John Whiting

The noteworthy thing about Jay's piece is that it's an accurate recap of England's gastronomic scene. Nothing new, but then there's nothing new to report. As to his "theft", he may direct his detractors to the opening of Rudyard Kipling's Barrack Room Ballads: When Homer smote his bloomin' lyre He had heard much on land and sea, And what he thought he might require He went and took, the same as me.

I have very fond memories of Port Alma, as set forth in my travel memoir, _Through Darkest Gaul with Trencher and Tastevin_: FIVE years later . . . I zeroed in on Port Alma, another Michelin-starred restaurant . . . The Big B was on the menu for 300 francs. I ordered it for the following evening. —I am sorry, Monsieur, said the waiter, but a minimum of two is necessary. The fish are too large for only one. A good sign. They didn’t use chunks or fillets. —That’s not a problem. Prepare it for two and I will eat nothing else. The waiter looked discreetly appreciative. —Very good, Monsieur. The next day I skipped lunch. By dinner time I could have devoured a raw sea urchin, spines first. The fish arrived on a platter for my inspection, sleek and bright-eyed. There were no large shellfish. Good. To me, a crab or a lobster perched on top of a bouillabaisse is an excrescence. It is no more appropriate there than next to a steak, as in that American lusus naturae, Surf ’n’ Turf. These noble Crusacea deserve one’s undivided attention. In a cauldron fit for a feast they enrich the flavor and are not disproportionate, but in a small dish served at table they often return to the kitchen scarcely disturbed, having been placed there to show the rest of the diners that the host has a long purse. One of my fantasies is getting to know a restaurateur who will allow me to dine every night off the lazily-picked lobsters sent back to his kitchen. After a suitable interval the fish returned cooked, still on the bone. They were presented again, piping hot, to show that each had been added at the correct stage. The top fillets were then deftly removed and served with a little of the liquid. The broth was robust and flavorsome, indicating that the chef had followed Root’s preferred practice of cooking the fish in bouillon—fish soup, even. If the dish is made with water, as in Lavandou (unless in large quantities, with a whole phylum of fish), the broth can be anemic. Next came the soup in a separate bowl, thick and rich. It was accompanied by a strong hot rouille, by no means to be taken for granted in Paris, or even Province, where it must often be requested. One lap of the course was covered, my own lap extended. The rest of the fish, which had been kept warm in the kitchen, followed. I loosened my belt and began again. I could feel the eyes of the waiters upon me, as if they had made private wagers among themselves. There went the last morsel of fish. Then came another bowl of soup. It seemed even larger than the first. More in the tureen. Would I reach the finish line? I popped a button and breasted the tape. Thank God I’d ordered only half a bottle of Muscadet. No entrée. No Badoit. No desert. No coffee. No petits fours. But I had single-handedly negotiated the rivulets and rapids of the Grand Bouillabaisse. There in the bubbling current, fin-to-fin with the saint-pierre, the rouget and the rascasse, swam the merlan. The whiting had come home to spawn.

Wagner, of course, had to trust hundreds and ultimately many thousands - all those singers, players and designers down through the years who have brought his pages to life.

Robert, a remarkable post, and where but in eGullet would one find it?! To answer your question, I seek out bistros which look as though they hadn't been redecorated for years and am attracted to old cookbooks with long recipes and without a suggestion of a photograph, but that is an idiosyncrasy reflecting my own interests, not a statement of principle or a call to arms.

Does anyone have experience of the other Chez George out in the 17th, highly recommended by Waverley Root in 1969 and still in Pudlo with a "historical" logo and 2 forks/knives?

Modern middle class people are travellers, both in fact and in imagination. Within living memory, French and Italian villagers not only drank their own wine to the exclusion of all others, but also cheeses tended to stay within their region of production. If you wanted to sample the wines and regional foods of all of France, you virtually had to go to Paris. What that meant was that local comparisons were always among their own producers, going only as far afield as previous vintages. No one ever said (at least out loud), "The wine this year is better from up the river; let's bring down a few cases." It was that very insularity that prevented the products of neighboring communities from tasting like each other. We're now both reaping the benefits and paying the price of uniformity. I don't expect to be thrilled by an unfamiliar bottle of moderately priced wine, but neither do I expect to spit it out in disgust.

