Paris has a lot things, but great coffee sure isn’t one of them. It’s a bit counterintuitive to think that since Parisian café culture is so prominent. Images of sitting outside in wicker chairs in the cold winter under a gas heat lamp sipping a steaming hot drink in the smoke-filled air remind me very strongly of the city. Except that image is all about the ritual, not about the drink. Paris has a strong café culture, but lacks a coffee culture.
It’s incredible that a food-oriented culture which values so heavily elaborate sauces and delicate soufflés, can completely disregard the methods by which to properly prepare an espresso. Even simple ones. I was once thrown out of Café Amazone for suggesting that the doddering owner/barista use the tamp to compress the ground. He instead insisted on using the tamp as a measuring device, compressing the coffee into a spoon, and pouring the loose beans into the portafilter. Even La Caféothèque de Paris and Verlet, which both have fancy La Marzocco equipment and all Arabica beans disappoint. The city is like a parallel universe.
A lot of blame often gets put to the use of Robusta beans versus the more aromatic Arabica. France is able to import these beans from former African colonies at much less cost than overseas Arabica varieties. But frankly, I’m tired of this as an excuse. Even mediocre beans can taste reasonable when prepared correctly. With espresso, 85% of the flavor comes from the process and technique, not the ingredients.
I cannot count the number of “baristi” I’ve witnessed forget to tamp, under fill the portafilter, or even start the extraction and walk away to take someone else’s order. The result is pure culinary neglect. Parisians in general either don’t care or don’t know, as the undemanding clientele is more concerned with the trendy style-aspect of sipping espresso with a cigarette than the flavor. Paris needs a coffee revolution.
In this java wasteland, however, there is hope. Gocce di Caffè in the 2è is the sole consistently perfect espresso I have had in the city. Antonio Costanza, barista/owner from Milan, opened shop in the center of Passage des Panoramas, the oldest covered passage in the city. The covered passage resembles a miniature version of Milan’s Galleria Vittorio Emanuele, with a humble espresso counter and its handful of seats decorating the center. Barista Costanza is the sole person pressing the espresso, so quality remains high and visitors are never at the expense of inexperienced trainees. As a former barista from the main café at Harrod’s London, Costanza speaks excellent English as well as French and Italian.
The beans from Gocce di Caffè come from Milan’s Caffè Guiducci, a family-run shop in existance for over 50-years. The beans are an Arabica-Robusta blend, 80% Arabica and 20% Robusta. Given that 100% Arabica blends are the current trend in US coffee houses, I raised my brows upon hearing of the 20% inclusion of what I was taught were inferior beans. Barista Costanza explained that robusta beans are included to add structure to the flavor. That without their inclusion, the flavor would be too sweet, oily, and one-sided. After doing some research, I was surprised to learn that the majority of Italian espresso bars intentionally include a small pinch of Robusta beans. Robusta beans have essentially become a scapegoat for poor technique.
Espresso at Gocce di Caffè most often tastes of dark chocolate, hazelnut, and at times has a hint of smokey almond. The texture is consistently thick with moderate crema. Barista Costanza’s milk-foaming skills are nonpareil. At times he adds a sprinkle of cocoa powder to enhance the contrast to his art, which with a teaspoon of brown sugar adds rich notes of caramel and milk chocolate. (Authenticity police can simply ask for no cocoa-powder.) Barista Costanzo’s espresso is delicious and can compete against Stumptown, Ninth Street, or Joe the Art of Coffee any day.
All visitors to Paris looking for outstanding coffee must visit. However be warned: if people-watching or fashion-spotting is the intended goal, this is not the place. For that any of Paris’ thousand cafés will do. This is a place for the coffee-obsessed who are tired of espresso with notes of ashtray. And go quickly; so far, it’s dominated solely by locals and Italian tourists seeking sanctuary. And while there, consider suggesting to Barista Costanza that he open a few more locations in the city; there’s a huge need.
Before I moved to Paris, I knew most of the stereotypes: cigarettes, fake dimples, accordions, and berets. And there are others, to say the least. Thankfully, with the exception of the cigarettes, they turned out to be inaccurate.
One stereotype, however, was so spot-on it was comical: I cannot count the number of Parisians I’ve seen racing around the city with groceries on one arm and a bitten baguette under the other. The French love their bread. And they should! With the arguable exception of Tokyo, Paris has the finest bread in the world. Fine boulangeries are to France as Starbucks is to America. They’re everywhere.
Think about it: a baguette is the perfect accompaniment for any course. It goes with confiture and butter for breakfast, with a “jambon fromage” sandwich for lunch, in a small bowl to the side of a glass of red wine with dinner, or with a cheese board as a snack.
So I spent my time in Paris keeping a small journal for noting particularly interesting experiences on the carb front. While the quality of most boulangeries is excellent, there are some which have baguettes that stand out in particular. Of the nine places below, four were so exceptional that I was really pressed to find anything to complain about. They’re listed first. The other boulangeries are excellent as well, but only visit them if time permits after having tried the first few. Enjoy!
Thierry Renard, 113 bis Boulevard de l’Hôpital, 4e
Renard’s baguettes are, in one word: beautiful. The pre-baking flour placed on the surface spreads around the tear-shaped crevasses making the baguette look like it’s wrapped in a snow-colored cage of rustic powder. Not only is this effect visually appealing, it also means the texture and flavor change depending on which part of the baguette is eaten first. The sides of this baguette are the softest part, with a texture like a toasted marshmallow: a thin crisp at first giving way to a springy center. The top is the most crispy part, particularly the dark brown ridges surrounding the tear-shaped fissures. This baguette is plump looking and, were it not for the different textures on the surface, it would appear rather cylindrical — it is nearly as tall as it is wide. When I ripped a piece off and bit in, a small puff of white flour floated like magic. My tongue picked up on the dry texture of the powder first: a very rustic flavor. The baguette leaves behind small crumbs and lots of powder. The exceptionally moinst interior has clearly visible glutens with some bubbles being very large and others quite small. The flavor has the tiniest hint of toasted bread, so little that with some bites it was undetectable. The dough has a neutral, lightly salted flavor: neither tasting sour, nor of whole wheat.
This is the best baguette I’ve had in Paris, as well as the most interesting. Each bite tasted unique because of the infinitly different combinations of flour and crisp, making the baguette practically its own diverse meal. It’s also stunning: the first baguette I’ve seen that is both white and gold with a snow-colored cage of flour wrapping around the light brown baguette. The flavor was neutral enough that it could be eaten with anything, though I enjoyed it best with salted butter. Renard is truly a master baker.
Laurent Duchêne, 2, Rue Wurtz, 13e
Very plain in appearance, the light brown baguettes from Laurent Duchêne have no frills. There is no flour dusting whatsoever and there are no fancy shaped stencil-like cutouts, as seen at Thierry Renard. The baguette is pure in appearance with several crispy ridges stiching the top of the bread. The ridges were very dry and crispy, even hard, providing a strong structural support. The edges were also sharp and pointy. But despite a dry crust, the inside was paradoxically as moist as possible. Tearing off pieces produced a loud crackling sound quickly giving way to the soft interior. The inside was fully of randomly sized bubbles, some quite large, forming a honeycomb of soft bread. Even though the crust was dry and crispy, it wasn’t terribly thick, and so there was excellent balance between the slightly salty interior and the thin and toasty exterior. The flavor was neutral, as a baguette should taste, slightly leaning towards salty.
This baguette was outstanding. The pieces of the shell were so sharp you could probably use them as small weapons. Breaking off my first piece likely woke my neighbors. Being a person who does not crave the just-before-burnt flavor of bread, I still loved this baguette because the crust, while toasted, was thin and non-offensive. It was a beautiful balance. The flavor could sway towards sweet or savory; but, is best enjoyed by itself since its taste is so pure. It was a bit of a trip to get here, and was worth every minute.
Au Levain du Marais, 28, Blvd Beaumarchais, 11e
Au Levain du Marais’ baguettes are light brown with canvass-colored parts creeping through the tears where the bread expanded in the oven. Flour can be found on the edges and ends, parts of the bread where the oven rise was minimal. This bread is not springy; but rather, has a texture similar to swedish memory foam, each squeeze would take a few seconds to come back. What’s interesting about this bread’s shape is that the ends are significantly taller than the middle, like a Boeing 747. I’m not sure what causes this; but it was it was evident on all the baguettes. The outside was very crispy, in fact a tear off caused continual cracking for several seconds after the tear was finished, like rice krispies. This left a large mess; a good thing for a baguette, I think.
The weight was fairly light on the inside; this was not a dense baguette. The air bubbles were very think and for the most part seemed uniformly distributed with the exception of a few large air pockets towards the center. The inside was soft, having a slightly grayish color, perhaps indicative of the type(s) of flour used. The flavor was pure and clean: the water’s flavor could not be tasted. It did taste, however, slightly whole grain which when, combined with the color, makes me suspect that a mixture of whole grain was used in the flour mixture. This baguette is not sweet, has a hint of salt, and would pair well with with both sweet and savory. It was delicious in all respects.
Aux Castelblangeois, 168 rue Saint Honoré, 1e
This baguette looked more like a giant pretzel than a baguette, with shades of dark brown giving way to slits of gold. The crust was very crispy; but since it was relatively thin, its flavor was not dominating. Little to no flour was sifted on the surface before baking making the flavor taste of pure bread. This was fairly messy to break resulting in hundreds of small crumbs littering my plate. When squeezed the baguette demonstrated a delayed rebound indicating the freshness of the interior. The inside was exceptionally moist with small bubbles and nets of gluten stretching across the interior. The flavor tasted ever so slightly of cornmeal, even though this was not an ingredient.
I really like these baguettes for both their texture and simplicity. The lack of sifted flour on the surface makes their use very versatile for both sweet and savory. The dark brown color really makes these baguettes distinct. It’s paradoxical how they can be baked so thoroughly yet have not the faintest flavor of toasted bread. The interior is not light and fluffy, rather substantive and supportive, a quality I prefer in my baguettes when eaten with butter. These exhibit an excellent balance of crust and interior with neither part tasting more strongly than the other.
Stohrer, 51, Rue Montorgueil, 2e
Stohrer’s baguettes are thin and cylindrical, minimally puffing towards the middle. These baguettes are so thin that two can fit in a single baguette bag. They’re plain in appearance with very little visible flour on the surface. There is a central fissure running through the entire center of the croissant. The texture is crispy and springy, perhaps from the small, uniformly distributed creating a bounce on the inside. The inside was dense and moist, though it smelled slightly of yeast. Breaking off a piece produced a mess of small flakes of toast. The flavor was of toasted bread, dominated by the crust.
Some claim Stohrer invented the baba au rhum. Being as famous as this place was, I was curious to see how non-sweet baked goods tasted. While possibly the best baker in the immediate area, I wasn’t blown away by the flavor. But the texture was particularly interesting. Since the baguettes did have such a small diameter, half of each bite was crust: too much for me, but perhaps perfect for others. The smell of yeast also threw me off a little.
Boulanger Julien, 85 rue Saint Dominique, 7e
The plump baguettes from boulanger Julien had a nice appearance of both rustic and modern — sifted with flour to make them visually interesting yet loaded with fissures bound tightly by the glutens revealing that this is indeed a pastry hundreds of years old. The outside was very light with colors ranging from cream to light tan. The baguette was soft to the squeeze and slightly mailable. Pieces broke off very cleanly with minimal to no flakes left on my table; the breakage was also silent. The inside was filled with uniformly distributed air pockets of small to medium size with notable density. The flavor was nutty, similar to chestnut, with a distinct vegetal taste on the finish yet neither salty nor sweet. The sifted flour dusting the surface was fairly thick, making each bite taste first of flour, then of the baguette itself.
