A few months earlier, in December 2006, Ferran Adrià, Heston Blumenthal, and Thomas Keller, along with the American food scientist and author Harold McGee, had issued a joint manifesto entitled “Statement on the New Cookery,” in which they laid out some of the core principles guiding their own efforts in the kitchen and that they believed should form the basis of a twenty-first-century cuisine. “In the past,” they wrote, “cooks and their dishes were constrained by many factors: the limited availability of ingredients and ways of transforming them, limited understanding of cooking processes, and the necessarily narrow definitions and expectations embodied in local tradition. Today there are many fewer constraints, and tremendous potential for the progress of our craft. We can choose from the entire planet’s ingredients, cooking methods, and traditions, and draw on all of human knowledge, to explore what it is possible to do with food and the experience of eating. This is not a new idea, but a new opportunity. Nearly two centuries ago, Brillat-Savarin wrote that the ‘discovery of a new dish does more for human happiness than the discovery of a new star.’ ”
That not one French chef was among the manifesto’s signatories was as telling as the French Culinary Institute not inviting a single French chef to its gala celebration in New York that same year. But by then, some of the most eminent French chefs were pursuing an agenda of their own. In 2006, Alain Ducasse, Paul Bocuse, Guy Savoy, and a group of like-minded colleagues launched an effort to persuade UNESCO to formally declare French cuisine to be part of the world’s cultural patrimony. Two years later, their effort won the backing of Nicolas Sarkozy, who said he supported it because “we have the best gastronomy in the world.” The validity of that claim notwithstanding, the UNESCO bid was taken by some observers as a sign that the French had given up any notion of culinary progress and had ceded intellectual leadership in the kitchen—that French cuisine had, in the words of the International Herald Tribune’s Mary Blume, entered “a gelid commemorative phase” and was looking inward and to the past rather than outward and to the future. François Simon put it more cuttingly; he said that if UNESCO agreed to enshrine French cooking this way, “opening the door of a restaurant, making a soufflé rise, shelling an oyster will become part of cultural activity like going to sleep at the opera, yawning at the theater, or slumping over James Joyce’s Ulysses.”
Given the state of things in France, the inclination to rest on former glory was understandable. In 2008, Sarkozy’s government succeeded in amending the thirty-five-hour workweek to allow companies to negotiate or impose longer hours on employees, but apart from that, French labor laws remained as rigid as Mitterrand had made them and Chirac had left them. Especially distressing for restaurateurs, Sarkozy had failed to deliver on his promise to reduce the VAT, which remained a punitive 19.6 percent. With the onset of the global financial crisis in 2008, the French economy fell into recession, and the hospitality industry was hit hard. Some three thousand restaurants and cafés went bankrupt in the first half of the year, and profits for those that were able to keep the lights on declined by some 20 percent. 2009 promised more of the same.
But as devastating as the economic downturn was, some struggling restaurateurs knew that French cuisine faced an even graver long-term threat: Younger French seemed indifferent to what they ate and to the country’s gastronomic heritage. Bernard Picolet, the owner of Les Amis du Beaujolais, a restaurant near the Champs-Élysées, told Britain’s Independent newspaper, “Younger French people today don’t understand or care about food. They are happy to gobble a sandwich or chips, rather than go to a restaurant. They will spend a lot of money going to a nightclub but not to eat a good meal. They have the most sophisticated kinds of mobile telephone but they have no idea what a courgette is. They know all about the Internet but they don’t know where to start to eat a fish.” I heard much the same from a twentysomething PR assistant to Alain Senderens while interviewing the legendary chef in 2006. When I had asked Senderens if he was concerned about the dining habits of French youths, he had waved his hands dismissively and assured me there was nothing to worry about; the kids would come around—they always did. A few minutes later, after Senderens had stepped away to greet a client, his flack turned to me and in a hushed tone said, “It’s true—my friends, they don’t care anything about food; my generation just doesn’t care.”
But amid all the gloomy portents, there were some hopeful signs. In 2008, regulators reaffirmed that appellation-designated Camembert could only be made with raw milk, and both Lactalis and Isigny Sainte-Mère eventually decided to continue making the lait cru variety rather than quit the appellation. True, this was a small victory in a war that was being lost, but perhaps it would help spark a raw-milk renaissance. That other staple of French cuisine, bread, was enjoying a revival. Its quality had plummeted through most of the twentieth century. The transition from sourdough-based bread-making to yeast-based panification, begun in the 1920s, was the initial and most significant factor in its decline. Two world wars didn’t help matters, nor did the mechanization of boulangeries in the 1960s, which yielded a bumper crop of bad bread. But at the prodding of France’s millers, whose businesses were suffering as a result of bread’s diminished appeal, the bakers finally began to turn things around in the 1980s. Improvement came chiefly through the efforts of certain innovators, notably the late Lionel Poilâne, who reconciled “artisanal practices (long sourdough fermentation, baking in wood ovens, and so on) with production on a quasi-industrial scale” and whose entire genius was “summed up in the note of acidity that marks his fine round loaves.”
