In 1974, David Glass went to France to study art history but no sooner had he arrived than his interest forked off into the heart of modern French gastronomy. In place of an education at the Sorbonne and the Louvre, he entered into yearlong apprenticeships at two three-star Michelin restaurants that were leading the movement of Nouvelle Cuisine: first with Alain Senderens at l’Archestrate in Paris, then with Jean and Pierre Troisgros at Troisgros in Roanne, 56 miles northwest of Lyon. Upon his return to the United States, David started a catering business in Connecticut based on nouvelle cuisine, but it was a recipe for chocolate truffle cake that he had learned in France that would bring him culinary success as he morphed into a master of cakes and chocolates. He now lives in Vermont, where he operates David Glass Chocolates. Forty-five years removed from his culinary and cultural education in France, David pays tribute here to Jean and Pierre Troisgros. Jean passed away in 1983 and Pierre in 2020.

By David Glass

In September 1974, at the age of 26, several days after arriving in Paris to study art history at the Sorbonne, I ate a meal that changed my life. I had made a reservation at l’Archestrate on the recommendation of an acquaintance without knowing what to expect, and little did I know that my first exposure to French gastronomy would take place at a restaurant on the forefront of a type of cuisine that was on its way to conquering the world. Since I didn’t know anyone in Paris, I dined alone that evening. The meal began with a mussel soufflé, followed by sea bass with beurre rouge, tournedos Rossini, an ample selection of the ripest of cheeses, and an ethereal strawberry soufflé. The experience caused me to abandon art history and to devote myself to learning how to cook. I asked Alain Senderens, the chef and owner of l’Archestrate, if I could spend a few days in his kitchen. He said yes. I stayed for a year. (Senderens, who passed away in 2017, had earned his second star in the Michelin guide in 1974 and would receive his third in 1978.)

During my year in Paris, I seized the opportunity to take a road trip with friends to Roanne, a town northwest of Lyon, for a meal at Troisgros. The explosive flavors and exquisite lightness of that meal were the equal of my first encounter with high new gastronomy at l’Archestrate. Immediately I knew where I wanted to spend a second year of apprenticeship.

Thanks to Alain Senderens’ letter of recommendation, I was accepted as an apprentice at Troisgros in 1976. The French dining guide Gault & Millau had named Troisgros the best restaurant in the world in 1968, the same year that it received its third Michelin star. In 1973, the term “nouvelle cuisine” appeared Gault & Millau, referring to a type of cooking whose leaders were Jean and Pierre Troisgros, Alain Senderens, Paul Bocuse, and other chefs. The main tenets of their cooking were lighter sauces, fish that was barely cooked at its center, use of only the freshest ingredients, an emphasis on finding the very best method to cook each ingredient, and using fruits and vegetables that were sourced locally. After a year of developing skills and knowledge with Senderens, I was literally salivating at the prospect of pursuing my culinary education with the Troisgros brothers, while also expanding my sense of France by leaving the capital for a part of the country that few Americans had ever passed through other than those on a long drive toward the Riviera.

The uninformed visitor would never have suspected that a restaurant of Troisgros’s reputation would be found in Roanne. Unceremoniously described as “en face de la gare” (across the street from the train station) in the restaurant’s literature, Troisgros was housed in a building that was less than stunning. Yet I was immediately welcomed with warmth and friendliness as I arrived by train from Paris, and that feeling would remain with me until I left a year later.

I lived in the hotel above the restaurant, so even though I only worked the lunch shift, I was in the building from opening until closing. More than at l’Archestrate, I now had a sense of the full scope of the working day at a restaurant of such caliber. My work day started at 7AM and was over when the last lunch customers set aside their napkins and left, usually around 2PM. As busy and tiring as my own shift was, I could only imagine the extent of the mission of running a restaurant that aimed for 3-star perfection through two full shifts, day in, day out. When I eventually compiled a list of everything that had to get done each day, I felt the true weight of the task. From putting together veal bones, vegetables, herbs and other components of veal stock in the early morning to delivering the final dessert of the evening around 11 PM, the work was non-stop. There was actually no definitive end to the work day. Johnny Hallyday, France’s most famous rocker, dined with friends one evening and stayed until 4 AM.

Staff meals and the 3-star hamburger

Despite the pressure that we all felt to contribute to the Troisgros brothers’ (and Michelin’s) highest standards, there were some truly relaxing moments at the restaurant. Staff meals were a quiet moment between a busy morning of preparation and the hectic lunch or dinner service. For the most part we didn’t eat what was featured on the menu. Instead, I remember eating a lot of beef heart, gratin potatoes, green salads, chicken, less expensive cuts of veal and beef, seasonal vegetables, and occasional sweets. All of us, from the chefs to the apprentices, helped prepare these meals. Since the preparation of the gratin potatoes was part of my job, I would always watch the faces of my fellow cooks and the chefs to see if they liked them. If they didn’t, I was in trouble because this dish was also served to our customers. But they always loved the potatoes. On the other hand, the beef hearts, which were cheap, tough, and definitely not on the menu, were eaten with resigned silence.

We ate our staff meals at a large table in the kitchen, where Jean and Pierre were often joking about something. The rest of us were equally animated, probably as a way to release a final bit of tension before the customers arrived. Sometimes, one of the brothers would discuss the finer points of a particular menu item so that we would understand the reason for preparing a meat or fish a certain way, the combination of ingredients in the sauce, or why the various items on the plate were paired together. I remember a particular discussion about the poached bone marrow that accompanied the giant beef rib in bordelaise sauce and the reason it was included in this dish. We opined on the best way to eat it, with a piece of meat or on a slice of bread with fleur de sel. Since the marrow was served removed from its bone, customers would make the decisions for themselves. (I preferred it with a few grains of salt, letting it melt in my mouth so that it became coated with liquid fat.)