This baguette had a lot of potential. My biggest complaint was the texture which was a little soft. I think my first one was slightly undercooked as the inside remained very chewy and the outside shell lacking crisp. The second was a bit more crispy. The most interesting part was the vegetal flavor that would have paired really nicely with salted beurre de bordier. When I broke off my first piece the smell was strongly of chestnut and potato. Really interesting.
Frédéric Comyn, 27 rue Friant, 14e
Located at the last stop of the 4 subway line at Porte d’Orléans, Frédéric Comyn is officially at the outskirts of the city. I heard about Frédéric Comyn from Chez Pim‘s post on the best croissant in paris. It’s easy to walk by this pâtesserie; there are no signs and the well-lit display counter and cash register makes it look a bit like au bon pain. Well, at least I missed it the first time. When I asked for a baguette ancienne the woman told me there were no more left. Then her friend came to the rescue, “I think some just came out of the oven.” That was all I needed to hear.
Frédéric Comyn’s baguettes are nearly perfect cylindars: in most parts, they’re as tall as they are wide. There is a single fissure that traverses the top revealing a lighter colored interior. The top golden-colored surface has moon-like craters with patches of dark brown; the bottom is white with flour. The texture is a lot like a plain New York bagel: a thin and tight shell that doesn’t crisp very much when squeezed. There is some rebound; but if squeezed too firmly, the shape will stick. Inside is a little sticky which might explain why there was little rebound when squeezed. When I tore off a piece I was able to twist the baguette without it breaking until I pulled hard enough that a piece tore off: this was not a crispy baguette. The flavor was light with little to no toasted flavor. There was no sourness or whole grain flavor in the dough, the flavor was as basic and simple as possible.
I like a thin crispy crust on my baguettes and so I found these a little too crust-less; though these could very well be the perfect baguettes for those who dislike the flavor of toast. The interior actually seemed a touch undercooked as it was slightly sticky to the touch. Though chewy, the density of this bread worked nicely with salt and the best butter in the world; then again with that butter, anything is delicious.
Le Quartier du Pain, 74 rue Saint-Charles, 15e
Hiding a few blocks behind the Eiffel Tower lies the best bread in the 15th, found at Le Quartier du Pain. This small corner shop bakes fresh bread throughout the day, so it’s no longer necessary to wake up at the crack of dawn to eat something hot. The first thing that struck me about Le Quartier du Pain’s baguettes were the tear-shaped crevasses lining the surface. Each symmetric crevass has a crispy ridge along its sides which, when torn apart, produces a crackle similar to wood burning at a campfire. These baguettes are very crispy. In fact, when I was squeezing the baguette on my 30 minute trip back home, I realized there was essentially no spring or rebound to its texture. The crispy crust makes squeezing this bread a risk: too hard and you’ll shatter it right then and there. Inside is a light grey-brown with randomly distributed bubbles of small to medium size. The crust is very significant here, and its flavor of toasted bread dominates each bite. This is not a baguette for the Japanese those who do not like crust. The flavor and smell is slightly sour, and the inside borderline chewy. It is wet and moist, perhaps because this crust locks in the moisture so well.
I really enjoyed this baguette with butter and salt. I’m not sure if I would use it with cheese or cured meats due to its significant crust; but with simple garnishes it’s predominately toasty flavor is delicious. The skill of the bakery comes across very clearly in this bread’s incredible uniform crust and texture — it is both crispy and soft, without being dry or heavy. I can only imagine what this would taste like hot.
Philipe Gosselin, 125 Rue Saint-Honoré, 1e
The baguettes here were rated the best in the city in a 1996 survey by Le Grand Prix de la Baguette de Tradition Française de la Ville de Paris, which Gosselin still proudly displays on each of its product bags. A lot has changed since then. These baguettes anciennes are easily distinguished by their gold to dark yellow exterior, with visible traces of flower on the surface. The underside is a darker color, a rich brown, and is the most crisp part of the baguette. The texture is springy, so much so that during my walk home I probably lost a few surface crumbs from the fun I had squeezing it. After breaking, the baguette kept pretty clean with minimal crumbs and fracturing. Since the bottom was significantly more dry than the top, breaking off a piece was a tear for the top half and a crisp for the bottom. There was no crackle sound; the crust was not very dry. The inside of this baguette has a nice distribution of randomly sized iridescent bubbles, indicating a high moisture content. This baguette was fresh. The texture of the interior was very similar to latex in both color and its slight transparency. The first flavor that struck me was the cholorinated water used to make the baguette, clearly not filtered. This baguette was fairly light on the tongue, not salty, and slighty sweet. The surface flour left a powdery texture on both my hands and in my mouth after each bite.
These baguettes have a beautifully symmetrical appearance on the outside, and the flour certainly makes them appear more rustic. My biggest gripe with this baguette was that sometimes the taste of tap water is too strong. Chlorinated water has no place in the flavor profiles of a baguette.
In a country known for its extensive use of butter, a meal where butter is scarce is refreshing. Dinner at Agapé is light and clean, making use of only the freshest seasonal ingredients.
In a country known for its extensive use of butter, a meal where butter is scarce is refreshing. Dinner at Agapé is light and clean, making use of only the freshest seasonal ingredients.
The name Agapé itself is one of three Greek words roughly translated into English as love. This title is well-suited as the energetic and enthusiastic passion of the entire staff comes through immediately. I’d never seen a maître’d more genuinely excited to put together a tasting menu. He was proud of the restaurant’s creations. And it showed.
The meal started with an amuse bouche of mousseline de potimarron avec orange, graine de tournesol, a thick soup of winter squash brightened by orange zest and sunflower seeds. The soup had a strong flavor of pumpkin with a slightly grainy and creamy texture. The raw sunflower seeds seemed a little misplaced at first; but then I began to enjoy the textural contrast it provided to keep each spoonful interesting. I really liked this.
My favorite course of the night came next: crevettes de Nouvelle Calédonie crue et marinée avec navets, yuzu, et cacahuète. These raw grey shrimp from New Caledonia were sweet and extremely fresh but not as sweet as the red varieties of sweet shrimp. The bitterness of these grey shrimp made the pairing with the yuzu fantastic. The addition of peanuts and beets provided textural contrast. The ice-cold temperature of everything heightened the dish’s overall sweetness.
Keeping with the light and fresh theme came carpaccio de betterave avec parmesan, noisette, et vinaigre balsamique, or thin slices of beet root with salty parmesan, crispy hazelnuts, and acidic aged balsamic vinegar. The beets had a distinctly earthy taste, which was further accentuated by the parmesan. I really liked the mix of textures in this dish.
To me, when very tender, veal carpaccio develops a texture similar to raw lean tuna. Such was the case with the noix de veau cru d’Hugo Desnoyer, espuma au concombre, coriandre, citron, vanille. This was heightened by the fresh taste of the cucumber for which I already associate with the flavor of tuna from American sushi rolls. Vanilla, lemon, and coriander gave the meat a sweet fragrance making the dish smell almost like a dessert. And not to mention that Hugo Desnoyer’s small shop in the 14e is known for the finest cuts of meat in the city.
L’Agapé has close ties with L’Arpège with both staffing and philosophy. Laurent, the current maître’d at Agapé was the former maître’d at l’Arpège. Both restaurants insist on farm-fresh seasonal vegetables and choose to prepare them in ways that enhance their natural flavors rather than to obscure them. Agapé’s potager aux poireaus et huîtres was a tribute to the famous dish by Alain Passard. It was incredible how the sharp brine from the oysters actually made the leeks taste sweeter.
Next came rutabega, espuma au poireau, céléri-rave, jus de poire, long cuts of Swedish turnip with a leek foam, celeriac and a sweet pear reduction. This dish was tasty, but certainly not a favorite of the night. I thought the leek foam was more like an aioli in terms of fattiness and texture. I didn’t care much for this dish.
My face lit up when I smelled the next course, foie gras grillé de Charolais, katsuobushi, radis vert et rouge, ciboulette et basilic thaï. The generous slab of grilled foie gras was tempered with a very clean clear broth, which allowed the fattiness of the liver to come through without feeling overwhelming. The salty strips of katsuobushi, or dried and fermented tuna, combined with the thai basil made this meat taste both sweet and savory at once. The thin broth kept the liver moist until the very end.
When cooking scallops, it’s always best to err on the side of raw. These scallops — noix de saint-jacques rôties avec chou-fleur, lardo di colonata, purée de cresson – were pan seared for what seemed like just a few seconds, which allowed them to maintain their sweetness. I didn’t particularly like the lardo di colonata here and pushed it to the side: it was too fatty for me and I thought it lacked salt. The watercress puree had a fairly strong flavor for watercress, so I limited its addition to my fork, basically only eating the scallops. Honestly, the highlight of this dish was the perfectly seared scallops; everything else served as decoration.
Next came mallard de Landes avec chou-rouge, purée de coing, jus cuisson parfumé avec vinaigre fumé. I would have liked the skin of this duck to be a bit crispier because I thought it was a tad soggy. I saved the dish by separating the skin from the meat and eating only the lean part. Loved the combination of the astringent quince and the smoked vinagre. These modifications really helped to cut down on the fatty mouth-feel. The meat itself was very juicy, and its flavor was emphasized by the slight vegetal bitterness of the red cabbage.
I prefer my meats lean, so I’m predisposed to enjoying fattier cuts of wagyu beef. Titled Boeuf ‘wagyu’ d’Argentine, oignon en robe de champ, béarnaise de la moutarde d’Orléans, this rare cut of Argentine beef was cooked impeccably. As you can see from the picture below, the beef’s color is astounding : it appears to be beet red. The meat was served with Agapé’s version of chimichurri, keeping in line with the Argentine theme. I loved the onion that accompanied the meat and how the skin was left on to preserve a crispy texture. FoodSnob, with whom I shared this meal, loved the fatty marbling.
I followed with a light assortiment of cheeses, comté de Bernard Anthony (Juin 2005), Chèvre Drôme Gramat, Chèvre-Crabotin, and Munster Nord Vache. Most memorable was the 4-year-aged comté, also a favorite of Alain Passard.
Our first dessert was a poire William pochée au sirop, sablé à la farine de sarrasin, crème de yuzu, et sorbet à la poire William. While known simply as a common pear in the US, in France they distinguish between types. This one happened to be poire William. The grainy texture of the pear mixed well with the flour sable and produced a grainy texture that felt like the pear skin itself. It was strangely addictive. The bright citrus flavor of the yuzu was tempered as a crème. I thought this dessert was outstanding.
I was disappointed to see a piece of chocolate tart brought as the final dessert. I very rarely enjoy a chocolate dessert; I find its flavor completely takes over anything I’d tasted previously due to its strength. This one broke the mold. I tasted it and immediately wanted more. This “Samana” chocolate from the Dominican Republic was sweet and rich with a strong taste of salted cocoa butter. I couldn’t get enough of it. It was served with a Tahitian vanilla sorbet and a drop of salted caramel. The portioning of this dish also ensured that I would finish it and want more.
Petits fours were truffe à la fève tonka, crème caramel au fruit de la passion de Jacques Genin, small and to the point. I didn’t particularly like the tonka bean chocolates, nor did I like their inclusion immediately after a chocolate dessert. But the passion fruit crème caramel was an enjoyable bite.
My meal at Agapé was a very positive experience, calling on culinary influences from both Japan and France and melding them into a relatively light meal. I did prefer the first half of meal to the second, mostly because I’m crazy about raw shrimp and veal. But overall this was a really enjoyable meal filled with energy and creativity that made it really fun. I’m looking forward to my next visit.
