I’m
wearing my Paul Bocuse tie today, in honor of the great French chef, who died Jan.
20 at the age of 91.
Bocuse
himself gave me the tie, after I finished a meal at his restaurant, just
outside Lyon, in 1996. I protested that Wine
Spectator policies didn’t allow me to accept gifts. “Bof!” he said, tucking
it into my pocket.
I
was on a mission at the time: eat
in every Michelin three-star restaurant in France and report the
results for Wine Spectator. It was an
amazing (and grueling) three weeks of indulgence and education. Every
restaurant was different, each with its own personality. No restaurant had more
personality than Bocuse.
It
began with the building itself, a neon-lit, gaudily colored building with “Paul
Bocuse” in huge letters perched on the roof. The luxurious interior was
decorated with photos of the chef with the great figures of his time,
politicians and film stars. Bocuse had a big ego and irresistible energy;
there’s good reason, beyond his extraordinary culinary skills, that he became “the
most celebrated French chef of the postwar era,” according to his obituary in
the New York Times.
I
won’t recapitulate Bocuse’s extraordinary career; there are plenty of detailed
homages available, from colleagues and critics around the world. But that visit
from 1996 still echoes in my memory.
Alexandra de Toth
The Paul Bocuse tie
After
I enjoyed a brilliantly simple meal of truffle soup, filet of sole and roast
chicken, Bocuse sat down at the table. He was wearing the tallest toque I’ve
ever seen on a chef.
In
one hand, he held a black truffle the size of a baseball. In the other, an
Opinel pocket knife, the brand favored by farmers and hunters. He cut thick
slices of the raw truffle, dipped them in coarse salt, and munched on them like
celery.
“I
like them best this way,” Bocuse averred. Despite his menu’s luxury ingredients
and complex preparations, he preferred simple things. “French cuisine lost its
way,” he complained. “For a while, you couldn’t even identify what was on your
plate! Now we’re returning to the basics.”
Bocuse
believed in local products, traditional recipes and the glory of France. He
kept his prices lower than those of most of his colleagues, especially for
wine. (“I don’t have to charge any more, because most of this is already paid
off,” he half-joked.) For all of his global fame (and restaurants that
stretched from the U.S. to Japan), he was happiest at home, just outside Lyon,
where his family had been innkeepers and cooks for seven generations.
Bocuse
was nearly 70 at the time of my visit, and despite his bravado, his eyes seemed
sad. I asked about the future of his restaurant, and whether his son Jérôme
would one day take over. The “Lion of Lyon” looked around the room, filled with
happy customers and bustling staff. “I don’t know if it’s such a great
present,” he said.
Whether
or not Restaurant Paul Bocuse would be a welcome gift to his son (as of this
writing, the succession is still unclear), it was an immense gift to those who
were fortunate enough to experience a meal there. I never went back for another
visit. But I’m happy I still have the tie.
Dining and Cooking