Arpege: dinner and lunch; 2002-2004

[elizabethnathan]

- A previously featured dish of cream of truffles with parmesan was replaced with a dish of onion gratin with parmesan. While you could claim that an onion is more of a vegetable than a truffle, a second soup offered was a cream of mushroom, so I tend to think there are other reasons for this change.

In short, you get a lot less for a lot more and there is nothing very interesting (to me) about the new offerings there.

I never visited Arpege before the conversion, and only have one visit to go on but for me that onion gratin was stellar. I'd say it was the highlight of my meal.

[Orik]

Back to a north american keyboard:

Orik - Sorry to hear about your meal. Since on my 3 visits in the last year the veggies were so stellar, maybe they were suffering from seasonality. But nobody can take issue with your griping about prices.

It wasn't a bad meal at all, just worse than it used to be. The value/money became much worse, generating a distinctive feeling of being had. This was highlighted by a $64 cream of mushroom (champignons) with peanuts and parmesan foam, which was nothing more than the name implies.

As for seasonality, there is a wide variety of winter vegetables available in French markets, some (carrots, beets) were utilized in dishes offered but not sampled. I thought the fact that they serve a cold tomato soup (although it was very good) is just another indication of how contrived this veggie stunt really is.

Anyway, although satisfaction from a meal is an elusive concept, I would say that we felt as satisfied after eating the appetizer at PG as we did after the entire meal at Arpege. More on that meal in another thread.

A few more points of comparison: (before/after)

The egg was served with every meal.

[a] The egg is only served as part of the tasting menu.

The tasting menu was offered at around $200 and contained many of the dishes currently in the tasting menu (egg, avocado, lobster, dessert were the same). The overall number of dishes was about the same.

[a] The tasting menu is offered at $300 with the food cost probably 30-40% lower (scallops became vegetables, duck became a chicken, truffles removed from lobster dish)

aperitifs were priced at around $15, often comped

[a] aperitifs were priced at around $28

mentioned again due to how severe this was:

lovely cheese cart with well ripened cheeses

[a] cheese tray that looks like it was purchased at the neighborhood fromagier the same day

[magnolia]

An interesting aside, Alain Passard is now endorsing/involved in one of those medical/diet companies that seem to flourish so much in France, Switzerland and Italy - I think the new fashionable term is 'neutraceuticals' or something like that? This one's called Proteika. I don't know a lot about this industry sector, 'diet' being anathema to me, but from what I gather, a lot of it's based on powdered food substitutes, like Slim Fast? This particular one seems protein oriented. The November 25 issue of Elle has recipes developed by AP for Proteika using the Proteika product, and various food critics giving their opinions of the results...which were polite at best.

No disrespect to AP, and it's none of my business - but while I'm at it..why does he need to do this sort of thing? His restaurant is always full, he seems like he's got plenty of creative challenges/ideas, I can't imagine this Proteika company - a new one - has so much money that it should be so enticing to someone of AP's stature in the culinary world..but what do I know?

Anyone know anything about this?

[Steve Plotnicki]

Maybe they gave him shares in the company like William Shatner got shares in Priceline.com. And as an aside, someone just dropped off a gift at my apartment of a Lavinia catalog .

[magnolia]

Maybe they gave him shares in the company like William Shatner got shares in Priceline.com. And as an aside, someone just dropped off a gift at my apartment of a Lavinia catalog  .

I think the Lavinia catalogues are now gifts - literally- I guess nobody was buying - or perhaps they got a lot of complaints - I believe they're giving them away. See anything interesting?

[Steve Plotnicki]

I haven't looked yet. But my friend who spent some time in the store thought the wines were expensive. I am going to have to check it out.

[magnolia]

Maybe they gave him shares in the company like William Shatner got shares in Priceline.com. And as an aside, someone just dropped off a gift at my apartment of a Lavinia catalog  .

I think the Lavinia catalogues are now gifts - literally- I guess nobody was buying - or perhaps they got a lot of complaints - I believe they're giving them away. See anything interesting?

Steve - the prices were just fine, comparable to (even better than in some instances) our beloved Augé, for example - in terms of the other shops, like Nicolas & Repaire de Bacchus - even Hediard & Fauchon - it's difficult to make a comparison at all because the stock is so different. I think that's where they'll succeed, if they can afford that space. That and customer service.

But we digress!! Back to Passard...

[Steve Plotnicki]

It's the Cindarella edit function. Your post turns into a permanent pumpkin at midnight.

[balex]

So I am not really going out on a limb when I say Arpege is a very good restaurant. I had a very good lunch there on Friday.

