[taken from Charcuterie: Tales and musings of food, drink, morality, love , life and death by Grant N Stone 2020]
He leant back in his chair and fastened his seat belt. As he closed his eyes and ears to the safety announcement he sighed deeply and let his mind wander to the cool tasting cellar that he had first experienced the paper thin slice of the greatest thing he had ever tasted. Soft and melting with a wave of the most intense savoury flavour sensation, it wasn’t just taste it was more. This was the finest sensory experience he could conceive, and it was spiritual, it was perfect.
Francois Florent had always had a close relationship with food. He had written about it all his adult life. The birth of an epicurean begins at the breast was one of his defining pieces, widely acknowledged as the article that changed the way food was written about.
Stylistically everyone had copied him.
Overnight the traditional critique of restaurants, the columns that littered the pages of magazines and broadsheet supplements had become boring and obsolete. By overtly linking the sensual organic pleasures of gastronomy with the re-emerging high art of the French culinary scene he had shocked with a gastronomic nouvelle vague and as chefs became more experimental and adventurous with dishes so did he with his articles. The two synergistically accelerated a movement away from the traditions of classic France cuisine and into a brave new world.
An interview for a high class American magazine had played with that concept . Entitled “The Brave Nouvelle World ” it projected him to be the leader of the emerging world food stage, a world where a chef could become an overnight success or a promising career was destroyed simply down to a few sentences.
No longer would a restaurants fate be down to their quality of service or the happiness of their diners. It was now a scene where fancier and more elaborate creativity to please the jaded palates of critics.
Francois had become the king of critics and the king maker of chefs. His fork and his pen were mighty. His opinion the last word.
He firmly believed that there was a hierarchy in the ability to opine on such issues. Those tastes are developed from birth and before. Good taste was in the genes, in ones breeding but experience was built from a very young age. He knew plenty of nobles and aristocrats who had the palates of philistines.
His theorem was that the canvas was predetermined, the base was primed but a wonderful palate was built over time. This started at birth or in his view before. Science clearly demonstrated that the placenta transferred flavours and experiences. He had controversially stated in debates that great chefs were never born from mothers with bland diets. The gestation period was one of imprinting. Why else do mothers have such strange cravings?
Certainly it is to deliver uterine messages to the emerging synapses of their unborn child, n’est pas?
His own childhood was that of travel and prolonged solitude. Exposed to the fineries and first class lifestyle of a diplomats son he would seek friendship from restaurant staff who would take care of the young lone diner.
His hobby became note taking and keeping journals of the menu, the decor and the people he met. He asked questions “where was this chicken from? Why did it taste better than elsewhere? Was this the chef or the chicken? Devoid of a library and resources to answer these questions he would interrogate the waiters, who would refer the maitre’d and if it was quiet he would be directed to the chef himself. His youth removed any challenge or skepticism from these oftentimes formidable monsters and most times resulted in a short cookery lesson.
He rapidly built up a unparalleled knowledge and a deep understanding of the business of fine dining.
With time his writing became increasingly polished and when he came of age a summer job with a top publishing house, procured through paternal contacts , and the serendipitous sudden demise of the house food critic he found his words in print.
The first articles received positive acclaim and with time his informative yet discerning reviews brought him acclaim. He couldn’t be anonymous, the staff of nearly every esteemed restaurant knew him by sight. As an elegant and debonair figure he was recognised widely.
He also became increasingly critical with time his reviews acerbic and unrelenting of anything less than perfection. Rather than welcomed his arrival at a restaurant was feared. He dined alone usually, muttering to himself and scribbling in a small black notebook. Rarely was his opinion expressed outside of his writing and his expressions gave little away.
There were certain foods he seemed to be favourable about and chefs played to these tastes. He had been a supporter of the modernisation of the classic French cuisine and his beliefs were dogmatic regarding the provenance of ingredients. He held an unwavering view that French ingredients were superior to all others and even if not from the homeland the former colonies provided all that was required. Even with Nouvelle cuisine the incorporation of other cuisines with his classic tastes and techniques was within the comfort of his epicurean jingoism. The art and elegance of the plates delivered by Bocuse or the freres TroisGros were in harmony with his beliefs that fashion and sophistication could only originate in France and the rest of the world should follow.
Ingredients from the corners of his great nation were the finest available. Chickens from Bresse, Fish from Provence, the oysters of the Atlantic coast. Vegetable and fruit from the garden of France. The worlds greatest wines. He knew with comfort in his heart that this was the truth and could never could be challenged.