Those words are taken from Good Bread Is Back, a book published in 2006 by Steven Kaplan, who has himself played a big part in French bread’s revival. Kaplan, a historian who splits his time between Cornell University and the University of Versailles Saint-Quentinen-Yvelines, has devoted much of his career to chronicling the role of bakers and bread in French society through the ages; he is now recognized as perhaps the world’s leading authority on this topic. He is also a bread critic who, with his wife, wrote a guide to the one hundred best baguettes in Paris. Kaplan evaluates bread with the same full-sensory rigor that wine critics apply to Cabernets and Syrahs, and he has a gift for the descriptive: The first time I met him, he compared one loaf we tasted to Brigitte Bardot’s posterior and proceeded to trace a voluptuous heart shape in the air to make sure I got the idea. His seamless blend of erudition and pugnacious, salty humor has made Kaplan a popular figure on French television and radio.
In the process, the Brooklyn native has become the conscience of French baking—a conscience that does not hesitate to tug. He carries a baguette with him whenever he visits restaurants for the first time, and if he finds the house bread substandard, he eats his own. He considers it a form of public shaming. Amazingly, this practice has never gotten him evicted from a restaurant. Indeed, he says, the waiters and owners often take the admonishment to heart; in some instances, they have sat down with Kaplan to talk about bread, confessed their sins, and vowed to have a better baguette waiting for him next time. He is close to some prominent bakers—Eric Kayser, Dominique Saibron—and seems to have liberty to enter their kitchens whenever he wishes. Kaplan is quick to acknowledge that the title of his book is slightly misleading; good bread is back, but only to a limited extent. By his reckoning, maybe 15 percent of French bakers produce bread worth eating these days, and constant vigilance is required, even with acclaimed producers. When he caught one boulanger, renowned for his supposedly all-natural approach, using additives, he made his displeasure known and their previously amicable relationship soured. But Kaplan was not about to sacrifice a good crust to the exigencies of friendship. “He lied to me, and he is far too talented to have to use the crutch of additives,” he said.
Kaplan was ebullient proof that one man, even a foreigner, could make a difference. Perhaps other foreigners, similarly passionate about France and French cuisine, could follow his example. The Japanese were certainly doing their part, as
were all those British, American, and German cheese lovers imploring Philippe Alléosse to continue his work. With or without a UNESCO declaration, France’s gastronomic tradition was part of humanity’s cultural heritage, and in the same way that people of many nationalities had contributed to the effort to protect Venice from the floods, there was no reason why food lovers the world over couldn’t rally to the defense of French cuisine. Ultimately, though, its fate was in the hands of the French themselves, and while the outlook was not encouraging, there was still a chance that they might yet realize what was being squandered and resolve to prevent it. Jean-Robert Pitte put it eloquently: “But all is not lost! Let the French convince themselves to eat well once again and they will remedy the disease of languor that sometimes affects them. They will salvage their optimism, and for certain, a great chunk of their economy, in a Europe and a developed world that have too willingly thrown their gourmandism out the window. A supplement to well-being is priceless; no one can lose by treating oneself to it.”
Nearly a decade after Ladurée crossed itself off my list of favorite Paris lunch spots, it did continue to serve an exemplary praline mille feuille, much to my surprise and delight. In the meantime, though, I’d made a gratifying discovery. It turned out that Ladurée’s praline mille feuille had been created by Pierre Hermé—widely considered France’s most talented pâtissier—when he had worked as a consultant to the tea room in the 1900s. In 2001, Hermé had opened his own eponymous shop in Paris, on the rue Bonaparte in Saint-Germain-des-Prés. Although the line that perpetually snaked out the door of his tiny boutique affirmed that Hermé truly was the Hermès of pastry, it took me several years to set foot inside—a combination of habit and misplaced loyalty had kept me going to Ladurée for my mille feuille fix. When I finally visited Hermé’s shop, I found that the praline mille feuille was also being offered there; he called it the 2000 Feuilles, and as sublime as the one he’d left behind at Ladurée was, the version at his own place was even better. The pastry was so impossibly light and flaky that I half feared it might float off into the next arrondissement if I didn’t hold it tight, but what flavor it packed! This was the Platonic form of a praline mille feuille, so delicious that I immediately placed a triumphant call to my wife to let her know about it, rousing her from bed at six in the morning with the good news.
Soon after that maiden visit to Hermé, I had lunch for the first time at Le Comptoir du Relais, Yves Camdeborde’s restaurant, which was located a few blocks away. There, I also made a discovery: Camdeborde served a sensational salade niçoise—better even than the one I used to eat at Ladurée. Not only that: The wine list included Marcel Lapierre’s Morgon. And so an old, adored routine was immediately reestablished. Now, whenever in Paris, I go to Le Comptoir for lunch and have the salad, which I chase down with the Morgon, Camdeborde’s superb country bread, and possibly also a disk of insanely runny Saint-Marcellin. I then stroll over to Hermé, where I pick up a 2000 Feuilles (I am still limiting myself to one a day, but it’s surely just a matter of time before I start doubling up). Pastry in hand, I cross the street to the small square in front of the Saint-Sulpice church and park myself on one of the benches. The pigeons, clearly recognizing the Hermé bag, start congregating at my feet before I even open it. I ignore them, just as I ignore the bemused looks of passersby who notice me gorging on the mille feuille. In that moment, sitting there on a bench in the middle of Paris and taking bite after blissful bite, I am just where I want to be: back in the France that I know and hope will endure.