The star for me was a ravioli of dates, sweet onion and cumin in a shellfish broth. The broth was perfectly clear golden colour, and absolutely delicious; and the ravioli were not Italian stylem but the very thin 'dim sum' style wrappers which were quite transparent. I think they were still wheat flour though. The combination of flavours was really beautiful, and the balance of the dish was exceptional. I had the egg as an amuse; then the ravioli dish, then a mushroom soup (frothy a la Alain Chappel) and then a pigeon coated in almonds, then cheese and a chocolate souffle. All excellent. The pigeon was maybe a weak point. Wines by the glass since I was with a non-drinker.

This was my first meal at Arpege, and I liked the room and the service a lot. Very friendly and efficient, and a nice relaxed atmosphere, but still serious. Passard was there and seemed to be working quite hard.

Very expensive but very worth it.

[chantrelle]

We had a phenomenal meal at Arpege year before last and my husband had phenomenal case of food poisoning afterwards....quite unfortunate since we enjoyed the meal so much, it really wasn't as good the second time!

We're guessing it was the Uni...blech...but i left that part out of the review

http://foodporn.com/tabledance/larpege.html

[Tonyfinch]

Fat Guy you'll know. What is the law about someone accusing a restaurant of giving them food poisoining on a web site, re the post above? Can the restaurant sue?

Secondly, what is egullet's policy towards such allegations?

I'm just interested is all.

[dlc]

Secondly, what is egullet's policy towards such allegations?

Tonyfinch

See the new user agreement for a post on this subject by FG

[lxt]

“Bonjour, I’ll be away in Paris for the next two weeks. Please leave a message …,” I heard the animatedly thrilling voice of my daughter (recording a greeting message on her cell phone) mingled with the noise of the impatient crowd, airport announcements, falling bags and the screeching, mechanical sound of the luggage carts.

An innocent, sweet face with the gentle, seraphic smile of a child was gazing up at us from her passport as the airport clerk firmly moved her finger across the expiration date and almost whispered: “I’m sorry; your daughter’s passport has expired.” There was an exasperated raising of the eyes, and as if emancipated from his courtly discipline, my husband relaxed his controlled face in the beginnings of an anxious half-smile, faintly showing amusement at the preposterous difficulties of the circumstances. Reaching a conversational impasse, we asked the next logical question, whether anything could be done, but the immaculate, impassive clerk pursed her lips and shook her head over the prospects of our situation so that even my husband’s ability to see two sides to any question resulted in nothing but the darkest of pessimism.

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The smell of stale smoke, impregnating some corners of the Charles de Gaulle airport; cheerful Pedro, a taxi driver of Spanish descent with marvelous, dark, wavy hair, rotten teeth and a hefty bare belly peeping out of a tight shirt; the lovely hotel, built around 1817, in the heart of Saint-Germain des Prés on the cozy Rue des Saint-Pères and a charming receptionist – her face permanently illuminated with Buddhistic peace, who seemed to be without a care in the world; the hotel’s delightful Monet-like Jardin with a small pond and four goldfish burping air bubbles that rushed to the water’s surface, and the calming sound of a tiny fountain we could fall asleep listening to from our relatively large room on the first floor, furnished with plain, sober, but good taste.

“There will be no problem…. We can switch your dinner from Tuesday [the day we had to meet our delayed daughter] to Monday,” a polite voice replied on the phone, to our sincere surprise, as we made our original reservation two months in advance. At 8:30 p.m. sharp, we evocated the taxi, with the cab driver leaning forward to catch a glimpse of the restaurant he claimed he never heard of before, and were the first ones to enter a relatively small, deceivingly minimalist room with a young, perky hostess walking briskly while taking us downstairs to the basement level of the restaurant.

If inexplicably affected by a stroke of imagination you ever contemplate on having an haute meal in a confined environment, here is your chance to enjoy a wine-cellar-like, windowless chamber – a modernized, underground dungeon, polished slightly to acquire a more acceptable appeal, with white brick walls and low vault ceiling – that would compete with the Bastille’s dungeons in architecture and décor if not for the lovely wooden Lalique panel at the back of the room, spacious round tables, and the lack of tiny squint holes to allow viewing of the prisoners.

I turned abruptly, so that the courteous distance between the hostess and me was slightly reduced, and politely inquired whether it was possible to be seated upstairs. “Since you made a reservation at the last minute, this is all we can do,” followed the firm response from the slim, fragile-looking young woman who seemed not to be inclined to change her mind. Our insistence that we indeed cared enough to make a reservation two months in advance by both mail and phone and were forced to reschedule due to special circumstances didn’t seem to soften her heart, and we were seated in the dungeon at the farthest table from the entrance with a promise, however, to be moved upstairs in case any of the more privileged diners wouldn’t object to dining downstairs or would finish their dinner early.

