There are few chefs in France so universally known as Paul Bocuse.
It could be because Chef Bocuse, a descendant from a family of chefs
dating back to the late 1600s, is 83 years old and still works,
though less frequently, in the kitchen. Or the fact that his
namesake restaurant in Lyon has had three Michelin stars for over 43
years, making it the restaurant to have the longest period of
consecutive years with such an honor. Even the state of California
has proclaimed March 10 “Paul Bocuse Day.” It’s no question
that Bocuse has an extensive and titled culinary history. What is
interesting, however, is that after all these years most of his menu
hasn’t changed at all. But fortunately Bocuse continues to
reproduce these classics with the same quality and passion that made
them popular so many years ago.
Before my visit to chez Bocuse, I had associated “classical
French” with the ubiquitous inclusion of French
mother sauces containing butter, crème, and wine reductions
tasting so starchy and old-fashioned that they could not be
exciting. At least that’s what my experience had been. Even in my
limited experience at culinary school, we were taught to use these
sauces as a springboard for other more elaborate, more international
creations to spark originality. But here with Paul Bocuse, the
concepts of Spanish molecular gastronomy, California cuisine, and
Japanese fusion are foreign. He sticks to the basics; no games.
Bocuse only uses classic sauces because he believes it’s the best
way to highlight the flavors of meat, fish, and vegetables. He does
it because it tastes the best. Period.
When I first arrived from the Lyon train station, I had to rub my
eyes in disbelief: there stood Paul Bocuse, arms folded, posing
perfectly in front of his restaurant. I jumped in front and took a
picture. Then I noticed the entourage of politely frustrated
Japanese photographers standing behind me. Oops ! The restaurant
itself is perched on second floor of a larger complex, standing out
in bright colors of red, green, and gold. It vaguely reminded me of
the restaurant from
Ratatouille some of the dock-side seafood restaurants I’d
seen in New England, with its casual yet attractive colors. Letters
above both the entrance and restaurant read “PAUL BOCUSE.” I
figured I was at the right place.
The wallpaper-lined main dining room had large arches which lets
the light, as well as waiters, flow from room to room. The space
felt very open and relaxed, much like eating in a comfortable hotel
lobby with lots of niches and corners in which tables were nestled.
My waiter handed me the over-sized menu and I began to read through
the options. There was an extended tasting menu available; but it
seemed like most of the dishes I wanted to try were only available à
la carte. This is where the restaurant truly shined in making my
experience customized and enjoyable: I was able to select all
six of the dishes I wanted to try, and they were conformed to
the portioning (and price) of the grand tasting.
The amuse bouche started with a Paul Bocuse-sized gougère,
suitable even for the likes of a certain
Julien. The gougère was paired with a small cup of spring pea
soup topped with crème fraîche — and it was huge! Despite my thirty
second photo shoot, it remained very hot at the first bite, even
letting out a puff of steam. The flavor was of salty gruyère cheese
with the light scent of toast. Even more full of flavor, however,
was the thick pea soup which combined the flavor of rich butter with
the crisp vegetal taste of spring peas. The soup was topped with
chilled crème fraîche which seemed to mix with the hot liquid in my
mouth to create a swirl of different temperatures. The crème
fraîche was sprinkled with black truffle whose subtle presence I
wouldn’t have even noticed had it not been pointed out. Overall,
the meal was off to nice start.
Seeing Maine lobster on a French menu is just about as rare as
hearing a French sommelier compliment California wines. So imagine
my shock and amazement the first time I saw my
friend’s photos on this dish. I’ve always found Main lobster to
be the sweetest and most flavorful, particularly when served
chilled, needing little saucing or garnish to enhance the flavor.