When I first came to Paris I was determined to find the best croissant in the city. But the longer I lived here, and the more croissants I tasted, the clearer things became. There are several boulangeries here that I would classify as having the top tier croissants. Of those top bakeries differences come down to personal preference. Do you prefer a sweeter pastry? More substantive on the inside? How flaky? Even external factors like weather and chance affect the outcome of these pastries: absolute consistency is impossible and is at odds with artisanship. I couldn’t pick just one place.
My tasting methods were efficient: there were no left overs. (I don’t want to talk about the health sacrifice I gave to complete this delicious study.) I tried to keep things as consistent as possible by visiting all the bakeries before 10am; nearly 50 of them, in fact. If it was raining, I returned when it was sunny. I visited each bakery at least twice.
So, listed below are the five bakeries I believe to have the best croissants in Paris. They are in no particular order.
Laurent Duchêne, 2, Rue Wurtz, 13e
These croissants are big and bulky; yet, light and airy. Thick, dark caramel bands wrap this pastry with blisters of tan revealing just how thin each layer is. A side view immediately shows that despite the croissant’s bulk, it was still composed of thousands of paper thin layers. The croissant was sturdy; though, squeezing the exterior would have broken the shell rather than spring back. There was a very strong scent of toasted butter. This croissant was very messy, and tearing off segments resulted in a distinct crackling sound. Despite the shell’s dryness, however, the inside was cavernous and moist with spiral-shaped webs revealing the inverse of the piece I’d torn out. The flavor was salty with a hint of sweet towards the end, followed by toasted butter.
This is one of the best croissants I’ve ever tasted. Almost hard to tell whether it was salty or sweet since the two flavors were in perfect balance. The shell had structure and protected the croissant’s shape despite my 30-minute journey home through the Paris subway system. My guess is the firm shell locked in moisture allowing the croissant to stay fresh throughout the entire morning. The inside was a nice mix between a hollow cave and a honeycomb, ensuring that the crust’s texture was crispy and pronounced; but not dominant. The ends of this croissant were blunt, making each bite texturally equal: there was no bad bite.
Thierry Renard, 131 bis Boulevard de l’Hôpital, 4e
Thierry Renard won the Concours du Meilleur Croissant, Ville de Paris 2008, for having the best croissant in Paris. It’s easy to see the elements that make this croissant so impressionable: it’s ultra-light with thin flaking layers, has an airy soft interior with a rich flavor of butter, and smells lightly toasted. The exterior is diamond-shaped with one side slightly more pronounced as a boomerang. The color is a light brown with random strips of shiny dark brown showing where the pastry was glazed with butter. The consistency is fluffy and the pastry looks more like it was rolled than folded: it’s very round. The thin and crispy shell holds together pretty well as flakes do not brush off easily. When broken, however, make sure you have a napkin underneath to catch the thin small pieces that come off. Inside is sort of like a collection of flower petals: the glutunous webs stretch across the ringed interior, each waiting to be pulled out and enjoyed. The texture was chewy, and the inside tasted of buttered dough with a slightly sweet, rich butter aftertaste.
These croissants were very enjoyable; but they could have been even more enjoyable had they been cooked just a bit longer to eliminate the doughy interior. This croissant’s outer shell is a very good balance between ultra-thin and slightly thicker, bringing the best of both worlds into a single pastry: thin enough to flake yet thick enough to absorb maximal butter. The interior was beautiful, and the thin mesh of butter scented rings gave the croissant substance, while still keeping it feathery and texturally interesting.
Frédéric Comyn, 27 rue Friant, 14e
I read about Frédéric Comyn from Chez Pim, who says this is the best croissant in Paris. It also happened to win the Concours du Meilleur Croissant, Ville de Paris 2007. Pretty strong recommendations. Strong enough that despite the terrible weather I trecked out to the last stop on the 4, Porte d’Orléans, to taste for myself. Sure was worth it. This croissant has a very distinct spherical appearance; it is nearly as tall as it is wide. Its center arcs upwards like a crescent instead of sideways, lifting off of the table. It is quite tall, and perfectly symmetrical. The surface is shiny with copper and bronze tones. A view from the side reveals a spiral with hundreds of fine layers. The outer shell is slightly thicker than paper which gives it a crispiness that is almost moist, since there is more volume to absorb butter. Dispite the thicker shell, this croissant is not greasy. When it fractures, it leaves behind large pieces with thick flakes. This was not a delicate croissant; rather, it was substantive and strong. The interior is cavernous with large webs of pastry stretching between sides of the outer shell. The flavor is of salt and toasted butter. The outside surface tastes sweet in some parts, as if it was lightly brushed with butter containing a hint of sugar.
This croissant was wonderfully different: hundreds of light layers thick enough to absorb butter without feeling greasy. The salting was significant making this pastry perfectly straddle the line between savory and sweet. The inside was hollow with pronounced layering. This bold croissant needs absolutely nothing else to be enjoyed, no confiture, no coffee … nothing; it can stand completely on its own. Maybe it’s a good thing Frédéric Comyn is a bit out of the way. Otherwise, I’d be 500 lbs.
Le Quartier du Pain, 74 rue Saint-Charles, 15e
I learned about Le Quartier du Pain from my bibleParis est à Nous – Paris Gourmandises guidebook which says that Le Quartier du Pain has the best croissants in the city. It’s certainly possible. The diamond-shaped croissants here have an inflated appearance, and are slightly larger than average. However while large, they are still essentially weightless since these croissants are light and airy. The first thing I noticed were the hundreds of layers clearly visible on the surface, some were shiny and brown, others were matte and bronze colored. The croissant had a very strong smell of toasted butter, the 30 minute subway back to my apartment holding this bag was torture. It’s hard to call the shell of this croissant crispy since it’s ultra thin, I think flakey is a better word — much like the brown skin that surrounds an onion. Because of the ultra thin shell, this croissant did not shatter but flaked all over the place: it was very messy. One edge of the croissant was minimally frayed; but since the croissant was uniformly thin it didn’t add any additional textural element to the exterior. The inside is chewy and fluffy, and pulling a piece does not uncoil the croissant rather tugs at the surface from the inside — that’s how thin this is. The flavor is of butter, but not overly toasted or salted. This would be excellent company with a coffee.
I very much liked this croissant for its texture, weight, and smell. It has significant body on the inside, so for those who seek something crispy this is not going to fit the bill. I found the flavor gentle, which would be perfect if eating this pastry with a hot beverage or confiture. The only thing to be aware of is that it is greasy: eating with several napkins is obligatory, unless you are next to a sink to constantly wash your hands. But this croissant may be the single most masterful pastry I’ve seen in terms of skill — there is no other croissant whose layers are so cleary detectable and thin. It is truly a work of art.
Au Levain du Marais, 28, Blvd Beaumarchais
I first read about the croissants at Au Levain du Marais from David Lebowitz, who says that this is the best croissant in Paris. Frankly, it might very well be. The croissants from Au Levain du Marais are not so crescent shaped as they are diamond shaped. With the exception of fanned out frills on one end, these croissants are nearly perfectly symmetrical. The croissants have beautiful broad stripes of pretzel brown and amber that alternate the surface. Each tip has a beautiful fanning of layers making it clear just how much work actually went into this edible art. The width gently tapers off at each side, without any striking changes in size.
When I first tried to pull out a piece, I had trouble grabbing hold ! My hands crinkled through the soft and delicately crispy shell, much like crumbling tissue paper used to package gifts. I realized more care would be necessary, and I began to tear off a piece with as little force as possible, so as not to destroy the texture. The fanned end was light and crispy but not dry, more like a butter wafer. This was the first bite of the croissant I took, and my favorite — each part of this croissant has a different texture, and since none of these parts are dry, each is absolutely rife with the flavor of toasted butter with a hint of sugar and salt. The inside of the middle is very soft with clearly visible layers of rings. Stretched across these rings were thin webs of soft dough, full of moisture. This was a very messy croissant to eat, since it shattered all over the plate. Some parts of the outer shell tasted sweet — hard to tell if they were sitting next to some other sweet pastries or if the shell was lightly brushed with some kind of sugar. Regardless, absolutely delicious.
It was a bit of a travel for me to get to this bakery; but shortly after finishing this croissant I hopped right back on the subway to get a couple more. These croissants were wonderful.
Le Cinq has had three chefs over the past two years. Although it’s kept the same name, has been in the same George V hotel, and has been housed in the same beautiful baroque dining room, it has been three different restaurants with each chef exercising his vision of what fine dining should be.
The first chef, Philippe Légandre, brought the restaurant its three Michelin stars with a refined seafood-focused menu highlighting simple flavors and combinations. Then in February 2007, Le Cinq lost its third star. Légandre stepped down. His sous-chef took over during the transitory period and played off the better known dishes with minimal modification. Most recently, Éric Briffard took house, specializing in rustic yet sophisticated dishes bringing Le Cinq to an all new high. With him as chef, it’s only a matter of time before the third star returns.
My first meal at Le Cinq was under Légendre and at night with my family. The candle light from the outside courtyard poured in through the French windows. When combined with the dinner candles, the restaurant became quite warm and intimate, the subtle gold leafed molding shimmered the candles’ reflections. The intricate molding, paneled walls, and oil paintings make eating here feel like dining in a well-lit library. It quickly became my favorite evening dining room in Paris.
My first dish under Légendre was raw langoustine carpaccio with ossetra caviar and crème fraîche. If a perfect combination of ingredients existed, it could be this. Sweet langoustine, salty and briny caviar, lightly acidulated crème fraîche made me want a second serving. This was very light and creamy at the same time; a perfect accompaniment with a glass of champagne.
Next came a fricassé of lobster and fresh vegetables, a small pile of large unshelled chunks of tail and claw sitting in a lobster broth. The firm blue lobster was lightly cooked so it remained moist. The thin broth had a flavor strong enough to stand on its own as a soup. Strong, yet precise.
Dessert was an outstanding caramelized vanilla custard medallion served atop a bed of fraises des bois, in a tart strawberry reduction. The texture of the custard was really interesting — firm enough to maintain its shape yet soft enough to slowly seep between the cracks of the wild strawberries. The top of the custard had a thin sheet of caramel that flaked at the first few pokes with my spoon. The medallion tasted like sweet vanilla and rich butter with a hint of burnt caramel, freshened by the tart and sweet strawberries and sauce. It was really wonderful.
My sister ordered a chocolate soufflé served in a square rammekin. The strong taste of dark chocolate contrasted with its light and fluffy cloudlike texture revealed that she would be happy too.
This was the highlight restaurant of our family trip.
My second return during the transitory period was full of excitement. At the time I was switching apartments and stayed here for a few nights during the transition of my own. Frankly, Le Cinq was a major factor in choosing where to stay … it would now be technically feasible to have three meals a day here with just a short walk downstairs. I started with breakfast, waking up really early in hopes of a warm croissant.
Except breakfast was no good. This really has little to do with the dinner staff since the breakfast team is different; but the restaurant still has the same name and, like my experience at Alain Ducasse for breakfast, should still have an impressive first meal of the day. The breakfast “amuse bouche” was a pear custard which tasted like eggs with the grainy texture of pear. I didn’t like it. The croissants despite having nice layering were glazed with sugar, which made them too sweet and sticky on the surface. Not really sure why the croissants were brushed with sugar. It just seemed unnecessary. My pancakes were soggy, dry, and cold, served with unacceptably firm mango and strawberry, littered with powdered sugar. For the following days I stuck with assorted pastries and coffee — the best way to navigate the menu.
