles Barrier (3*) in Tours. Two years later, he went to train with André Lenormand (MOF) in Orléans. Two more years on and he joined Fouquet's in Paris under Guy Kreuzer, then Prunier's with Gabriel Biscaye, where he worked his way up from kitchen assistant to sous chef, before moving to Pierre Gagnaire (3*) for a year. In 1998, he became Jean-Pierre Vigato’s second at Apicius until 2001 when he transferred to Natachef as head chef for Vigato’s wife.

When Doucet took over La Régalade, he had some big shoes to fill. He decided to keep the spirit of the bistro alive and continued with the reasonable prices, large choice, generous canapés and relaxed atmosphere. He started off well, impressing critics and winning Gault Millau’s ‘Young Talent of the Year’ in 2006. He has made it a point to balance the old with the new, eschewing modern kitchen machinery, but always looking for new ideas and ingredients too. His favourite tool is a knife; his favourite ingredient, salt.

La Régalade resides on avenue Jean-Moulin. The nearest métro is Alesia, but nearest does not necessarily mean nearby. So after some stroll, one eventually reaches a quaint, stylish, little shop front that pouts out upon the pavement; from under a copper canopy, bright lights beckon the famished inside. Within, pastel tea green walls are lined with burgundy banquettes behind small wooden tables. The room revolves around a single, circular table and central serving station, on top of which the specials boards hang. The back wall features a wide mirror whilst windows draped with lace curtains form the restaurant’s front. Eclectic, but restrained artwork and coverless cupboards carrying jars of olives, pickles and more grace the walls. To the right as one enters, a wooden bar stands before another mirror, this one crossed with shelves of wine glasses and bottles. By the bar is a bread rack holding fresh loaves that will be sliced and brought to tables later. Large orbs floating overheard offer a fluorescent, unnatural light. There are maybe forty covers in all and usually all are taken. It can be crowded, but not cramped. There is an intimate bustle and jovial hubbub throughout.

For tonight’s dinner, we – Aaron, Amir, DB and I – had to decide between La Régalade and a return to Chez l'Ami Jean. The latter had been undeniably special, but like everyone else, never happy with what we already had, we opted for something new, the former and were it all started. Deciding what to eat was a little easier than where. We saw truffle (actually, we saw truffe) and we wanted it: La Menu Truffes à la Régalade.

Canapés: Pâté de campagne ‘La Régalade’ et cornichons. Soon after we were all settled, an ‘amuse’ of homemade pâté was presented in a white porcelain terrine, implanted with a knife. The instructions were blunt – eat as much as you can want. However, being made from pork meat, its fat and herbs, I had to disobey the house and instead, get by with tiny pickled gherkins and sweet and sour onions that came in a considerable clay crock.

Les Pains: Pain de campagne. The crusty, fluffy, rustic country bread was excellent, but then it was Poujauran. Creamy beurre d’Isigny, a golden butter made in Baie des Veys, Normandy, accompanied. We had only just given our order, but our table had already been filled – an auspicious beginning.

Entrée 1: Ailerons de Volaille jaune des Landes, bouillon de Paimpol et truffe Noire. Deboned corn-fed chicken wing, placed on a pile of parmesan croutons, coco de Paimpol and trimmed with black truffle, was poured over with a bouillon of the same bean. This surrounding sauce was slightly nutty, light and frothy yet substantial too; it would have worked delightfully with the truffles had these had any force. At least the chicken was tender whilst the croutons added crunch.

Entrée 2: Saint-Jacques de Bretagne rôties en coques au beurre de truffe Noire. A threesome of Brittany scallops, swimming in chive and truffle butter and coupled with croutons, were roasted then served still attached to their shells. The Saint-Jacques, cooked evenly throughout, were soft with buttery texture and decent flavour. Chive foam had heavy herbiness that suffused through the scallops nicely, however, the truffle was again utterly innocuous.

Plat Principal 1: Saint-Pierre de Bretagne rôti sur la peau, brandade à la truffe noire. Roast John Dory, also from Brittany, was balanced on brandade de morue mixed with black truffle; the fish was drizzled with veal jus and a dollop of herb butter. With a sticky, succulent skin and subtly sweet meat, the Saint-Pierre was quite lovely. The brandade, a traditional dish from Nîmes of salt cold purée, olive oil, milk and sometimes mashed potato (like here), was good with a coarse consistency that came off well. Rich jus de veau provided a nice punch. Each element of this dish was faultless and toothsome, but there seemed to be something missing, something to link everything together. Once again, the truffles may as well have been absent.

Plat Principal 2: Suprême de Volaille jaune des Landes, foie gras de Canard, truffe Noire et légumes d’hiver. A brace of ballotine Landes chicken breast fillets, filled with a farce of foie gras and lined with black truffle, rested on a bed of winter vegetables bathing in Albufera sauce; chives peppered the plate and an asparagus plank was poised over the poultry. Finally. Truffle. For really the first time, its fragrance was felt. The sauce - strong, a little creamy and flavoursome – also pleased; this velouté, classically made with suprême sauce to which meat glaze is added, was named by Carême in honour of Marshal Suchet, the Duke of Albufera, after his defeat of the British in Spain during the Napoleonic wars. The vegetables – turnips and Jerusalem artichoke – were soft and rather nutty. What let this dish down was the fact that the chicken, though meaty and tasty, was disappointingly dry.

Dessert 1: Quenelle et Moelleux au chocolat Noir, crème Anglaise au thé vanille. Sizeable scoop of dark chocolate ice cream, crowned with an orange tuile, covered dark chocolate sponge that lay in vanilla crème Anglaise. The cake, with a crisp crust and soft centre, was very good as was the ice cream; both were nearly bitter and had a savour that lingered pleasantly. Runny crème offered a little respite against the chocolate whilst the tuile was very crisp, but not at all orange.

Petit Fours: Madeleines au coqulicot. To finish we were proffered poppy-seed madeleines. These were very agreeable; moist, sweet, crisp around the edges and clearly fresh.

