French Lessons (25 page)

There are, of course, many other
food guides besides the Michelin. Some are good, some are cobbled together by
enthusiastic amateurs, and some are not much more than vehicles for liquor
advertising. None of them can match the Michelin recipe of impartiality, scope,
professional attention to detail, and accuracy. (The town maps in the 1939
guide were so accurate they were used by the Allied forces in 1944 during the
liberation of France.) And no other guide is as popular.

For once, this
is not just my own highly subjective opinion. Statistics are on my side.
Le
Guide Rouge
2000
had a first printing of 880,254 individually
numbered copies, an enormous print run for a hardcover book. It was an
immediate best-seller. As I write this, I have my copy (number 304,479) in
front of me. It is a cheerfully colored, reassuringly plump volume that makes
its ancestor from 1900 look undernourished, even anorexic. This year, there are
more than seventeen hundred pages, listing more than five thousand hotels and
more than four thousand restaurants. Adding to the volume’s bulk is a
Michelin novelty: For the first time in a hundred years, the sign language for
each listing is amplified by descriptive text—a couple of sentences, no
more. But we can imagine the months, perhaps years, of judicious pondering over
at taste bud headquarters before the decision was taken to add words to
pictograms, because one doesn’t tamper lightly with an institution.

My only reservation about the guide is the effect it sometimes has on
restaurants. I believe it tends to bring out the interior decorator that can
occasionally be found lurking in the subconscious of some otherwise-levelheaded
chefs. Let a star be awarded, and suddenly amid all the celebrations and cries
of hail to the chef, through the joyous mist of champagne bubbles, the
proprietor glances fondly around the restaurant and notices that
there’s … 
something wrong.
It is, he eventually
realizes, the look of the place: the furniture, the accessories, the overall
style of the room. They just won’t do anymore. They’re
too … well, too
ordinary
for an establishment that
has now been elevated to the gastronomic heights. The restaurant has a
macaroon, for heaven’s sake.
Haute cuisine
deserves nothing less
than
haut décor.
There’s nothing for it but to call in
the refurbisher.

And so those old, simple chairs are replaced by
high-backed thrones covered in thick-cut, sumptuous bas-relief tapestry that
costs more per square meter than foie gras. As for those serviceable plates and
glasses, those unremarkable knives and forks, they must go, too. Bring on the
Limoges and the Baccarat and the cutlery that looks as though it has come
straight out of the presidential dining room in the Elysée Palace. Soon
there is fine linen for the tables, silver-topped crystal decanters for the
wine, great shiny domes to protect the food during its brief journey from
kitchen to customer. And finally, let’s smarten up the staff by putting
them in new outfits—something sleek and chic and, more often than not,
black.

This is all well and good if it stops there; a face-lift,
nothing more. Alas, there are times when it changes not just the appearance of
the restaurant but its personality, as well. Eminence breeds reverence, and
what was once a comfortable, easygoing place becomes, in that ominous and
overused phrase, a temple of gastronomy. A shrine. Not only that, the
investment required for thrones and domes and decanters and designer plates is
colossal, which puts severe additional pressure on the poor man in the kitchen
whose cooking has to pay for it all.

I’ve wondered many times
over the years why an accolade for excellent cooking should lead to a frenzy of
redecoration, and not long ago I had the chance to ask a local chef about it.
He has recently been attracting a lot of well-deserved attention; his food is
terrific, and his restaurant is delightful. It won’t be long before he
gets his first star. I think he sees it as a mixed blessing.

Of course,
he would be thrilled. For a chef, Michelin stars are the stuff of dreams. But
certain improvements would have to be made, he said as we looked around the
room where I have spent many happy and well-fed hours—a friendly room,
where you feel at home as soon as you sit down.

“Why change
anything?” I said.

He shrugged. “Customers expect it. What
can I do?”

Then I understood. It wasn’t an edict handed
down by Michelin. It wasn’t the chef’s desire to improve his
working scenery. This whole thing—the summoning of the refurbisher, the
Elysée Palace cutlery, the new ensembles for the staff—is all done
to satisfy a deeply felt need in the French psyche that I’ve noticed
before: the passion for trappings, the love of
luxe.
Who knows how it
began? It might well have been started by the courtiers at Versailles, who were
always trying to keep up with each other in the matter of velveteen breeches,
scented gloves, hand-knitted wigs, and other items of conspicuous consumption.
In any case, it was subsequently adopted with tremendous gusto by the
prosperous members of the bourgeoisie, the kind of people who today buy La
Cornue stoves and Hermès picnic baskets; the kind of people who have the
money and the inclination to eat out frequently; the kind of people, in other
words, who make restaurants successful and profitable.