The fundamental problem with bouillabaisse, as with so many traditional dishes, is that the essential ingredients, which were chosen by default for their cheapness, have become, through scarcity, very expensive. Today one is faced with two alternatives, each of them in its own way equally inauthentic. 1. You may ignore the cost and go for tradition. In restaurants this means that you are inevitably eating with the rich in surroundings which are either luxurious or quaintly and artificially plebeian. To justify the price, expensive ingredients such as lobster and crab are often added, which rarely figured in the dish as served up by fishermen or their wives. No matter how good the food on your plate, you are participating in a ritual as far removed from its origins as the paintings of Watteau from the lives of French shepherds and shepherdesses. 2. You may opt for substitute ingredients which today are plentiful. Coley, for instance, is dirt cheap and is largely fed to cats; but skinned and boned, it has an acceptable flavor and allows the impecunious to serve up bouillabaisse as often as they please. I do a simple version which takes no more than half an hour, start to finish, and costs a pittance. This is the option which a frugal Marseilles fishwife, transplanted from a century ago and given modern implements, would probably follow. It's better than many I've had in highly recommended restaurants. I append it below. ###################################### Cheap Instant Bouillabaisse This recipe is for the smallest practical quantity, enough for six generous servings. The ingredients will cost as little as three to four pounds. It can be freely multiplied. For the soup: 1 lb minced white fish (commonly sold by kosher fishmongers) 2 tbls olive oil 5 garlic cloves (or to taste) 1 onion 1 leek, cleaned 1 fennel root 1 small red chili pepper, or powdered cayenne to taste 1 can tomatoes 3 pints water Julienne all the vegetables in a food processor. Put all the ingredients in a pressure cooker, bring to maximum pressure and cook for ten minutes. Depressurize under running cold water and blend at high speed to emulsify. Allow a few minutes for the flavors to recover and combine. Half an hour’s preparation and cooking will give you a strong, thick, delicious soupe de poisson, ready to eat as it is, with croutons, grated gruyère and garlic mayonnaise or rouille. You may also cook in it, for about 15-20 minutes, 1 lb. diced or sliced raw potatoes You can, at the same time as the potatoes, cook whatever additional fish and shellfish you prefer, depending on availability and the size of your wallet. To keep the first attempt notably cheap, I used 1 lb coley fillet, skinned [essential] and cut into small pieces This I added for the last five minutes of cooking the potatoes. Cheap, boring fish – the sort you feed your cat – but, within the total context, nectar and ambrosia, made even sweeter by the fact that authenticity, as defined by the best authorities, would have added a zero to the cost. We had it two nights in a row and plan to make it again immediately. We could even afford to eat it twice a day. ©2001 John Whiting

Or, taken a step further, Alice's pastry chef Lindsey Shere's six-day "Cassoulet for Groundhog Day", which ideally begins half-a-year earlier with making your own confit. I've done several variations and it's repeatedly declared by widely-travelled food writers to be the best cassoulet they've ever eaten. Like so many classic dishes, it's not difficult, just time- and labor-intensive -- any restaurant that attempted it would have to charge the price of an Arpege menu degustation. It's anthologized in _The Open Hand Celebration Cookbook_.

This article has the disadvantage of being four years old. A lot has happened since then, both positive and negative. L'Ardoise, for instance, has plummeted to the point where Pudlowski gives it one of his rare Aei! Aei! Aei! condemnations (deserved, in my recent experience). At the risk of self aggrandizement, let me suggest a glance at my own website. If you do a Google search on "paris bistrots", it comes up second and third. Or click on the link below and then on Paris Bistros at the top.

It's a joy to see Waverley Root's Paris Dining Guide quoted. It was the vademecum of our first serious eating in Paris in 1973. Our budget was not open-ended, but we still have happy memories of the beurre blanc at Chez la Mère Michel, the grilled tuna at Auberge Basque, and lièvre à la loyale at Bistro 121, together with my first experience of Cahors, a robust wine which would become a lasting favorite. Bistro 121 still survives, with much the same decor, although no longer distinctively redolent of the Quercy, and respectably catering for a conservative French clientèle undiluted by tourists. We'll be going back in a couple of weeks to honor old memories.