This would have been a sensible time to pay up and head out, but we were not yet ready to leave. Do not think that we had not had enough food, but we just felt like we could do with a little more. We had all seen that famous house Grand Marnier soufflé floating around the room during the night and it simply would have been very out of character for us not to want to try it. However, by the time we managed to ask for some, it was around midnight and the kitchen had closed.

Our despair was blatant. But the people at Le Régalade are of the sympathetic sort…

Dessert 2: Pot de crème Caramel. Four clay pots brimming with crème caramel were brought to our table. Our mercurial misery melted away immediately.

The soft, rich caramel cover conceded to my spoon, disclosing creamy, milky custard, which was amply encircled with vanilla seeds. The consistency and sweetness were pretty perfect – we were all left licking our cuillères clean.

During dinner we drank, 2007 Domaine Arretxea Irouléguy Hegoxuri. This French Basque wine, made with Gros Manseng, Petit Manseng and Corbu grapes, had intensity, complexity and character. Both flower and exotic fruit flavours came through and its golden colour was beautiful.

Service was great. The staff were clearly very busy on the night, but obliged us to no end. Courses came in good time, glasses were refilled when required, whims indulged – and all with smiles. The hostess, whose name we did not get, was patient, sweet and very friendly. Once we had finished off our (second) desserts, we were the last table there, but there was no hint of a wish for us to depart; instead, we were allowed to take out time. In fact, whilst they tidied the restaurant around us, we began to chat and got on rather well, ultimately leading us to return their hospitality with various goodies we had purchased earlier that day that had made their way with us to the restaurant – Arnaud Larher macarons; Eric Kayser financiers; and, the show stoppers, sfogliatine, zaeti and amarettini from Pasticceria Rizzardini which were freshly-made in Venice that morning. We eventually stumbled out after one in the morning, freezing cold, the métro having closed and needing to get from the ‘wrong’ end of the 14th, back to the 1st.

The cooking met with mixed results. We all agreed that ordering the truffle menu was a mistake – not because the plates were bad, but because we were paying simply for the pleasure of seeing truffles (as opposed to actually smelling/tasting them). Ignoring this detail, I thought the dishes, were on the whole, conceptually good, filled with decent flavours and visually pleasant. However, there were some simple errors in execution, chief amongst them being the overcooking of the chicken.

Ingredients were all (except those truffles) faultless, which is no surprise given that Chef Doucet buys from Paris’ best butcher, Hugo Desnoyer, and roams Rungis market, selecting the choicest produce himself. I found both the John Dory and cod quite delectable and I am sure the quality of the volaille jaune would have impressed if it had been prepared better. Our menu was unforgivingly French, which appealed. It also boasted decidedly bistro dishes - Coquille Saint Jaques rôtie en coquille and crème caramel – in addition to classic regional staples like brandade de morue and coco de Paimpol. The sauce Albufera may have been a hint to the chef’s haute cuisine history, but I say this after only having seen Alain Ducasse pouring it over his poached poultry.

I liked La Régalade. Regarding the fare, there was room for some refinement, but the flavours and ideas were already there – maybe rustic is the appropriate adjective – and I would certainly not rule out a return.

One measure in which I hold great stock is generosity. This can take many forms, great and small, discreet and open – but when I see it, it endears me to a restaurant. And I saw it constantly here: the staff were liberal in their attention, patience and friendliness; the all-you-can-eat terrine at dinner’s start was a very nice touch; and there is no skimping when it comes to portions. Such little things matter a big deal.

As readers know, memorable meals are not always made only by memorable food. Here, the dishes were satisfying, the kitchen was generous, the restaurant had charm, the service was excellent and the company, terrific. Surely that was enough?

It was, but there was more. One memory more. As mentioned, it was past one in the morning and we were stranded on the avenue Jean-Moulin – the opposite side of Paris to where we were staying. Our only solution…to vélib’ it. FYI, vélib’ refers to the free bicycle rental system in the city – basically one can borrow a bike when they want to and if returned within thirty minutes, not a penny (or cent) need be paid. This is just what we did.

For six or so kilometres, at minus six or so degrees, we raced across the French capital, ignorant of all ‘codes’ of traffic and all road signs. Surprisingly, we did not get lost, even more remarkably, we did not die. We made it back in half an hour – just – and saved ourselves one euro. Each.

[The economy and French restaurants: 2008-9]

There's a classic French tale about a famous chef who entertained the King and amazed him with a very simple dish perfectly cooked. Can someone fill in the gaps in my memory?

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I believe you are referring to one of the stories from Rouff's La vie et la passion de Dodin-Bouffant, gourmet.

The king was the prince of Eurasia – a big foodie of the day. He wanted to meet Dodin's chef Adèle Pidou so he prepared a huge feast and invited Dodin-Bouffant (hoping to impress him and get an invite to his). However, instead of impressed, he was aghast with the Prince's excess. Nonetheless, he did invite him round, but decided to serve a humble four-course meal. The main dish was a simple, but incredible pot au feu...

[The Michelin Red Guide 2009]

I find it strange that Marc Veyrat is still listed as *** although an article that I read about the closure of his restaurant had mentioned that the decision had been made in time not to appear in the guide.

Now Michelin for an entire year will list a *** restaurant that no longer exists, very unfortunate in my view.

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Maybe it was too embarassing for them to have 2 chef's (Roellinger & Veyrat) to hand back their stars in one year... Bad publicity. I don't think 2 in one year has happened before.

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I may be wrong, but as far as I was aware neither were 'handing back' their stars, but simply closing their respective restaurants for other reasons (Veyrat cited physical difficulties after a ski accident a few years ago) rather than as a protest against Michelin.

For that reason, I would not really think it bad publicity.

[L'Astrance]

I was also surprised that the service was quite cold and unpleasant ... I could not imagine Mr. Rohat ran Arpege this way. The character/personality of chef Barbot reflects the casual and relaxed style of Arpege (in fact the restaurant is similar in many ways) except in service. Anyway, perhaps they're not in really good mood.