After the hostess disappeared and we were left alone for a short while, I was stunned to recognize the smell of mold, of a basement, of an old building flooded for a long time: a smell of rot and age that would undoubtedly interfere with the appreciation of food, since when the nose fails, 80% of the ability to taste is lost. The thought crossed my mind that the disparity in comfort between good tables and bad tables – that is, the difference between the upper and lower rooms – while offset by genuine chords of compassionate sighs from the staff, was so much more extreme than at similar establishments, that perhaps it should place on Arpège the obligation to inform a diner in advance of his seating assignment.

“Do you sense the smell of …” I started saying, lifting my eyes up at my consort to find out whether he detected an unpleasant odor as well, and stopped in the middle of the sentence with a chill running through my body as I saw him turning pale with a dew of cold sweat on his forehead, taking me back to the recent past in a momentary flash and a sudden burst of memory where I was terrified watching a neuro-surgeon, who happened to be on the same plane with us, gently chuckle, mumbling “It’s always big men who faint,” while taking my husband’s blood pressure.

We were very apologetic on our way out. “The last thing we all want is me passing out in your restaurant,” laughingly added my consort halfway out, but… apparently this last argument was quite convincing, and a cozy table in the main room across from the entrance was kindly offered and accepted.

Watching the color returning to my consort’s face, I finally relaxed and took a closer look around. A small, contemporary room, with a relatively low ceiling, requires concomitant simplicity, minimal intervention to produce a desirable visual affect with a grain of sophistication. Any expensive, complicated intrusion, even in small details, results in the impression of unsupportable compressed mass lacking in air. Otherwise interesting hand-crafted Lalique glass art work, depicting encrusted trios of the beautiful, graceful images of dancing women and men were inserted in the wooden paneling that blanketed the wall, opposite the entrance, to within several feet of the ceiling, and cut the corners of each wall with curved shapes, thereby suggesting a conflict between their circulatory logic and the symmetrical layout of the original Classical rectangular structure of the room. This roundness and the decorative adornment on the ceiling, mimicking the curves of the panels, took away precious space, and a gorgeous split violin sculpture by Arman was too large for its location and broke up the central focus, disintegrating concentration on the whole space, replacing it with what looked like a peripheral dispersion of incidentals. The total impression of the décor was that of dismembered fragments, which was quite contrary to chef Passard’s cuisine… but one thing at a time.

Bretons like their butter salty. A generous portion of a tall, trapezoidal mountain of golden-yellow butter from Saint-Malo, epitomizing the essence of the rustic, rural spirit, was placed in front of us along with roughly cut, warm slices of pain au levain as if contradicting every notion of sophistication or elaboration that Passard’s cuisine offers, with its bold, direct statement. The rich butter, intensely saturated with sel de Guérande – that same famous gray sea salt from the Brittany coast, harvested manually from mid-June to mid-September by paludiers – looked almost porous and flaky and was more intensely salted on the edges than inside its gentler belly. The bombarding flavors of buttery salt and yeast almost blinded our taste buds so that if not for the detoxifying amuse, two tiny pâte brisée tartelettes – one filled with undressed baby greens, a thin round of radish and a sprinkle of edible flowers for color, with no particular taste other than the taste of Spring and freshness, and the other filled with soft, downy, and rather light whipped parsley butter, with the accent on the buttery pastry shell which was crumbling, delicate and slightly salty, encompassing the filling nicely – the first course, the signature L’oeuf, poached egg with maple syrup and cherry vinegar, with all its delicacy and subtlety, would’ve been lost.

There was no mound of coarse salt serving as a decorative pedestal allowing the eggshell to show off. There was no “bonnet” made of luxury ingredients topping the egg to visually smooth the edges of the decapitated shell. The small, brown egg (from a little Loire village called Bigottière) was displayed in a purposefully dispassionate, unsentimental way, plainly, in a graceful setting (in a silver eggcup on a small red-rimmed plate placed on top of a matching larger plate), immobile and vulnerable, lacking any external adornment, with minimal intervention to its exterior only to surprise the palate when its lightly warm contents, filling about three quarters of the shell, was finally revealed.

