Fork It Over The Intrepid Adventures of a Professional Eater-Mantesh Read online

Now, as he approaches eighty years of age, he need perform only one more gracious act to preserve his reputation. He must close his restaurant.

  The restaurant Paul Bocuse, which he named for himself before such a vain (if logical) act was commonplace, can be found just outside Lyons, a city long considered (except by me) to be the gastronomic capital of the nation. Paul Bocuse retains a score of three stars, the highest awarded by the Michelin guide. Such a rating denotes exceptional cuisine “worth a special journey.” The experience of dining at Bocuse cannot be duplicated at any other Michelin three-star establishment. It is uniquely disturbing. At a visit this past January, I spent most of the dinner shaking my head in disappointment, although at moments I was bent over with laughter (during the cheese course) or sitting bolt upright in outrage (throughout a musical performance by a black employee dressed as an organ-grinder’s 5 4

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  monkey). This is not how I would choose to remember the greatest cuisinier since the fabled Auguste Escoffier, but I have no choice, because I will never enter that establishment again.

  While ostentatious and somewhat dated, the building that houses the restaurant does not detract from the pleasure of a meal. Inside, the restaurant is too bright and too warm and the tables are too close together, but the copper pots gleam, the shelves appear to be dusted regularly, and the napery is luxurious. The place isn’t Versailles, but it’s more than respectable.

  I’ve been there twice. During the first visit, in the mid-nineties, the room was almost empty and the meal was acceptable, if forgettable. A day later, I couldn’t remember much of what I’d eaten except for the famous black-truffle soup with its puff-pastry dome, as good as its reputation. This past January, I returned with four friends. We each ate a fixed-price meal that cost approximately $190, tax and tip (but not wine) included. On the set menu was the same signature soup, pan-fried scallops with sauce Perigueux, a granité prepared with Beaujolais wine, chicken with black truffles cooked in a pig’s bladder, cheeses, and a selection of desserts.

  The truffle-scented soup, which exhales an ambrosial cloud of pungent vapor when its crust is pierced, was again the only noteworthy dish.

  The flavor of the Gamay grape was captured by the granité, so I suppose that was also to be admired. Wine service was nonchalant, wineglasses too small, cheeses a joke, and many of the desserts inedible. Even the bread—two kinds of rolls relentlessly offered with every course—was the stuff of a neighborhood boulangerie.

  Most depressing were the disastrous main courses, because they supposedly epitomize the cuisine of Bocuse. The pan-fried scallops came in an overly sweet, shockingly rustic, dull brown interpretation of sauce Perigueux, which is made with Madeira wine, foie gras, and chopped black truffles. Only if I had been dining in a farmhouse would I have sent my compliments to the cook.

  Chicken cooked en vessie, which means in a swollen pig’s bladder, is intended to be an exercise in culinary showmanship. The dish dates F O R K I T O V E R

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  from the days when French furniture and French food had much in common—they were both about ornamentation, not pleasure.

  The presentation was delightful, but then we were obliged to eat.

  Steaming a chicken in a bladder might seal in flavor, but it turns nearly everything inside either tough and rubbery (the skin) or mushy and overcooked (the vegetables). By scraping aside most of what was on my plate (bloated rice, soggy greens, revolting skin) and concentrating on the edible bits, I was able to cobble together a few nice bites of chicken with morels in cream sauce—tolerable bistro cuisine.

  What made the main courses particularly distressing is that Bocuse was around throughout the dinner service, presumably to assure that every dish leaving the kitchen was up to three-star standards. In reality, he strode through the dining room looking both majestic and remote, once or twice stopping for a photograph with a favored customer. He has become the Flying Dutchman of French cuisine, sailing aimlessly through his premises.

  The cheese cart was unquestionably the worst I’ve come upon in a Michelin-starred restaurant, and the only one I’ve seen presented without pride. The theme: unripe cheeses with hard rolls. My knife literally bounced off an elasticized Camembert. There was an impressive quantity of cheeses on the cart, but only because of mindless repetition—a long line of tiny pyramids of goat cheese, disc after disc of the same St.-Marcellin. I studied the selections carefully, looking for signs of ripeness, and when I noticed a single promising St.-Marcellin, I eagerly pointed to it. The indifferent captain ignored my request, stuck his knife into an already cut half-disc close to him, and dropped it on my plate. That’s when we all burst out laughing.