L'Astrance is probably the "cheapest" among the current 3-star in Paris, so it's still worth the money. Other places I went ... be patient please    yes, I did return to Arpege

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How much was the menu in the end? What did you pay at Arpege? Interested to see if the prices are slowly rising...

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In January, I believe the full menu was E190

[The Michelin Red Guide 2009]

Roellinger closed his 3*

Briffard left Les Élysées for Le Cinq, that probably explains that one

[Gordon Ramsays new **]

I'm really surprised that you've not been yet, given your most recent exploits.

That said what a city for dining choices.

Its mind blowing!

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Precisely...so many choices! (too many) I almost went, but I guess it just was not meant to be.

We can all argue that he has sold his soul somewhat since becomining an uber celeb chef. Im always in two minds about him. He is though, very, very good at what he does. I strongly believe the trade is better for having him in it, even though he can be a very contrary fellow.

Some of his most trusted lieutenants have been with him since his Aubergine days. Thats got to say it all. Chefs like Mark Askew, who you never hear of, is still with him and he is a cracking chef, who could of gone off to do his own thing by now. I reckon the tv personality is different from the 'chef'. I also strongly believe Angela Hartnet and for that matter, Wareing have an awful lot to be thankful for. I don't think either one would be in the positions they are now if it wasn't for Ramsay. Hartnet in my opinion has got away with murder being under Ramsay, totally over rated I believe. Wareing I thought, just got way above his station in the interview he gave last year. I don't know what went on between them but he would of been the bigger man if he had just got on with the job, instead of shooting his mouth off, which doesn't suit him. Was it for his art or publicity?

I do think Ramsay has that talent to get the best out of his staff and looks after them pretty well. I think as well you don't get three stars by blagging it. Just wish he didn't act like a total dick at times and remembered what and who he is.

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GR has done a phenomenal amount of good for British dining, raising its profile immensely internationally; he is probably the only British chef who is a household name worldwide. He also increased general food awareness and appreciation domestically.

Wrt Wareing, he was savage in that interview and must have been gutted (embarrassed even?) not getting that third star.

Agree about Ramsay and believe, whatever people might think of him as a chef, he is certainly a serious businessman.

[Gordon Ramsays new **]

The word is Mr R is gunning for 3stars. That would put him on level terms with Ducasse and Thomas Keller. I would of thought that he would need to spend more than five minutes in the place though, even if he has got a crack squad in place. There again, his absence doesn't seem to be a problem at RHR.

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Hi Richard. I am stunned by his man management qualities

He comes across like he doesn't give a f--- about anybody.

However with all the personalities in his organisation.

How does he keep them.(Marcus Wareing excepted)

Does he just hand over the reins and pay top dollar,or does he have a very good management team behind him?

From experience ,keeping key workers is the hardest part of most business's.

I don't hear of any dissent in the ranks.

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Excellent pay? Or is that me being cynical?

Regarding Trianon, I have a serious foodie friend in Paris who thinks this place is actually pretty terrific.

[GBM 2009]

When Aiden Byrne appeared on Saturday Kitchen he had just opened The Church Green at Lymm ,Cheshire.

It took me over an hour to get through on the phone to book a table

I think they took over 150 bookings that day

Aiden and Sarah have been busy beyond belief,due to the television exposure.

The appearance fee in comparison,is peanuts.

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As an aside, I thought Aiden was brutally honest in that programme.

I am a big fan of his anyway, but I found him really quite endearing.

AWT was also hilarious with his backhanded complimenting...

[GBM 2009]

Yeah I think too there may be a little mix up here! SHAUN Rankin is a fine chef, who cooks in Jersey. I believe the other Rankin has enough on his plate at the moment to deal with. Going through some hard times by all accounts.

I think the end prize on GBM is getting evermore obscure. Im struggly to see the point really. Possibly needs reformating? Interested to hear what others think. My cousin is a serving Royal Marine, who came back form the middle east last year. He loves food, just so long as there is tonns of it! He see's food as fuel which helps him in his job. He for one couldn't care less what chef cooked his dinner. Is this a fair comment or is there such things as combat gourmets!? Anyway hope it will be for the blokes at the sharp end and not the toffs! 

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Personally, I am only marginally bothered by what the prize is - after all, it is not as if I am eligable!

I agree though that it is getting obscure, but as long as it is enough to attract quality chefs or as long as they want to take part regardless of what they win, then I am happy.

And to be fair, I am sure that bragging rights plus potential pecuniary benefits (God only knows just how fat a cash cow that BLT sandwich has proven for Jason Atherton/Maze/Rambo) will be sufficient to keep the standard suitably high.

I am really looking forward to the show actually.

[GBM 2009]

What it doesn't seem to say is when the banquet will take place, or when the series starts.

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I have read 30th March touted as the start date...

[The Michelin Red Guide 2009]

Finally, a release:

Michelin Press Release & Results

From a cursory look, in line with what was already mentioned in the leaks.