The word “poached” applied only to the yolk, which, separated from the discarded white, was very lightly poached for several minutes, maintaining its liquid, viscous nature only to be bound to the inside of the shell by the “glue” of its slightly firmer rim. The unseasoned yolk, embellished with one tiny ring of chive, was hidden on the bottom of the shell under a fluffy blanket of exceptionally airy and bubbly cream, whipped so lightly that there was just enough firmness for it to support a one-stroke splash of Canadian maple syrup thinned with a drop of cherry vinegar for contrast, subduing the syrup’s sugariness. The sweet notes, which were extremely delicate and added a focus to the natural sweetness of the cream, were completely absorbed by the more powerful, chive-sparked yolk, while diluting the yolk’s intensity, as the contents of the shell finally mingled together, giving the dish a different body and taste. There were no more than three small spoonfuls to what seemed to be a simple dish, but it truly brought one to a moment of almost spiritual reverie in the face of the exceptional balance.

Caviar osciètre royal d’Iran (nouvelle pêche).

When a bowl of white, thick and smooth, creamy and lightly frothed Jerusalem artichoke velouté, whose gentle flow was disturbed only by the dark beads of the scoop of Iranian Royal Caviar in the center, was placed in front of me, before I attempted to unravel the flavors of this pictorial dish and examine the quality of the caviar, a reminiscence of the first time I tried beluga – the world-class 000 malossol caviar (from Astrakhan, aged for two months), with large (about 3 millimeters in diameter) beads, leaving an unforgettable sensation as little black pearls popped lightly when pressed against the roof of my mouth with my tongue, releasing, just like good butter, a soft, rich and exquisitely delicate flavor with a hint of sweetness, a slightly nutty flavor and a clean, smooth finish – brought back a pleasant feeling.

With current problems relating to overfishing in the Caspian Sea and trade restrictions on Russian sturgeon, I hardly expected to see beluga on the menu, though the price of the dish prompted high expectations, but I anticipated finding excellent quality osetra and was surprised and disappointed after examining it.

Iranian caviar has several disadvantages compared to Russian (specifically, along the Volga, “the mother of sturgeon rivers” --Inga Saffron) that may affect the quality and taste, in my opinion: 1) Osetra from the cooler waters of the southwest shores (the coast of Iran in the Caspian Sea) doesn’t develop the complexity of flavors, ranging from fruity to nutty, lingering pleasantly in the mouth, for which it is praised. 2) There is a fine art to producing top-quality caviar that varies from fish to fish, applied depending on whether the eggs are perfectly ripe, immature or too mature, requiring different curing techniques to bring out the best in the roe. These skills were mastered over the centuries in Russia and were passed from generation to generation assuring the high level of integrity of the product, whereas the consumption of both sturgeon and its roe and even touching the fish were not allowed by Islam, since sturgeon doesn’t have scales, so that Iranian participation in the caviar trade has really been only a 20th-century phenomenon.

The dark-gray-to-brown color of the beads on my plate, indicating a stronger flavor (lighter, golden color osetra is more delicate), their medium size, uniformity and shine were very attractive, and I anticipated a little burst as I put several pearls in my mouth only to be disappointed by a sluggish, soggy result lacking the distinctive “pop,” and sadly, a very salty, straightforward flavor, which is an indication of inferior quality.

Lightly salting caviar, as with Russian Malossol, is the desired treatment for the best eggs, allowing no more than 3% salt in relation to the egg weight; lesser grades can have up to 10%. Mixing salt with borax (an old method utilized in Russia to simulate the 16th century approach where caviar was penetrated by borax from the soil, near the Caspian Sea, in which bags with caviar were buried to age), results in caviar with a more rounded, sweeter flavor. There were none of these characteristics in the caviar at Arpège. In fact, it tasted as if it were pasteurized, which sometimes is done after curing and packing to prolong caviar’s shelf life, but which permanently alters the eggs’ delicate protein, resulting in sogginess.

“Passard should change his supplier, but this dish is excellent,” said my consort, referring to the caviar, as he mixed it thoroughly with the velouté, and took a spoonful of the gently warm mixture. Indeed, despite the name of the dish, caviar was not the central element in this composition. The suave, rich velouté (slightly warmer than room temperature) was so intense in its gentle flavor that it was as if the last drop of life had been drawn out of the vegetable, revitalizing the creamy liquid and permeating it with a subtle, softly sweet and precise flavor. As the caviar beads spread out in the liquid and contributed their salty intonations, the sweetness seemed to blend naturally with the salt without being suppressed. It was a nice progression of flavors from slightly sweet to salty-sweet, with a gentle amalgamation of all components giving the dish its very structure, which didn’t shock, just pleased. Though the title, accenting a less-than-perfect component, was misleading, the ultimate result of the whole dish seemed to transcend the ingredients.

