***

What do Alain Ducasse, Alain Passard, Pierre Gagnière, Anne-Sophie Pic, Gilles Goujon and Jean-François Piège have in common? If you answered that they are all masters of French high gastronomy then you’d be half right. The other half? They also have very French names.

Unlike Kei Kobayashi. Yet Kei Kobayashi is also a master of French high gastronomy, working the kitchen and operating his eponymous restaurant Kei. If his name sounded more French then perhaps this exceptional chef would have more American and British clients. As it is, he has a faithful French clientele, Japanese clients and a smattering of other well-informed international gastronomes.

Mastering the art of French cooking isn’t a question of nationality, as Julia Child taught us, but mastering the heights of French gastronomy has been a fairly passport-driven affair… until recently. Ten or twenty years ago, a chef from overseas would train in France for five, even ten, years then return home to, say, Japan to wow his compatriots and pursue his career there. But increasingly some high-caliber chefs from abroad choose to pursue their careers in France.

Kei Kobayashi, for example.

“I want to do that!”

Born in 1977, Kobayashi speaks of a vertical path from his childhood in Nagano, Japan, to the stature of a 2-star Michelin chef in Paris and about his ambitions. His father was a traditional chef of precise slicing in Japan. At age 15, the younger Kobayashi saw a documentary on TV featuring French chef Alain Chapel (3-star Michelin) in the kitchen. On the screen the chef worked with flare, fire and flourish as he’d never seen in his father’s kitchen. He speaks of it as a revelation. “I told myself, ‘I want to do that!’”

Having started his training in Japan, he arrived in France at the age of 21 intent on discovering, learning, practicing and climbing to the heights of French gastronomy. (Somehow along the way he also picked up the notion that French chefs are blond and so began dying his hair.)

A culinary Tour de France followed, during which time he worked with and learned from stellar chefs in Paris, Languedoc, Provence and Alsace. He opened Kei near Les Halles in 2011, received his first Michelin star a year later and a second in 2017.

Fifteen to twenty years ago, meeting a chef who had turned his back on the world of high gastronomy to focus on more accessible culinary offerings was refreshing. Now it’s refreshing to meet unabashedly facing the summit. From the moment he opened Kei, he said, he was aiming (and pushing his staff to aim) for three stars. That’s something few chefs think or admit.

The Setting

At first glance the 30-seat room of Kei seems mildly ascetic, despite the glitter and glow of the Saint Louis chandelier. But before long the off-white walls reveal a hint of lavender and one notices the crown molding and discreet French flourishes. At lunchtime, the glassy the white cut-outs on the wall-length picture window facing the street combined with the radiance of the chandelier and of the sconces reminds me of the comfort of a dreamy afternoon on a snowy day.

Distinguishing Japanese touches from French touches in the décor, the tableware and the succession of dishes is a table game that one inevitably plays… given the name Kei Kobayashi. The dishware and cutlery clearly present a marriage of cultures. But once settled into the meal one finds that Kobayashi’s cuisine—presented exclusively through tasting menus—is not a game of cross-cultural references but a hike to the heights of French gastronomy. True, along with products from France there may be some from Japan, Italy, Scotland and elsewhere. But it isn’t the Frenchness of the product that makes Kobayoshi’s cuisine French. It’s the intensity of focus on those products.

We’ve all had exquisite tasting menus that can be showy. I do enjoy the occasional gastronomic culinary Vaudeville, but Kobayashi’s cuisine is more subtle than that.

The Meal

There’s nearly something sacred about the progression through the meal, though without ritual or ceremony. Asked about the rhythm of a tasting menu, Kobayashi says that there is no single path. Instead, he speaks of the meal as a living construction, based on quality products, whether simple or noble, forming a menu that will change but should always feel complete. Our table’s 7-step tasting menu nevertheless evolved in nearly classic French rhythm from shrimp to vegetables and smoked salmon to quail risotto to smoked langoustine, culminating in line-caught sea-bass, before easing down with cheese and sorbet/dessert.

The menu is largely based on fish and seafood, from Carabineros prawn tartare with a smoked eel emulsion and a nip of Schrenki caviar to a direct this-is-the-real-taste-of-line-caught-sea bass whose sensuality retains an enticing coarseness thanks to his treatment of scales that have been left on.

The prawn of our menu was followed by the most seductive and deceptively simple of our seven dishes: a salad of raw and cooked vegetables, herbs, flowers, crumbled olives, a citrusy arugula mousse and a slice of smoked salmon from Scotland, all to be delicately turned and mingled by the client before tasting. It’s a celestial dish—the first time that I’ve ever thought of a mixed salad as a delicacy. The quail risotto with white Alba truffle, a Perigueux sauce and parmesan then tastefully brought us back to earth. A hay-steamed langoustine married with shitaki mushrooms appeared to be an attempt to return to the salad’s state of grace, but was for me the least remarkable of the dishes.