The kitchen staff that year consisted of cooks and apprentices from Holland, Japan, Switzerland, Germany and various regions of France. I was the sole representative of the United States. We took turns leading the preparation for staff meals. When it was their turn, the apprentices from France would typically prepare a dish from their region, thereby introducing us to a cuisine that others, particularly myself and the other foreigners, didn’t know. Everyone was respectful as they tried dishes. Though the French can be snobbish about their country’s or region’s cuisine, at Troisgros, in spite of its fame and notoriety, everybody, from the chefs to the apprentices, appeared interested and fully engaged when sampling a dish that was new to them.

Every once in a while, with no schedule or warning, Jean would issue a proclamation that it was International Day and one of the foreigners among the kitchen staff would be tasked with planning and preparing the staff meal based on his national or regional traditions. In view of all of the various traditions that were presented through the year, I was stumped when it came to planning an all-American meal. My colleagues gave some inappropriate suggestions: pancakes and maple syrup (but there was no Vermont maple syrup available, and who eats pancakes in the afternoon?); fried chicken (I didn’t know how to make fried chicken); hotdogs (NO!!); and a clambake (the ingredients were not available in Roanne). We settled on hamburgers, even though I never ate them and had never cooked one. As unusual as it may sound, the only bite of hamburger I’d ever had in the United States was so grey, so overcooked, and so vile that I spit it into my napkin and threw it away.

Jean had traveled to the United States to give cooking demonstrations, so he knew far more about our cuisine than I did, including about “le hamburger.” When I hesitated, Jean and Pierre immediately took the reins and gave suggestions. First, we were to gather all of the beef scraps. Troisgros’ beef scraps consisted of the “chain” of the filet, which was removed before it was cut into steaks, pieces of the rib steak, and ends of the entrecôte. These were not ordinary cuts that usually comprise a hamburger. Everything was hand-chopped using large knives. Because these were not the fatty cuts of beef normally used to make hamburgers, Pierre added a little kidney fat, and Jean added finely chopped shallots. The burgers were formed thick, so that they wouldn’t overcook. They were covered with cracked peppercorns, like a steak au poivre, and cooked rare. There were no buns, but there was one of the most delicious sauces I have ever tasted: Troisgros’ reduced veal stock, heavy cream and Port. At the first bite, the hamburger was spicy from the peppercorns. Then there was the taste of the rare ground beef, unlike anything ever served in the United States. Because of the high quality of the meat, the hamburger had the flavor of a perfectly cooked steak. The fact that it was ground resulted in more surfaces in the mouth than a slice of steak, and every ground bit exploded with flavor. In another part of the kitchen, one of the cooks made French fries, the French way: twice cooked so that they were crisp on the outside and meltingly soft inside. It was a perfect American meal, re-invented in a Michelin three-star kitchen by two of France’s most famous chefs.

The Apprentice System

The apprentice system in France required young cooks, many starting at the age of 15, to work in a kitchen for two years. They often worked for free or for very little payment, living at home, if they were local, or in a rented apartment or room. My situation was the exception as I was the only one who lived above the restaurant. I received no salary, but my room and board were free. At the end of their apprentice period, the other apprentices would take an exam called the C.A.P. (Certificat d’Aptitude Professionelle), which tested them on everything they learned in the kitchen. Passing this provided a degree that allowed them to advance, so that they could eventually become commis, chef de partie, chef saucier, and eventually chef de cuisine. The younger apprentices were tasked with some of the dirtiest jobs in the restaurant, such as scrubbing grease out the drains or plucking the feathers off huge bags full of frozen thrush. I never drew the worst jobs, probably because I was taller than everyone else and a few years older than the average apprentice.

There was always experimentation going on in the kitchen. Sometimes, the chefs and apprentices were encouraged to contribute ideas. One of my suggestions, a mixture of crumbled fresh goat cheese, finely chopped tomatoes and fresh thyme leaves, shaped into a small dome and presented in a miniature soufflé dish, was added to the amuses gueules (hors d’oeuvres) for a brief time. At the suggestion of a Japanese cook, cured salmon eggs were also adopted for a time. Previously, the eggs had always been discarded, and the Troisgros brothers seemed genuinely amazed when they learned the technique and tasted the cured eggs. My Japanese colleague also showed them how to make tempura batter with a fork instead of a whisk. Jean exclaimed, “Did you see how he made that with a fork?” (The French use a whisk for just about every kind of batter they make.) Novel ideas were always swirling around, and the brothers were always snatching them out of our brains.

Basketball

But all was not cuisine and work at Troisgros. Jean, with his impeccably trimmed grey beard adorning his classically handsome face, was quick to joke with clients. He was a tennis player and in superb condition, though he eventually died on the court at the age of 56, in 1983. Pierre sported a black, bristly mustache and was a bit more serious than Jean, though they could be equally raucous with friends. Pierre was also a bit rotund, although he moved just as quickly as Jean, both in the kitchen and on the basketball court.

One of my fondest memories was the weekly basketball game, which we played in a local gym, with Pierre, Jean, and anyone else who wanted to join. There was nothing so exciting as getting out of the kitchen after a stressful lunch service, changing into a tee shirt and shorts, and playing a no-holds barred game of basketball. I had the double advantage of being an American who grew up with the game and being the tallest member of the staff, an advantage that Pierre tried to deny me by unashamedly grabbing me from behind as I was attempting to make a layup. Meanwhile, Andre, the pastry chef and second tallest, was always waving his hands in my face. Rather than teach them some of the finer points of the game and convince Pierre not to cheat, I used my height and weight to knock into everyone on my way to the basket.