Collection legumière (automne-hiver). Betterave rouge au sel gris de Guérande (aceto balsamico tradizionale 25 ans d'âge)

If I were ever to prove that minimalism — the use of simple geometric forms on the plate with simple ingredients, the modular principle, addition rather than composition, the rejection of element-based hierarchies, which negate any character of hand-made dependencies — can deliver, despite its apparent simplicity, complex tastes and flavors, then this signature dish would be the best representation of the style.

Rough skin, carved off the quartered slice of beet, like a surfboard holding the unsteady, burgundy-red pulp positioned on the skin diagonally and appearing at turns realistic and almost abstract with its plump, meaty body showing off its bulging veins, and a thick, rich balsamic vinegar poured at the table, carving a wake in a static composition, were arranged in a precise configuration of bold relief against the shallow background of the plate.

The beet was baked for about an hour(?) at high temperature inside a pyramid of coarse, gray Guérande salt, in a strictly controlled environment, where any unattended detail could’ve spoiled the dish (e.g. excessive heat around the sides of the beet would force it to release juices and absorb more salt than intended). The weather must’ve been cool and favorable to produce this superior quality beet, which was accentuated by the cooking technique, allowing the dark internal flesh to preserve its gentle crunch and bring out the extraordinary sweetness, and the tasty, firm, taut skin, with salty crust, to provide a beautiful contrast.

The 25-year old balsamic vinegar, with its dark-brown color, full of warmth, and a thick consistency, lent a complex aroma of wood and grapes, and the nose was attacked by vanilla and ripe fruit with perfectly proportioned sweet and sour tastes complementing the pulp and offsetting the skin of the beet wonderfully, wrapping the sugary taste of the pulp with fruity sweetness and accentuating the earthiness of the skin.

Passard, who keeps his own two-hectare farm in Sarthe, supplies Arpège with fresh vegetables delivered to Paris by TGV on a daily basis. This simple, unpretentious dish, with direct contrasts, which hardly provokes one’s imagination, left an indelible mark as one of the most unforgettable dishes on our trip, which included meals at Pierre Gaignaire, Lucas Carton, L’Ambroisie, Les Ambassadeurs, L’Astrance, l'Atelier de Joël Robuchon…

Homard des îles Chausey au mile d’acacia (radis noir).

Very thinly cut, large rounds of black radish, resembling membranes, alabaster skins transparent enough to reveal spider-web patterns on their snow-white petals adorned with a thin, black ribbon, covered precious, lavishly pink chunks of lobster sprinkled(?) with rosemary. A lightly viscous emulsion of cherry vinegar mixed with acacia honey, not thick enough to stay on top of the composition “mountain,” ran down the hill, wetting the radish, leaving pale-beige trails and collecting into puddles on the surface of the plate. Two small branches of dill and flakes of black pepper, added at the table at the last moment, completed the composition.

This was yet another signature dish, proclaimed to be “one of the best” by nearly all guides recommending Arpège, and which served as an inspiration for other chefs to launch their own experiments with sweet-and-sour blends.

The gently sweet and extravagant notes penetrated every taste bud bathing each corner of the mouth with exotic and smooth flavor with a flowery perfume traveling all the way up the nose only to strike the back of the throat with a sharp vinegary acidity so abruptly that an extra gasp of air was required to catch one’s breath. The sauce was unbalanced, too stark, drowning the tender, slightly briny and truly excellent lobster meat in its sharpness. The black radish, soggy and very pungent, didn’t seem to help either.

I am familiar with black radish, known mostly in Eastern Europe and utilized extensively in salads, very well. Its flesh is generally crisp and slightly drier than that of other radishes, which could be preferable, if not for the mood-swings in taste this root vegetable exhibits, which can vary from relatively mild and pleasant to very strong, pungent and sharp. One way to tame it is by first salting and rinsing the radish or blanching it; however, either method, if overdone, may result in soggy petals, which is exactly what happened to the specimen I was served. It seemed that the radish was blanched for too long, to alleviate its peppery starkness, and lost its crunchiness, subsiding like a withering flower, chewy and lacking a fresh crunch.

Having taste for pedantry, I wasn’t satisfied with my impressions of this dish, considering its reputation, and launched a search for a possible picture or another more detailed description to compare with the version served on our visit. Luckily, I came across an excellent picture, which may prove the version of the dish I tasted to be if not inferior then at least different.

Our version.

Other version.

In this picture, the sauce looks to be thicker, indicating more generous utilization of honey or less vinegar, and the turnip petals, though of a different type, are perky and crisp, keeping the sauce in place on top of the hill, and apparently providing a crunch which should complement the tender lobster meat. I may give this dish another try the next time I’m in Paris.