Beyond the tasting menus, diners can also add a course of l’oreiller de la belle Aurore, a pâté (in this case of game and fowl) baked in a savory pastry. It’s a highly crafted dish of rustic elegance that has in various shapes and forms been a staple of French culinary tradition for over 200 years. It was a signature of Gérard Besson, Kobayashi’s predecessor at this address. It’s placement on the menu is a sign of Kobayashi’s homage to and devotion to the heritage of French gastronomy that he carries forward.

A French chef

Reducing the Kei dining experience to cross-cultural analysis is to ignore the richness sought at the height of French gastronomy. The height for Kobayashi is one star away. Michelin-bashing has no place in his culinary world. In order to merit the third star, he says, he’s aware that he has to develop his own originality while ensuring flawlessness from start to finish and from kitchen to dining room.

No need to wait for that third star to put Kei on your culinary map. And don’t imagine that a Japanese name makes Kobayashi’s gastronomy any less French. Whatever passport he holds, think of Kei Kobayashi as an exceptional French chef.

Kei, 5 rue Coque Héron, 1st arr, just west of Les Halles. Metro Louvre-Rivoli or Sentier or Etienne Marcel. Tel. 01 42 33 14 74. Closed Sunday, Monday and lunch Thursday. The typical lunch menu is served in five steps or an extensive tasting in 9 steps. There’s also a 9-step “prestige” menu that includes additional choice items. See pricing for various lunch and dinner tasting menus here.

© 2019, Gary Lee Kraut.

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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

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* * *

The traveler’s search for the best places to eat and drink in [name city, town or region] begins long before she leaves home. She whets her appetite by scouring the web for names, addresses and lists of restaurants. She notes the suggestions of friends and colleagues who’ve been there before. She may contact this (or that) writer for advice. Perhaps she makes a reservation or two. Arriving in [name city, town or region], she feels ready to wine and dine.

But before opening the menu and before examining the wine list she would be wise first to take a look at another, more essential list: a list of products raised, grown or made in and around the region she’s visiting.

Our traveler can, of course, create a delicious picnic spread with products “imported” from beyond the visited region, and a fine chef can create up an exceptional meal with products from anywhere. Nevertheless, the association of food and drink with place is what most marks market-based gastronomy in France. Our traveler might begin by visiting a local food market. And if she doesn’t go to the market herself for her meals, our traveler certainly hopes that the chef has.

One of the best ways for our traveler to understand the geographic particularity of her destination in France is through its appellations and other government labels of food and drink. (Hopefully our traveler, if she has a distaste for government labels for ideological reasons, will set aside her politics when the cheese tray comes around.)

An appellation ensures provenance and standards relative to a specific product, whether wine (e.g. champagne), cheese (e.g. Roquefort), fruit (e.g. Menton lemons), fowl (Bresse chicken), beef (e.g. Camargue bull) or other agricultural products.

Carrying an appellation or an indication of geographic origin doesn’t mean the highest quality possible for the given product in general. In wine, for example, there are greater and lesser appellations, and within those appellations greater or lesser wines. Furthermore, an official designation may involve some political one-upmanship. Still, an appellation ensures a geographic genuineness and approach to quality that is unlikely to be found in a product that simply claims to follow “industry standards.”

Three labels rule the roost in France and throughout much of Europe

AOC, AOP and IGP are essentially labels based on the notion of terroir or place, signifying that the quality of certain products is intimately related to the interplay between their geographic zone of production (related to the zone’s geology, climate, agriculture and history) and the conditions and know-how involved in their production.

The name of the place in a given appellation does not mean that the product comes only from that town or village. It can also come from wider geography, depending on the geographic specification. For example, not all of the champagne-growing area is within the historic Champagne region though that region is the heart of the growing area.

AOP (Appellation d’origine protégée), or PDO (Protected Designation of Origin), is a protection given to a product within the European Union that designates a product whose geographic zone (geology, climate, agriculture and history) and principal production follow a well-established technique. Geography and technique thereby combine to give the product is characteristics. In other words, the product’s geographic zone of production is essential for its quality.

AOC (Appellation d’Origine Contrôlée), or Controlled Appellation of Origin, is the French equivalent of the AOP. The notion of a controlled appellation has existed since long of the European Union created the AOP. AOC and AOP products must follow certain specifications and be grown / raised / produced within a specific geographic zone. Some specs are more limiting than others due to the specific nature of the geography and/or history of that particular product. For example, a Chablis must be made from chardonnay grapes, whereas up to 13 different varietals can go into making a Chateauneuf-du-Pape. In France AOCs are validated, regulated and overseen by the Institut national de l’origine et de la qualité (INAO, by its former acronym), The National Institute of Origin and Quality, which operates within the framework of the Ministry of Agriculture, Food and Forestry.

IGP (Indication géographique protégée), or PGI (Protected Geographical Indication), identifies an agricultural product, raw or processed, including wine, whose quality, reputation or other characteristics are linked to its geographical origin. Unlike an AOC/AOP, for which all of the steps of production must be carried out within the designated zone, not all the steps of producing a processed product need be carried out in the zone. IGPs for raw products, however, do indeed indicate that they were grown in a designated area.

Two other labels that our traveler will encounter are LR and AB.