They insist on
their comforts, according to my friend the chef, and you will never hear them
complain about a surfeit of upholstery, an excess of crystal, or too many
waiters. In fact, as he said, that is what they expect from a restaurant when
it has reached a certain level. A little pomp is necessary. The food is
crucial, certainly, but so are the surroundings. Success in the kitchen must be
reflected by the trappings of success in the dining room. Otherwise,
apparently, customers will feel let down. Or even worse, some of the more
sensitive among them might have the terrible suspicion that they’re
paying one-star prices to eat in a homely old bistro.

It’s a
difficult, demanding business running a top restaurant, and one that requires a
particular mixture of talents. Part artist, part sergeant major, part
diplomat—the great chefs have to be all of these, and they can’t
afford to have off days, because someone—possibly Monsieur Tout le Monde
himself—will be watching. France’s longest-serving three-star chef,
Paul Bocuse, received his stars back in 1965, and he still has them today.
Thirty-five years without putting a foot wrong in the kitchen. The man deserves
a medal for stamina.

And so do some of the other veterans. Looking
through the pages of the 2000 edition, you will find 116 establishments that
were recommended in the original guide a hundred years ago. One of these
monuments happens to be the Hotel d’Europe in Avignon, not far from us,
and we thought it would be interesting to see how it was holding up under the
weight of all those years.

In fact, the hotel was doing brisk business
long before the Michelin brothers discovered it. Built in the sixteenth
century, it was acquired by a widow, Madame Pierron, who opened her doors to
travelers in 1799. Bigwigs of every description came to stay: cardinals and
archbishops, princes and statesmen, even Napoléon Bonaparte. History
doesn’t relate whether Josephine came, too, but it seems he had fond
memories of the place. When he was fighting in Russia, surrounded by officers
complaining about the discomforts of war, he showed little sympathy.
“Sacrebleu!”
he is reported to have said.
“We’re not at Madame Pierron’s hotel.”

He would
have no difficulty recognizing it today. It’s on one of the prettiest
squares in Avignon, the place Crillon, just inside the ramparts that have
protected the center of town for six hundred years. The classical architecture
of the
place
has survived without too much interference from town
planners, the street is still cobbled, and the hotel’s handsome facade
remains simple, without any of the neon trimmings that disfigure so many old
buildings.

After passing through an entrance wide and high enough for a
coach and horses, we found ourselves in a huge paved courtyard. There were
trees, flowers, a fountain, and a smiling manager at the door. Already, I could
see why Napoléon liked staying here. He would have liked our room, too,
with its view across tiled rooftops toward the floodlit Palais des Papes. And
he would undoubtedly have liked the cooking.

We sat over a long dinner,
made longer by the generosity of the chef. He has one Michelin star, and he is
pursuing a second with an enthusiasm that spilled over onto our plates. We
ordered three courses and ended up tasting six—only tasting, because the
three extra surprises were no more than a couple of perfectly presented
mouthfuls, just enough to keep the palate sharp without blunting the appetite.
It was the next best thing to being invited into the kitchen.

The hours
went by, leaving the restaurant almost empty except for our invisible
companions, the ghosts of those who had eaten there over the past two
centuries: Grand Duke Vladimir of Russia, Charles Dickens, John Stuart Mill,
Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett during their elopement, Chateaubriand,
the future king Edward VII—and, blending into the background as they kept
a careful eye on everything from the waiter’s fingernails to the
chef’s sauces, several generations of Michelin inspectors.

It had
been a lovely evening, and it marked the end of a certain stage in the
preparation of this book—the end of that leisurely, enjoyable, and often
well-fed process that I like to call research. A toast seemed appropriate.

We drank to chefs, particularly French chefs. And then we raised our
glasses again to that unsung hero of the table, custodian of the nation’s
stomach, and seeker after gastronomic immortality, wherever he can find it:
Monsieur Tout le Monde. Let’s hope he’s with us for another hundred
years.