I returned later that night for dinner. It was my first time back since Légandre had left. The dining room for whatever reason was lit much more brightly than I’d remembered. And my photos verified my suspicions. The house lights were interfering with the candlelight. It felt much less intimate. The space suddenly felt huge. It no longer had the romantic and intimate feel that I enjoyed so much the last time. Like a flag hung at half height, perhaps this was the omen I should have listened to.
Since they had not devised a tasting menu yet, the waiter helped me to put together a tasting that would trail through the best dishes of the winter menu.
Service started with some really nice bread: sourdough rolls with a touch of whole wheat. The glutens held strong in a tug-of-war as I ripped off each piece. The bread was served with French olive oil in addition to butter.
Sensing my excitement to be here, or perhaps my appetite, the waiter offered me some cured ham with an olive brioche to snack on while the kitchen worked. The brioche was a bit dry. I appreciated the delicacy of the olive flavor; it wasn’t distracting.
The first course was crème de cresson au caviar de la mer Caspienne, a watercress crème topped with a dollop of crème frâiche and Sevruga caviar. This small pot of soup was top heavy, to say the least. Completely overwhelmed by the cold acidulated crème, the flavor of the watercress was nearly impossible to taste. The crème was thick, too; more like cream cheese. I took a few spoonfuls of the broth beneath, and scooped the remaining caviar onto thin slices of the house bread, and left the rest of this dish untouched.
Next came the fricassée de langoustines Brettones, lasagne au viex parmesan: large Brittany langoustines layered with sheets of pasta and aged parmesan. The smells of Parmesan and butter quickly filled the table. The langoustines were cooked on the border of raw and slightly translucent, keeping them soft and absorbent. The presentation seemed a bit sloppy, as did the intemperate portioning of strong cheese, which completely muted the langoustine. I also found this dish quite oily, perhaps from the warm Parmesan or simply the abundant butter.
I thought the tarte d’artichaut et du truffe noire du Périgord — strips of artichoke and black truffle sandwiched between between layers of soft bread — was to be the highlight of the evening; except it wasn’t. TThis sandwich sat atop a bed of raw spinach. Not sure what purpose the dry, raw spinach served. Even the bread itself was dry and since this dish as a whole was minimally sauced, my mouth thirsted for moisture. The plate was encircled by truffle oil with ground black truffles, a dressing for the spinach. Everything about this dish was just off.
Last of the main courses was a boudin blanc façon George V à la crème de truffe, a white pudding topped with a black truffle crème. This was the highlight of the evening. The elastic skin gave way to a crumble of pork and bread, perfect for absorbing the truffle sauce below. This was quite filling.
Dessert was titled Le Surprise; because it was not clear exactly what filled the light meringue shell. Several cracks later, the thin shell gave way to an egg filled with vanilla sorbet and mango. The entire sphere sat atop a raspberry foam. This dessert was light and airy; but its flavors were nothing to write home about. Chefs take note, this could be a new way to facilitate staff training: “just tell them it’s a surprise !”
At the conclusion of the meal, I was left in a daze. The Le Cinq I’d remembered under Légandre was no more. This was a really bad experience. However I didn’t give up. I just didn’t return until a new chef returned to the kitchen. And when Briffard joined in early 2009, things changed. The restaurant became better than ever.
My first visit under Briffard took place just weeks after he took house. Briffard has a natural ability to make complicated dishes with many ingredients seem simple and approachable. He also has the humility to let high quality ingredients stand on their own with minimal preparation. Take for instance his accras de crevettes et calamar, a basket of lightly battered shrimp and squid served with fresh lemon (which happens to pair perfectly with a glass of champagne). These were so lightly fried using batter so thin that no oil stains were visible on the napkin beneath. The dish came with lemon slices; but to be honest, they weren’t necessary. The hot shellfish was well-salted, it really needed nothing else.
A second amuse came next: a watercress soup with a butter-laden brioche. The brioche was layered, which made it seem more like a feuillantine. The pastry itself was a bit dry; maybe it was made in the morning for lunch service. The flavor of the thin soup was enjoyable, both pure and simple. The pastry and soup being only a few inches apart made dipping inevitable. I would have liked a stronger flavorfrom the watercress; but then again, it’s a subtle plant.
The next course was tasty: a small crab salad topped with white raddish. A seemingly simple dish delicately balanced with just the right amount of mayonnaise, olive oil, and crushed olive to hold everything together. The chilled crab was bursting with freshness.
Briffard has a special ability to make carefully executed dishes seem like he quickly threw them together. Our next course of medallions of foie gras sitting on a bed of mixed greens testified to that talent. My friend Julien, with whom I shared this meal, really enjoyed this dish for its stark contrast of rich and buttery foie with clean and crisp greens. For me, this was the low point of the meal. I thought the liver was too fatty and its flavor too dull. The cold medallions tasted like sticks of refrigerated butter.
However things quickly picked up. Our next course was Merlan de ligne, Saint Gilles Croix de Vie, a generous filet of whiting garnished with fava beans en gelée and rice. While the whiting was delicious, soft and slightly acidic, the real highlight of this dish was the fava beans. They were cooked but edged on raw giving them a starchy crunch that absorbed all the sauces on the plate. I sort of pushed the whiting to the side. The beans stole the show.
Next came the highlight of the meal, Tourte de Pigeonneau dui Pays de Racan, an individual pigeon and foie gras puff pastry. Unlike the feuilleté at L’Ambroisie, this little tart came pre-sliced. The interior of the savory pastry was lined with a cabbage leaf to lock in the moisture while preventing the shell from becoming soggy. The outside remained dry, crispy, and shiny. As I parted the pastry, juices poured out and released a small puff of steam. It was clear that this had just left the oven. The cut of meat was very lean, so the foie gras picked up on the creaminess that complimented the gamey texture of the pigeon. I couldn’t get enough of this hearty dish.
The dessert looked fancy and elegant: a cylinder of brown sugar chantilly wrapped with gold leaf. While pretty and geometric this dessert was bitter, sour, and sweet all at once. One bite was more than enough. This academic creation was a sign that the pastry chef still has a bit of catching up to do to with Briffard.
The dessert trolly had the real dessert here filled with chocolates, cannelés, and fraises des bois.
I returned to Le Cinq a few weeks later, only this time with my family. The fried shrimp and octopus was a hit with my mother and sister.
This time, the amuse-bouche was a slate tray holding three small bites of vegetable-centric starters. From left to right sun-dried tomato with pasta and olive oil, a vegetable samosa, and a tomato gazpacho with avocado. None of these were particularly memorable. What was memorable, however, was how each bite was at a different temperature, heightening the overall sensation of the plate: the gazpacho was very cold, the samosa very hot, and the sun-dried tomato somewhere in the middle.
The first appetizer of our lunch, however, was outstanding. Both beautiful and diverse, these first tomatoes of the season titled premières tomates de Provence déclinasion de variétés anciennes came split in two. The first plate contained layers of tomato alternating with fresh langoustine and avocado. It was bright and fresh. I loved how the tomato interacted with the langoustine and avocado creating a creamy yet slightly acidic texture and flavor. On the other plate a battered and fried whole tomato was made even sweeter by the gentle cooking. To its side sat what I would call gazpacho ice cream: a tomato sorbet atop a thin layer of frozen avocado. The layered tomato plate was the highlight of the two plates for its textural variety. It kept me interested until the last bite.
While it wasn’t my first time having foie gras, it was my first time tasting liver this fatty. While this dish may seem and sound innocuous, one slice with my knife unleashed a pool of oil. The entire square portion of my plate was flooded with fat. This was the richest foie gras I have ever tasted. So rich, in fact, that I couldn’t eat it ! I think this is a dish most people would have enjoyed; but for me, it was just too much. The flavor was a balance of sweet and salty, of charred grill lines and smooth muscle; but after a few bites I had enough.
I much preferred the merlan de ligne meuière au laurier asperges blanches et girolles à l’abricot confit, a very lean cut of whiting served with chanterelle mushrooms and apricot confit. While a generous portion of fish, the diversity of the greens and mushrooms combined with the tart but sweet apricot prevented palate fatigue. The fish was very evenly cooked without any kind of crispy surface; it was soft and moist throughout.
The real highlight of this meal, however, was the pintade fermière des dombes dorée à la feuille de citronnier avec melon confit, fenouil y olives noires. This clever plating separated the guinea fowl into white and dark meat, a yin-yang of lean and fatty. The fowl was served with lemon tree leaves, melon confit, fennel, and black olives. While the menu read all these ingredients, I struggled to find them all on my plate. Once again, Briffard makes this dish is deceivingly simple. The meat was a bit dry; but, the gratuitous saucing covered that quite well making the cuisson difficult to complain about.
The desserts this time around had improved greatly from my first visit. Starting with the betterave et fraises gariguette en compression de meringue, yaourt glacé, citron confit et poivre sauvage, I had a spring bundle of beet root and gariguette strawberries topped with dense meringue, yogurt sorbet, lemon confit, and wild pepper. Really a vibrant and eclectic list of ingredients. The gariguette strawberries were reminiscent of fraises des bois, having a smaller size with more seeds and a sweeter flavor. The wild pepper picked up on this spicing the back of my tongue while the yogurt sorbet soothed the front.
The more classic dessert of the two was the soufflé maracuja, gianduja coulant et croustillant, sorbet passion-Malibu, a passion fruit soufflé filled with warm gianduja. This nutella-like filling softened the subtle but tart notes of the soufflé making the combination very balanced yet still playful. I didn’t care much for the sorbet on the side; but frankly, my attention was elsewhere. Interesting that the plating of the soufflé stayed the same under both Briffard and Légendre. In fact, they were nearly identical. Both were exquisite.
The final course was a cold and refreshing glass of Wattwiller zero nitrate water designed to clense the body and serve as a simple yet effective digestif.
Since it was a beautiful warm day outside, I asked if we could take a few of the desserts from the trolly and sit outside in the courtyard for coffee. The Maître’d happily obliged, and he sent the petits fours our way under the sun. He also sent along a little tray of fraises des bois, which frankly, couldn’t have been a more perfect way to finish this meal.
Le Cinq has been through quite a transition over the past two years; but it appears that the food quality, like a fine wine, is only getting better with age. Briffard was definitely the right choice for this restaurant. I am quite confident that as his hearty yet precise cooking style further develops, it will be no time before Le Cinq regains its third star. In the meantime, now is a great opportunity to take advantage of what this newly refreshed restaurant has to offer.
Perhaps the most ostentatious dining room in Paris, Le Meurice transports diners to mid-eighteenth century France when the city was at its peak of opulence and excess. Lined with marble, gold leaf, and mirrors, the walls of Le Meurice give the space a large, palatial feel. Twenty-foot ceilings and crystal chandeliers amplify the grandeur. But while regal and lavish, the large south-facing windows remind diners of the real world on the other side of the glass. It’s a beautiful restaurant, both elegant and grandiose. Yet I found that the food, refined though it was, simply lacked flavor.
I decided to order à la carte.
To start I was given some canapés: carré (fromage de chèvre) et tomate confite along with hareng fumé et pommes de terre. Goat cheese and sweet tomato confit wasn’t a particularly interesting combination, nor was the smoked herring and potato. Both bites, however, offered a pleasant meeting of cream and crunch in a cute geometric package.
The second amuse bouche was a bavaroise poireaux, oeuf de truites, mousse de tomates which was a lightly acidic combination that cut through the oily mouthfeel that lingered after the herring. Leek and trout roe were noticeable, but the flavor of vinegar dominated, reminding me of something canned and preserved. The fact that it actually came in a can didn’t help.