Coquillage de la cote d’Emeraude (parfum d’epices et d’herbes fines)

One bite of scallop, and I rushed to clear my palate with water from the strong flavor left by the previous dish still lingering in my mouth, subduing the delicacy of the superb scallops and blocking the appreciation of the current dish, as neither the scallops, nor the vegetables accompanying them, with all their brightness of taste, were strong enough to compete with the previous vinegar/honey composition. At this point, we thought a small delight of a palate cleanser would be desirable to ensure natural progression of courses.

Two scallops, on a cloth of slightly wilted cabbage, unattached scallop roe, fried bay leaf, caramelized large, elongated onion with its skin on (Passard doesn’t waste any part of his vegetables), and thick parsley purée were rendered on a plate plainly, without excessive liberties and elaborate chiaroscuro effects, though with a certain theatricality to all elements, which although few in number and visually simple in form, were artfully arranged in an ordered manner celebrating the prosperity of nature and representing a carefully modeled still life that reclaimed energy through their perfect technical rendition and complex relationships of flavors. This dish was simply fantastic!

The middle of May (the time of our dinner) was supposed to be the end of the scallop season in the Emerald Coast in Brittany, but not just yet, as the chilly weather prevented scallops from spawning, when they lose their firmness and other sublime characteristics. Scallops, being a sedentary species, are not able to migrate like other fish to a location favorable for spawning in response to the yearly variation in water conditions. Their only response to cooler temperatures is tuning their reproductive schedule, which can even lead to the failure to spawn in a given season.

Fortunately, we had an opportunity to sample scallops in all their glory: springy but not tough, tender but very dense and meaty with enduring texture so that a slight chewing effort was required, extending the pleasure of lingering sweet juices inside the mouth. The medium-sized scallops had a lemony, brown crust, and their caramelized, slightly nutty-flavored exterior wonderfully enhanced their natural sweetness. The pink roe, condensed and plump, briny with a distinctive taste, was good, and the utilization of it in the dish indicated the freshness of the scallops, since scallop roe is very perishable and is usually discarded. The surprise, however, was still ahead.

Gagnaire teaches you everything about fish and meat without wasting any giblets. Passard shows you everything about every vegetable and herb without dismissing any of them as inedible, opening up a whole new world of tastes and flavors closed to our consciousness by our stubborn preconceptions. This is not mere extravagance to write a contemporary book of innovations or hunt for fame; they are excellent discoveries with sublime execution.

Bay leaf. Who could’ve thought that this herb, used primarily in bouquet garni to give flavor to soups and gravies and always discarded at the end, could taste so good! Crunchy, intensely salty, bursting with strong flavors of mint and piquant bitterness, tickling your mouth with a ripple of herbal mist evoking the spirit of spring, the bay leaf wrapped the scallops with its earthy intensity without disturbing their briny sweetness. Don’t be bashful: crunch on the deep-fried bay leaf to add a bitter spike; splash the unseasoned, but intensely grassy parsley purée on the scallop to offset the bitterness of the leaf; take a bite of the sweet caramelized onion and its crunchy skin (cooked for five hours on top of the stove!); and enjoy the merged flavors of both worlds – earth and sea – coming together in the most unexpected tunes. This dish was inspirational in its mathematical precision where no element was excessive and there was nothing one would contemplate adding.

“You look a little bit like Chef ‘s grandmother,” said Laurent Lapaire, Maître d', looking at me somewhat intently with a faint smile and a twinkle in his eye, while placing Turbot sauvage au naturel (emulsion de savagnin) in front of us. I haven’t noticed the large picture of the chef’s grandmother hanging on the wall to the right upon entering the restaurant, and since the view of the picture was blocked from my sight, my dismay from the thought of being compared to a “grandmother” apparently was expressive enough for M. Lapaire to realize that the intended compliment had not produced the desired effect, and he quickly retired.

“How does his grandmother look?” I asked my consort, somewhat puzzled, (after a short pause after M. Lapaire retreated) hoping that he had a better view of the picture from where he sat. “Darling, I can assure you that every second woman in this room ‘looks like the chef’s grandmother’,” he responded laughing while patting my hand lovingly, with no intent to insult Passard’s grandmother but to console my fears. Meanwhile, still under the influence of the recent incident, I took a piece of turbot in my mouth almost mechanically, only to break away from the world of tangible thoughts into the euphoria of the astounding balance.