Meals in the dining room

Because I wasn’t paid for my work at the restaurant, Jean and Pierre allowed me to eat free of charge several times in the dining room. Among them was a memorable meal with my friend Reiko, a Japanese student I’d met earlier in my stay in France when she was touring the country. She was charming, so I invited her to visit me in Roanne and have a meal at Troisgros.

Consulting with Pierre about the food and Jean about wine, and keeping in mind Reiko’s love of fish, I decided to have an all-fish dinner. Since Troisgros’ menu depended upon what was available at the market that day, or what a local fisherman showed up with, I requested the day’s arrivals: St. Pierre (no relation to Pierre Troisgros and called John Dory in English) and sea bass. We would forego silverware and eat the entire meal with chopsticks. For the wine, Jean suggested a Bienvenue Batard Montrachet, the best white Burgundy I have ever tasted.

There is nothing so exciting as discussing an upcoming meal at a Michelin 3-star restaurant with the chef himself. By this time, I had learned a lot about the finest cuisine in France, and I wanted to make sure that our meal was going to be memorable. Pierre took his time with me, as if he had nothing more important in the world to do, and gave his suggestions. The St. Pierre would be seasoned with salt and pepper and then grilled. The sea bass would be roasted and served with a classic beurre blanc. I mentioned that Reiko was a small girl and that she was used to eating light meals, as was the custom in Japan. A typical French dinner would probably fill her up before she got to the main course. He suggested that all of the other courses would be very small so that she would have no trouble finishing her dinner. I, on the other hand, was welcome to go into the kitchen and make myself a sandwich if I got hungry afterward. (I did eventually have my standard sandwich that night. It was one that I occasionally made at night while everyone but the night watchman was asleep: a few thick slices of ham, gruyere cheese, and slices of tomato on rustic French bread. All traces were cleaned up before I went to bed.)

Toward the end of my year-long apprenticeship, I was given permission to have a final meal in the dining room, free of charge. I ate alone that evening, but I felt as though I were dining with the entire kitchen and wait staff. Jean, Pierre, and I put together a menu of fish and meat with red and white wines to accompany each dish, and the reason I am not listing the courses is because all was rendered moot as I sat down at the table. The maitre d’hotel came over to say that the chef wanted to offer me a wild woodcock (bécasse), which a hunter had just delivered to the restaurant. He actually leaned in and whispered this to me because at that time it was illegal to serve woodcock, an endangered species, at a restaurant. Nevertheless, with its extra-long beak, the bird was readily identifiable to most people in that part of the country. I was instructed not to say anything to anyone, or exclaim how good it was in a loud voice, or suck the brains out of the head unless I was hiding its beak in my hand.

This wasn’t my first woodcock, but it was the best one I had ever tasted. It was cooked, as all game birds should be, à la goutte de sang (approximately medium rare). The flavor was gamy, the flesh was tender, and the internal organs were mashed up with foie gras and spread on a thin slice of baguette. I had a wickedly tasty red Burgundy, chosen for the occasion by Jean Troisgros, that not only complemented the woodcock but also helped make the meal into something greater than the sum of its parts. It doesn’t happen all the time, but every so often, a wine will perfectly complement a dish. So it was with this Burgundy, which tasted as though its tannin had just crossed over the border from astringent to deliciously round, and the game bird, with its array of flavors. They fit together with stunning results. I sat there savoring the dish until the maitre d’hotel reminded me that it was time for the next course.

Troisgros after hours

It was after this last meal that I started visiting the empty restaurant and kitchen at night after the diners and staff had left. I needed only walk from my bedroom above the restaurant and down a staircase to reach the foyer. I felt that I was watching the ghost of the evening service, complete with the cooks preparing the dinners, Gerard, the stolid maitre d’hotel, giving instructions to the waiters, Michel, the chef de cuisine, steady as a rock, sauteing and roasting diverse items as he was, at the same time, making the sauces, Pierre preparing cuts of beef with the precision of a sushi chef, Jean wandering through the dining room with his cedar box full of Cuban cigars, and the customers thoroughly enjoying themselves.

Some of my favorite memories of that year were of hanging out at the bar inside the restaurant with the brothers and some of the Roannais who did business with Troisgros: the cheese affineur, who had invited me into his cellar to show me how he aged each type of cheese, the chocolatier, who taught me his craft (which would eventually become part of my own), the hunter, whose deliveries depended upon which birds or what deer crossed his path, and others. None of them looked like the type of customer you would expect to see in a three-star restaurant. In fact, the bar itself seemed out of place. If you entered the front door of the restaurant and went to the bar, you would think that you had just entered a small, local dive. Customers there were dressed casually, none in suits or ties or fancy dresses. On the other hand, everyone felt welcome, no matter how they dressed, at the bar and in the restaurant. The warmth, compassion and willingness to share made the restaurant an even homier place.

Throughout that year, the brothers, the cooks and apprentices, the waiters, and all of the other employees of Troisgros made up a family of some of the warmest and kindest people in the food industry, a family that was united in making sure every single customer was warmly received, treated with kindness, and fed the best meal of his or her life. There was no snobbery at Troisgros. Everyone felt comfortable there. Upon entering, every customer felt the excitement of knowing that as long as they were at Troisgros, they would be treated as though they were family, too.