Both Bux and Paul touch on the changing fortunes of skill. Modern commerce requires that we be taught from an early age that we can have whatever we want, including competance, for little or no effort, providing we are able and willing to pay for it. "Performance art" of all sorts requires merely a clever idea which is sketchily expressed with whatever comes to hand. The essential human ability to postpone the lesser pleasure for the sake of the greater has been devalued, just as wine is now made to be drinkable as quickly as possible. In the words of Ezra Pound, "Nothing is made but to sell, and to sell quickly." The result is that skill is now valued only in those areas in which its lack is obviously, even disasterously apparent, such as medicine, law and competitive sport. Even business itself now gives the failing executive a golden handshake far beyond what was once the reward for success. In such a climate, those chefs or actors who spend a lifetime honing their skills do so, not because it is a prerequisite for recognition and prosperity, but because of an inner compulsion towards integrity and self-respect, together with the joy that comes from the very process of doing something well -- getting there is indeed half the fun.

Bux is spot-on. It does indeed take more time and research. I've just acquired a classic VW Westfalia camper van, vintage 1981, to enable me to explore the byways of France for longer periods without eating up my assets in hotel bills (although rural hotels are much cheaper than in most "civilized" countries). As a single source of information, the Logis hotel guide continues to turn up admirable rural cuisine. This is an association of independent hotels, and one of the requirements for membership is that these hotels offer a menu du terroir. Not all are equally successful, but they are required to try and some succeed admirably. They won't be in the standard tourist guide books, either because they are in unfashionable areas or because the hotels themselves are modest and unexciting. But it's an area where serendipity can still come up trumps. The arguments about how we must move on are entirely valid, but I choose not to join the inevitable march of progress. Having spend my youth in the avant-garde, I am now happy to have dropped back into the derrier-garde. Sure is comfortable back here!

The answer has to be, both, as indicated by their "inauthentic" emendations of traditional recipes. You must remember that "genuine Brits" who can afford such places include a large contingent of gastronomic illiterates who measure their meals nostalgically against the execrable fare they were served at boarding school. Such people start boiling the sprouts for Christmas dinner two weeks in advance.

I become increasingly convinced that, if there was a Golden Age of French cuisine, at least at the "peasant" level, it was within living memory. I have three favorite books about life in particular French villages. (I'm sure there are others that would also be favorites if I were to read them.) James Bentley: Life and Food in the Dordogne Peter Graham: Moujou Michael S. Sanders: From here, you can't see Paris All three go to great lengths to document that, up to about WW Two, peasant diet was extremely curtailed and monotonous. Near-starvation levels were the rule. We have it on good authority that, when cuisine du terroir became fashionable, many recipes were approximations of how peasants might have made local bourgeois dishes if they could have afforded the ingredients. I suspect that it is a common phenomenon that, when moderate prosperity spreads downward, one of its most valued byproducts is the leisure that can come from fewer hours in the field and in the kitchen.

More "sometimes" than "sometime". Traditions may be disappearing, but I continue to be delighted with what I find in Paris, particularly in those arrondisements the tourists rarely visit. There I keep stumbling onto bistros where loyal locals keep the tables full. Often there is nothing to write home about -- just a carte of familiar foods properly prepared and reasonably priced. Michael Raffael, one of my favourite food/travel writers, wrote of Saorge, a remote, inaccessible village perché just off the old salt road from Nice to Torino: “It is a totally unspoiled, rock-solid throwback to the Middle Ages, with no special places of interest worth visiting except for the place itself.” Substitute "dishes" for "places", and that's the way I feel about certain bistros.