Last Course

Descriptions on a page can go only so far; there is nothing quite like being there. And so, for those of you who would like to see for yourselves some of the restaurants, places, and events that I’ve written about, here are a few details. I can’t, unfortunately, give precise dates of the fairs and festivals, as these will change by a day or two each year, but I’ve included contact addresses where appropriate. Get in touch by phone or fax (much of rural France is not yet plugged in to e-mail), and all will be revealed. The organizers of these events welcome a big turnout, and I’ve found that inquiries usually receive prompt and helpful replies. Good luck! I hope you have as much fun as I did.

THE INNER FRENCHMAN

Marius et Janette, 4 avenue George V, Paris. Phone: 01.42.23.41.88. Fax: 01.47.23.07.19. One Michelin star. Specialties: Grilled sea bass, turbot
aioli
(garlic mayonnaise).

L’Isle Sonnante, 7 rue Racine, 8400 Avignon. Phone: 04.90.82.56.01. One Michelin star. Specialties: Filet of rabbit stuffed with olive purée, game and wild mushrooms in season.

Restaurant La Fontaine, place de La Fontaine, 84760 Saint Martin de la Brasque. Phone: 04.90.07.72.16.

FOR WHAT WE ARE ABOUT TO RECEIVE

La Messe des Truffes takes place on a Sunday during the second half of January. Contact: La Mairie, 84600 Richerenches. (The nearest big town is Orange.)

THE THIGH-TASTERS OF VITTEL

La Foire aux Grenouilles take place toward the end of April. Contact: La Maison de Tourisme, 88800 Vittel, for dates and hotel recommendations.

ARISTOCRATS WITH BLUE FEET

Les Glorieuses normally take place during the last weekend before Christmas. Contact: Office du Tourisme, BP 190, avenue Alsace Lorraine, 01000 Bourg-en-Bresse. L’Auberge Bressane, 166 boulevard de Brou. Fax: 04.74.23.03.15. Specialty: Bresse chicken.

LOVE AT FIRST SNIFF

La Foire aux Fromages at Livarot takes place during a weekend in early August. Contact: Office du Tourisme de Livarot, 1 place G. Bisson, 14140 Livarot. (The nearest big town is Lisieux.)

SLOW FOOD

La Foire aux Escargots takes place during the second weekend in May. Contact: Comité d’Animation, La Mairie, 88320 Martigny-les-Bains. (The nearest big towns are Contrexéville and Vittel.)

UNDRESSING FOR LUNCH

Le Club 55, Plage de Pampelonne, 83350 Ramatuelle. Fax: 04.94.79.85.00. Lunch only. Dress optional.

A CONNOISSEUR’S MARATHON

Le Marathon du Médoc takes place on a Saturday in mid-September. Contact: C.R.D. Tourisme d’Aquitaine, Bureau de la Cité Mondiale, 23 Parvis des Chartrons, 33074 Bordeaux Cedex. Fax: 05.56.01.70.07.

AMONG FLYING CORKS IN BURGUNDY

Les Trois Glorieuses are usually held during the third weekend in November, with the auction on the Sunday. Contact: C.R.D. Tourisme, Conseil Régional de Bourgogne, BP 1602, 21035 Dijon Cedex. Fax: 03.80.28.03.00.

A CIVILIZED PURGE

Les Prés d’Eugénie, 40320 Eugénie-les-Bains. Fax: 05.58.51.10.10 (both for the hotel and the Domaine de Huchet on the beach).

THE GUIDED STOMACH

Hotel d’Europe, 12 place Crillon, 8400 Avignon. Fax: 04.90.14.76.71.

Acclaim for
PETER
MAYLE
’s

French Lessons

“Mayle’s mix of detail-rich anecdotes, mirthful commentaries
on the peculiarities of French taste buds and drinking habits, and
self-deprecating humor make for a delicious read.”

—
The Washington Post

“Savory, sensual,
positively transporting stories about his encounters with Gallic gustatory
delights and about his growing appreciation of the central place food occupies
in French life.… His descriptions of the meals they serve allow us to
practically taste the frog legs and truffles right along with him.”

—
Booklist

“Whether you’re
going to France or just [out] to eat, Mayle is worth reading.”

—
San Jose Mercury News

“Armchair diners will doubtless find the fourth volume … as
tasty as ever.”

—
New York
magazine

“Foodies and Francophiles will discover a
like-minded devotee. And all but the strictest vegetarian will be made hungry
by this book. Mayle’s form is every bit as good as ever.”

—
Associated Press