Label Rouge (LR), or Red Label, is a national sign given to products which, due to their terms of production or manufacture, have a higher level of quality compared to other similar products usually marketed. It isn’t in itself related to geography but to rather defined specifications for the type of product, though that type of product may in fact be related to a specific area.

The label AB, indicating organic farming (agriculture biologique), is also not an indicator of a specific geographic zone. Organic farming can, however, be involved in producing a product that bears one of the labels or appellations previously described. In that case the product can bear both a geographic appellation/indication and the AB label.

For the first list in this series see: Market Day in France: The Southeast, Provence-Alpes-Côte d’Azur.

© Gary Lee Kraut

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The Ferrandi faculty and some of their illustrious alumni and friends have contributed their savoir-faire and 143 recipes for the mega-cookbook Le Grand Cours de Cuisine Ferrandi (The Great Ferrandi Cooking Class).

Named by Le Figaro as Best Cookbook of 2014, this book digs into the nitty-gritty: deboning a pigeon, un-shelling a crab, shucking an oyster, dressing a duck, filleting a sole, roasting a peach. There are even 18 large color pictures that give the step-by-step process of de-choking an artichoke.

However, there’s no pressure to start out with Yannick Alléno’s go-for-baroque Oyster/Chorizo medley or Olivier Roellinger’s mega-complex Chocolate/Sherry Lobster, a dish that—even with pictures—looks like it requires a sous-chef armed with a sonic screwdriver from Gallifrey. Less accomplished chefs can begin by learning how to pull off a perfect hard-boiled egg before professing at their own speed to an airy omelet.

Two “simple” versions of blanquette de veau (beginner, intermediate) are explained, while black-belt chefs may head straight for the Michelin-starred version by Alsace star Olivier Nasti.

A significant part of the book’s 695 pages are devoted to recipes from restaurant celebrities like William Ledeuil, Adeline Grattard (both Ferrandi grads) and Thierry Marx.

Le Grand Cours de Cuisine Ferrandi offers no helpful tips on catching your rabbit, but once you’ve bagged your bunny, it will show-and-tell you everything else you need to know about turning it into cuisses de levreau en civet à l’échalote grise with candied apples and chanterelle ravioli on the side… a recipe contributed by Eric Briffard at the Hôtel George V.

The Ferrandi cookbook is perfect for the aspiring or confirmed chef on your gift list, whether in bicep-building hardback (the book tips the scales at 4.1 kilos) or in its e-book version. Published by Hachette, 49.95 €.

© 2014, Corinne LaBalme

For more about The Ferrandi School on France Revisited read this.

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I’m glad then that I’d made it my destination — rather, part of my destination as I set out to explore the Ardennes area of France for a taste of local beer, local cuisine, local characters and local history — because entering the ducal square on a bright May day immediately opened my sense of the rewards of visiting this far-flung corner of France.

I also felt quite connected with the history of Paris, the city I’d left to rail this way, since the Place Ducale, begun in 1612, was designed by Clément Métezeau, brother of Louis Métezeau, who is attributed with the design of the Place des Vosges, begun in 1605, in the capital’s Marais district. With their regular repetition of brick and stone, with slate roofs and sidewalk arcades, the two squares have much common, though Charleville’s is more open and cosmopolitan. It was designed as the hub on a new town created by decree of Duke Charles de Gonzague, count of Rethel, whose family (the Gonzagas) came from Lombardy. Charles had a palace in Mézières, a strategic site of ancient origin nearby along the Meuse River. His was a border town, a small economic center between the Kingdom of France and the Holy Roman (Germanic) Empire, and Charles dreamt of creating within the nearby loop of the river an ideal city nearby, centered around a great square from which the town would radiate in straight lines, which were generally absent from earlier, medieval towns.

The “new and incomparable city,” as Charleville was soon called, would soon eclipse Mézières and neighboring towns as an economic powerhouse in the region. Three hundred fifty years later, in 1966, Charleville merged with four neighboring administrative districts, including Mézières, creating Charleville-Mézières.

The tourist office is on the Place Ducale. With one’s hands full of maps and brochures, one naturally follows the sun when selecting a seat in a cafe or restaurant beneath or in front of the arcades of the square, whether to study the map or to watch the Carlomacériens, as local inhabitants are called, go by.

The French Ardennes may be beer country due to its lack of vineyards and its affinity with Belgium, but a traveler can feel guilty traveling in France and ignoring wine. We’re in a region called Champagne-Ardenne, a rather schizophrenic name that, brandwise, now sounds to me like Wine-Beer. One of the town’s main call of ports for wine is Eric Arnaud’s wine bar Le Concept, in the southeast corner of the square.

Arnaud is originally from Reims, meaning from champagne country. He worked as a chef while refining his wine knowledge and is now the only master sommelier in Ardennes as well as president of Champagne-Ardenne’s regional division of a French national sommelier association called the Union de la Sommellerie Française. In 2011 he opened Le Concept, an easy-going lunch- and dinner-serving wine bar, on the Place Ducale. Though removed from the setting and stature of the kitchen that he once oversaw in Reims, the food is fine that Arnaud prepares in a narrow kitchen space behind the bar counter, but the wine’s the thing.

