I hope that this will be the first in a series of posts celebrating cooking in the South of France. I don't intend to claim authenticity or the wisdom of Elizabeth David and Alain Pomiane but this was the first holiday I had where we did not stray from the farmhouse for dinner, and cooked copiously and sumptiously in an environment that I wish I could preserve forever. Dinner meals were sublime celebrations of food and wine, thanks to being simply located in the Vaucluse region not too far from the wineries of Vaqueyras, Gigondas, and of course, Chateuneuf du Pape. We were surrounded by acres of Olive trees, Almond Trees, wild thyme, wild savory and wild rocket. It was also the time of grape picking and one can only marvel at the endless grape trucks making their way back and forth from vineyards to wineries.
I am honoured to have begun my holidays in September with a birthday meal at Paul Bocuse's celebrated 3 Michelin starred (for 42 years) L'Auberge du Pont de Collonges in Lyon (http://www.bocuse.fr/accueil.aspx). I have never liked fine dining too much preferring the mucky puppy world of finger food and all -- my belief being that you can't eat well if you're dress too well. Too much fuss and attention also overwhelms taste. I get tired of pretentious dining. Collonges changed my mind but it wasn't pretentious. It was at once elegant and homely dining.
Collonges has been the home, hearth and heart of Paul Bocuse, resting magnificently by the River Saône and so one will forgive the folksy murals of the family and staff cooking and plucking poultry on the walls outside. The exterior of the house is lit up, painted brightly (almost purposefully garish) in Provencal colours, while the inside befits the aristocratic manor with gilded mirrors and Roccoco furnishings. There are no female servers and the reason is simply that you are served by muscular well-dressed men having to carry large, heavy silver platters of food raised high -- and whizzing back and forth expertly between kitchen and table.
We were whisked to our expansive table, and seated immediately, an attentive server expertly adjusting my chair so I will receive the maximum comfort for eating. Different persons appeared for different reasons, to take your wine order (we chose a bottle of a Nuits st Georges), to take your order, and so on. We chose the Menu Classique -- I was never a fan of too much fois gras and truffles -- and opted for a simpler, less heavy meal. So I thought. We began with a lovely gazpacho with bread that more than whetted the appetite, followed by the crayfish jellified in Poully Fuisse as starters. I thought I died a little there. My greatest curiosity was the Poulet de Bresse, a chicken so famous and so renowned for its taste that you can only curse your lot in life for not being born anywhere in or near the town of Bresse, France.
And it was chicken! Perhaps we've forgotten what chickens taste like and ought to taste like, what their meat should feel like rather than the floury, chalky taste of battery chickens raised on steroids, in conditions so cramped that they've never seen the light of day or know what it's like to be a chicken, and to wander in sunlight and fresh air. The Bresse chicken in Collonges is cooked in a pig's bladder with slices of truffles and the server expertly carves it for you, asking the lady first which parts she preferred. It's the little touches, the attentiveness which makes your heart melt, and prompts the longing to be sinfully rich so you can always be treated like this every time you dine. You are special!
But it was Paul Bocuse, all 83 years of his grand old self with his medals, who came to the table, and who visited each and every table, to wish diners bon appetit and bon amie. His graceful presence, his generosity of spirit, his love for food washed over us when he came to the table. There was an aura felt after, a giddy satisfying happiness in which the great man had blessed us with his gentle smile as he chats or takes pictures with his guests who come from near and far, kings, queens, ministers and ordinary folks alike, as if to say 'we're all connected through food'. He reminded us of what food was all about, good company, the good life and most of all respect. What celebrity chef in North America or the UK would do this every night for his guests? Thomas Keller? Gordon Ramsay? Paul Bocuse has held his three michelin stars for 42 years!!! And this was followed by Mdm Bocuse, in her minimalist finery, who did the same. This was grace and good manners.
And the truth was we were not exactly well-dressed either. The drive into Lyon was harrowing and in rush-hour, so much so that I wasn't exactly perky or cared to be perky by the time the taxi came for us at the Sofitel Hotel. It was a more informal Issey Miyake I had put on with Armani peacock sandals while my partner did not even bother with a jacket or a tie. Around us in the restaurant, children wandered, to the approval of Paul Bocuse's twinkling eye ('start them young on truffle soup'), each time my partner muttering, 'Now there's a well brought up young lady'. Indeed. Collonges is a happy family place, not a stuffy restaurant. You can, honestly and forgive the cliche, feel the love and the passion.
All around the interior of Collonges are portraits of Bocuse, the best ones located near the luxurious restrooms. There is a painting there of Bocuse in the last Supper pose, surrounded by his disciples. By the time we finished our mains, we were already stuffed and could not consider more. With superb efficiency, the plates were removed, the table emptied. We looked with relief, at the emptied table (saved the glasses of wine and water) and thought there woud be a respite. Two large boards and a trolley of cheeses arrived. My jaws dropped, as the whiff of cheese more than started up the old gut again. I went for the Fromage Blanc, my favourite soft runny yogurty cheese. My partner, endeavored to pick three different kinds (Ewe's cheeses and a classic brie). He is a heroic man.
And so one assumes then, we wait a little more before the desserts arrive. Should we or shouldn't we? But you should never be left too long without food at Collonges: first the Petit Fours, then the cup of chocolate -- and then, the three trolleys of desserts to pick from. This is the point where your eyes are much, much bigger than your stomach as you scan the endless confections ahead of you, from chocolate mousse to fruit tarts. Now, you can have as many desserts as possible but I had already picked my grande finale for the night, and it was going to be the Ille Flottante as Grand-mere Bocuse made once. Oh my, the meringue melts in your mouth and the custard's richness is unforgettable. My heroic other however, opts for the humble brulee, his index for every fine dining experience. It, naturally, passed.
Coffees and a Marc followed but by then, we had passed the edge of fullness. We were very happy when we paid the bill which we will not divulge because these are vulgar things in the big picture of culinary pleasures and experiences. The maitre'd gave us a menu card as a souvenir rightly sensing our non-localness, called us our taxi which arrived almost immediately (with Bach's cello concertos playing on the CD player), and we were soon back at the hotel.
Collonges might not be the most perfect meal I have ever experienced but it is the only restaurant where I have ever felt an odd nostalgic longing for, like I left a part of me behind, perhaps among the nooks and corners of the gilded interiors, perhaps among the crayfish, the truffles, the poulet, the desserts, who knows? Perhaps, in the magical twinkling eye of Paul Bocuse's gracious hospitality, and his home and family. He is after all, despite the accolades lavished on him, still 'Paulo from the Saone'.
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