New 3*

Le Bristol

New 2*

Arles - L 'Atelier de Jean Luc Rabanel

Bordeaux / Bouliac - Le St-James

Chasselay - Guy Lassausaie

Lyon - Mère Brazier

Paris - L'Espadon

Pont-du-Gard / Collias - Hostellerie Le Castellas

Porto-Vecchio - Casadelmar

Tourrettes - Faventia

Versailles - Gordon Ramsay au Trianon

New 1*

Ambierle - Le Prieuré

Arles - La Chassagnette

Avignon - Le Saule Pleureur

Barbizon - Les Pléiades

Biarritz - Les Rosiers

Bitche - Le Strasbourg

Blainville-sur-Mer - Le Mascaret

Boulogne-Billancourt - Ducoté Cuisine

Bourges - Le d'Antan Sancerrois

Bourges - Le Piet à Terre

Le-Bourget-du-Lac / Les Catons - Atmosphères

Caen - Incognito

Cahuzac-sur-Vère - La Falaise

Calvi - Emile's

Carcassonne / Aragon - La Bergerie

La Chapelle-de-Guinchay - La Poularde

Chartres - Le Grand Monarque

Chassagne-Montrachet - Le Chassagne

Cholet - Au Passé Simple

Collioure - Le Relais des Trois Mas

Conteville - Auberge du Vieux Logis

Courchevel / Courchevel 1850 - Le Kilimandjaro

Cucuron - La Petite Maison

Les Deux-Alpes - Chalet Mounier

Dijon / Prenois - Auberge de la Charme

Dourgne - Les Saveurs de St-Avit

Gignac - de Lauzun

Hagondange - Quai des Saveurs

Le Havre - Jean-Luc Tartarin

L'Île-Rousse - Pasquale Paoli

Languimberg - Chez Michèle

Lannilis - Auberge des Abers

Lembach - Auberge du Cheval Blanc

Mont-de-Marsan - Les Clefs d'Argent

Monte-Carlo - Mandarine

Montlivault - La Maison d'à Côté

Munster / Wihr-au-Val - Nouvelle Auberge

Mûr-de-Bretagne - Auberge Grand'Maison

Paris - Fogón

Paris - Le Jules Verne

Paris - 35 ° Ouest

Paris - L'Arôme

Paris - etc...

Paris - Agapé

Paris - Bigarrade

Perpignan - Park Hôtel

Pujaut - Entre Vigne et Garrigue

Saint-Florent - La Roya

Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat - La Table du Cap

Saint-Joachim - La Mare aux Oiseaux

Saint-Pée-sur-Nivelle - L' Auberge Basque

Saint-Rémy-de-Provence - Marc de Passorio

Sainte-Sabine - Étincelles-La Gentilhommière

Strasbourg - Umami

Tournus - Rest. Greuze

Tours - Rive Gauche

Valence - La Cachette

Valence - Flaveurs

Vence - Les Bacchanales

Vence - Château St-Martin & Spa

Ventabren - La Table de Ventabren

Versailles - L'Angélique

Viré - Relais de Montmartre

Deletions 3*:

Cancale - Maisons de Bricourt

Deletions 2*:

Mougins - Alain Llorca - Le Moulin de Mougins

Paris - Les Élysées

Deletions 1*:

Pau / Jurançon - Chez Ruffet

Amboise - Château de Pray

Amboise - Le Choiseul

Ampus - La Fontaine d'Ampus

Avignon - D'Europe

Avignon / Le Pontet - Auberge de Cassagne

Béhuard - Les Tonnelles

Biot - Le Jarrier

Bouilland - Hostellerie du Vieux Moulin

Le-Bourget-du-Lac - La Grange à Sel

Caen - Le Pressoir

Cagnes-sur-Mer - Le Cagnard

Cergy-Pontoise / Cormeilles-en-Vexin - Maison Cagna

Châlons-en-Champagne / L'Épine - Aux Armes de Champagne

Châtillon-sur-Chalaronne/L'Abergement-Clémenciat - St-Lazare

Chinon - Au Plaisir Gourmand

Collioure - Le Neptune

Condrieu - Hôtellerie Beau Rivage

Grimaud - Les Santons

Honfleur - La Ferme St-Siméon

Le Lavandou / Aiguebelle - Le Sud

Lyon - Mathieu Viannay

Mercurey - Hôtellerie du Val d'Or

Metz - Au Pampre d'Or

Monte-Carlo - Vistamar

Mulhouse / Rixheim - Le Manoir

Paris - Goumard

Paris - Copenhague

Paris - Maison Courtine

Pernes-les-Fontaines - Au Fil du Temps

Rouen - L'Écaille

St-Lyphard - Auberge de Kerbourg

St-Priest-Bramefant - Château de Maulmont

Sarreguemines - Thierry Breininger - Le Vieux Moulin

Sélestat - Hostellerie de l'Abbaye la Pommeraie

La Souterraine - Château de la Cazine

Strasbourg - Serge and Co

Strasbourg / La Wantzenau - Relais de la Poste

Tourrettes-sur-Loup - Les Bacchanales

Urt - Auberge de la Galupe

[L'Astrance]

Hello,

Please click here to read the full post with photography from my lunch in January at l'Astrance: HERE

This is most of it:

To think, I almost did not make it to l’Astrance. In all honesty, I had nearly crossed it off, naïvely pigeonholing it as a restaurant better suited to spring than midwinter. This was until a far better knowing friend told me ‘go! You must go!’ – and as regular readers may know by now, I always do what my friends tell me to.

Wanting to go is one thing, getting a reservation is another. Apparently a table at l’Astrance is not easy to attain; apparently there is a permanent two-month waiting list. The fact that, by the time I decided that I had to eat there, they had already closed for Christmas, did not help either. Nevertheless, undaunted, I called the morning they reopened (the fifth) and asked for a table for today (the sixth). I did have to ply not inconsiderable charm, then wait on hold not an inconsiderable while, but I finally got what I wanted.

In October 2000, Pascal Barbot and Christophe Rohat, formerly sous chef and maître d’hôtel at l’Arpège respectively, opened their own restaurant. With the aid of bank loans borrowed by the pair after Rohat won a prestigious Heidsieck Monopole prize for best restaurant business plan, the two bought a closed-down bistro in a sleepy street in the 16th. They were an instant success. Leading Parisian critic, Bénédict Beaugé, even commented that their new venture was ‘the most important gastronomic event’ of the time. Such coverage, as well as Passard’s personal mailing list of five hundred loyal clients, ensured that from then on, l’Astrance would be one of the city’s most sought-after tables.