  The first dessert, intended as a prelude, was a small crème brûlée. As I was praising mine on the grounds of acceptability, which was all we could hope for by now, a friend sitting next to me pointed to his. There was a runny residue under the brittle caramelized sugar.

  For my principal dessert, I selected baba au rhum, which is rum-soaked sponge cake, a favorite of mine. The texture was of a cake soaked days earlier. The flavor was decidedly off, as though the rum 5 6

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  were corked, like a spoiled wine. I tasted a friend’s apple tart, which consisted of mushy apples over a good, crunchy crust topped with flavorless vanilla ice cream.

  Couldn’t get worse?

  It did, because Paul Bocuse manages to set back cuisine and endorse cultural stereotypes at one sitting.

  The person who had opened the restaurant door for us when we arrived was a small black man wearing a short, tight jacket and a flat, round cap. Outfits like those are generally seen on bellhops in 1930s Hollywood films and on the monkeys that dance to barrel organs. While we were having dessert, this man was called on to provide entertainment. He operated some sort of upright musical instrument that imitated an organ-grinder’s music. I would suggest to Bocuse, if he so enjoys offensive gestures, another way of entertaining his guests: hire a clue-less French film critic to lecture on the greatness of Jerry Lewis. The fun could go on and on.

  I can tell you exactly what organization is to blame for all of this: the Michelin guide. Supposedly incorruptible, it has lowered its standards in the case of Bocuse, not for payoffs or for advertising but for sentiment. It has refused to do what is essential, something it has done countless times before: declare by means of lower ratings that a chef ’s time is done. The guide has been appropriately ruthless with chefs as accomplished (but not as revered) as Bocuse, including Roger Verge of Moulin de Mougins and Marc Meneau of L’Espérance. Even Alain Ducasse, the preeminent French restaurateur of this generation, has seen stars come and go and come back again.

  One of my friends at the dinner said he thought it might be possible to enjoy the cuisine of Bocuse, although nowhere near Lyons. He claimed to have had a very satisfactory meal of escargots, fish, and crème brûlée at the Epcot Center in Florida, where Bocuse lends his name to the dining pavilion called Chefs de France. He said Bocuse as interpreted by Disney was preferable to Bocuse left on his own.

  GQ, june 2003

  A R O O M O F O N E ’ S O W N

  I believe I am the only man alive who loves an empty restaurant.

  I am speaking of an establishment that nobody else has decided to patronize, at least on the night when I’m there. I feel blessed, not desperate, when I look around and see every table vacant except the one that I (and my fortunate guest) occupy. I don’t ask myself why I didn’t stay home and eat in my bathrobe, thus avoiding the humiliation of dining in virtual quarantine. I sense opportunity, not catastrophe.

  I understand that a restaurant meal is meant to be an experience in communal rhapsody, you and others of equivalent economic standing joining together in appreciation of a chef ’s talent, or, at the very least, a joint’s popularity. Young people today are never more comfortable than when they are prowling society in boisterous groups, and this is especially true in Manhattan, whe
re top restaurants are rarely without packs of supplicants pleading for admission.

  Perhaps I am an outdated fellow, but I believe that being alone with a beloved companion has certain advantages over being crammed in the culinary equivalent of the bleachers. To me, empty restaurants are romantic in a way that ones filled with roses are not.

  I also love empty restaurants because I like bargains, and I appreciate that the proprietor has spent thousands of dollars on rent, salaries, and flowers just for my enjoyment. I know I should decorate my dining room at home and hire a maidservant and butler for the evening if I like that style of treatment so much, but I shudder at the expense.

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  A while ago, when I was visiting Madrid with my wife, I had numer-ous chances to hone my dining-alone skills. In Spain, restaurants open at nine p.m., and woe to the early bird who actually arrives at that hour.