The lobster was encircled with two rings of sauces. The outer ring
of aged vinegar and butter, the inner of olive oil, salt, and fresh
dill. The pattern of the sharp and acidic vinegar was beautiful,
bold leaf-shaped “Y” patterns interlocking around the perimeter of
the plate. The lobster sat atop a mayonnaise-bound salad of
carrots, peas, turnip and string beans. Crowning the lobster and
salad was a firm tomato en gelée, looking like an evil eye. Sort of
scared me, to be honest. Aside from the tomato being cold and out
of season, likely a decorative garnish than a flavor addition, the
lobster’s sweetness really came through balanced by the acidic
vinegar, rich butter, and creamy mayonnaise. The real fun of this
dish was combining the sweet main lobster with different
combinations and quantities of the two sauces. The vegetable
salad, while flavorful, seemed more of an afterthought.
After the lobster came a second chilled course, a foie gras pâte,
served with truffles en gelée au
Sauternes Antonin Carême. This particular sauternes was likely
included as a tribute to one of the most famous French chefs of all
time, rather than used for its particular flavor. The foie gras was
full of savor: creamy, fatty, and smooth, the gelée, not so much.
In fact, it was flavorless despite the presence of truffles. I
actually didn’t really understand what the truffles were doing in
this dish aside from making it sound good on a menu. I found that
the dense gelée prevented any scent or texture from escaping. The
contrast between the chilled foie gras and the warm slices of
toasted baguette, however, was very welcome. I left half of this
plate untouched and conserved some space for the courses to come.
I suppose when a restaurant has been around and maintained three
stars for nearly fifty years, the chance of multiple Presidents
coming to dine is pretty high. Such was the case in 1975 when
Bocuse, for then-President of France Valéry Giscard d’Estaing,
created a custom-tailored black truffle soup. This soupe aux
truffles noires V.G.E. comes in its own special bowl
overflowing with puff pastry that locks in the heat and moisture.
The first bite of this pastry made me question why whoever made this
had not yet been
knighted opened his own pâtisserie; the flaking texture was
phenomenal, each “crack” into the surface shattering buttery flakes
into the hot bouillon. After burrowing my way through the crispy
surface, I reached a mid-layer of pastry that had been moistened by
the steam below. Without a doubt the best part of this dish — it
had the flavor and temperature of the soup but maintained a frail
and crispy texture rife with butter. By this point the
health-conscious couple next to me had simply decapitated the soup,
placing the puff pastry on a side plate, and went directly to the
thin bouillon below. I didn’t want to burst her bubble; but if
calorie counting was her thing, she was in the wrong
country
restaurant. The bouillon was a double consommé of beef with little
strips of beef and shavings of black truffle. I found the soup
itself a disappointment. While the flavor was pure and simple, it
was boring. While that was likely the intention, I just didn’t much
care for it. The truffle shavings gave no flavor or scent, merely
offering a different textural component. In the end I mostly ate
the round croissant top and used the soup like a savory coffee for
dipping. In doing so I saved some room; I was going to need it.
What came next was the highlight of the meal, rouget barbet
en écailles de pommes de terre croustillantes, a thin filet of
red mullet covered in potato scales. This course reminded me that
butter does not equal bad. Butter gets a bad rap for its high
cholesterol, saturated fats, and ubiquitous presence in French
food. I would almost say that I’ve developed a sensitivity to
butter from having lived in the US, a direct result of movements
like California cuisine that de-emphasize butter usage and promote
heart-healthy eating. But what Bocuse showed me was that butter,
when used properly, is one of the best ways to strengthen and
support a fish’s natural flavor. Bocuse uses butter not for the
sake of it, not because it’s popular in French food, and not because
he’s a rebel. Rather he uses it deliberately because, quite simply,
it tastes the best. Here it’s presence was felt in both the crispy
potato “scales” and the sauces pooling below the fish. The moist
filet protected by its two skins stayed interesting with each bite
until the very end, particularly because I could choose different
combinations from the olive-leaf shaped combination of sauces
below. This was delicious.
Served on the side of the rouget barbet was a small feuilleté
aux anchois, a layered anchovy pastry puffed full of air and
flavor. Just because this was served as a side did not mean it
should be overlooked. The strong, slightly acidic anchovy helped to
balance the rich butter from both its own pastry and from the
rouget. Aside from the anchovy, once again, this pastry was
phenomenal. If the pastry chef opened his own place, I would
seriously consider moving to be closer to it. I made the mistake of
cutting this in half with a knife which compressed the center to a
vertical line on the plate — this feuilleté is just too delicate for
slicing.