The last amuse bouche was an interesting concept, gelée de pot au feu avec mousse de cornichon, a light gherkin mousse covering a pot au feu gelée. A different presentation of this classic stew was appreciated, but three cold and acidic starters were enough.
My first course was morilles étuvées au vin jaune, five morel mushrooms with a cabbage leaf stuffed with carrot and turnip brunoise. The vin jaune sauce was bold, heady, and nicely absorbed by the spongy texture of the morel mushrooms. The cabbage and its contents were soggy and dull, neither appealing for flavor nor texture.
Not ordering asparagus in the spring is like skipping sushi in Japan — it’s just not the wisest decision. So I was practically obliged to choose the asperges vertes du midi en chaud-froid de saumon fumé. Two plump spears of asparagus half-dipped in a smoked salmon crème and topped with three small dabs of ossetra caviar made for a striking and beautiful presentation. The salmon crème was ever so lightly smoked, a nice counterpoint to the bright green flavor of the asparagus. The caviar, however, showed signs of drying, a sign of either inferior eggs or the improper treatment of them. This dish was served slightly cooler than lukewarm, so I’m not particularly sure why it was called a chaud-froid.
Next came the langoustines vivantes cuites à la minute au court bouillon, which were extremely tender and lightly pasty. But aside from the skilled cooking of the crustacean, I found little about this dish to love. The sea of capers and butter weren’t particularly attractive. And, surprisingly, all the flavors of this dish were muted. I picked out the langoustines and left the rest.
Homard bleu, or Brittany blue lobster, is a creature that I find nearly always overcooked in Paris, which is particularly sinful given its already-firm texture when compared to the Maine lobsters I know and love in the US. But I was really happy when I saw two fat chunks of lobster bordering on raw — this dish had potential. Then I noticed that somebody in the kitchen got a little overzealous with the curry powder. The lobster tasted like Madras curry, alright, but nothing anything else. The texture was fantastic, but the flavor, one-dimensional.
The second part of this course was a lobster bouillon containing several pieces of the more thoroughly cooked claws. The simplicity and intensity of flavor here made this dish my favorite of the meal — the pure taste of lobster. This was also the only course of the afternoon that was served hot, which at this point was a welcome change.
None of the desserts struck me enough to order them. So I decided to skip out on sweets and return at a later time, possibly for the strawberry and rhubarb dessert they call la vie en rose.
Some small mignardises were placed on the table: sablé mousse framboise (raspberry mousse on top of a butter cookie), beignet avec confiture fraise (strawberry-filled donut hole), financier au betterave et meringue citron (beetroot financier with lemon meringue), and a macaron aux framboises et violette (raspberry-violet macaron). The sablé mousse framboise stuck out for its sweet and tart flavor … also looked pretty. The beignet tasted fresh from Dunkin’ Donuts.
Also had a small rice bowl filled with sorbet pommes verte et raviole de fraises, green apple sorbet and a strawberry raviolo, which was a really fresh and clean flavor to wrap up the meal. Placed atop the lid was a guimauve citron verte et framboises, a small raspberry-lime marshmallow that didn’t pack much flavor.
The last of the mignardises were small tarts of raspberry, anise, and hazelnuts, all of which were quite good. The licorice flavor of the anise combined with the tart raspberry made the flavor interesting. So did the light crunch from the anise seeds themselves. This plate was empty in no time.
Throughout the entire meal chef Yannick Alléno sat with various diners in the dining room and chatted away. He seemed very friendly and sociable, even striking conversation with me when I took a few pictures. Too bad this means he wasn’t in the kitchen for most of my meal.
Although I can’t point to any dishes that I really disliked, I can’t point to any that I particularly liked, either. Everything was forgettable, except for the beautiful dining room and kind and flexible service. I think the next time around, I’d like to come in for breakfast in the beautiful space, or perhaps for dessert after dinner … elsewhere. Both those situations seem like the optimal way to take advantage of the restaurant.
When I was little I remember hearing of “French dining,” a term that, to me, meant dressing up fancy and sitting quietly for a bombardment of heavy butter-based sauces used indiscriminately for both fish and meat. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, per se. But when a country like France has such an established tradition of fine dining, it can be difficult to respect and learn from such convention while remaining innovative and novel. Precious few restaurants in Paris are able to naturally build off of French culinary tradition while still producing dishes that are creative, avant-garde, and most importantly, delicious. Choosing one’s place along this culinary spectrum is no simple task.
So imagine my curiosity when I learned that Christian Le Squer’s Ledoyen had been in existence since 1792, the same year that Louis XVI was arrested and taken into custody. Yet unlike Louis, it seems that Ledoyen had luck on its side. Despite being over two hundred years old, Ledoyen has been able to bridge tradition and innovation creating interesting and tasteful dishes while still paying homage to the incredible institution that is French fine dining.
The restaurant itself is located in the Pavillion Ledoyen just off the Champs Élysées in Paris’ 8th arrondissement. Being on the second floor, the restaurant has an incredible view of the Petit Palais and the surrounding park. I went towards the end of fall, which meant I was surrounded by uncountable trees of yellow, red, and orange leaves; the foliage was stunning. The floor to ceiling windows certainly helped. There were no crystal chandeliers, baroque paintings or gold-leafed molding here. The dining room was classic and understated, formal yet full of daylight. I sat in the corner with a bird’s eye view of both the restaurant and the changing of seasons around me.
The waiter brought out a slate of four amuses bouche: a foie gras macaron, herb croquettes with liquid foie gras, a foie gras puff pastry, and spherified cheese. The meringue shell of the macaron was crunchy which while not evocative of macarons at Ladurée, was appreciated since the foie was so creamy. The herb croquettes were wonderful, the shells of which were essentially non-existent once it entered my mouth spilling out only a warm crème of foie gras. The puff pastry too was served warm, the crispy shell of many layers adding texture to the creamy foie gras. Last were the cheese spheres whose flavor was slightly diluted, or at least it tasted that way after having eaten three prior amuses with strong flavor.
The second amuse bouche was a small bowl of bacon gelée made sweet. Interesting flavor, highlighting the sweet notes of pork. But I couldn’t help but think that someone had accidentally spilled bacon bits onto my sugar cane gelée. Interesting concept; but I found the flavor not very interesting. The gelée was also very watery making it inedible without the crispy bacon. There was also a very stark textural contrast between these two ingredients making them seem out of sync with each other. Perhaps I should have waited a few minutes for the bacon to soften in the gelée.
The first course brought lamelles de noix de saint-jacques à l’osciètre royal, a generous dollop of Ossetra caviar hidden inside a frozen sea water sphere, surrounded by scallop medallions cooked so lightly they almost seemed raw. Beautiful presentation. What was interesting about this dish was the way the frozen sea water melted into a cold airy liquid that practically hissed like fresh ocean foam from an ebbing wave. This also kept the caviar chilled and refreshing. The scallops had a chewy and soft texture with a slight bounce as the tiny bands of muscle split apart with each bite. The lemon added a slight acidity to the lightly salted seawater foam making the entire dish taste fresh, clean, oceanic, and salty. The dish had no scent, which was nice since fresh shell fish really shouldn’t have any. My biggest complaint about this dish, ironically, was the temperature. Everything was so cold that it became difficult to taste the differences between ingredients; I could only rely on texture. There was also only so much frozen sea water I could take. After scooping out the inside caviar and finishing the surrounding scallops, I called it a day.
A signature dish of the restaurant is the blanc de turbot de ligne juste braisé, pommes rattes truffées, a rectangular filet of zebra line caught turbot lightly braised and covered with stripes of black truffles. First off, I don’t know what was going on with the potatoes but they were so interesting I just wanted to push the turbot to the side and finish them first! Milky, firm, and sticky, these potatoes absorbed the foamed butter sauce without affecting their texture. They were not starchy at all. I couldn’t get enough of them. The turbot was slightly undercooked (read: perfectly cooked), producing a very welcome texture: a slight push with my fork and a new layer would slide down into the foam. It was actually a little difficult to tell by looking how the fish was cooked. Since the fish was ivory white, supple, and slightly gelatinous throughout, any translucency it might have had from being so lightly cooked was masked by the moisture of the fish itself. The fish was quite a large portion, however, and palate fatigue set in quickly. Also my eyes spotted the truffles, but my nose did not. Perhaps I went slightly out of black truffle season; regardless a poor seasonal ingredient should not have been served if it wasn’t at the peak of freshness. That was disappointing. Other than that, this dish was essentially an elegant version of French soul food — potatoes, fish filet, done.
Another Le Squer classic was the highlight course of the meal: ris de veau en brochette de bois de citronnelle, jus d’herbes, a fist-sized lobe of sweetbreads skewered with a lemongrass skewer and sailing along on a raft of roasted salsify in a sea of green herb purée. The light scent of lemongrass became immediately apparent, melding with earthy and rich scents of the herbal butter reduction. The sweetbreads had a savory buttery interior with a sweet and sticky shell (they had been marinated in soy sauce), a really nice contrast of texture. There were also crispy little bits of fried sweetbreads adding a bit of crunch to each bite. The harb sauce had a distinct acidity, possibly from vinegar, which helped to reduce the fatty mouthfeel left by the creamy sweetbreads. This was a fabulous dish for both flavor and texture.
Cheese service came next — a cart filled with French classics. I opted for Beaufort d’Alpage, Roquefort, Epoisses, and Camembert de Normandie. The Beaufort was particularly nice because, like some gruyères, it had tiny salt crystals inside which made the cheese have some bites that were crunchy. (It’s essential to bring this cheese to room temperature for those crystals to develop, I later learned when I bought some to eat at home later that week.) It was a really interesting texture. The époisses was runny, perfect to let drip onto a slice of whole grain bread.
I received my petit fours before my desserts, which terrified startled me because for a split second I thought this was it. Fortunately, more was to come. But for now I had a plate containing fresh figs sprinkled with sesame seeds, a small lemon cookie, a chocolate-filled cookie, and a marshmallow. The figs seemed particularly interesting, except this was way out of season and the flavor was unremarkable. This had real potential if the figs were sweeter. The marshmallow, meanwhile, was like a light and moist foam that melted in my mouth. It had no weight whatsoever.
Next came the official pre-dessert, a blanc manger d’oeuf à la leuvre, Le Squer’s classic reinterpretation of the French classic. This dish not only impressed me, but demonstrates Le Squer’s ability to make a very old dish innovative, modern, and fresh. This was delicious. Here we had yeast sorbet sitting atop sweet thin shavings of white chocolate and almond. These ingredients coated each spoonful of sorbet like coconut flakes, sticking to the surface yet remaining warm enough to melt away quickly on the tongue like snow. This dessert was light, creamy, and only slightly sweet. The flavor of the yeast sorbet was really similar to fior di latte gelato, except once in my mouth there was a slight scent of fresh bread.
The first full dessert was beautiful albeit a little dangerous. Named croquant de pamplemousse cuit et cru au citron vert, this dessert contained a layer of candied grapefruit, a layer of raw grapefruit marinated in lime, pineapple sorbet, and a covering of cold caramel. It was a really assertive, acidic citrus dessert that delicately highlights both the sweetness and bitterness that grapefruit can exhibit. Each layer on its own may not have worked; but together created a symphony of opposite flavors that were really interesting. The raw grapefruit was bitter, the candied grapefruit warm and sweet, the pineapple sorbet cold and refreshing, and the caramel crunchy. Really a beautiful combination, and certainly visually stunning. My only complaint is that the caramel roof of this bittersweet house can be very sharp. Since it’s sitting atop sorbet the temperature stayed really cold even when in my mouth, so each bite split the sheet into tiny razor-sharp blades of sugar. Aside from that slight risk, the flavors were exciting.