This was one of the most exciting years of my life. After two years of experience at two of the most creative restaurants in the world, I was ready to return home in 1977 to start my American career. Along with a wide range of culinary skills, what I especially learned from Jean and Pierre Troisgros was their talent for pleasing staff and customers. They served as my models in that respect as I returned to the U.S. with the ambition of creating my own business.

Jean, as noted earlier, died young, in 1983 at the age of 56. Pierre lived a long life and got to see his son Michel and grandsons take over the business and move Maison Troisgros, their gastronomic restaurant, to a beautiful new location in Ouches, a few miles outside of Roanne. Pierre died in 2020 at the age of 92.

RIP, Jean and Pierre Troisgros. Thank you for teaching me so much about French cuisine—and about so much more.

© 2021, David Glass. First published on France Revisited, francerevisited.com.

See David Glass Chocolates for more about the author.
See Maison Troisgros for more about Troisgros restaurants and lodging.

The post Chef Talk: A Young American Apprentices with Jean and Pierre Troisgros, Masters of Nouvelle Cuisine appeared first on France Revisited - Life in Paris, Travel in France.

The Bread

While first and foremost a pastry chef, curiosity has led Benoît Castel to explore the pleasure and craft of making quality breads. One bread in particular caught my attention because it adds pinch of North America in Castel’s otherwise patently French pastry shops/bakeries in the 11th and 20th arrondissement.

“I have a supplier who goes around the world looking for interesting spices and then holds a tasting of them twice each year,” says Castel. “The scheduling of one tasting coincided with my reflections on creating a new bread for the shop. One of the products I tasted was alder wood smoked Salish salt from Washington State. As soon as I tasted it I said to myself, ‘I’ve got to use that,’ and I started to imagine a recipe around it. I liked the smoked woody taste that was both subtle and distinct enough that its flavor would come through while keeping the salt level down. And I decided to balance it out with the addition of the earthy-floral touch of honey.”

Save the salt allotment for the butter, that’s what I say.

Along with the honey and Salish salt bread he calls Pain du Coin, his daily bread line-up also includes a traditional baguette, a traditional rounded loaf, and a walnut, hazelnut and raisin bread called Le Granola. On weekends, two other hard-crust slow-fermented breads based on organic specialty flours join the shelves: Le Pain du Traquet Pâtre (flour from Morbihan, southern Brittany) and Le Pain des Deux Livres (flour from Lot-et-Garonne, between Bordeaux and Toulouse).

The hard-crust breads, some the size of couch cushions, nearly require a chain saw to be sliced. That’s a compliment—the play between the hard crust and the spongy heart is part of the pleasure of such breads.

The Brunch

The typical traveler is unlikely to have a chain saw available to cut into a chunk of hard-crust bread during a Paris promenade. Not to worry, it’s already been sliced for those who come for brunch at Benoît Castel Ménilmontant, Castel’s pastry shop/bakery/breakfast/brunch shop-café in the 20th arrondissement.

The bread is only a small part of the pleasure of brunching here. Above all, this is a satisfying and friendly entry to a neighborhood that’s largely off-track for tourist. It’s an ideal place to begin weekend wandering in the increasingly gentrified neighborhoods of eastern Paris. From here you can explore the 20th and 11th arrondissements as you make your way back to center. (You needn’t actually wait for the weekend; Benoît Castel Ménilmontant is also open for breakfast, as wells for a light lunch Wednesday through Friday.)

The semi-industrial décor, the old bread oven in the back, the canteen-style plates, the mismatched tables and chairs, and the haphazard décor are as much a reflection of Castel’s enjoyment of sourcing furnishings from flea market and second-hand shops as it is a sign that the space is fully at home in entrepreneurial (some would say Brooklynesque) eastern Paris.

There’s an open pastry kitchen, where you might see Castel putting the finishing touches on a pie.

That, too, is a sign of the times. In an open kitchen there are no secrets and no pretentions other than to keep it fresh, keep it simple, keep it good. (The bread is made in the basement.)

During brunch, Castel works non-stop while always available for frequent interruptions from clients.

At 29€, Benoît Castel Ménilmontant’s brunch is on the upper end of brunch prices in eastern Paris. But it’s all-you-can-eat, linger-‘til-you’ve-had-your-fill, there’s-something-to-please-everyone, and compares favorably with typical 22€ single-plate offering.

Generally speaking, brunch is not a working class outing in Paris, so a 29€ brunch in an area that was, until a decade ago, largely considered a neighborhood of working class and immigration, is a sign of how much eastern Paris has changed and is changing. It remains a melting pot, though the new arrivals represent less diversity and more financial comfort than earlier arrivals.

It’s a self-serve brunch, other than the glass of fresh squeezed juices (choice of orange, apple and carrot during our brunch) that will be brought to the table.

Castel says that it’s not unusual for brunchers to stay for two hours. We did. We took a seat at 11:30AM, tried all of the breads, croissants, homemade jams and butter for breakfast, sat for a few minutes with coffee, then eased into lunch. Whether because we take our job as travel journalists seriously or because we were feeling particularly voracious, we tasted everything: the egg dish, the hams, and the salads, then the ribs, the chicken and the other salads, all country-style and freshly prepared. There’s something for everyone. We picked from each other’s plates the ones we cared for that the other didn’t.

Brunch doesn’t include the single-serving tarts and dinner-party-size pies available in the pastry shop. Yet the family-style desserts at brunch—French toast pie, panna cotta, chocolate mousse, and watermelon with a strawberry coulis—are evidence already of Castel’s easy-going sense of the sweet life.

We lingered, and only the promise of a sunny afternoon stroll pulled us from our seats.