Next came a very classic dish, quenelle de brochet sauce
Nantua, incredibly fluffy pike quenelles floating on a bed of
crayfish and a crayfish bisque. Despite the grand stature of the
quenelle, I would not be surprised to learn that only 2-3 egg whites
went into its making — that’s how weightless the texture was. This
delicate poached mousseline of fish brought to mind the magically
fluffy omelettes at the Park Hyatt hotel in Tokyo. But this was no
breakfast. Since the quenelle was so airy, each hollow pocket
soaked up the lavish flavor of crayfish and butter. The crayfish
were chewy adding some textural variety; but a touch of something
crunchy would have been a welcome addition.
It would be a euphemism to say that this was a lot of food;
tasting portions, these were not. Sure glad I was still hungry for
the carré d’agneau primeres côtes rôti à la fleur thym.
This tender rack of lamb was cooked medium rare at the kitchen’s
recommendation, which meant that the cooking needed to be
miraculously even and precise to prevent overcooking. Out of my
four chops, one was overcooked and showed signs of dryness. The
rest were juicy and tender. The thyme added a really pleasant and
refined fragrance that made a natural pair with the meat. The
vegetables — peas, carrots, and turnip — were lightly cooked in
butter preserving the natural texture of the vegetables while
highlighting their flavor with the salted butter. If France had
soul food, this would be it: simple, satisfying, and filling. To
the side was a potato gratin which seemed almost like an
afterthought, albeit a very rich one. The cheese seemed slide around
on the surface rather than infusing throughout the casserole.
My waiter wheeled the cheese cart from the table across in my
direction with a devious smile: he knew he was up to no good. The
cheese selection was rather standard including the all-stars
Fourme d’Ambert, Crottin, Pouligny Saint Pierre, Comte agé 18-mois,
and Tomme de Brebis. There was some fresh local cheese served
in a small glass jar on one of the other carts that I’d never had
before, so I opted for that. Despite its white, yogurt-like
appearance its flavor was anything but innocuous: sour, bitter, and
vegetal. The waiter returned with some sugar which helped, but I
took this as a cultural item that just wasn’t for me.
Next came the dessert carts. Three carts in
total. My assumption is this excessive quantity of sweets is a
relic of the past where diners sought to leave a fine dining
establishment not only sated, but stuffed, in order to have
maximized their experience. The carts included a vast assortment of
cakes, tarts, sorbets, and meringues. At this point I considered
one of everything
skipping dessert but my two hour train from Paris required I at
least try some of them. I compromised with myself electing the two
of the most classic: Île Flotante and Baba au Rhum. The
“floating island” was a small dollop of meringue served with
caramel. It tasted similar to a cold soufflé; interesting, but two
bites was enough. The baba au rhum was inundated with rum meaning
while I didn’t order alcohol with this meal, my alertness would be
severely altered whether I liked it or not. The texture of the baba
was unbelievably moist; I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that
a single cake houses half a cup of rum inside.
A two-layered plate of petits fours was left on the table
containing both chocolates and small French delicacies such as
pâte aux fruits, macarons, meringues, tuiles, and madeleines.
The fruit jelly was the most welcome as its bright flavor put a
happy end to a substantial meal.
From an educational perspective, this was an excellent meal. It
was a glimpse into France’s past. This is the first restaurant I’d
been to where the dishes were unabashedly traditional but the
flavors exciting. It’s a meal that showed me that butter can be
marvelous when used properly. After having eaten here, it’s now
easier to see what other less successful dishes attempted to be with
their use of classical components; but failed to become for lack of
flavor.
That being said, I think once was enough for the next few years.
The food, though educational, was very heavy and its lack of changes
makes it unlikely to maintain the same level of excitement the
second time. I will, however, continue to refer back to Bocuse as
an example of classic, and delicious, fine dining for much longer.
And for those who have not been before, it’s an important relic of
France’s culinary past that begs to be explored.