The schematic simplicity of the presentation – a fantastic piece of tender turbot with a slightly woody flavor, quickly browned on a hot grill and then cooked slowly on top of the stove for two hours; one long branch of crispy asparagus, sprinkled with fleur de sel; velvety parsnip purée, gently sweet and fluffy, complementing the buttery taste of the fish wonderfully; a pile of tiny fresh chive rings, placed on the side; and a Savagnin emulsion, with the distinct flavor of fumet delicately balanced by the placid acidity of yellow wine and adorned with a thin stroke of asparagus sauce – created such compactness and clarity of taste that its quiet dynamic quality and expressiveness went far beyond the idea of “least is most” and the minimalist vocabulary here became part of a more complex context. There was a certain aesthetic sensitivity, elegance, and natural link between the woody, supple, sinuous flavor of the fish and the bounding sauce – made of vin jaune (yellow wine) from Jura region (the same sauce is served in the signature lobster dish) with a delicate, nutty richness binding all subtle flavors together – that elevated the dish to a work of art. This is the dish that changes one’s idea of perfection and balance, setting an unsurpassed example and lifting the bar of one’s expectations to a new level. This is the dish that is carried through all other experiences and years to be remembered, and this was certainly the dish of our evening.

It was stifling hot and stuffy inside the restaurant, as if the room had absorbed the fumes breathed out by the flickering, long, skinny candles, suffocating the inhabitants of the building. Even an open door didn’t let in the fresh, cool air, but rather let the building belch the oppressive heat out. A woman at the table behind us weakly hailed a waiter and was taken for rehabilitation outside, my consort finally released his neck from the oppressive tie and blew out the candle on our table, and I was just right, ready for the next course.

With a little stretch, Passard’s tasting could be compared to the standard musical sonata form, with its three distinct sections comprised of exposition, with a closing codetta ending in presto and on fortissimo (lobster in a sweet-and-sour sauce), which might be a pleasing contrast to the next moderato section for the ear, but numbs the palate, as it doesn’t seem to be able to recover as quickly as the ear; development, expanding and further exploring the world of herbs, vegetables, and sea; and reprise, in this case Volaille de pâturage poelée au sésame noir et soja (aceto balsamico tradizionale 25 ans d’age) , with almost every vegetable introduced during the meal collected on one plate, though presented in different preparations and arrangements – two delightful, tiny, fried ravioli, treasuring very peppery confit of onion under their crunchy but extremely delicate skins; caramelized round onion, fully dressed in its crunchy skin, reminiscent of the onion in the earlier dish but of a different variety; fried sage, sprinkled with coarse salt, crispy and bitter, echoing the fried bay leaf; a slice of a pseudo-Pissaladiere with no crust, made of turnip and red beet; and a deceivingly beautiful chive flower, fried just long enough to bring out its concentrated flavor, first biting your tongue with garlic sharpness and later with onion/chive bitterness.

However, what would’ve been a logical and expected recapitulation in music didn’t seem to be as pleasing to the palate. The dish lacked a surprise element that could’ve brought new, revitalizing flavors at the end, and even though the vegetables were done superbly, a sense of déjà vu and fatigue from the repetitive theme couldn’t have passed unnoticed. The chicken didn’t help either. Cooked for two and a half hours on top of the stove on a very low heat in almost no liquid, the chicken, though not tough, wasn’t moist and was somewhat flavorless. It was as if the chicken wasn’t cooked enough for the meat to break down after it toughened, which generally happens somewhere in the middle of a slow cooking process, and regain moisture, tenderness and concentrated flavor.

We were then served a plate of cheeses from Bernard Antony: Saint Nectaire fermier ( cow’s milk from Auvergne, appearing first during the reign of Louis XIV, with a very distinctive rotten smell and nutty, spicy taste revealing a slight acidity as it melted in the mouth); Valençay (goat’s milk from the province of Berry, the cheese that was originally shaped like a perfect pyramid and was deformed by the sword of Napoleon, who stopped at Valençay castle after his fiasco in Egypt and became upset seeing a cheese in the shape of the Egyptian pyramids); Brebis Corse (sheep’s milk from Corsica); Brillat-Savarin (cow’s milk triple cream); Persillé de la Tarentaise (goat’s milk from the Tarentaise area of Savoie, with the very acidic tang of a young goat cheese, usually aged one-and-a-half months or less.); and Abondance (cow’s milk hard cheese from Haute Savoie, with a nice, complex flavor and a balance of sweetness and light acidity).

After a pre-dessert refreshment of blood orange soup with floating droplets of argan oil, which scratched the back of the throat with its dry bitterness until mixed thoroughly with the soup, we finally reached the coda of our dinner and a cart, with a pan in which two medium-sized red tomatoes were bathing in bubbling caramel, was rolled to our table.