The Pastries

Pastries are the heart of Benoît Castel’s craft and trade. It’s a craft he began training in as a teen in Brittany and has pursued in Paris since the age of 17.

Individual pastries can be purchased as an add-on to brunch, but you’re unlikely to find room in your appetite. Better to return another time. Or zig-zag slowly through eastern Paris as you make your way downhill toward Castel’s small shop on rue Jean-Pierre Timbaud. By the time you arrive you be ready for a tart of one kind or another.

Fans of glossy pastry pics for their Instagram feed may be a bit disappointed to find that Castel’s creations aren’t covered in cute and cheery. He eschews efforts to raise the profile of his pastries through purely decorative means or coloring. His palette is pastel rather than acrylic. Quality classics reign, such as the simple and simply delicious tarte à la crème, along with the tartelette aux fraises, the tartelette aux framboise, the tarte citron, the millefeuille (napoleon) and the moelleux chocolat. The display counter may also include the occasional foreign (but increasingly common) intruder such as a light round of cheesecake.

Castel’s pastry signature is a tiny tart-topping square of shortbread (sablé), placed on top like a cocked cap, inviting us to enjoy, to share, and not take any of this too seriously.

Several crumbs of baking history

The Ménilmontant shop bears some Paris bread-baking history. It was here that, in 1960, Bernard Ganachaud, a son of bakers, opened his first Paris shop, Boulangerie Ganachaud. In 1968 Ganachaud turned to baking his bread in a wood-burning oven, the old-fashion way. The old oven is still visible here.

In 1981, Ganachaud created the recipe for flûte Gana, a traditional poolish pre-fermented stick of bread with a crackly crust and a tender airy crumb. The Gana is a fairly well-known branded bread in Paris, though its fame pales in comparison with that of Poilâne bread, a country-style sourdough bread baked in a wood-burning oven, whose international reputation developed under Lionel Poilâne. Nevertheless, more than 200 bakeries are licensed to produce the flûte Gana in France. The Ganachaud family sold the shop now owned by Benoît Castel long ago as they expanded their little empire in other quarters. Those on the bread tour of eastern Paris might stop at the Ganachaud boutique at 226 Rue des Pyrénées (20th arr.), a 7-minute walk from here.

Benoît Castel Ménilmontant
150 rue de Ménilmontant
75020 Paris
01 46 36 13 82
Open Wed.-Fri., 7:30AM-8PM. Breakfast and light lunch served those days. Open Sat. 8AM-8PM and Sun. 8AM-6PM. Brunch is served Saturdays and Sunday 10:30AM to 3:00PM. The space seats 50. Reservations are not taken, so arrive for brunch by 11:30AM or after 1:30PM to avoid a line. By the time the day’s crumbs have been cleared, 100 to 120 people have brunched here.

Benoît Castel Jean-Pierre Timbaud
72 rue Jean-Pierre Timbaud
75011 Paris
01 48 06 70 59
Open Mon.-Sat. 8AM-8:30PM, Sun. 8AM-6PM.

Castel also operates the joyfully named Josephine Bakery at 42 rue Jacob in the 6th arrondissement. The little shop isn’t big on bread but is well situated for tourists looking for a snack in the area. Open Mon.-Fri. 7:30AM-7:30PM.

Map showing the location of the Ménilmontant and Jean-Pierre Timbaud shops.

If visiting the neigbhorhoods in eastern Paris, you might find yourself on rue Jean-Pierre Timbaud, as an American couple who brunched at Benoît Castel Ménilmontant did in Paris Street Talk: Chadors, Cannibals, Communists and the Wall of 3 Crowns.

© 2018, Gary Lee Kraut

The post Benoît Castel: Bread, Brunch, Pastries in Eastern Paris appeared first on France Revisited - Life in Paris, Travel in France.

The admonisher, backed by the supercilious smiles of snotty companions, will inform you that appétit (appetite) refers to the physical act of digestion and the animal desire to chow down rather than to the appreciation and pleasure of sharing a meal. Since it’s inappropriate to speak of the workings of the intestines at the dinner table, he’ll explain, “Bon appétit” is a cultural no-no. At least “in good society,” he’ll add in case you missed the condescension.

To say “Bon appétit,” according such thinking (though it isn’t so much thinking as an expression of dismay that there so few servants around), is akin to acknowledging that the queen has passed gas and that the exquisite meal before you shall end up in the plumbing tomorrow morning. You are led to understand that “Bon appétit,” or “Bon app,” as it is more informally and ridiculously said, may be common at tables where poor schmucks are lucky enough to have fuel for the body, but not among proper company such as this—though you’re to be excused as a foreigner for not knowing better, just don’t let it happen again. Digest later, if you must, for now we’re dining.

[Interestingly, this article in a major French daily, Le Figaro, (published several days after my initial text and sent to me by an amused French reader), even in arguing the case against “Bon appétit,” appears to acknowledge that it’s use or non-use is a question of class, given its popularity among the necessarily improper common folk. The article also blames Americans for being crass enough to consider “Bon appétit” acceptable and thus spread bad manners.]

There’s no need to be cowered by this faction of the snobocracy in France. For them, “Bon appétit” may be inverted code for “not one of us,” but generally speaking it refers no more to digestion today than “snob” now refers to the shoemaker of its etymological origin.

Nevertheless, it’s worthwhile being seated at such tables because tables of abundance abound with insights into culture, society, individuals, ritual and etiquette, along with the pleasures of the food and drink served.

Looking around the table as you dine in Paris and travel in France, you may recognize some of the people described below. You’re likely to meet them at home as well. You may even identify with one of these terms yourself. Magazine publishers certainly think you do.