I make no effort to hide my predilections because I don't believe that any food is inherently good or bad without reference to the diner's preferences. (A brief glance at Schwabe's _Unmentionable Cuisine_ makes the point definitively.) For instance, in the 19th century, sweet German wines were the proper thing to drink with one's food; sauces tended to be rich and sweet and it was believed that one's wine should match them. Today, with the exception of certain foods such as foie gras, such wines are considered to be a sign of an ignorant or perverted taste. I do not seek out restaurant reviewers who tell me merely whether the cuisine is good or bad, no matter in how much detail. If the reviewer is trained as a chef, he is likely to be biased in favor of others who were trained in a similar fashion. Rather, I prefer those who reveal enough of themselves so that I can make a shrewd guess as to whether I will like what they like. Unless a restaurant sticks inflexibly to a single menu, detailed descriptions and recommendations, by the time you read them, are liable to be outdated and no longer applicable. In the end, a visit to a strange restaurant is liable to be as unpredictable -- and therefore as exciting or excruciating -- as a blind date.

I didn't feel rushed by the staff, only by my desire to get out of the place. In the midst of half-a-dozen visits to first-rate Paris bistros, it was like visiting a doctor's surgery in fantasyland. As for opening time, I could well be wrong. A usually well-informed friend told me that it opened at 7 and that he'd been advised over the phone that if he was there by 6:30 he'd probably get a table immediately. I'll check it out, because it would invalidate one of my observations.

Glad to hear it's still holding up. It was a favorite place of mine when I was a kid living in Ptown in the 1930s/40s. Go to http://www.iamprovincetown.com/whiting_john.html and you'll find my recollections of this remarkable town.

The first thing that occurs to me is that most of the chefs and food writers we're discussing wouldn't understand a word of it. Nor need they. They are being driven by an inner compulsion that makes it impossible for them to do otherwise. We've discussed ad infinitum the motivations of chefs. Food writers? How do you earn a living writing about fine food in a society in which it is truly valued only by a small minority? John Thorne (who has been one of our honored guests) is said by some to be America's greatest living food writer. But a couple of years ago he turned down a celebratory dinner invitation for an elder peer whom he admired because (he said) he couldn't afford appropriate clothing. And I think he meant it. Edited for spelling.

Just to reassure you that it's very accurate. I didn't time every stage as it went along, but I did note exactly when I arrived and when I left. When I got back to my friend's Paris flat I spent about half an hour reconstructing the time gaps in between; I'm sure that none is more than a minute or two off. Furthermore, none of the narrative has been fudged in any way. It's only one diner's experience, but every word is gospel. The posting on my website will include photos of the menu and my blurred closeup of the two bottles.