Perhaps to close the bright citrus notes of the croquant de pamplemousse, the next course had a more muted and subtle flavor. Titled glacé de caramel fumé, pistils de chocolat, this was a chocolate dessert I really liked because the chocolate flavor was neither intense nor overbearing. Small strips of sweet chocolate nested a cylinder of smoked caramel sorbet providing a crispy texture to a smooth tube of rich frozen milk. I was very happy that this was served last as it left my palate in a sated state, neither craving anything savory nor sweet. It felt just right.
At the end of the meal I continued to sit at my corner table reflecting on what I’d just eaten. Granted, the beautiful view of autumn outside didn’t exactly make me pack up my bags and run home. This was a very satisfying meal, certainly worthy of its three stars: flawless service, innovative dishes, and novel flavor combinations. I particularly liked the re-interpretation of classical dishes, such as the turbot, ris de veau, and blanc manger; it’s great to see a restaurant that continues to re-invent even after having been around for over two hundred years. That being said, there were no flavors that jumped out and grabbed me by the heels — the dishes, while innovative, were not so risky as perhaps necessary to discover combination that are jaw-droppingly delicious. In addition, there was a slightly mechanical element to the service and dishes where I had to remind myself that these plates actually came from a kitchen: lots of perfectly cut geometric shapes with lukewarm flavors.
I think my friend Chuck hit the nail on the head: the best way to maximize the experience at Ledoyen is to order à la carte and really make the kitchen work instead of getting the mid-day assembly line courses. The best way to take advantage of this type of cooking is to go with one other person, carefully order à la carte, and split the dishes to maximize variety without excessive portion sizes. At least that is what I will do the next time, and there definitely will be one, just not too soon. If I were here for only a short getaway in Paris, there are otherplaces that have tickled my fancy even more.
It’s springtime in Paris. The peas flowers are beginning to blossom, morels tulips are starting to be seen, and restaurants things stay open just a little bit later. Yes, it is a happy time here, particularly when restaurants embrace the life that spring brings to the vegetable garden.
My friend from Genova was in town this weekend, and had e-mailed me the two restaurants he was “thinking” about visiting during his short trip to Paris: Le Bristol and La Bigarrade. I knew Le Bristol had garnered a third star this year, so I was excited about that. But what was the second one, La Bigarrade? A quick reference to my Michelin guide revealed they too had just gotten a star. I thought about it, at first with reservation, but I quickly remembered that my wise friend has a knack for finding interesting restaurants, even in cities where he doesn’t live ! I humbly agreed and suggested we make a reservation. “I already made one … last month,” he told me. He’s also very organized. Located in the seventeenth by the Brochant metro stop off the thirteen, La Bigarrade is located just outside of convenient. Did my Genovese friend want to go here because one of the chefs, Giuliano Sperandio, was also from Northern Italy? My suspicion grew, as I knew Italian pride could be very strong.
We arrived for lunch in the early afternoon to a completely packed restaurant, the size of my small studio apartment. With space for only twenty diners, the restaurant’s wait list, I learned, can exceed a month. How does he always find these places? We were seated in the sun-drenched dining room with the open kitchen, also petite, just behind us. We saw the two chefs Christophe Pelé and Giuliano Sperandio working in-sync with each other just a few feet behind our table, casually checking on diners to see if they were enjoying their dishes. There were no menus, only a chalkboard on the wall that read: Gourmand: 45€, Gourmet: 35€. Was this the right restaurant? How could the prices be so … reasonable? The waiter explained that chef prepares an impromptu tasting daily using market fresh ingredients that would be around 7 – 10 courses. Well, that sure made ordering easy.
It should be noted that there was no written menu for this meal so I wrote as quickly as I could every ingredient I heard and saw on the plate. It’s possible that some of the ingredients as missing or incorrect, just a heads up.
Our waiter placed a slate slab on the table containing a piece of salted focaccia with a small bowl of olive oil. The limited size of the slate and symmetry of the bread suggested that this would be a single serving. I was worried that I wouldn’t get full happy to have this moderation enforced upon me; besides, carbs are the enemy, right? Right …
The first course of shellfish came next served in two parts: oyster and clam. The single oyster was held in place by a bed of Brittany sea salt, which is a good thing, considering it tasted so fresh it may have jumped off the table. Covering the raw oyster was a tea-colored bonito flake gelée with a wedge of lime and wild pepper. The flavor was crisp, sweet, and acidic. The small pieces of wild pepper made the center of my tongue tingle without spicing it. The ocean water was left inside the oyster which, when combined with the bonito flake gelée, tasted like Japan the sea.
The clam was cooked ever so lightly, just enough to open the shell, essentially leaving it raw; but “safe” to eat. The clam was garnished with wild sorrel, white radish, a grapefruit broth, and a few drops olive oil. Also acidic and sweet, with a small aftertaste of olive oil giving the flavor a tough of earth. Like the oyster this was light, clean, and refreshing.
If spring could be embodied in a single plate, it would be what came next: a light and refreshing pea soup with sepia, black garlic, and red flower petals. The soup was served cold. Chef Sperandio explained that from the peas he got this morning, he used the larger more bitter ones to make the broth, and the smaller, sweeter ones for eating. The peas were raw making them crunchy and flavorful. The broth had little to no salting — it didn’t need it; all the salt was in the black garlic along the side of the plate which, when mixed with a spoonful of broth, salted everything very nicely. Thin strips of lime zest were placed throughout the broth adding an element of citrus completing the balance of flavor between sweet, salty, acidic, and savory. The sepia was cooked so its texture remained firm and crunchy, and was ever so lightly garnished with piment d’espelette. Spring was here.
Next came a filet of yellowtail belly served with small wild onion, jamón ibérico de bellota from Spain, lemon, and wild purslane greens. The minimalistic presentation allowed each flavor to be tasted individually and in different combinations, from an earthy pairing with the jamón to a garden fresh ensemble with the purslane. The yellowtail was lightly seared on each side leaving the inside nice and cool. Scattered about the plate were small bits of piment d’espelette which, like the previous course, added a sensation that widened the spectrum of flavor.
The following course was line caught mackerel, caramelized and acidulated onion, wild herbs, and garden fresh watercress. The filet of fish sat atop a reduction of Valencia orange, which chef Sperandio explained had arrived a little bitter. The orange reduction smelled a bit of vinegar and chile oil, even though later I learned there was none, alerting my senses that there may be an acidic and spicy component to follow. The fish was very lightly cooked, skin in tact, leaving the full flavor of the mackerel and its piscine aroma. After eating this course it became apparent to me that each course we’d had so far left a dominant flavor in my mouth. First the bitterness of grapefruit, then the spice of chile, and now, the sweet bitterness of Valencia orange. It kept me interested and curious about what the next course would bring.
Next came the meat course a filet of lieu, or pollock, a strong flavored white fish lightly lightly sautéed with Sichuanese red pepper and wild black pepper. The filet was topped with course sea salt. Alongside the pollock was spring asparagus with small shrimp, thin strips of lemon, and wild red sorrel. This dish tasted slightly acidic from the lemon rind; but this acidity was expanded by the ever so delicate spice from the wild peppers. Remember this is France, home of not spicy food; perhaps spice is too strong of a word … tingling? In addition to the dish’s visual simplicity, the flavors were very explicit and easily distinguishable making it fun to try different flavor combinations with the assortment of fresh vegetables and spices on the plate. Everything worked.
By this point I realized that I was still pretty hungry had probably eaten enough, but gladly welcomed the plate of Reblochon and Crottin, which come from Savoie (by the Alps) and the Loire valley, respectively. I don’t really like the light creaminess of Reblochon, but the prune reduction with which it was served brightened the flavor. Crottin, like a table-side truffle shaving, is always welcome. The two cheeses were plated alongside vadouvan, a south Indian spice blend that seems to be popping up on menus all over the place in the past couple of years.
Our pre-dessert was a refreshing soup of fava beans in a medlar fruit broth. The beans were very lightly cooked, so they stayed crispy. The broth was slightly sweet and acidic.
The first official dessert was a lemon pot de crème with a saffron gelée and rosemary flowers. This was the first pot de crème I’ve had which didn’t leave a greasy residue in my mouth. The flavors were of bright lemon with a slight citrus acidity; but, this was tempered by the earthy flavor and scent of saffron. The texture was pure and smooth and the portioning just right to both satisfy and leave you wanting more.
Next came a pistachio crème anglaise with raw mango in a mango reduction. This was garnished with a pimpinella saxifraga leaf. The crème anglaise was served chilled but not frozen which made it more like a heavy mousse. The flavor tasted very strongly of pistachio — not sweetened at all — just pure pistachio, as if the entire nut, shell included, had been included. This was my favorite of the dessert courses; my only complaint was the lack of brioche of some other sweet bread to return my plate a polished white.
What came next tasted as interesting as it sounds: an oatmeal and tobacco infused mousse topped with a dash of cocoa powder. Throughout the mousse were weightless crôutons of brioche making some bites crunchy and others rich and smooth. Most interestingly was the taste of the tobacco. It was a spice similar to black pepper; except it caused a tingle towards the back of my tongue — an area untouched by other spices. It wasn’t a “hot” spice; it was a light prickle that added depth to the sweet mousse. It was as if every ingredient in this was intentionally placed to achieve a certain affect: this dish was intentionally delicious.
The last dessert, and the only course I did not like during my lunch, was a chilled dark chocolate crème in a coffee-chocolate reduction with tonka bean crème. I didn’t care for this much. This dish was as heavy as all the previous courses combined and completely offset the delicate progression of the meal. Just as my palate was unwinding, it was overwhelmed by the intense taste of Domori chocolate from, coincidentally, Genova where my friend was from. The chocolate was just too rich for me after having eaten four weightless desserts in succession. It didn’t seem to fit in the progession of this meal. As a bit of consolation though, without me having said anything, chef Sperandio explained at the end of the meal that were it up to him the chocolate would not be on the menu: he doesn’t like it. He said he puts it on the menu at lunch time to please the Parisian palate. I’m not sure if I completely buy that; he might have just seen my plate returned nearly full. Nevertheless one strike out of fourteen is still remarkable.
Along with our bill came two small thyme-infused bavarois petit-fours topped with candied almond. Nothing life-changing. Then I actually read the bill: 70€ for two people. Was this for real? I rubbed my eyes and checked again. It’s official: this is the highest quality to price ratio I’ve seen in Paris so far. La Bigarrade could have easily charged double to triple this amount and still had customers calling months in advance to secure reservations.
As we finished our meal our waiter began to prepare the chalkboard for dinner service, thus increasing the prices. Dinner is a little more expensive so I hope you’re sitting down. The cost: 45€ for the Gourmet tasting, 65€ for the extended Gourmand tasting of 12-courses. No wonder this place is so crowded.
After lunch my friend and I sat around talking to Giuliano Sperandio, while chef Christophe Pelé finished up in the kitchen, for the next hour. He explained that the small restaurant and lack of a menu allows him to improvise on a daily basis and optimize use of farm-fresh and seasonal local ingredients. “Not only do the plates change every day,” he added, “but not everyone in the restaurant eats the same food!” He criticized the restrictions on creativity many Michelin 3-star restaurants have in striving to provide a consistently perfect experience. “Here,” he added, “we cook depending on our mood, how we felt when we woke up in the morning … it is very free.” That type of freedom and airiness came across very clearly in the food which, for me, was light, balanced, and enlivening.