At aperitif time a plate of Ardennais cheese and/or cold cuts must be nice, but I’d come for lunch. Curious about cacasse, a traditional Ardennais potato-and-onion casserole with a roux of flour and lard, that’s what I ordered. The dish comes in two main versions, the cascasse à cul-nu, literally the “bare-ass” version, and cacasse culottée, literally the “knickered” version. There’s a veritable cult to cacasse à cul-nu in the Ardennes, in part, I found, because people simple enjoy saying the term, which sounds both slightly childish and slightly offensive (cul=ass, nu=naked, caca=caca). But above all, in a region relatively poor in culinary offerings (some cheese, some cold cuts, some sausages, lots of potatoes) it’s roots go deep. As with many local dishes in France, cacasse has peasant origins and has earned over time a strong cultural power on all lines of the economic spectrum. With enough means on a given day a family might have been able to add sausage or bacon to their cacasse, thereby dressing it with meat. The version I relished for lunch was clothed with thickly sliced bacon (lardons).

It was hearty, tasty and might have been well accompanied by beer, but here I was in a wine bar. Since the Ardennes is without vineyards, one is obliged to travel for a wine choice, and leaving my fate in Mr. Arnaud’s hand he returned with a caramel-colored red from the Jura, near Switzerland, an Arbois Poulsard “Grande Réserve” 2005, a fruity wine of lesser-known terroir that’s fine to share with a friend. And as I was sitting there, one showed up.

A new friend, that is: Bernard Giraud, journalist with the regional paper L’Ardennais and great “defender of the products and recipes of terrior and conviviality,” to quote the man. Giraud lives in Sedan, just to the north (see Part 3 of this article). In 1991, he told me, following his own admission to a fraternal order of Belgian beer lovers, Giraud began to see the interest and pleasure of defending local gastronomic heritage wherever its homeland may be. He is now a member or brother or knight in 16 different fraternal orders.

In 2004 Giraud created Ch-M’s Festival des Confréries, an annual celebration of such brotherhoods (sisters welcome). This joyful, convivial event takes places over a weekend in early May, which happened to be when I was visiting. At first glance it might appear that you have to be fond of tripe and lard and rabbit cooked in beer to appreciate the festival, but the true pleasure of the event is taking part in the human hokiness of meeting French, Belgian and Ardennais ambassadors of traditional gastronomy who are so passionate about such dishes that they’re willing to travel to Charleville-Mézières and don colorful velvet robes and floppy hats to prove it.

Giraud is also the vice president of the French Counsel of such Fraternal Orders (Conseil Français des Confréries), an organization created in 2006 in Orléans, in the Loire Valley. According to Giraud, there are about 700 confréries in France, about half of which belong to the Counsel. Confréries were corporations in the Middle Ages, and again that corporative (meaning business) spirit is still clearly visible in the large wine confréries (one of the most famous is the Conférie des Chevaliers du Tastevin in Burgundy). Though some confréries have strong ties with producers, particularly in the wine sector, and thus actively promote their products beyond the locality, most of the gastronomic brotherhoods simply maintain the tradition of local cuisine against changing eating habits. In any case, where there’s a confrérie there is hearty, well-fed, well-imbibed fun, and Charleville-Mézières’s Festival des Confréries honors the concept with good humor, simplicity and lots of cacasse.

It’s rare to see someone under 50 years old wearing one of these robes. It’s the type of local tradition in France that Arthur Rimbaud would have fled, but one man’s flight is another man’s arrival. I saw it as a fun, family event, with each association manning a booth where one can learn about, taste and purchase their products, from rabbit in beer to rabbit pate, from tripe to black pudding, from nougat to dandelion dishes. There’s quite naturally a brotherhood of cacasse à cul-nu lovers. Under the food tent on the square for the celebration there was a monster-size party dish of that naked local favorite, with knickers available on the side.

Charleville-Mézières has a more joyful, magical and renowned festival, one that celebrates marionette theater. Marionettes, rather than gastronomic brotherhoods, are actually the city’s great contemporary call to fame. Every two years in September (next time: Sept. 18-27, 2015), the World Festival of Marionette Theaters draws 150,000 spectators to venues both inside and outside. The National School of the Marionette Arts is here as well as the headquarters of the International Marionette Union, a resource center for marionette practitioners. Around the corner from the Place Ducale, an automat called The Great Marionettist marks the hour daily from 10am to 9pm with a dozen tableaux.

In a moment of nostalgia during the day I had bought a post card, an object as old fashion as cacasse and rabbit pate, to mail across the ocean. The post office, I saw on the map, was a few blocks away, a slight detour on my way back to the hotel for a pre-Mawhot rest. Across the street from the post office was a café and beer bar, Le Vert Bock. I could have used the café more than the beer, but I wanted to end the afternoon on a headier note in keeping with my quest. So I went in, ordered a glass from a tap with a name I didn’t know, and voilà, another bar, if not beer, that I can now recommend on the beer trails of the Ardennes.