Epicures: Epicures are exceptional connoisseurs of pleasure, luxury, and/or sensuality, generally relative to food and drink. Their storehouse of knowledge and experience give them sensitive and discriminating tastes. For instance, an epicure knows how to stick his nose deep into a glass of red wine, though he sometimes does it in a way that makes non-epicures want to push his face into it. Epicures can be pleasant conversationalists at a dinner party, but as they describe their food travels they may reveal an edge of anxiety if you don’t share their opinions. That’s the time to suggest that they read up on the life and thought of the ancient Greek philosopher Epicurus, and to chill out.

Gourmets: Gourmets may be less refined than epicures but have educated palates nonetheless and are generally better cooks. A gourmet certainly knows food and fully grasps the meaning of words like braised, blanch and deglaze. Though a gourmet need not know how to cook, the word is frequently used to qualify someone’s cooking skills, as a gourmet chef. The demise in 2009 of the American magazine Gourmet might be attributed to the fact that the word itself no longer made enough upscale food folk drool. By then, foodies had come of age.

Foodies: Foodies is a term coined in the 1980s, and for a while they were the Trekkies of the food chain. But by the end of the 1990s the success of the Food Network and cooking shows around the world proved that there were minions of food-worshippers seeking ways to glorify their own appetite. The term’s trajectory naturally matches that of Whole Foods. Foodies are more faddish and perhaps more gullible than gourmets, yet they can also be more joyous and more passionate in congratulating themselves for fulfilling their (bon) appetite.

Gastronomes: Gastronomes are close to epicures in that they have a wealth of food knowledge and dining experience that have earned them discerning tastes. They are enthusiasts, fond of judging and comparing, and can thus be name-droppers when it comes to fine restaurants. Though not necessarily snobs, gastronomes have been known to miss out on the social sensuality and pleasure of the dining experience. Nevertheless, one would be remiss in refusing a dinner invitation from a gastronome due to the pleasure they take in the art of cookery. Gastronomy, of course, is their game. As a house gift, better to bring flowers or chocolates than wine because the gastronome invariably has something “more appropriate” to serve.

Connoisseurs: From the French word literally meaning “one who knows,” i.e. an expert. The connoisseur is typically qualified by the object of his expertise, wine connoisseur being the prime example. When a connoisseur knows how to keep his abundance of knowledge in check, he’s a welcome guest. His ability to appreciate subtleties in his field often make for informative and entertaining company. Some connoisseurs, however, dominate the conversation with their their expertise, which then also makes them bores. The wine connoisseur, for example, can come in handy when it comes to choosing wine, as long as he doesn’t spend the evening complimenting himself on his selection.

Mavens: Think of maven as the Yiddish translation of the French word connoisseur and you’ll begin to seize the difference. Mavens are generally highly educated people with a specific expertise, which makes them great company… for a book. Unfortunately, at the dinner table, while they can wow the assembly with their expertise, they seem to believe that their expertise in one thing makes them experts in everything, including everything on your plate and every topic of conversation.

Gluttons: Gluttons, given to immoderate consumption, are voracious and wolfish eaters and drinkers. Some gourmets and connoisseurs are closet gluttons, using their intellectual interest in good food and wine as a cover for a greedy appetite. But a glutton who acknowledges that he’s a glutton can, despite the tendency to self-abuse, be a fun eating companion, every now and then, though you’re likely to find yourself overindulging while in his company.

Gourmands: A gourmand has a good appetite and may also have discerning tastes, but since the strength of his appetite is greater than his need to discern he won’t turn his nose up at anything. He may well be married to a gourmet. Sitting between the quantity needs of the glutton and the quality interests of the gourmet, the gourmand is nevertheless occasionally given to excess. The British magazine The Gourmand thus put this fellow on a recent cover:

Bons vivants (or bon vivants): Literally ones who live well or are fond of good living, the term refers to those with a healthy, lively appetite for the finer things in life, particularly food and drink. Their good humor makes for jovial company. “Let’s get another bottle, I’ll pay for it,” they say. When the bill comes they don’t always have the cash on hand, but you accept their generosity of spirit as payment enough. They sometimes calm down after their first heart attack.

Bon appétit!

© Gary Lee Kraut

The post Table Talk: Bon Appétit and Other Dinner Conversations appeared first on France Revisited - Life in Paris, Travel in France.

To eat late is easy in Paris, and to eat well is, too. But too eat late and well is rare. And to do so in the presence of one of Paris’s most esteemed purveyors of traditional bistro fare is a privilege.

I’m sitting with Paul Racat, owner of La Poule au Pot since 1974. Our soupe gratinée may seem simple enough but I know of no better setting in which enjoy in a single bowl all of the basic French food groups: onions, cheese, bread, chicken bouillon and white wine. Furthermore, when served at La Poule au Pot one can actually taste the history: the history of of the old central food market, dubbed “the belly of Paris” by Emile Zola; the history of this bistro whose décor has scarcely change since 1935, and, while classic French songs of the 1950s play softly in the background, the history of Paul Racat’s restaurant as a staple of late-night sustenance for greater and lesser names of fashion, film and pop music since the 1970s. I add to that my own personal history since I have been coming to La Poule au Pot for a late-night fix of onion soup for over 25 years.

As the waiter clears away our empty bowls, Racat brings out guest books containing the signatures, comments and drawings of some of the hundreds of familiar names and faces that have dined here: musicians, actors, comedians, designer, models, architects, chefs, models, and others that Racat collectively refers to them as “les artistes.”