Perhaps when Passard first introduced this signature dessert, even the concept of using anything other than conventional fruits and limited herbs in desserts was revolutionary. However, as time went by and other chefs stepped over the boundaries of tradition, matching vegetables (beet, red pepper), herbs (paprika) and even bacon with sugar, Passard’s tomato dessert began to appear ordinary, in my opinion. In the version we were served, the tomato flavor seemed to have evaporated from the skinned tomato, after being cooked on the stove for two and a half hours and constantly basted in caramel. It was further subdued by the cloying sweetness of the dry fruit mélange and strong spices (clove, cinnamon, ginger etc.) with which it was stuffed, losing its identity and giving the dessert a Middle Eastern overtone. It seemed that the ripeness and the natural fruitiness of the tomato were not central (indeed, the signature tomato soup with mustard ice-cream was not on the menu, as this was not tomato season), and only its body, with its soft flesh, was used as a container to hold other ingredients. A mint-liquor ice cream slightly offset the cloying sweetness of the dessert, but I am afraid my high expectations were not met.

Around 450 euros was the price per person. I don’t think that such a price is unacceptable since people’s willingness to pay is and should be the only justification of cost in a market-driven society. However, from an objective perspective and in comparison to other similarly rated establishments, the ambience, service and even some ingredients or their rendition at Arpège suffered. Therefore, the question still remains why people are willing to patronize Arpège and pay such high prices. Is it a mere reflection of hype or a combination of overexcitement and energy-of-the-crowd syndrome? Is it that their hopes to achieve high standing among “knowledgeable diners” forces people to sponsor Arpège year after year and therefore continue encouraging Passard to keep prices up, which otherwise would never be acceptable?

When “connoisseurs” admire the “skill” and enjoy the “quality of cuisine,” and the vulgar herd pronounces the food “nice” or “splendid,” but hungry souls leave unfulfilled, the art becomes art for art’s sake. The neglect of inner meanings, the lack of passion and rhythm, this vain squandering of artistic power is called art for art’s sake. The artist seeks material reward for his dexterity, his power of vision and experience, and his purpose becomes the satisfaction of vanity and greed. The question “what?” disappears; only the question “how?” remains. There are chefs who seek only some new technique, and produce, without enthusiasm, with hearts cold and souls asleep, technically proficient dishes with no life.

Yet, Passard’s emotional power overwhelms the “how?” and gives free rein to his finer expression of a clear minimalist form, as if concentrating on the complexity of the inner beautify of one object instead of its relationship with the rest of the world. When his passion is engaged, Passard is a virtuosic performer, and his dishes, taking on greater complexity and exuberance, are simply transcendent -- alive, breathing, and passionate in their austere, but nonetheless elegant, rendition. When he is bored, a dull chicken will creep into the world of balance and fervor. You pay for hours and hours of careful cooking, requiring constant attention to every detail, allowing no mistakes. It is a huge responsibility, and no wonder that not many followed in Passard’s footsteps, as there is nowhere to hide a mediocre performance with such a minimalist art – straightforward, precise, with an extraordinary balance of flavors. The risk is too high and a special touch, patience and passion are required to achieve such mastery. This uniqueness or the lack of competition is what you pay for.

As long as Passard does not rest on his laurels at the expense of excellence and innovation, it may well be, in my opinion, worth paying the price he commands.

[robert brown]

lxt, it's essays like this that make eGullet unique. I can't thank you enough for taking the time to write it. I'm an admirer of Alain Passard, so it was nice for me to read about dishes I have never had and, with luck, encounter them in the near future. What happens next on your trip?

[milla]

Bravo!

A joy and pleasure to read...

[tony h]

I'm completely knocked out by your report - thanks for sharing.

Cheers

Tony

[lxt]

lxt, it's essays like this that make eGullet unique. I can't thank you enough for taking the time to write it. I'm an admirer of Alain Passard, so it was nice for me to read about dishes I have never had and, with luck, encounter them in the near future. What happens next on your trip?

Robert,

Thank you very much for your warm and encouraging words.

Some diners, who have experienced Passard’s cuisine over the years contend that it currently suffers compared to what he served before changing course to concentrate on vegetables and exclude red meat. What is your take on this?

Would you be able to share your impressions on the signature sweet-and-sour lobster dish? This dish was somewhat of a disappointment during our dinner and seemed to be slightly out of context with other less aggressive dishes on the tasting menu. I’d like to see whether it is worth giving another try.

I’ll attempt to put together a post on Gagnaire first since he doesn’t allow photography, and some less remarkable dishes have started fading from my memory. Unfortunately, my current workload may extend the time of finishing it indefinitely.

manresa, Tony thank you.

Edited July 7, 2004 by lxt (log)