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The Best Chef in the World1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | Recipe | Itinerary | Home
Much like the food and the ambience, the standards he upholds as a three-star chef have changed. They are more excessive than ever. Before each service, tablecloths are ironed to eliminate creases. Plates are wiped with vinegar to remove fingerprints. White peppercorns are crushed by hand. During meals, the kitchen becomes quiet, intense. The number one chef softly advises the number two, who gently corrects the number three – and you wonder why French food is so expensive. A young Japanese chef, the hardest working man in the kitchen, prepares lobster for a fricassee, picking away unseemly bits indiscernible to my eyes. (I wonder if I will ever again eat a crustacean hurled whole into a pot without fearing the presence of unpurged body parts.) The serenity is broken only by a captain or a chef calling out an order. The kitchen acoustics are perfect. The men in high positions are all baritones. Troisgros is the absolute master of tricky fish. His sardine filet, marinated in vino santo vinegar, orange, shallots and almond oil, is soft and creamy, as I’ve found bony sardines never to be. He has brought back “aux amandes” – the seafood suffix that I Americanize as “almandine.” His thick filet of sole almandine with leeks and mushrooms has a touch of ginger that accents the sweet and sour flavours of the almonds and the sherry vinegar. Fish prepared aux amandes is difficult to find, and to eat his preparation is to wonder what other culinary treasures of the past we unjustly ignore. Lunch at Troisgros is, in some ways, a more formal meal than dinner. At least the patrons seem to dress better, especially the local businessmen and the aged couples arriving to celebrate special occasions. At one such meal, I walked into the men’s room to find an elderly woman there. I backed out, although apparently not hastily enough to deter her from snarling at me. (I was not surprised since the French believe in blaming anything that goes wrong on the nearest American.) My appetite was unaffected. I ate vivid green asparagus prepared three ways: with mayonnaise and black truffles; with red pepper sauce and bits of red pepper; and with fresh mint and a mint-leaf garnish. Leg of lamb was accompanied by a mousseline of eggplant so rich, I might have preferred it as dessert. Lunch or dinner, Michel is always there, nodding hello at every service because he says that is what customers demand of three-star chefs in the countryside. Sometimes, after a long day, he tries to call Claude. “I never know where Claude is,” he says. “He is travelling a lot. I call Brazil; he is never there. Maybe he is in the deepest jungle. Maybe he is at the bottom of Argentina. He always answers me if I e-mail, but I never can find him on the phone.” He laughs with delight at the thought of such freedom, of having a restaurant that does not require the presence of the chef. He does not seem to mind that for him, such a life is not possible. He tells me that he still has two airline tickets to Sydney, Australia, dated 1983, one for himself and the other for his wife. That was the trip he was to take when his Uncle Jean died and he was called home. “It is just another dream,” he says. “I still have the tickets. I will never use them.” Write to us: letters@enroutemag.net |