Within only months (five) of setting up, Michelin awarded them their first star (2001), though they did have to wait a little longer for the second (2005) and then third (2007). With this dramatic, rapid rise came controversy. l’Astrance, the smallest and most casual of Paris’ three stars, is different. First, there is no traditional menu. Instead, diners choose how many courses they want and the kitchen chooses what to prepare – a scenario that Joël Robuchon once fantasised about, but did not think possible. Secondly, classic French cuisine and ingredients i.e. heavy saucing, cream, butter have all been abandoned in favour of a healthier, lighter cooking with a decidedly Oriental leaning. Going against the grain however gained them their detractors, some of whom even claimed that the restaurant’s third étoile was political; at the time, there was a cloud around Michelin concerning the stress, emotional and financial, faced by chefs desperate to cling to their stars and they alleged that informal l’Astrance’s third was the guide’s attempt to dispel this. Whether the accusation is true or not, not many would argue that the food here is not of the highest standard and that Barbot is not a talented chef. The pair also seem happy regardless; with a team of half a dozen in the FOH, the same in the kitchen and a self-imposed fifty-covers-a-day limit ‘things are perfect now. We work hard for four days [and] have the weekend to relax and be with our families,’ to quote Rohat.

Barbot, who spent his childhood harvesting vegetables in the family garden and watching his parents cook, claims he knew from the age of seven that he wanted to be a chef. With this in mind, he attended cooking school before stints at Maxim’s, Clavé (1*) and Troisgros (3*). He then moved to London to work under Joël Antunes at Les Saveurs (1990-92) before completing his military service, which had him cooking for the admiral of the French Pacific fleet and island hopping between New Caledonia, New Zealand, Tonga and Fiji. He returned to France in 1993 and joined l’Arpège (3*) where he met Rohat. Here, ‘five magical years liberated [him] and gave [him] the desire, with Christophe, to rehabilitate a certain idea of the restaurant that, for [them], must be a place of interchange, coherence and complicity.’ Prior to realising this ‘idea’ though, he went to Ampersand in Sydney for a year (1998-99) and, on his second return, he and Rohat had a very brief spell at historic Lapérouse. Within months, however, they were gone and l’Astrance was born.

The astrance title is not, of course, without a story of its own. Parisian restaurateurs share a belief that having a name starting with A is advantageous as this places them at the beginning of dining guides thus improving their chances of customers calling them first. Barbot and Rohat think the same way, but were at a complete loss as to which A they would use. This was until Rohat, one day hiking in the Auvergne, came across a wild, ironically inedible, star-like flower called Grand Astrance. He immediately phoned his partner…

Barbot, who includes Passard, Gagnaire, Bras, Veyrat and Wakuda as inspirations, is somewhat of a maverick in the kitchen. Rarely does he use measures or weights; his favourite tool is a mortar and pestle he brought back from Thailand with which he loves to make curry paste; just hours after dinner service, he can be found strolling the city’s food markets, like that at Rungis or Iéna; and he is even working with molecular gastronomy scientists. He is impulsive – last-minute weekend trips to Sweden, Morocco and Italy are not unusual – and has an adventurous spirit – James Cook is his hero. In contradiction to his Vichois heritage, his cooking principles are humble, ‘one can do as many things with citrus as with a truffle for example; for me, one and the other deserve the same attention.’ He marries all these influences together to create contemporary, dynamic and exciting food.

l’Astrance’s unassuming façade is formed of windows filled with bushels of straw. There is a small wooden bar to the left as one enters; to either side of it there is a spiral metal staircase leading, on the left, down and, to the right, up to a cantilevered chrome balcony bearing two tables. Beyond the bar, the Bauhaus dining room, encased by high ceilings and textured, charcoal grey walls has warehouse chic. Bright apricot leather banquettes and chairs stand on stone tile floor. There are just twenty-five covers, but the seven small and single, circle centre table are well-spaced, surely at the expense of larger capacity. The area has a larger-than-real feel from horizontal and vertical mirrors with gilded frames that hang on the walls, which are also inlaid with flower stations. On the far side, a grey, portholed swing-door leads to the kitchen; its colour matches the tall steel poll that is planted in the room’s middle. Uncluttered tabletops are laid with only little vases fashioned from black rock, Bernaudaud crockery and charger plates that come in different tie-dyed shades. Spotlights and recessed halogen panels provide illumination. The room certainly reflects the cooking; minimalistic, colourful and modern. It is also functional, but comfortable; urbane, but modest.

La carte covers merely two pages. One side offers three choices: menu Déjeuner (three courses), menu Hiver (five) and menu Astrance (seven) – each with or without wine pairing. An inventory of ingredients on the other side intimates at what may come. One simply must decide how many dishes they want and let the staff know if there is anything on the list they cannot or will not eat.

Pour moi, bien sûr, c’etait le menu Astrance...

Amuse Bouche 1: Biscuit sablé et feuille de thym; pomme vert et raisin au café et cognac. Biscuit sablé square inset with thyme leaf came with coffee and cognac soaked raisins and sliced Granny Smith quarters. Already on the teaspoon, the biscuit required minimum effort to eat. The texture was more of fudge – brittle to begin, but then breaking apart and melting into a rich paste – yet the flavour was only subtly sweet with mildly menthol linger. The plump and permeated raisins had a very gentle hit of cognac-coffee to them and the sour green apple was fresh; having them together however had little extra effect.

Le Pain: Pain campagne. For bread there was but Hobson’s choice of country brown and brought in, but at least bought from Jean-Luc Poujauran. If we judge Paris’ bakers by how many three Michelin-starred restaurants they supply, his bakery is the best and by some margin. The slightly sourdough slices had crunchy, lightly charred crusts with fluffy middles and fairly open crumbs. The well-salted butter was Échiré from Deux-Sèvres and carries the AOC stamp of approval.

Amuse Bouche 2: Velouté de courge, yaourt à la graine de moutarde, mousse du lait au safran et cardamome. A shot of butternut squash soup sitting on mustard seed yoghurt and topped off with saffron and cardamom foam formed the second amuse. The sweetness of the velouté, which had a pleasingly grainy thickness to it, was balanced by the sourness of the yoghurt beneath. The mustard had minor effect offering only a limited heat. Saffron and cardamom meanwhile had surprising strength and clarity, bringing floral, punchy warmth with them.