A minority report, prior to posting on my website: JOEL PULLS A FAST ONE! In and out in an hour – and fifty quid the poorer – John Whiting takes you on a whirlwind tour of Joël Robuchon’s new Atelier which had opened on May 7th, a month before. 1958 HOURS L’Atelier de Joël Robuchon presents an austere black façade incongruously fronting the formality of a grand old hotel, the Pont Royal. When I arrive, about thirty would-be diners are lined up along the pavement outside its locked black glass door. They are neatly but informally dressed and so young as to make me wonder if they’re queuing for a disco. While I’m speculating as to how long I must wait, a burly queuemaster dressed in black and looking like a high-class bouncer emerges and utters a few curt words that are obviously intended to discourage. I follow him to the door and ask if there is a single place available. Ah! That is possible and I’m ushered into the sanctum sanctorum. 2001 HOURS As my eyes adjust to the subdued lighting, I make out rows of stools with deep maroon leather upholstery which dimly outline a row of fingers projecting like fjords into the room. These connect to the work area, comprising the kitchen and service space, so that waiters may pass freely between the serving counter and the diners. I am taken to a far corner and shown to my appointed stool. It is a high metal frame, about 18 inches square, with a short straight back and a foot rest, and there is about 6 inches clearance on either side. I am more that 6 inches in width, but the stool beyond is unoccupied and so I am able to squeeze in without rubbing my posterior against an indignant diner. I note that the last two spaces show signs of having recently been vacated. The restaurant has only been open an hour. The counter space is a continuous ledge running the length of the bar. It is about a foot deep and steps up half a foot to a narrower ledge behind. My personal area is defined by a rectangular white plate about a foot wide, rather Japanesy, with a round depression in the middle, on which rests a starched white linen napkin rolled with surgical exactitude and held together by a maroon paper collar. L’Atelier de Joël Robuchon it announces boldly, in case I’ve forgotten where I am. 2004 HOURS The carte appears within two minutes of my being seated. Since I have seen it before, thanks to a friend’s photos of the window display, I’ve already decided on a menu that I can easily measure against familiar standards: foie gras, vitello tonnato and an assortment of tarts. This gives me a couple of minutes to look about before the waiter returns. From where I’m sitting I can easily survey the kitchen. There are a dozen or more workers, dressed in identical black uniforms. It is reported that Robuchon has gathered a small group of his peers for this venture, but there is only one chef who looks old enough even to be his son. The rest are mere toddlers. The diners are not so easily observable, but the waiting queue has already convinced me that I must be by far the senior person in the room. If this is the way forward into the gastronomic future, it is a Children’s Crusade. 2006 HOURS The young waiter returns and takes my order. No sign of a wine list; I decide to wait for it to be offered. There’s time to observe a bit more. The loudest sound is the subdued background music, a safely non-committal Vivaldi concerto. Conversation among the diners may be inhibited by the seating arrangement, although that doesn’t keep a bar from being noisy. No, there is a conversational reticence, as in a church. We are receiving Holy Communion. There is an equal silence in the kitchen area. Although it is mid-evening and all covers are occupied, many of the help are standing about motionless. There are none of the usual sounds of cooking – and, I suddenly realize, none of the smells. The activity in the kitchen seems to consist mostly of the assemblage of previously prepared ingredients. 2009 HOURS My first course arrives. The dining ledge is so far away from the waiter that he has difficulty setting the plate down and so, like the other diners I’ve observed, I help by taking it from him. The plate holds a glass ramekin about two inches across which contains a modest helping of cold foie gras with a bit of course salt. Accompanying it are four paper-thin slices of crisp pain Poilâne toast. Nothing wrong with the foie gras. It’s mildness suggests goose rather than duck, and though fresh, there’s nothing to distinguish it from the contents of an expensive jar. No garnish. Inoffensive food for the well-to-do. 2010 HOURS A minute after my starter comes, the wine list is finally offered. I ignore the fine vintages – who would rush through such wines in such an ambiance?! – and opt for a glass of sauterne to accompany the foie gras. 15cl of Chateau Rabaud Promis is available for 12 euros. (At that rate I could have a whole bottle for a mere 60, but I let it pass.) I leave my starter waiting in its little nest and the wine arrives within a couple of minutes. It is excellent but scarcely cool and will have reached room temperature well before I finish it. Having polished off the foie gras in a few mouthfuls, I have time for more observation. Over in the kitchen there’s some discernable activity. A small pile of ground meat appears on the workbench. Is there about to be some actual cooking and perhaps a suggestion of an aroma? No, it’s for steak tartare. The young chef produces a tray of condiments containing salt, pepper and two familiar objects. One is a plastic squeezie bottle of Heinz Tomato Ketchup, the other a small glass bottle of Lea & Perrins Worcestershire Sauce. I take out my camera, turn off the flash and capture a blurred record of culinary expertise in action. After mixing, the end product is ring-moulded into the compulsory cylinder and French fries added at the side of the plate. Another young kitchen helper comes over and shows the lad how to build them into a precarious tower, so that the extraction of a single stick will send the rest tumbling about the plate, thus embarrassing the diner. 2019 HOURS The waiter removes my plate, first putting my used cutlery back on the counter. There’s a dab of foie gras on the knife, which sticks to the foot of my wine glass. I wipe it off with my finger. 2021 HOURS Within a couple of minutes my vitello tonnato arrives. Six shavings of rare veal, about 4 inches by 2 inches, overlap across the plate. They are coated with a thin layer of tuna sauce and dotted with a few tiny capers. The veal is mild and tasteless, as pale veal tends to be. Like the foie gras, the sauce is pleasant and inoffensive. Invalid food. My remaining warm sauterne gives it a modicum of character. Stretching it out, I make it last ten minutes. 2035 HOURS My plate is taken away, this time along with the cutlery. Within a couple of minutes I’m offered the dessert menu. I’ve already decided on the selection of traditional tarts, just to sample the pastry chef’s expertise. What arrives is a plate containing a circle of six tiny wedges, each enough for two modest bites. The pastries are well-constructed and mostly of the pâte sucrée sort that doesn’t go soggy from waiting. One wedge is topped with three tiny wild strawberries (in context, the tame sort would have looked gigantic) and another has a layer of tart lemon curd so light and foamy that you could suck it through a straw. The best mouthful I’ve had tonight. 2050 HOURS The dessert dish is removed and coffee is offered and accepted. Within a minute a demitasse arrives, together with a demi-sweet – a single truncated pyramid of toffee whose base is less than half an inch square. No need to worry about the calories. 2056 HOURS Five minutes later I am impatient to get back to the real world. I catch the waiter’s eye, scribble on my palm with my finger, and l’addition is produced. It comes to 71.5 euros. Fifty quid to eat at a cookery school! If you are in Paris in early June, get in touch with the Ecole de Paris des Metiers de la Table du Tourisme et de l’Hôtellerie. During their final examinations, a table for four, vin compris, will set you back a grand total of 30 euros. I put my credit card on the tray and signal the waiter again. He saunters over, sees the card, and says without a note of apology, “Our machines aren’t working tonight. You must pay in cash.” “Suppose I didn’t have it,” I start to say, but he has already disappeared. 2058 HOURS I leave the exact change on the tray and collect my shoulder bag from under my stool, which I carefully manoeuvre backward to permit my egress without jostling my neighbours. Assistance from the staff? Don’t be ridiculous! None of them ever venture outside the designated work area. I go to the front door, which is still locked against intruders. A couple of waiters notice me standing there but do nothing. In half a minute the queuemaster returns and goes through a couple of manipulations to undo the security. What would happen in case of fire? The Atelier would hold more seared meat than it will have witnessed in toto since it opened! And so 2059 HOURS sees me back on the street, almost an exact hour from my arrival. What will the future hold? The name of Robuchon will no doubt take his Atelier safely through the warmer months. But when the seekers after novelty have come and gone, who among them will return? Who will wait outside on a winter night with no one to ask how long they must flail their arms and stamp their feet? Who, having been admitted, will be content with small chilly dishes served with an icy efficiency that will soon force them back into the greater cold? And finally, how many of those who have thus sledged to the pole and back will then seek out the nearest bistro, where, for a fraction of the cost, they may relax over the warm comforting food they have been so expensively denied? I would like to believe that the great Joël Robuchon is a self-sacrificing counter-revolutionary who, by forcing a modern trend to its reductio ad absurdum, would thus bring us back to our culinary senses. June 10th 2003