© 2014, Gary Lee Kraut

Continue to The French Ardennes, Part 3: The Meuse, Sedan, More Beer and the Big Boar
Return to The French Ardennes, Part 1: Charleville-Mézières: The Runaway Poet, Great Beer Bars and the Giant Lizard

Addresses and other information, in order of appearance in this article

Charleville-Mézières Tourist Office
4 Place Ducale
08102 Charleville-Mézières
Tel. 03 24 55 69 90
Open Mon.-Sat. 9:30am-12:00pm and 1:30-6:00pm, until 7pm in summer. Also open Sunday in summer.
www.charleville-mezieres.org/indexpc.php

Le Concept (Eric Arnaud)
37, place Ducale
08000 Charleville-Mézières
Tel.: 03 24 22 57 03
Open Wed.-Sat. noon-2pm and 6:30pm on through the evening, also Tues. evening.

Festival des Confréries, held annually in early May.

World Festival of Marionette Theaters, held in Charleville-Mézières every two years in September. Next time: Sept. 18-27, 2015.

Le Vert Bock
20 rue du Théâtre
08000 Charleville-Mézières
Tel. 03 24 35 06 64
Open Tues.-Fri. 8am-9pm, Sat. 9 :30am-9pm

Hôtel Le Dormeur du Val (Best Western)
32 bis rue de la Gravière 08000 Charleville Mézières Tél. : 03 24 420 430
www.hotel-dormeur-du-val.com
My hotel during this 2-night, 3-day visit to the Ardennes was the Hôtel Le Dormeur du Val, 150 yards up the tracks from the train station. It’s a friendly place with a playful semi-industrial design, sometimes successful (the bathroom), sometimes not (the reading light poking you in the head). The street itself is quite though occasionally you can hear the SNCF rail company’s 3-tone intro and an announcement from the train station: Le train en provenance de Sedan et en destination de Champagne-Ardenne rentre en gare, voie une. The hotel, 4-star by category and 3-star by spirit, is convenient for those arriving by train and remaining for a night or two, as I did. I enjoyed the quirkiness and convenience of the hotel. From here, as from the train station, it’s a 10-minute walk to the Place Ducale, which is the heart of the town.

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For some time now there have been whispers, rumors, developer dreams and political assurances that Menton may soon—one day—transition from a town (pop. 29,000) of serene and sunny comfort notable for its retiring well-being to a more sophisticated, more youthful, even luxurious destination.

Not that this fine-weather town is in need of upheaval—it’s main attraction as far as I’m concerned is that it offers some R&R from hyper-luxe, as they call it along the Riviera, though there is indeed much local wealth up in the hills. Menton simply wants some recognition that this isn’t where the French Riviera peters out before the Italian border but is rather one of its highlights.

If it is then that’s thanks in part to two markers of creativity and sophistication, the one gastronomic, the other artistic: Mirazur, the outstanding restaurant of chef Mauro Colagreco that overlooks Menton from the east, and the Jean Cocteau Museum, dedicated to a poet and artist who represents the artful high life along the French Riviera in the 1950s.

Mirazur – Mauro Colagreco

Looking out through the bay windows of Mirazur on a drizzly winter evening I could barely make out the lights along the coast below. But Mauro Colagreco’s resourceful, inspired contemporary Mediterranean cuisine sparks the imagination, and before long it wasn’t difficult to imagine sitting here on a long, dry spring evening enjoying the surprises of a blind tasting menu and watching the sunset on a sublime view of Menton and the sea.

Actually, we did have a tasting men, a group of journalists and me, after a wet day at Menton’s Lemon Festival.

Set on a hill along the French-Italian border, this soothing restaurant has an airy 50-seat upstairs (main floor) dining room and a 30-seat lower level dining area beside the windowed wall of the kitchen. There is also terrace and garden seating.

Mauro Colagreco, a chef-restaurateur from Argentina of Italian stock (all four of his grandparents were from Italy), has been the gastronomic draw of Menton since 2006. He was selected 2009 Chef of the Year by Gault-Millau, one of the most knowledgeable food publications in France. He has had a Michelin star since 2007. [Post note: In Feb. 2012, one month after publication of this article Mirazur received a second Michelin star.]

Basing his blind tasting menu on the day’s inspiration and produce, he elaborated for us a discovery dinner rich in variety and savors while clearly facing the sea and the coastal gardens.

As a wink to the lemon festival, a carpaccio  of gascon (a Mediterranean fish) with a citrus vinaigrette and edible flowers. For a successful touch of audacity, cream of shallots with a puree of green apples and aquatic mint. For the pleasure of mixed textures, clams on an eggplant puree. For a taste of classicism, médallion de volaille served with candied lemon, which was the least remarkable dish of the evening, either because of its very classicism or because poultry doesn’t inspire the chef. Other than that fowl, the other half of the meal was equally expressive and true to the taste of the original ingredients.

Diners who don’t care for the risks and sensory overload of a tasting menu can rest assured that there are other options, though surprise is in any case a part of the game.