Entrée 1: Galette de champignons de Paris et foie gras mariné au verjus, huile de noisette, citron confit. Innumerable micro-thin laminae of raw, mandolined Paris mushrooms, assembled on a maple syrup sweetened sheet of pâte â brik, made for an aesthetic alabaster architecture, interrupted only by ingots of verjuice-infused foie gras and flecks of lemon and orange zest; cèpe powder peppered its testudo-esque carapace while confit lemon and hazelnut oil occupied either side of the plate. Although rather fine, the feuilles of fungus still offered a bite that contrasted agreeably with the buttery consistency of the foie, which having arrived at the right temperature, was already ready to melt immediately on the tongue; the flavours were also in as much accord – the earthy, woody delicacy of the former reflected equally by the richness of the latter. The crunchy, sweet pastry, secreted citrus and earthy cèpe sprinkling each added to, rather than distracted from, the mushroom-foie millefeuille. The luminous roasted lemon purée, acting as the mustard to this deconstructed pie, provided some acidity and hazelnut oil, distinctly deep nuttiness.

This is the only ever-present on an ever-evolving menu. And for good reason. It pleases the eye through the contrast of colour, consummate craftsmanship and elegance of form. Each element, uncooked, remains scarcely manipulated, its natural quality, texture and freshness on show, pleasing the palate too. Neither is one’s intelligence ignored – the witty juxtaposition of common, basic button mushroom and luxurious, expensive foie gras provides a little mental stimulation whilst the simple fact that the chef has fashioned something so pretty out of offal and fungus provides some more.

Entrée 2: Coquilles Saint-Jacques, coquillages, dashi. A small auburn splash of seaweed butter was circumscribed with shellfish and citrus with a clay bowl of mussels, razor clam and komatsuna in kombo dashi delivered alongside: moving anticlockwise, this marine ring consisted of scallop sprinkled with lime zest; Meyer lemon confit; Aquitaine caviar on golden beetroot; oyster over lemon caviar with shiso leaf; and abalone. Pan fried scallop was cooked well, but tasted weak; the Meyer lemon – a Chinese cross between common lemon and mandarin with a smooth, fragrant, edible skin and less acidity – was agreeably bittersweet; and pickled betterave jaune, more sugary than regular red beetroot, was matched by the salty caviar d’Aquitaine. The oyster Marenne d'Oléron, a fine example, was briny-sweet but clean; it was balanced by the tangy, tiny lemon bubbles with the shiso, minty and anise, a nice addition. Abalone had mild sea-like savour and chewy consistency. The pick of the plate was the tasty kombo butter – rich, creamy and crammed with umami, it brought the dish together.

From the dashi, the fleshy razor clam and komatsuna – a Japanese member of the turnip family similar to slightly spicy cabbage – stood out. The clear, pure bouillon d’algue itself supplied more MSG.

Plat Principal 1: Cabillaud, salade au carotte et cacahuètes. A chunk of cod, caramelised perfect persimmon colour yet its centre still almost translucent, sat on julienne yellow and orange carrot, roasted peanut and fennel salad and was partnered by a deft duxelle of papaya and mango. The cod was cooked impeccably; this was possibly the best form of this fish I have ever eaten. Its firm, moist, flavourful flakes were contrasted against crunchy, creamy peanuts; sweet, crisp carrot; and al dente fennel, which, with the Thai basil seasoning, shares an affinity for seafood. Red chilli gave the salad some spice and a subtly acidic counterpoint came in the frame of the fruity, finely-diced quenelle.

Plat Principal 2: Turbot, oursin, epinard. Thin, but fatty fillet of turbot was teamed with cream of sea urchin, their tongues as well as barely sautéed spinach, secreted beneath which was citron confit. This succulent specimen, like the previous cod, could not have been cooked better; slow-roasted, the fish’s fat had slowly fused into its flesh – the surface was almost crisp, whereas the meat, rich. Its delicate flavour found consensus in both incarnations of the sweet, briny urchin: the unctuous crème, full of relish, and the scrumptious, melt-away roe. The coarse lemon pulp was contrastingly sour whilst the spinach, supple and well-seasoned.

Entremet 1: Velouté de celeri, truffe noire, gratiné à la Tomme d’Auvergne. A bowl brimming with concentric circles of black truffle cream, surrounded by chiffon-coloured celery purée, was trimmed with triangles of Tomme d’Auvergne au gratin and a tranche of truffle. This crowning cheese, with rust-tinted crust, is local to Barbot’s native Auvergne; (as tomme suggests) it is made on a small farm and is a cheese of distinction. Is it also ideal warm and released a nutty aroma that mingled with that of the truffle. The celery was surprisingly saccharine, but the crème de truffe, very earthy; when mixed together, each tamed the other, meeting at a pleasant medium.

Plat Principal 3: Canard de Challans, salade au poireau, truffe noire. A couple of brink pink pieces of Challans duck poised over additional duck set in jus de truffe, lay upon leek, caper and black truffle, all chopped and seasoned with ginger, garlic and soy sauce. Grilled and then roasted at low temperature, the duck lived up to its reputation. This black Barbary had delicious, juicy steak-like meat and a lean lining of tempting fat that melted in the mouth. The truffle and jus rôti together had real deep, savoury relish yet remained rather light, clearly made without much cream or butter. More minced truffle was intersprinkled through the vegetable salad. The leeks were moist but crunchy, their mellow sweetness balanced by the saltiness of the soy. Although the capers went unnoticed, the ginger did add some citric spice.

Entremet 2: Surprise - s'avancer à dire! Next it was the infamous ‘can you guess what it is?’ course. A small bowl bore warm, airy mousse around a central spoonful of colder, denser substance. The mousse was slightly sour, sweet and starchy at once whereas the middle matter was aromatic and creamy.