For now this small restaurant is still being discovered by diners across Paris. I hope that as its flavors mature, which they no doubt will, it maintains the flexibility and creativity in its dishes that I was so lucky to have experienced during my visit. If it can, La Bigarrade is going to get a lot more popular.
The weather on my visit to Le Bristol, home of chef Éric Frechon, was impeccable: sunny and warm without a cloud in the sky. But then we arrived at the restaurant for lunch. Perhaps an error on my part, I did not call to check if the main dining room would be available. It turned out to be reserved for a private corporate event; so instead, we were led to a room where spring light quickly turned to winter night. This was the winter dining room, where the sun-worn curtains covered all windows keeping the cheer out and a more solemn coldness in. The oval-shaped Victorian room is lined with wood paneling, and covered with forest green, red, and patterned brown carpeting. Adorning the center of the room is a medieval tapestry depicting a pastoral scene in rural France. The daytime oppressiveness of this room, however, can be easily turned into evening elegance: just return when it’s dark and the candles are lit. But while dining at Le Bristol, overall, was a refined gastronomic experience I was left wondering, where was the passion and excitement?
Our waiter came to the table flanked by a champagne cart that seemed almost attached at the hip like a much more attractive conjoined twin. He offered an early afternoon apéritif, and, being just past one, I thought a glass of champagne would be more than enough for the next few hours. After being asked which champagne we desired, I wondered if my friend had been pegged as such an expert that he could discern the different offerings solely by their corks, since all eight of the bottles were completely submerged in ice water and covered with a white napkin. Must have been his striped tie. They say geniuses choose stripes, you know. He’s good, but I’m not sure anyone is that good. I laughed to myself and chose a glass of Alfred Gratien Cuvée Paradis.
A small rectangular plate of three amuses-bouche was placed on the table to accompany the champagne. Starting from the left was a smoked foie gras custard covered with a green gelée of what tasted like parsley or similar herb. This had a smokey flavor without a burnt aftertaste, and was very creamy. In the center was a white fish covered in horseradish foam with a very fatty consistency. The foam had the flavor of horseradish without the spice. Last was a cucumber gelatin ball with oysters, also very gelatinous.
My friend and I had a look through the menu, which despite being the beginning of April was still the winter version. We must have been just on the cusp of a seasonal change. This one had two sections, a 3-course lunch menu at a rather reasonable price of 90€, or a more extensive à la carte selection with several dishes at rather unreasonable prices. Before coming I knew I wanted the poularde, so we ordered the lunch menu with two additional supplements from the à la carte: Le Foie Gras de Canard, and Le Poularde de Bresse. Our waiter cautioned us that this might be too much food. He had no idea who he was dealing with.
Before our first course we were given a lardon mousse with beet gelée, a sweet pre-appetizer whose gelée tasted strangely of sweet red peppers. Beets have a very strong, earthy flavor but in this dish the earth was removed leaving only the sweet, almost candied taste of beets. My friend found this a little too sweet, but at first I was too distracted by the texture: a smoky and weightless mousse that instantly dissolved in my mouth like bubbles. It was very fun, and playful. Crowning the light mousse were ultra-light and airy crôutons making each bite crunchy without distracting from the texture of the mousse. Once I got over the texture what remained was the flavor which, I agreed with my friend, was a little too sweet for my liking.
What came next is still a mystery: what was that? I sent the pictures to a few friends who all had a similar response: what is that? According to the menu, maquereau de petit bateau cuit au vin blanc, parfumé d’aromates et de baies de cassis, relevé au raifort. According to me, very tasty: mackerel cooked in white wine and scented with herbs, spices, black currant, and “picked up” with horseradish. The mackerel was eerily suspended inside this perfectly shaped rectangular solid gelée, not touching any of the sides. The dish was served cold and the light smell of white wine vinegar began to hit my nose. A friend of mine‘s chief complaint of French food, or justification to only eat Asian food, is that in general it contains insufficient acidity for his palate. I’m pretty sure he would have liked this. The fish was soft, creamy, and wet; the surrounding gelée seemed to form an airtight lock trapping all the moisture. With each bite the gelée would meld with the fish making the two textures nearly indistinguishable except for the slightly gritty texture of the fish. The acidity of the white wine was tempered by the horseradish crème which was only lightly spiced. For me this dish had particular meaning as its cold and acidic taste reminded me of Sunday mornings with my father when my sister and I would wake up with freshly sliced sturgeon on the kitchen table served with bagels and cream cheese. Aside from this dish being artistically beautiful, its concept was crisp and clear, its flavors clean, though tepid.
The next course came, sole de sable farcie aux girolles, sucs des arêtes réduits à peine crémes au vin jaune, a roll of pacific sand sole stuffed with chanterelles and a fish bone and yellow wine reduction. The first thing I noticed of this dish was the strong smell of rich butter: I was back in France. The fish was beautifully presented with these two sauces that somehow managed to stay separate. A dorsal slice revealed how the fish was stuffed, through its side. Since the surface of the fish was so smooth, unfortunately, the stuffed interior slid together into a dry mushroom paste with most of the moisture being absorbed by the fish. The first bite was overwhelmingly salty and buttery, attacking the delicate flavor of the sole and mushrooms. Aside from salt and butter, the fish bone reduction had a very appealing flavor of fish head and this dish has a lot of potential. I also think the portion of fish was simply too large to enjoy. For me the flavor of fish fatigues my palate after about the 3rd or 4th bite (this is one of the reasons I’m crazy about sushi). This dish approximated 8-10 bites; way too many. By the third bite I decided to cut my losses and leave the dish alone.
For the next course, our waiter came out of the kitchen holding two large plastic bags. Was this a gift from the kitchen to make up for the previous course? Sure was; except I ordered it: foie gras de canard cuit en papillote, huîtres fumées, bouillon de canard au thé vert. This wedge of goose foie gras was cooked in a bag to lock in the moisture and served with smoked oysters and a duck broth with green tea. The bag was cut table side and the oyster smoke released. The warm smoke had the light scent of toasted wood with nothing charred nor burnt. This might be the first time I have liked the smell of smoked food. The cut of foie gras was significant, and its fat melted to the surface of the green tea bouillon enriching the broth. The foie was cooked through enough so that it held its shape and didn’t melt completely, yet still remained supple and buttery. To break up creamy foie gras were tender pieces of oyster and cooked brussels sprout leaves which also added the smallest amount of vegetal bitterness possible. This heavy dish was very satisfying.
Next came an egg-shaped pig bladder in which our fattened young hen had cooked in its own little ecosystem of moisture. This was the poularde de bresse cuite en vessie aux écrevises, royale d’abats, asperges vertes et morilles au vin jaune and it was the dish for which I had come. From the entire chicken we were each served a single breast with chicken giblets, crayfish, morel mushrooms, and asparagus. I watched in delight as juice rained from the chicken with each slice — this was the most tender chicken I had ever seen. Our waiter plated and sauced our breast in front of us, and I once again smelled the richness of butter. Was this the same yellow wine sauce from sole two courses ago, the one I found too salty? Sure was; I guess that’s what I get for supplementing something à la carte. But the difference here is that the salt was necessary for the chicken since by itself it wasn’t salted. In this dish, the combination worked and the salting was welcome.
While the texture of the chicken was incredibly ripe, I can’t say it was the most tender I’d ever had. That distinction is reserved for the Hainanese chicken rice at Boon Tong Kee in Singapore. What I can say is that this is the most tender chicken I have had in Paris, even more than Ducasse’s poularde de bresse at Alain Ducasse Plaza Athénée. The combination of morel mushrooms and chicken remains to be my favorite as these two textures complement each other really nicely. I was very happy to have ordered this.
The last course of the savory dishes was a black truffle bouillon served with thin strips of duck. The truffles were very fragrant, particularly when the scent was activated by the hot broth. The smell was complex and earthy combining the truffles and the meat-based bouillon. But the rest of the soup was secondary to everything else — there was too much going on. The duck almost seemed unnecessary, as did the many other vegetables lurking about. Dispersed throughout the thin broth were cubed pieces of raw black truffle with a texture very similar to raw carrot — cold and hard. Each spoonful made me question if I had eaten something that maybe I shouldn’t have. For this course I skimmed off the top layer and called it a day.
The cheese cart was rolled out: pouligny St. Pierre, cabécou, mimolette, fourme d’ambert, époisses, comté de 24 mois, and some other common cheeses. Nothing incredibly exotic or that wasn’t available at my cheese store (or Artisanal for that matter) so we passed. Sure was pretty, though.
Our pre-dessert was served, a grapefruit sorbet with grapefruit wedges and a black cherry gelée. After a traumatizing experience, I am now very cautious with bitter ingredients, particularly bitter citrus ingredients. But somehow this worked. Though still bitter, I enjoyed it. The completely bitter assault of grapefruit, the main reason why I don’t enjoy a glass of fresh squeezed grapefruit juice, was moderated by the sugar leaving behind only the bitterness not the tongue-clenching acidity. It reset my entire palate.
Then came the dessert, amarena sorbet acidulé, crousti-fondant au chocolat par Carïbes, a geometric semi-crispy Caribbean chocolate fondant covered with acidulated amarena cherry sorbet. Amarena cherries are sour cherries grown in northern Italy, mostly in Modena and Bologna, my Genovese friend was quick to point out. The chocolate fondant was sandwiched by very think layers of chocolate wafer, making the smooth center a little crunchy. I generally do not like chocolate desserts particularly when I am approaching fullness, as they tend to be heavy and one-dimensional. I especially dislike chocolate when it is served cold and takes three times as long to melt in your mouth; it just doesn’t taste good. This dessert, on the other hand, was nothing of the sort. The texture was nothing of chocolate, more like a a light mousse with a light crispy shell. The flavor was pure and dark, but not so intense as to monopolize my tongue. The combination of the sweet fondant with the slightly sour sorbet was interesting, though a tad bit cloying, a harmony of yin and yang resulting in a happy palate. The plating was beautiful.
Some small petits-fours were wheeled out, two caramel macarons and a spherified citrus gel. The macarons tasted more like butter with raw sugar than caramel, and lacked salt which I think would have made the macarons less cloying. The texture was very fresh, though, as the two halves slid around in between my fingers very easily. I hoped the citrus gel would “pop” in my mouth, but instead leaked a very sweet liquid that could have been skipped.
Our waiter offered us some Armangnac; no thanks.
Lastly came the bon-bon trolly full of nougat, dark and milk chocolate, marshmallow, and mango-passion fruit caramel. I took a few pieces of everything, but nothing jumped out as particularly memorable. The M’aître d’Hôtel then offered us a small box of red fruit macarons to demolish right then and there take home. Take a look at the color and see if it looks familiar. Anything yet? Yeah I didn’t get it either; but it was to celebrate Le Bristol’s reception of its third Michelin star, a truly impressive feat. What better way to celebrate than with macarons? I surely can’t think of any. The texture of these macarons was even fresher and lighter than the caramel ones I’d just eaten. I had trouble taking them out of the box they were so delicate; the two halves were gliding all over the place. The flavor was slightly sweet; but the subtle sourness helped to control it.
I left the restaurant confident that Le Bristrol had rightfully earned its three stars for its refinement of dishes, service, and ambiance. I just felt like they just lacked the inspirational spark that some of the other Parisian 3* restaurants have. Like other 3* restaurants lacking soul, this restaurant operated like a well-oiled machine, except most of the flavors were old news.
In a way I wish I had gone last year before the third star was awarded. Some of the dishes seemed to have unnecessary plays on textures making them really gelatinous, which make me question if this was artificially done to make some of Frechon’s more classical cooking seem more modern and innovative. Perhaps this is his way of keeping things “new” to hold on to his third star. Leaving out this play on textures could have made the first three courses even more appealing and seem more natural.