La Poule au Pot has been known to have a party atmosphere in the middle of the night—as when some of the Rolling Stones first came after a recording session in Montmartre in the mid-80s or when Michel Petrucciani, a well-known French jazz pianist who passed away in 1999, stood on a banquette and tell raunchy jokes—but this was never a place to see and be seen, rather a place to enjoy the classics of hearty fresh bistro fare amiably served at any time of night. One is far more likely to see couples or friends in discreet conversation, as tonight, whether they’re artistes or not. And it isn’t unusual to see someone dining alone after midnight. Racat recalls Bruce Springsteen sitting quietly in a corner in the early ’80s, writing, perhaps lyrics to a song.

Guardian of fresh traditional bistro fare

“When I started out I imagined developing four or five restaurants, but I ended up staying with one for my entire career,” says Racat.

Not only has he remained devoted to his first and only restaurant, but to the menu of traditional bistro fare that he opened it with: escargots, soupe gratinée, os à moelle, fried camembert, chicken and rice with a cream sauce, steak tartare, poule au pot Henri IV (the restaurant’s namesake dish of long-simmered chicken and vegetables in broth), veal kidneys, salmon, lamb, tarte tatin, crème brulée, profiteroles, etc..

His dedication to preparing quality versions of such traditional dishes has made Racat one of the capital’s guardians of such cuisine. He is the Paris representative of the fraternal gastronomic order La Marmite d’Or, which honors the preservation of traditional cuisine and products. He is also a member of the Prosper Montagné Gastronomic Club, named for the renowned chef and author (notably of Larousse Gastronomique, an encyclopedia of French gastronomy) of the first half of the 20th century. Racat often repeats Montagné’s motto “On ne fait du bon qu’avec du très bon”—You can only make something good from something very good).

Paul Bocuse, Joel Robuchon, Guy Savoy, and other chefs known for their high gastronomy have signed Racat’s guest book. And he has been honored by the French State with Knighthood in the Order of Agricultural Merit and in the National Order of Merit. Can the Legion of Honor be far behind?

Attracting show biz folk

Racat grew up in the Borbonnais area of Allier (Auvergne) and studied at the Beaux-Arts school in Moulins. After the premature death of his father there was no longer sufficient family funds for him to stay in a school leading to an uncertain future, he says, so he switched to a hotel-restaurant school with the idea of working as a chef. Cooking had been a passion since childhood. At 18 he was hired for his first kitchen job in Paris at the gastronomic restaurant Prunier. Brief stints followed at a series of stellar restaurants—Tour d’Argent and Plaza Athenée in Paris, Trianon Palace in Versailles—along with a gig in England preparing a hunting meal for the royal family.

In addition to gaining culinary experience during those six years, Racat says that he also learned “how poorly waiters and kitchen staff were treated by chefs and bosses at the time.” Together those valuable lessons led him at age 24 to want to strike out on his own.

“A partner and I were looking for a business and we came upon this one. A business at Les Halles may have been worth more than one on the Champs-Elysées during the time of the market, but with the market gone [Paris’s central food market moved to Rungis is 1969] it wasn’t worth much at all.”

Racat and his business partner bought La Poule au Pot in 1974. Racat created the menu and ran the kitchen. His partner oversaw the dining room. Several years later their teamwork turned wobbly, so Racat bought him out. Racat then hired a chef and began working as the front man. He would eventually acquire the property as well.

The décor of 1935

Racat and his partner were only the second owners of La Poule au Pot. They purchased the business from its original owners, the Penigueys, a couple who created the restaurant in 1935 and had scarcely changed the décor over the next 40 years. After her husband passed away, Suzanne Peniguey placed the restaurant under management, but, says Racat, the business turned sour, so at age 82 she was forced to take it back. Too old to operate it herself she decided to sell.

“She asked me not to change the décor until she died,” says Racat, “and I promised that I wouldn’t.”

His promise has held long beyond that. Peniguey passed away at the age of 98, yet the original décor still remains largely intact. Over the years Racat has changed some of the wallpaper, updated the overhead lighting and added some photographs and paintings, including a naïve painting of the front of the restaurant painted that he painted himself. Nevertheless, with its mirrored walls, copper bar counter, deep red banquettes, mosaic floor tiles, gold glass tiles around columns and various decorative elements passed on from the Penigueys, the bistro spirit of pre-war Les Halles remains in the décor as it does in the cuisine. The Penigueys’ cash register is still there, too, though no longer used.

La Poule au Pot might best be considered a luxury bistro. But the luxury here is in no way association with pretention or snobbery. What is luxurious is instead Racat’s insistence on simplicity, tradition, quality, kindness and the possibility to linger through the night. A 3-course meal runs 50-60€ without wine. Yet one might simply come for an after-midnight bowl of onion soup and a glass of white wine, before being tempted by a blueberry tart or a tarte tatin.

Hundreds of plaques of the names of celebrities

Racat and his partner didn’t set out to create a venue for celebrities, but thanks to friends of the partner and their decision to keep the restaurant open through the night, La Poule au Pot attracted people from show biz early on.

Typically it’s the record or production company that calls to say that the artist is coming. They come after their show accompanied by musicians, producers, friends or others. Sometimes a limousine pulls up, as when a little fellow arrived with a tall and beautiful blond on his arm and two hefty bodyguards close behind. “Love God. Prince,” the fellow signed in the guest book.

Musicians and actors still come, but gone are the days when there would be a haze of illicit smoke in the street. “The 1970s and 1980s were what they were,” Racat says, “but I never tolerated drugs inside the restaurant.”

Among Racat’s additions to the décor are the hundreds of little plaques that border the banquettes and side panels indicating the names of artists that have signed the guest books. It’s now the artists who ask for a plaque with their name to be placed here, he says.