For those curious, obviously, I did deduce all the ingredients correctly (wink), but I think it best that I not reveal them here and spoil the fun for future diners.

Savouries savoured, it was time for sweets. Four treats arrived simultaneously with instructions to start on the right and work my way around.

Dessert 1: Sorbet piment-citronelle. To clear my palate and revive my appetite I began with a trou Normande: soft, cold sorbet shot. Immediately the scent of lemongrass and ginger carried from the little glass. On tasting the concoction, my taste buds were initially confused. Simultaneously, I sensed the crisp heat of exotic peppers, but also the icy temperature of smooth sorbet – hot and cold concurrently. If that was not enough, then came a subtle undercurrent of exotic ginger and heady lemongrass. Barbot, apparently having come across these unusually strong chillies in Asia, then found a way whereby suffusing them with syrup extracts their savour without thier burning sensation. It worked wonderfully well.

Dessert 2: Thé vert, mousse de lait, sorbet pamplemousse. A small quenelle of grapefruit sorbet, submerged in milk foam, came sitting on crème de thé vert studded with caramelised pistachio and pumpkin seed, itself coating Génoise cake; a sugar tuile straightjacket held all the elements together. The supporting sponge had become moist after absorbing the juices from above; the matcha mousse was smoky and ever so slightly astringent; its nuts and seeds were crunchy; whilst the emulsion on top was clean and light. The sorbet, distinct and sour, complemented the green tea; and the croustillant coat was sugary and crispy.

Dessert 3: Sabayon de mangue, clafoutis de mangue et pomme. Another Génoise cake acted as a cushion for mango and apple clafoutis that lay covered in mango sabayon soused with jus de mangue and embedded with a caramelised cluster of peanuts and almonds. Airy, sweet sabayon had a fruity zing that corresponded with the concentrated mango juice that surrounded it. The fruit filling was aromatic and tasty; clafoutis, like custard, was creamy and rich; whilst the cake supplied some substance.

Dessert 4: Riz au lait parfumée au yuzu. Rice pudding imbued with yuzu was layered with a thin film of honey jelly upon which passion fruit caramel was poured at the table. This sauce was like syrup and had seriously strong passion fruit tanginess whilst the honey film (made with agar agar) was opposingly sweet. The rice pudding underneath was thick and yummy with little surprise pieces of yuzu zest that added nice acidity.

Petit Fours: Lait de poule, madeleines au miel de châtaignier, fruits frais de saison. Jasmine egg nog served in an egg shell à la Passard; baby basket of chestnut honey madeleines; and a plate of seasonal fruit formed the petit fours. The floral fragrance and flavour of jasmine was startlingly clear and egg nog, fluffy and sweet. Unfortunately, the madeleines, soft, crusty and faintly honeyed, came cold – apparently this was intentional, but I do always like these more when warm. The fruit salad – apple, date, mango, mandarin and pineapple – though an unusual finish, was refreshing and very much in keeping with the character of the cooking. The jumbo, fleshy Californian date and sugary, but not overly sharp, pineapple pleased the most.

The service here is very smooth. The minimal wait staff – I counted only four, including Christophe, in the FOH today – work well as a team; efficient, attentive and always available. There is also a real relaxedness, enthusiasm and humour to all, whilst still being courteous, discreet and professional. Every attempt seems to be made to engage the customer, culminating in having them even guess what they are eating. The courses were timed expertly and I was pleased with the detailed knowledge of the food that my serveur had. However, my only whine, and it is only a minor one, was his insistence on speaking English (which, to be fair, he spoke well). Maybe he was not convinced by my own fluency in his tongue, but I did hope that only addressing him in French may have been hint enough that that was what I preferred in return.

After lunch, I was able to speak to Barbot himself and he certainly lived up to expectation – curious, unassuming, sincere and constantly smiling. He was still visibly full of energy, even after a full service, and was very easy to talk to – his perfect English helped. As an aside, whilst we talked, I was also struck by how very small the kitchen was (twelve metres square).

It must be said that the restaurant is strikingly quiet – but not in a hushed, one-must-remain-respectfully-silent sort of way. Instead, there was an almost palpable concentration in the room as diners were intently focused on their dishes. I guess not knowing what was coming and because each plate had a certain exclusivity and possibly personal touch to it may explain this. As does the limited seating and spacious interior. I like to think though that it has more to do with the former and that l’Astrance’s clientele really care about what they are eating – as if the restaurant were full of foodies. That said, it does seem to attract more than its fair share of gastro-tourists.

I, for one, love Barbot’s concept. When I first heard that it was the chef who decided what to cook and each dish would be a surprise, I was delighted. In fact, it would not be the first or last time I have left it up to the kitchen to choose what courses I would be having. I like this strategy as, first, I am impossibly indecisive when it comes to ordering (as regular readers may know) and secondly, I am firmly in the school that believes no one knows better than the chef what ingredients are best that day and what he is in the mood to cook – and surely if the chef is enjoying what he is making, there is more chance that I will enjoy eating it. Actually it was not until a friend pointed out the opposite view point that I was even aware one existed. In short, he argued that what Barbot is doing is utterly shellfish; that he is having fun at the customers’ expense and has settled on this method to keep himself from getting bored. Now, he may be right, but, with all due respect, I do not care if he is; at the end of the day, what really matters to me is whether I enjoyed my meal – which I did.

Some of the cooking on show today was stunning. The galette, the cod (which, I repeat, I have never had better), the turbot, the duck – each was perfectly prepared. Technically brilliant, the food was also full of flavour, colour and vibrancy. The ingredients impressed with both their taste and their originality. Barbot is very well-travelled and his cuisine clearly reflects this; before each course, not only was I guessing whether it would be meat, fish or…other, but also where the recipe would come from. Lunch was a gastronomic tour that started and ended in France but stopped in Japan and Thailand along the way.