  The stove is barely warm, and the waiters are still in shirtsleeves, fid-dling with their ties. My wife and I believe entrees are tastiest before the sun goes down, and so we were inevitably at the door of whatever restaurant we had chosen promptly at the opening bell, knocking loudly and demanding admittance. I felt like one of those ladies who line up outside department stories on sale days to try on half-price shifts.

  One Sunday night, we chose the restaurant of our hotel, the Orfila, a small, lavish, entirely admirable nineteenth-century palace. We were the first to be seated, and then I realized we were also the last to be seated. The restaurant is not unpopular. In fact, we had been unable to obtain a table on a Friday or a Saturday evening, and it was nearly full for Sunday lunch.

  On the night we were there, the restaurant had only two other bookings, and neither of the couples showed up or called to cancel. In America, staff and management would have been outraged at such dis-courteous behavior, but our waiter, whose name was Santiago, said, “Is normal in Spain.”

  That left three of us allied for the evening: my wife, Santiago, and me.

  She wasn’t pleased. “I don’t like it so empty that I’m self-conscious,” she said. Under more advantageous conditions—for example, had I been with a woman other than my spouse—I could have entertained her with delightful bons mots, but after years of marriage no man sounds witty to his wife. She added, “I like a minimum of three tables to be occupied. That gives the waiter two extra things to focus on but not enough to detract from the service. I don’t like just one other table.

  I get competitive. I ask myself if the waiter likes the people at the other table better than he likes us.” Whenever Santiago and the second waiter on duty stood whispering to each other, she was certain they were talking about us.

  Santiago was every bit as uncomfortable. He compensated by try-F O R K I T O V E R

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  ing too hard. He rushed over with bread, and then, concerned that he hadn’t done enough, he brought dishes of bar snacks—potato chips and salted almonds. The quiet was overwhelming. We could hear the ice in our wine bucket melting and shifting, the swinging door to the kitchen creaking open and whumping closed. Creak. Whump. Creak. Whump.

  I realized I had to take charge of this floundering dinner party before my wife (as well as Santiago) fled, victims of the unbearable pressure.

  I am not making reference to the cuisine of the hotel when I say I felt as though I were in command on Pork Chop Hill and my unit was pinned down.

  First, I took my wife for a stroll through the restaurant, impossible when others are present. We admired the walls, because they were fabulous, some covered with trompe l’oeil marble-patterned wallpaper, others with yellow-striped wallpaper of woven cloth. Then we looked over the artwork, still lifes that appeared to her to be moving faster than this meal. When the excursion was over and we had started to eat, I recognized that my next task was to make Santiago understand that we were in this together and even if the room echoed with loneli-ness, we would have the time of our lives.

  Luckily for all of us, I dropped a forkful of fish. It didn’t seem fortunate at the moment, because the staff would certainly know the identity of the dolt who had dropped his cod on the carpet. (It would not have been chivalrous to point to my wife and shake my head reproach-fully, although I was tempted.) The word would spread through the hotel: “The guy in room 32 can’t hold his cod.” So I bend down to pick up the fish at the precise moment when Santiago arrived with a plate and a napkin to save me from the demeaning task. Our heads banged under the table. A bond of friendship and international goodwill was forged.

  The rest of the evening passed without incident or discomfort. The food was easily the best I experienced during my three days in Madrid.

  The bacalao, or dried cod, was superb, the skin crisp and the flesh soft, the flavor enhanced with bits of sausage and a few scattered olives and tomatoes. The pigeon breast was rare, sliced and arranged around a 6 0

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  well-cooked leg atop a layer of artichoke bottoms, and the breast of duck came in a light, yellow-tinted sauce made with carrots and ginger that looked Indian but tasted Asian.

  Afterward, I concluded that I had behaved so exquisitely, head butting notwithstanding, that it had become my duty to prepare a brief guide to dining in an empty restaurant. As a public service I offer this advice:

  1. If the restaurant has a piano player, tip him immediately. These guys are morose enough without having to play to a single table of uninterested patrons. If there’s a piano and nobody’s playing it, you must. Learn a song if you don’t know one. Mine is “The Little Shoe-maker,” a ditty I perfected when I was nine years old.