La Poule au Pot has three categories of guest book: one for artists, one for politicians, one for everyone else. But only the artists have the right to a plaque. “Artists remain,” he says, “politicians just pass through.” One of the plaques toward the back bears his own name.

You may be disappointed coming to La Poule au Pot solely for the purpose of celebrity spotting, particularly if arriving early in the evening. Nevertheless, the banquette you slide into may have once been occupied by members of The Rolling Stones, The Police, Santana, Motorhead, Simply Red, INXS, Status Quo and other groups; Cliff Richard, Donovan, Marianne Faithfull, Alice Cooper, Mark Knopfler, Dave Davies, Joan Baez, Chrissie Hynde, Christopher Cross, Bruce Springsteen, Prince, Patti Smith; Frank Sinatra, Sigourney Weaver, Bill Murray, Dustin Hoffman, Robin Williams, Jeanne Moreau, Miou-Miou; Jean-Paul Gaultier, Christian Lacroix, Pierre Cardin, Jean Nouvel, Paul Bocuse, Joel Robuchon, Guy Savoy and many more French and international celebrities, architects, chefs and fashion folk. Photocopies of choice pages of the guest books are available for patrons to examine upon request.

La Poule au Pot, 3am

The stars aren’t out much tonight, or at least not the recognizable ones. A waiter whispers to us that the man at the window table has introduced himself as an Israeli musician. Racat points out writer across the room.

The pace of a meals slows as the night unfolds. Diners lingers in the knowledge that waiters won’t be piling chairs up around them. The wait staff has a gracious deadpan approach. They have a tendency to feign surprise that one would ever want the pay the bill and call it a night with so much of the night ahead.

At 3am Racat suggests that we have frog legs. They arrive, sautéed in a light flour batter with garlic and parsley. Though several decades removed from operating the ovens at La Poule au Pot, Racat still tastes and, when necessary, “corrects” dishes. He nods in approval of the frog legs.

A woman now enters and comes over to our table to greet Racat. She has high fashion written all over her, from couture hat to elegant shoe. A former model, he tells me. She lives in the area and occasionally orders something to go… at 3:30am.

I mention seeing that Kate Moss and Naomi Campbell once signed his guest book after dining here together. What could they have possibly eaten here in this home of hearty traditions?

“Normal,” he says, “They ate normally.”

Looking at the decades of guest books, it appears that the heyday of international headliners has slowed since the turn of the century, though without disappearing altogether.

“It’s now the children of artists that come,” says Racat.

Some time ago, Thomas Bangalter, one half of the helmet-wearing duo Daft Punk, arrived with a friend one evening. Though unrecognizable to his fans, Racat immediately knew who he was since Bangalter had been coming here since he was a child, when he came with his father, a music producer. It was Bangalter’s dining companion that evening that Racat had never met until Bangalter introduced him to his friend Kanye West. “To La Poule au Pot where I’ve come with so much pleasure since childhood!,” Bangalter wrote in the guest book. “Thank you for all these meals and for all the evenings I’ve spent here!”

Thumbing the nose at passing time

In 2012 Racat was awarded the Vermeil Medal of the City of Paris for his contribution to gastronomy in the capital. In accepting the medal he said, “La Poule au Pot thumbs its nose at passing time.”

Yet time has passed, and at 65 years old Racat, though he looks young enough to have many years ahead of him at the restaurant’s helm, says that he’ll willingly retire when the right buyer came along. “Operating a restaurant takes its toll and operating an all-night restaurant even more so,” he says.

His wife, Pascale, worked with him in the 1980s, but working nights together was untenable once they had children. They have two sons, born in 1985 and 1989. “Both are gastronomes, but neither is interested in taking over the restaurant,” he says.

Perhaps some famous chef or other entrepreneur or a well-financed group will purchase the place, but it’s unlikely that the next owner will maintain the quartet of qualities that make La Poule au Pot the institution that it is today: the 1935 décor, the fresh traditional bistro fare, the night-only hours and, perhaps most important of all, the all-seeing owner on the premises. At least one or two of that quartet will disappear in the name of profitability. The time to spend a few hours at La Poule au Pot is therefore now, while Racat is still on duty.

La Poule au Pot’s historical counterpart in the Halles quarter is Le Pied de Cochon, the brasserie on the opposite site of the park, by Saint Eustache Church. Opened in 1947, it, too, is an all-night institution. But whereas La Poule au Pot’s authenticity comes from the dedication, presence and character of its owner, Le Pied de Cochon, like the vast majority of the historical brasseries of Paris, was long ago gobbled up by a large group. (It currently belongs to the Bertrand Group.)

La Poule au Pot, 4am

At 4am two men and a woman arrive. One of the men, apparently a regular, says that they’ve just finished a gig at a club in the 6th arrondissement and asks if it isn’t too late to eat.

“Certainly not,” says Racat, and he nods to a waiter to seat them.

A long discussion follows as to what they might like to eat. The waiter goes over the entire menu. When they finally choose it’s clear that these three aren’t looking for a late-night snack. They’ve come to dine.

I leave at 4:30am as the waiters deliver a steaming vessel of poule au pot and other dishes to their table.

“Looks like I’ll be staying a little longer,” says Racat.

La Poule au Pot
9 Rue Vauvilliers, 75001 Paris
01 42 36 32 96
Open 7pm-5pm except Monday night.

© 2017, Gary Lee Kraut

An earlier version of this article first appeared in The Connexion.

The post Paris by All-Night Bistro: La Poule au Pot appeared first on France Revisited - Life in Paris, Travel in France.