Service is smooth, pleasant. Among those attending to our table was a waiter on his first day at the job. Though as accommodating and personable as the others, he was either less apt at describing the ingredients of the dishes that arrived, which might be expected, or less willing to faking it, perhaps a bit of both. Toward the end of the meal, we asked him to show us a real Menton lemon. You see,  Menton’s production of its celebrated lemon is about 10 tons while 120-140 tons of lemons and oranges are required for the festival, and those are imported from Spain. So we’d been ogling Spanish citrus all day and hadn’t much had the opportunity to get intimate with a real citron de Menton.

The waiter returned from the kitchen with a huge citrus. The tourist official sitting next to me remarked that it was quite large for a Menton lemon but was indeed the real deal.

Chef Mauro came out to greet and charm us after the meal. After some shop talk I asked if I could take his picture with the lemon.

“That’s not a lemon,” he said. “That’s a grapefruit.” Which goes to show that you can fool some of the people some of the time but you can fool journalists all of the time.

He was a good enough sport to allow me to take his picture with the grapefruit.

The hair that got in the way in the photo belongs to another journalist, because not only are journalists gullible but they will push you under a bus if you’re in the way of a shot that they want.

Here is Mr. Colagreco in a more dignified pose in his kitchen.

I was able to get a clear shot here after telling that other journalist that I’d just seen Carla Bruni Sarkozy out the window walking by on her way back from Italy.

Le Mirazur – Mauro Colagreco. 30 avenue Aristide Briand, 06500 Menton. Tel. 04 92 41 86 86. Open mid-Feb. to early November, Wed.-Sun. lunch and dinner, except from mid-July-end Aug. when open Tues.-Sun. for dinner, Sat. and Sun. for lunch.

Jean Cocteau Museum

Like Pablo Picasso and Henri Matisse, Jean Cocteau remains heavily identified with the high and artful life along the French Riviera, particularly with respect to the 1950s in his case.

Cocteau (1889-1963) was a major figure in French art, theater and literary circles from the 1910s until his death in 1963, an artist’s artist of multiple talent—poet, novelist, playwright, graphic artist, filmmaker—flitting between genres and between friends in the worlds of art, theater and film.

Banking heavily on those talents, Menton has opened a major museum decided to Cocteau’s work and spirit throughout his career. The Musée Jean Cocteau adds a shot of modernism to the Old Town, both in its seafront architecture and in its exhibitions.

The museum is built around the donation of an enormous collection of Cocteau’s work from Severin Wunderman, who made his fortune in luxury watches. Born in Belgium, Wunderman’s family moved to the United States during WWII. He had previously displayed a part of his collection at a Cocteau museum that he created in Irvine, California in 1985. But the artist’s connection with the Riviera, a land where art, film, frivolity and wealth thrive, along with France’s reputation for subsidizing museums, made this the more appropriate home. Construction of the museum began shortly after Wunderman’s death in 2008.

In covering Cocteau’s output and his association with other artists, the museum displays in a given year only a portion of the vast collection, through both its permanent collection and its temporary exhibits.

As poet first, graphic artist second, Cocteau’s visual and decorative graphics employed a style of playful, poetic arabesques of figures and motifs.

His decorative work can be seen in situ in the Marriage Hall (1957-1958) in Menton’s City Hall. He also designed the mosaics for the small 17th-century fort called Le Bastion that’s near the town’s port.

“Tattoos” is how Cocteau referred to frescos that he made while staying at a friend’s villa at Saint Jean Cap Ferrat, the exclusive-minded peninsula basking in the sea near Nice. Pretty graffiti or wall doodles may be another way of looking at some of his decorative work; through one eye they enliven white walls, through the other they await a new paint-job. The rooms he decorated at that villa, Villa Santo Sospir, are open to private visits by appointment only.

He also decorated the walls of the Chapelle Saint Pierre in Villefranche-sur-Mer, also near Nice.

Following in the footsteps of Jean Cocteau along the Riviera can get quickly tiresome for those who aren’t true fans, and I admit that I’m not. However, any of these glimpses, particularly the new museum, can serve as in insightful introduction to this man-for-all-arts, his work, and the marriage of art, wealth and leisure on the Côte d’Azur.

Musée Jean Cocteau, 2 quai Monléon, 06500 Menton. Open 10am-6pm. Closed Tuesday as well as Jan. 1 May 1, Nov. 1 and Dec. 25. In July and Aug. the museum is also open Friday until 10pm.

© 2012, Gary Lee Kraut

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The diner there has direct contact with the kingpin. He isn’t someone who might stop by to see you later if he has time or who might have skipped town altogether to open a new venture in Japan, but someone who is in the dining room with you and who knows that you’re there. You’re free to ignore him, of course, but his role is to pay attention to you.

So it is with Jean-Frédéric Guidoni at his notable restaurant Jean in Paris’s 9th arrondissement, a district between the Garnier Opera and Montmartre with an indistinct reputation and thus many surprises.

Mr. Guidoni mastered the skills of operating a dining room long before opening Jean in 2002. For twenty years, from 1981 to 2001, he served as maitre d’ at the venerable Taillevent. Given that experience it’s no surprise that the dining room at Jean runs so smoothly.