It was on his own comprehensive journeys that the chef developed and refined his approach: ‘of my two years spent in London I kept the soy, the ginger, the lemongrass and all the spices that expand the taste palate. From my military service in New Caledonia I brought back the coconut, vanilla and lime. From Japan, the tea ceremony and a different approach to the meal'. During his time in the (hotter) Far East, he also became accustomed to cooking without cream and butter, using milk as his base liquid instead. This is all in addition to his l’Arpège training and Passard’s presence is indeed keenly felt through the cleanness of presentation and cuisine and the respect for fruit and vegetables.

It is minimalism, personality and detail that dictate Barbot’s style. Minimalism comes in many forms: treatment of ingredients; cooking processes; plating and even calories. There is an obvious absence of saucing (condiments taking their place) as well as salt and pepper, which have been replaced with herbs and spices. The chef also appears to prefer to preserve inherent form as well as flavour; where possible, produce remains whole and intact. Cooking is simple, again not distorting the shape of the food, its texture or its taste. Barbot’s attention to detail comes through with respect to plate aesthetics especially; there is striking neatness, lightness and elegance in appearance. His motto is quality over quantity – and it shows. By personality I refer both to his character and to a lesser extent the personal tailoring of each dish to the diner. A love of the Auvergne is obvious as his affection for Asian cuisine. That being said, the ubiquity of acidity and especially citrus is possibly the clearest clue as to his own tastes. He has been quoted as saying, ‘I love citrus; it’s impossible for me to cook without it’ and he repeated as much again after lunch.

The Galette de champignons de Paris et foie gras is an excellent illustration of Barbot’s approach. Here he employs really just two main ingredients, both raw, both minimally treated. Instead of transforming them, he uses their innate properties and principally how these contrast to ‘make’ the dish. Building on the basic physical differences - smooth against crisp, rich against earthy – he also incorporates the visual variation of dark against light and then, to maybe a more quixotic extent, luxury against economy. Additionally, there is that always-present acidic touch, which works excellently here, and a presentation that demonstrates the kitchen’s precision and artistry too.

When l’Astrance first opened, it was regarded as revolutionary. Many saw Barbot as a cook acting contrarily to French customs – no saucing and eschewing cream and butter, the staples of French cookery. He was redefining French cooking. I cannot really comment on much of what went before, but today, in my opinion, Barbot seems to encapsulate contemporary French haute cuisine. Light, simple, clean, harmonious, fascinated with the Far East – these are some of the governing dynamics that dominate Paris’ gastronomy at present. What is deemed by many as quintessentially French – hearty, rich, saucy recipes – has become anachronistic and a symptom of yesteryear. This sort of cooking is still alive, but certainly seems more common at the two star level; it is as if to get that third star, food needs daintiness.

As much as I approve of l’Astrance’s approach, I know it is an inherently risky one, relying largely on two things – the quality of the ingredients; and the mood/presence of Barbot. His elemental, Spartan style leaves him susceptible and at the mercy of his materials. To ensure against this the best suppliers are sought – for example, Hugo Desnoyer is Barbot’s butcher – and the surprise concept helps too as there is no obligation to deliver specific dishes; each day meals are made only from products that meet the mandatory minimum. As mentioned earlier, the menu may also aide in mitigating the second risk in that the chef is challenged each day and kept interested. The fact that the restaurant is open only four days a week is another concession to this.

To summarise, I really enjoyed the food at l’Astrance. Being served some of my favourite ingredients no doubt helped and this was very much luck of the draw, but I was impressed with the technique apparent and the appetising, vivid arrangements on the plate. I appreciated the attentiveness to detail as well, which as regular readers may be able to attest to, is something I always like to see. I also had fun and definitely feel that not knowing what to expect next enriched the whole experience.

I must admit that I admire Barbot. Many regard Gagnaire as the mad scientist behind the stove, but, to a degree, I think this label can apply to this chef too. It is no easy thing to conceive and create such dishes on a daily basis. I think that the fact that he has been able to do this – whilst also essentially at the top of his game – so consistently and for so long, says a lot about his character.

For one thing, the man must really love to cook.

[London Calling]

Really pleased you liked Hereford Road!

[London Set Lunches]

Food Snob, I take it you have seen this Timeout

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Actually, I did. And I must say, I have a new appreciation for the thoroughness of TimeOut's researchers...

[London Set Lunches]

I meant Wareing. I was thinking "maybe I should go before he gets star 3 and then it becomes far too expensive and impossible to book". But I am a lot less tempted now.

I think l'Ambassade is worth visiting just based on the amount of polarisation present on this board and between critics (AA Gill's review was particularly amusing). Maybe it will be another Hibiscus for me. We'll see.

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Sorry, my mistake.

With regards to Wareing, I agree with what has been said above.

After my meal (admittedly way back in October) I was unimpressed - one standout dish, but the rest were pretty...lifeless

[London Set Lunches]

So not worth visiting?

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From my experience, people generally either love it or hate it.

I am a fan myself. I have had three meals here and there is always something that impresses me.

In terms of food, I don't think there is another restaurant in London that offers what Ambassade does.

I would not call it perfect though - service may need a little polish and it is expensive.

[L'Ambroisie]

So in 100 words of less, what did you think? 

If you plan to write so extensively about all the places you ate at in Paris this time, you've got your work cut out for you, my friend. 

Did you like l'Ambroisie better than l'Arpege?  I know you've not yet written about that one, but a simple yes or no will suffice. 

What is your current favorite 3* in Paris?

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It's hard to put in so little words...or more rightly, it is hard to do the effect that the food had on me justice in so few.

Basically, it was possibly one of the most singular reactions I have ever had to a meal - confused, then impressed, then, to an extent, wowed.

l'Arpege or l'Ambroisie? You're not doing me any favours this morning! That is very difficult to answer.

I think I am a little biased - l'Arpege certainly holds a special place in my heart. I think it is possibly my favourite restaurant anywhere.

l'Ambroisie is not far behind...but I am judging it on only one visit, whilst I am fortunate enough to have eaten at l'Arpege three times.