  2. Reign over the restaurant. Do not cower in a corner. Insist on a table in the center of the room. Overflow with benevolence. Lavish praise and attention on the staff so at the end of the evening they will remember you forever, grateful for having had the opportunity to serve you, a baron of the dining arts.

  3. Treat your consort as though she were a queen. Remember that alcohol and excess are your allies in getting through a potentially awkward evening. Order champagne as quickly as possible.

  4. Do not whisper, although you will be tempted to do so. Speak more forcefully than usual, as though you were in the banquet room of your château. Certainly the waiters will overhear you, but your conversation will be so well-bred they will be awed.

  5. Never order an abbreviated dinner. If there is a cheese course, have it. Let the world know—not that the world is watching—that you are fully at ease in a situation that would overwhelm a less confident person.

  6. Leave at least a 25 percent tip. An entire restaurant has existed merely to please you. Your magnificent presence has brightened what could have been a miserable evening for the staff, so don’t ruin everything by leaving 12 percent, the way you usually do.

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  After the meal, I rather hoped my wife would compliment me on my performance, but of course she did not. (See previous reference to matrimonial behavior.) She said that despite my antics, the restaurant still felt empty to her. I told her she was mistaken, because I had demonstrated that my ego was large enough to fill any room.

  GQ, april 2003

  P A L A T E C L E A N S E R

  Ten Commandments for Diners

  1. Don’t Give Them Your Credit Card Until After Dessert Restaurants have started asking customers to guarantee reservations with credit cards. Don’t do it. Assure them you’ll show up. Promise them you’ll call to reconfirm—thoughtful restaurants will even provide special numbers for this service. Frankly, if restaurants want to start acting like airlines, they should offer similar perks, such as frequent-diner upgrades (“Ma’am, your pork loin tonight will now be prime rib—at no extra cost to you . . .”).

  2. Pay No Attention When the Waiter Suggests a “Favorite Dish” I sympathize with waiters, I really do. They’re hardworking, starving actors barely surviving on one meal a day—but I never listen when they recommend thei
r so-called favorite dish, the warm fricassee of roasted root vegetables with black truffle jus. The only jus they’ve ever tasted is canned gravy. It was a sad day in American dining when waiters decided their job was to give orders, not take them.

  3. Insist on a Glass of Fresh, Tasty Ice Water Restaurants are not selling bottled water to keep you hydrated. They sell it because it costs them seventy-five cents and they can charge nine dollars and seventy-five cents. Unless the civil defense agency of the state where you are dining has declared a water-rationing emergency, restaurants should place tap water on every table. Tap water is your friend.

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  4. Don’t Order Steak at a Seafood Restaurant However, seafood at a steakhouse is never bad.

  5. Pass on the Omelette Station

  You’re on vacation, ready to splurge. That means the hotel’s $39.95 Sunday buffet brunch. There’s salmon, sushi, crab claws, shrimp, and eggs Benedict. You head straight for the omelette station, where a guy in a Hawaiian shirt who has never been to cooking school is making fluffy four-egg omelets with scallions, peppers, Bac’Os, and a grated cheese product. Nice going. You’ve just filled up on an egg dish that costs $3.99

  at Denny’s.

  6. Stand Up for the Coat-Check Girl

  Many restaurants have decided to profit from the decades of good will and affection that (male) customers have for coat-check girls. They do this by paying her a (meager) salary and keeping the tips for themselves. Shades of Oliver Twist, that buck or two that you press into her delicate palm is immediately snatched away. So I always ask the coat-check girl if she’s permitted to keep her tips. If she tells me she isn’t, I don’t leave one. What I do is complain to the manager.

  7. Demand to See the Chef

  If dinner for two is costing $200, you have every right to expect the chef to be at work. Restaurants where the famous celebrity chef has taken the night off (or, more likely, is making a few thousand bucks cooking at a corporate event) should post a notice, similar to the ones seen in Broadway theaters: “The role of our highly publicized head chef will be played tonight by sous-chef Willie Norkin, who took one semester of home economics at Scarsdale High School and can’t cook worth a damn.”