The other thing I noticed was what seemed to be a discrepancy between the main courses ordered from the lunch menu, and from the à la carte menu. It was like two different restaurants, and made me wonder if there was a separate lunch menu chef who was preparing those items. The majority of the courses for which I had qualms came from the lunch menu. Could be a coincidence,and maybe I’m just too idealistic, but I feel like a three star restaurant should have consistency between the two menus. At least that’s been my experience.
Aside from those concerns, this was a very polished experience and represents what is meant by haute dining in Paris twenty years ago today. I look forward to returning eventually; but not too soon, and definitely not for lunch.
The first time I arrived at L’Ambroisie I was told that I wouldn’t be eating there that night. Apparently, the maître d’hôtel had called earlier that day to confirm my table. There were no missed calls on my phone, nor any messages. I was disappointed, to say the least. But I made a reservation to return at the next available date, nearly two months later. Certainly, there was a slightly sullen taste in my mouth from being turned away the first time; but this flavor was quickly reversed when I finally had the chance to sample what I believe are some of the most well-executed dishes I’ve ever experienced.
As I walked into the dining room, I was immediately turned off by its apparent chill that came from the cold tile flooring and vaulted ceilings. But as I sat down and probed the space around me, things began to warm up. I realized that unlike Les Ambassadeurs, this was not necessarily cold so much as it was understated. There were no gold ornaments nor heavy crystals to this space. In fact, in this room there were only five tables, which kept the feeling intimate. Only on my way out did I see that there was indeed a second dining room. A more ornate space with parquet floors and a grand chandelier, it seemed to be the more impressive of the two; but was not nearly so cozy. The decorative elements on my table, a simple pink rose and white candle, maintained a level of elegance while keeping a strong focus on the food and the other person.
The meal started with my waiter holding a plate full of gougères in front of me until I took one, while the remaining plate of two were placed on the table. This subtle coercion, a testament to the pastry’s time sensitivity, worked; otherwise, I would have been sure to take a picture first. And what a nice treat this was: relatively hollow on the inside with a thin layer of warm fragrant crust, not at all oily; but rich with the warm flavor of cheese. I was reminded that gougères do not have to be a dull requirement of haute French cuisine; rather, when as impressive as the ones I’d just tasted, they can really jump start one’s palate, setting a savory foundation to be contrasted with a sweet glass of champagne. I curiously awaited the next step.
Next came the amuse bouche, very lightly smoked salmon, potato strings, and a dill mousse. Two things struck me immediately about the salmon: the slightest hint of smoke, and its buttery texture. The salmon was so lightly smoked that the woodiness added a subtle hint of complexity rather than dominating the fish’s inherent flavor, something I feared after my initial disappointment when this dish was set before me. Nothing to be disappointed about here, though. The texture was lean and supple, so much so that it seemed to melt into the plate. Although the dill mousse was lighter, the flavor of this dish became redundant after a few bites. For me, this was too reminiscent of bagels and lox (you can take the boy out of New York, but…), without a significant enough difference to warrant serving it. The strips of crispy potato did help to break up the textural monotony; but the dish was overwhelmed by the one dimensional flavor of the cold and sour cream.
Things turned around significantly in the next course, a velouté de topinambours et noix de saint-jacques, émulsion de truffe. Oh god, how things turned around. Sitting in a velouté of Jerusalem artichokes were three round scallops topped with black truffle. There was no tableside truffle shaving here, a sure sign of L’Ambroisie’s confidence. But while there was no truffle show, the fragrance of these heat-activated thin black sheets was outstanding. My first bite revealed the complexity of this dish. The velouté was left grainy, a reminder that artichokes were involved. But more importantly, this texture was a nice transition to the softness of the scallop, supporting its smoothness rather than contrasting against it. As I dipped my spoon into the thick velouté, I noted how it took several seconds for it to fill the void. With these Jerusalem artichokes and scallops displaying such an impressive marriage of earth and sea, frankly I wondered why chef Guy Savoy’s soupe d’artichaut à la truffe noire gets so much attention. This was much stronger. Nearly all of my senses were immersed in this dish. Did it really have to end?
Next up was not only the highlight of the night; but also a course I am unlikely to ever forget: feuilleté de truffe fraîche “bel humeur.” As the waiter approached me carrying what seemed like rather large but simple pastry, I began to second guess my ordering decision. It was humbly placed in front of me, a golden brown puff pastry on a bed of puréed truffle. The dominant smell was of moist bread, a scent similar to walking by a bakery in the early morning. But what made this scent different was a gentle hint of truffle: I knew it was there; but it smelled as if it was hidden. And it was. I picked up my knife, and sliced the pastry in half to uncover a hidden treasure. With the first slice, a puff of steam was released revealing the hidden scent: so that’s where the fragrance of truffle was escaping from. The smell was so pleasantly strong and intense, for a brief moment, the entire dining room smelled of my dish. Perhaps that’s why this dish is titled “beautiful mood;” I certainly was in one. As I parted the now split pastry, I shook my head in astonishment. Was this for real? Inside this pastry were two layers of black truffle, each as thick as a generous hamburger patty. I’d never seen truffle in this quantity before. I laughed out loud. Separating these layers of truffle was a layer of creamy foie gras, adding a meaty component to this earthy dish. I could not wait any longer, and took the first bite. What immediately struck me was how I was able to actually feel the texture of the truffle. When truffle is shaved, its contributions are in the form of scent and flavor. Here, on the other hand, a third component was added: texture. I was shocked to feel this firm but surprisingly delicate ingredient fracture in my mouth with each bite. The truffle maintained its dryness, a necessity to enjoy its natural texture. The dish’s moisture was balanced by the creamy liver and the truffle purée beneath, the excess of which was absorbed by the light pastry. What a fantastic dish.
It was only after finishing this that I noticed a small mâche salad to my right topped with a light crème à la thousand island dressing. Hello there. Was that more black truffle on top? Frankly at this point, if it wasn’t so thick as a Pierre Hermé macaron, I wasn’t interested. I think the salad was more of an afterthought, or perhaps a social scapegoat to justify having eaten at least something green during this long culinary adventure. Nevertheless, I finished it. It should be noted that this was some wonderfully fresh mâche; something I would have eaten on its own without truffles or dressing. Though, the pleasure from this course was vastly skewed toward the truffle pastry, the sheer audacity of serving a truffle in this quantity left me in awe, and in a position where I will likely remember this course every subsequent time I see a truffle. I took a brief trip to the bathroom, glanced in the mirror and smiled to reveal my black teeth. I had officially become a truffle vampire.
I spent a lot of time thinking about this dish. Pretty much nonstop for the next week. While it was certainly the ingredients that made this dish special, it also seemed to be technically flawless. The wonderfully moist pastry could have stood up on its own, and I would certainly wait in line to have one as hot and fresh as this. It also seems difficult to me to have baked two ingredients of completely different texture: truffle and foie gras, together in a single pocket of pastry without sacrificing one of the ingredient’s textures for the other. Somehow, they both just came out as if cooked independently. Even the truffle purée was a nice addition to the mixture, seeping into the soft pastry and adding an earthy salt. As I finished up this course, I noticed the table next to mine just cutting into theirs. I first heard the chuckle of astonishment, which was quickly followed by the scent of black truffle. For another moment in time, the dining room belonged to them.
Following this pinnacle was another wonderful course, a fricassée de homard sauce civet, purée Saint-Germain, a large lobster tail served over a bed of gently smashed Saint-Germain peas. The sweet red wine with the salty pea purée was a combination I’d not experienced before, but would certainly be a welcome dinner guest anytime in the future. Delicious. My only complaint was that the lobster seemed slightly overcooked, with a texture that would have been even more inviting to absorb the red wine reduction had it been slightly softer. This could, however, be due to the type of lobster: bretagne blue. The purée made for a nice bridge between the lobster and reduction, soaking up the sauce while clenching tightly to the lobster. The three of these together made for quite a few nice bites.
Finishing the savories, a scoop of pear ice cream was served before dessert. The graininess of the pair was obfuscated by the creamy texture of the glace, teasing my mouth with the flavor of pear; but never quite tasting it. I would have liked something stronger. This was disappointing and I expected something either more creative, or with a purer flavor. This was also texturally dull as there was nothing to break up the monotony of the cold crème.
For dessert, there were quite a few appealing choices. And since I had done my exercise for the day by walking to the restaurant, I chose all of them. I was slightly surprised, and perhaps a little embarrassed, that all the desserts were brought out at the same time. There was hardly any room on the table! But more importantly, it made me concerned about time sensitivity of the dishes. I triaged the plates, and started with the most critical: ananas “victoria” rôti, crème glacée au lait de noix de coco, a cluster of pineapple sided with ice cream, mango vanilla reduction, almond tuiles, and garnished with a few raisins and a peppermint leaf. This was an appreciated appetizer for the dessert tasting. Nothing exquisite, just a light dessert with bright tropical flavors.
Next was undoubtedly the highlight of the dessert course, tarte fine sablée au chocolat, glace à la vanille, an ultra-light chocolate tarte with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. This was, without a question, the lightest slice of chocolate cake I’ve ever had. It had the airiness of a souflée without any runny or creamy textures on the interior. But while it was light, it was still substantive and was not overwhelmed by the vanilla ice cream. The flavor bordered on bitter, taking much of its sweetness from the vanilla glace. This was fantastic.
The final dessert was a little less memorable, palet de chocolat lacté aux marrons glacés, sauce moka. A chocolate mousse surrounded with dark chocolate squares, with a mocha sauce and a candied chestnut. I was reminded of how much I dislike candied chestnuts; their dry pastiness gets redundant and boring after the first bite. Although they appeared to be flawless, these chestnuts were unfortunately no different. With the mocha sauce, the coffee flavor was so light that it did not bother me. In fact, the flavor of chocolate was at the same level of intensity, allowing the coffee, chocolate, and crème flavors to meld together nicely. I found the dish texturally boring and the whole chocolate exterior somewhat annoying — it always takes extra time to chew chocolate at a cold temperature, and it so it always lingers unnecessarily long in the mouth. I probably wouldn’t order this dish again.
Last was a small plate of mignardises: almond tuiles, granny smith macarons, cannellé, pieces of chocolate with hazelnut, and wedge-sized apple tartes. Of the collection, the tuiles stood out as fantastic: a fragile web of pastry and almond. The flavor of the tuiles had an essence of nearly-burnt caramel adding another element of complexity. I also really enjoyed the macarons; despite not having a traditional ganache center, the tartness of the apple confiture was pleasing. The cannellés were kind of dense, almost like gelatin; I didn’t enjoy them that much. The chocolate at this point was superfluous and seemed kind of taxing on my palate: half of one was more than enough. Lastly, the wedge-sized apple tartes could have used a tiny sprinkle of fleur de sel for balance, I think, as they were very sweet.
And just like that, it was over. A special meal with two dishes that stood out so strongly, the velouté de topinambours et noix de saint-jacques and feuilleté de truffe fraîche “bel humeur.” I will certainly not forget them anytime soon. I’m glad I was able to return despite some confusion the first time; in my mind, it was certainly worth the trouble. Were I to return only able to order one course, it would undoubtedly be the feuilleté, and that is what I would highly recommend that other visitors here try. I only hope it impacts you so profoundly as it did me.
@followsthesun@amigadehelado Yes! It's a sfoliatelle! Thanks so much! I now have a new favorite Italian pastry, shortly behind cannoli
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