There's a relevant scrap of dialog from a Woodie Allen movie: "I've got a new job -- I'm the dresser in a burlesque house." "Wow! What's the pay?" "A hundred a week." "That's not much." "Yeah, I know, but it's all I can afford."

Jonathan, although you have wisely suggested that this discussion not recap the arguments about British food history, the last chapter of Colin Spencer's _British Food_ closes with an optimistic prognosis subtitled "The Rebirth of British Cuisine". It relies on the paradoxical fact that those countries without a strong continuous culinary tradition are those most likely to evolve a dynamic synthesis of the ever-changing foods of other countries. In the words of Sri Owen: " ... food habits are changing all the time, often fast. 'Traditional' foods are embedded in time as firmly as they are in place. When I came to live in the west, I soon realised that its inhabitants were avid for change and the food scene was an agitated kaleidoscope."

A browse through Calvin W. Schwabe's _Unmentionable Cuisine_ or Jerry Hopkins' more unbuttoned _Strange Foods_ will demonstrate yet again that no taste is too painful, expensive, or outré to be acquired if an individual or a society is determined to do so. As with warfare, one common motivation is sheer boredom, and the purpose of advertising is to inculcate boredom where none existed before.

If one goes down the social scale, real Chinese noodle dishes were readily available in San Francisco in the legendary Sam Wo's half a century ago, served by the formidable Edsel Ford Fong -- not to mention those Chinatown establishments, serving their own people, that go back to the previous century. As for France, Karen Hess notes in "The Taste of America" that Thomas Jefferson was much enamoured of French cuisine. There was a substantial influence from the Huguenots who fled France around 1700 and settled in various parts of America. And of course there was the Creole influence from Canada which came all the way down to Louisiana and never disappeared.