In addition to his front-man skills, Mr. Guidoni is no slouch at hiring chefs. The restaurant received a Michelin star in 2006 and has maintained its star since Anthony Boucher took over the kitchen in 2008. In 2011 Attilio Marrazzo replaced Anthony Boucher as chef. (Jean has maintained its Michelin star in 2012.)

Out of extravagance, hedonism and a mutual acknowledgement that we had the entire evening ahead of us, we ordered the 7-course wine-paired tasting menu. It’s as though we’d entered Mr. Guidoni’s home, thrown off our coats and called out “Bring us food. Bring us drink. Show us what you and the chef are worth. Show us a good time. A glass of Champagne to start, s’il vous plaît.” Politely, of course.

Jean is a setting for poised and well-heeled lunches and dinners but it feels neither stiff nor overly formal. It can indeed be romantic in the evening—perhaps not young romance but comfortable romance.

Despite some hesitation from the younger servers, the teamwork here is evident, an advantage of having the quarterback in the dining room rather than in the kitchen.

While this is clearly a gastronomic restaurant, the décor is reminiscent of a luxury bistro or a classy tavern: red banquettes, fabric-covered walls, plush red drapes on the upper third of the wall, a glossy white ceiling. In another reincarnation this space could easily be transformed into an American-style saloon due to its pale wood show-bar with brass hand and foot rails, its old brass cash register on the counter and its wooden staircase in the back. There’s seating for 38, with several cozy corner tables for 2 to 8, plus a private dining room upstairs best suited for a group of 10 to 12.

A fresh and sincere succession of dishes and a wise choice of wines followed: a tomato-goat cheese-zucchini-macadamia nut appetizer; escargot risotto; vivaneau (fish) with grilled eggplant and green pepper; a fine and delicate pigeon; a well-rounded selection of cheese (goat, brie, cantal). The well-conceived desserts were nevertheless a bit heavy as a finish to such an extensive tasting menu.

This is the kind of French gastronomy that wins friends more than awards. It’s special without being unique, rich without being exclusive and served in a highly comfortable restaurant that’s amiable without being chummy.

Jean hits a smooth, even note for relaxed yet fine dining… in the gracious presence of Jean-Frédéric Guidoni, the master of the house.

What’s in a name?
The name of this restaurant, Jean, has no direct relation with the name of its owner, Jean-Frédéric Guidoni, though the two are now inseparable. When Mr. Guidoni purchased this restaurant it was called Chez Jean. He dropped the chez “because it sounded too much like a bistro,” he said, however some still refer to this as Chez Jean or Restaurant Jean, and it is sometimes confused with the well-known L’Ami Jean (whose awning reads Chez L’Ami Jean).

To set the record straight then: the name of this restaurant is simply Jean, which is not a sign of self-indulgence on the part of the owner whose name is Jean-Frédéric. It’s only natural, though, when he comes to your table, to want to call him Jean.

Jean, 8 rue Saint-Lazare, 9th arr. Metro Notre-Dame de la Lorette. Tel. 01 48 78 62 73. http://www.restaurantjean.fr/. Open Mon.-Fri. Fixed-price lunch menu at 46€. Fixed-price dinner menus at 48€ (3 courses), 65€ (4 courses) and 95€ (7 courses), without wine. About 70-75€ à la carte, without wine.

© 2011, Gary Lee Kraut

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I don’t mean to be sexist about this but there’s something sad and unseemly about grown women endlessly tweeting, FBing, blogging, and otherwise texting about what they ate, are eating, and will eat. And it is indeed mostly bloggeuses who operate these chew blogs—their male counterparts at least throw in some wine, perhaps a few beers, before going off to playing with their Wii.

But it isn’t the sex of a food blogger that’s the problem rather the lack thereof. The libido of these wannabe Julies (or is it Julias?) is exclusively and obsessively directed toward what can be bought, prepared, and swallowed. Other than that there’s no there there.

Blogs are of course obsessive by nature. But the better blogs, whether about food or travel or anything else, manage to attach to their chosen obsession some analysis or contemplation or reflection or conviviality surrounding their subject—in short, some humanity, something to share. These aren’t geek blogs about “Mafia Wars” or iPhones, these are supposed to be about food and all that involves: earth, life, culture, exchange, breaking bread, shared conversation, a personal and collective quest for substance and sustenance.

The majority of food bloggers, however, offer neither substance nor sustenance. Even when they present recipes they aren’t really sharing so much as letting you know how they kept busy before sitting down to eat. And there’s never a surprise ending since every mouthful ends with a self-congratulatory “Mmmm!!!”

You can tell a blogger’s at a complete loss for words when there’s a post that contains five close-up images of an éclair in various states of consumption, with the heading “Stopped at Chez Madeleine on the way home. Mmmm!!!” I wish they’d put even a tenth of the time they spend thinking about what goes into their mouth into what comes out of it.

Don’t get me wrong, I have great respect for food writing. There are some very palatable, informative, and entertaining food blogs out there, though I can’t think of any offhand. Perhaps readers can tell me some so that I might present as the plat de résistance. (Disclaimer: Food writing is also a part of my work, though I am more a travel writer and advisor than a food writer.)

Good food writers manage to talk about food while showing some connection between a given food/product/restaurant and people, place, culture, history, geography, economics, even themselves.