Acknowledgments
ALTHOUGH ONLY ONE NAME is on the cover, this book was a collaborative effort, and many debts of gratitude are owed.
In the course of researching the book, I solicited the views and enlisted the help of numerous people, and most of them could not have been more generous with their time and thoughts. There are far too many to name here, but my thanks to all. A handful of people were kind enough to read parts of the manuscript and to offer feedback and suggestions. Many thanks to Steven Kaplan, Colman Andrews, Mark Williamson, Nicholas Lander, Steven Jenkins, Rahul Jacob, Tyler Colman, David Schildknecht, Gwen Robinson, Tyler Cowen, and Guy Gâteau.
One of the smartest things I’ve ever done as a journalist was writing to Jacob Weisberg to broach the possibility of doing wine pieces for Slate. My association with Slate is a source of immense pleasure and pride. My editor, Julia Turner, is a joy to work with; my thanks to her, as well as to Jacob and to David Plotz. I am also grateful to the Financial Times and wish to thank the following people there: Rahul Jacob, Jancis Robinson, Nicholas Lander, Charles Morris, Tom O’Sullivan, and David Owen.
I was fortunate to work with several terrific people at Bloomsbury. I am indebted to Annik La Farge for the confidence that she showed in me, and to Nick Trautwein for his skillful editing and infinite patience. I knew, from the moment that I first spoke with Nick, that he was exactly the kind of editor I wanted: intelligent, low-key, and with a sense of humor. I feel very lucky to have had him as a partner in this project. Michael Fishwick of Bloomsbury in London showed great enthusiasm for the book throughout its development and made some superb suggestions, as well. Many thanks also to Jenny Miyasaki for so masterfully guiding me through the production process, and to Janet McDonald, whose copyediting was amazingly thorough and much appreciated.
My agent, Larry Weissman, patted me on the back when I deserved it, read me the riot act when I needed it, and has become a very good friend along the way. His excitement about this book reinforced mine, and he has been an invaluable source of counsel and support. His wife and partner, Sascha, offered excellent advice with the proposal, and my thanks to her, as well.
Without Georges Martel, my wife and I might never have become romantically involved, the idea for this book might never have germinated, and researching it would not have been possible. Georges is family, and my debt to him is enormous. Nor would the book have been feasible without my in-laws, Joseph and Keiko Brennan, who were of great help to my wife during the many weeks that I was away researching the book and during the many months when I was sequestered in my office writing it. My brother, David Steinberger, offered much appreciated support and encouragement, as well. I also want to thank Brian Shames and Eric Tagliacozzo, dear friends both.
My grandfather, Dr. Laszlo Steinberger, died a few days after I turned in the manuscript. He was a month shy of his ninety-sixth birthday, and while I had hoped he would be around to see the book in print, he at least had the satisfaction of knowing that it was headed to the printer. This book is also dedicated to him, as well as to the memory of my other grandparents, Violet Steinberger and Dr. Max and Helen Alpert.
I wish to express my gratitude to my parents, John and Rita Steinberger. I left a promising job on Wall Street to pursue a career as a journalist. Most parents would have been horrified; mine encouraged me to give up investment banking for writing, and they have been a source of steadfast support ever since. I hope this book, in some small way, repays their faith in me.
Lastly, I want to thank my wife, Kathy Brennan, and my children, James and Ava. I long ago noticed that authors, in acknowledging their debts of gratitude, invariably speak of the burdens that book writing imposes on their families. I’d hoped to avoid sounding that hackneyed refrain by not allowing the book to be a burden on mine. No such luck: As challenging as this project was for me, it was doubly so for them. No young children should have to suffer the sight of their unshaven father pacing the halls like a zombie day after day, muttering to himself. As for what my wife endured—well, let’s just say that Émile Jung was absolutely right: She is mango woman, and I can’t begin to thank her enough for all that she did to make this book possible. Kathy, James, and Ava should know that they are my rock and inspiration, and this book is as much theirs as it is mine.
Selected Bibliography
I DREW UPON A NUMBER of sources while researching this book, including many newspaper and magazine articles. Rather than citing all of them, wh
ich would fill several pages, I have listed below only the ones that were particularly valuable to my reporting. But a handful of publications were especially useful to me: the New York Times, the International Herald Tribune, Le Figaro, Le Monde, the Financial Times, the Times of London, BusinessWeek, the Economist, the New Yorker, Time, Newsweek, Gourmet, Food & Wine, and Saveur.
Abramson, Julia. Food Culture in France. Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 2007.
Boisard, Pierre. Camembert: A National Myth. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2003.
Boulud, Daniel. Letters to a Young Chef. New York: Basic Books, 2003.
Brillat-Savarin, Jean Anthelme. The Physiology of Taste: Or, Meditations on Transcendental Gastronomy. Translated by M. F. K. Fisher. Washington, D.C.: Counterpoint, 1999.
Au Revoir to All That Page 25