Bad food bloggers try to give themselves kitchen cred by dropping names:
“I ate at that bistro that Mark Bittman wrote about in the NY Times and it’s as good as he says it is. Here’s the link to his article.”
“Michelin gives it three stars but I’d only give it two.”
“I started with the Barefoot Contessa recipe but gave it my own personal twist because my favorite vegetable seller Claude had THE BEST avocadoes at the market today.”

They would have us believe that they spend their time hobnobbing with farmers, fishmongers, butchers, produce sellers, and chefs of all kinds, but, like an actor trying to learn acting by watching sitcoms, their characters inevitably come directly from central casting.

Read enough such food blogs and you realize how much of it is food porn, only instead of penetration and bad acting they show engorgement and bad writing, with an apron as protection instead of a condom. “Eat it, baby, eat it… Yeh, lick that hot emulsified sauce, you know you like it! Go ahead, fork it.” Go down on a few of these blogs and your gag reflex kicks in within a few inches.

No wonder “Gourmet” magazine folded. Their readers were too busy blogging about everything they ate to want to cut out and save actual articles. (On the other hand, “Gourmet” had become a hyped up version of those same blogs.)

Bad food blogs are irrepressibly cheery. That might sound like a good thing. Indeed, initially the image they present of the happy, venturesome foodie seems sweet and appealing enough. But follow them for three or four posts as they go about their daily search of multiple Mmmm!!! food orgasms and you’ll find that these food bloggers have created a disturbingly manic food persona for themselves. They are constantly applauding themselves for having a kitchen, an appetite, and a camera. The bad food blogger’s syllogism goes as follows: I love food. You love food. So you love me.

I think I’m going to be sick.

(c) 2010, Gary Lee Kraut
Recipe for this article

Servings: Self
Calories: 0
Preparation time: 24-36 hours
Temperature: May be served hot or cold

Ingredients: 6-10 food blogs, 1 keyboard, 1 website

1. Select 6-10 food blogs. You can get these through your local “food blog” search but I prefer the peppery expression of those available in specialty searches such as “French food blog” or “Italian food blog” or “Southern food blog” or “lonely foodie wants the world to know she exists” or “wealthy traveler finds purpose in life in food.”

Blog posts should be fresh, frequent, and colorful. Look for large gaps of 2 months of blogging as this may be a sign of nervous breakdown. Be wary of a series of blog posts that consist of unformatted images showing close-ups éclairs and cupcakes as these contain few textual nutrients. Avoid blogs that make excessive use of links to articles and videos that are not their own as they contain large quantities of free radicals.

2. Once you have selected food blogs of sufficient self-indulgence, eliminate skin of attitude. Read each for 10 minutes.

3. (optional) Brown slightly by posting one-line comment on Facebook or other social networking site. This may cause loss of some amigos and followers but will bring out the flavor in others.

4. Let simmer for 12-22 hours. Some rant may spill well before then, but personally I like to wait. My own method is to begin this recipe between midnight and 2 a.m. then let simmer until the following evening, however that schedule may be impractical for some. Stir occasionally. Avoid further blog searches as that will dampen spontaneity of rant.

5. When ready, quickly stir until all blogs are fully blended, then place rant layer by layer without allowing previous layer to cool.

6. (optional) I also like to add a glass of whiskey at this point, but other beverages are also possible. Alternately, coffee may be used, but I suggest adding that well before midnight so as to avoid ranting through the night.

7. Limit rant to 2 hours and 800 words. Larger quantities tend to dilute the original flavor of the blended blogs.

8. Select and format photo. Any image showing the author enjoying local food will do.

9. Let sit on desktop overnight or at least 3 hours.

10. Reread, eliminate excess fat, and smooth transitions without seeking perfection as this is intended for relaxed consumption.

11. Serve. I like to use fine France Revisited dishware for this.

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Fabien Nègre has opinions about restaurants the way some guys have opinions about football players. Ask him about a new restaurant and he’ll tell you, “Don’t even think about that one, all hype” or “Love the food, hate the guy” or “Not bad, but people are only talking about it because he’s friend’s with so-and-so,” or “He’s a friend of mine but you can do better than that,” or “Come over and try a new rum I just got.”

Ask him for suggestions for a restaurant for, say, two American couples coming to Paris to celebrate their anniversary, and he’ll say, “What do they want to spend per person, 500 euros? 600? At 800 I got just the thing for you, unforgettable.”

Fabien writes portraits of great chefs. He writes (in French) with a psycho-philo-gastro-humano-literary approach that gets to the heart of what that makes a top chef unique. That makes his work a bugger to translate, as this one of Chef Guy Martin on France Revisited. Dozens of original portraits appear on the site www.LesRestos.com.

When Fabien Nègre calls you at midnight, you pick up the phone to find that he’s already started the conversation. If you were to try to walk across Fabien Nègre’s mind at that moment you’d be hit by a stray thought in less than ten seconds. But if you were to share a table with him in a restaurant for two or three hours you would have a terrific, well-fed ride on the back roads of French thought.

– GLK

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