He had tried. Travelling widely but always disappointed. The offerings of Italian food unsophisticated and frankly the food of peasants. Germanic food did not have any possibility of fine dining and Alsace was as close as he would venture again. Across the Basque Country he was equally dismissive and anything worth eating must be from his side of the border. Once he had a Spanish cheese that was exceptional but he discovered that the caves which it was matured were connected to France and had french water in their streams.
To his readers this type of claim was well received. Like him the patriots of the elite French could not stomach false challenges. It was simple. French food was the finest in the world. The finest dining rooms globally were French, the food cooked in the french tradition by chefs who had trained in France. There were few exceptions to this rule. Some may concede that it was acceptable to enjoy Scotch whisky although many would question what was their problem with Cognac.
The only exception in his mind was clear but had to remain a secret. The Iberico ham of Jabugo. Deep dark red translucent slivers, marbled with ivory fatty striations. Rich, sweet and deeply flavoured from the happy fat pata negra pigs greedily munching through piles of acorns shaken from the old oaks in the woodlands of Southern Spain.
He had tried to find an alternative but to his dismay the French mountain hams were a pale imitation.
He had searched the whole of France. Bayonne, the Savoie, the Vendee. He had crossed the country from Haut Dobes and Aldudes, Morvan to Bigorre but none were even an imitator. It had to be Jamon iberico Bellota for him.
This must remain his secret. His reputation would be belittled. Imagine the greatest proponent of French food eating Spanish ham!
He was brought back to reality by the hostess waving a sandwich in close proximity to his face the plastic wrapper rustling loudly.
“Non…non” he declined.
Why would anybody even need to eat something like that he questioned. It was a flight to London and even the Air France food was better than most things that could be eaten there he surmised. He had equivocated about this visit. Travelling to England was bad at anytime but especially in winter. The weather was terrible. The accommodation was anticipated to be the same. Previous visits to English hotels had left him with memories of the pervasive smell of fried breakfast and over familiar staff. A hotel in the country may well be better than the pokey places pretending to be 5 star in central London but he anticipated disappointment.
He was fondly contemplating dining with Bernard though.
They want back a long way and Chef Favre had provided him with some of the finest hospitality and camaraderie over the years. The concept of creating a world class French restaurant in England had puzzled Francois but at least it may introduce some much needed Gallic style into the inhospitable and miserable neighbour.
The driver spoke no french but Francois, despite disliking speaking English did so politely. As they passed outside to the car a cold blast of wind made Francois shiver and pull his overcoat together.
“It’ll be about 45 minutes to get there. It’s got cold today, forecast says snow later.” The driver chirpily attempted conversation trying to make eye contact through the drivers mirror.
Francois did not reciprocate and instead observed the dreary industrial landscape as they escaped the airport.
The volume of the car radio was increased and the music and intermittent chatter was enough to make conversation unnecessary.
The journey was a tedious series of acceleration and braking until the car left the motorway and proceeded along a small winding road, slowed and turned through a large stone gateway.
The frontage of the White Hart hotel was ivy covered and a large slightly distorted door appeared to be the entrance.
Francois checked in and despite admiring the historical coaching inn was directed to his room, a utilitarian affair in a new built extension.
The room was equally unimpressive and he dropped his small shoulder bag on the the faux leather armchair, pulled back the duvet to inspect the quality of the sheeting and lay on the bed. It would suffice for one night he supposed.
He pulled the small black book from his inner jacket pocket and extracted the letter from within the back flap.
6:30pm, La Perdrix Grisby Chef B Favre
He flicked his wrist over and eyed the Blancpain, the dial showing the moon coming into the fenestration on its gold framed face. The hands showed 5:30 but with the hour time difference he supposed there was little point in staying and waiting in this miserable room. An aperitif with Bernard might break his cheerlessness.
The young attendant at the front desk had a strong Eastern European accent. Francois enquired in French which she appeared to speak better than English.
Her directions were sketchy as she didn’t know exactly where the Perdrix Gris was but explained the village was small and she was aware of the renovation work being done on the ancient house at the far end of the village. There has been rumours this was going to be a restaurant and suggested this was likely the place. And estimated a 10 minute walk at most. She drew crude directions on a note pad, tore off the sheet and handed it to him bidding him Bon soir.
He reciprocated, puffed up his scarf and fastened his camel cashmere overcoat and stepped out into the late afternoon air which was cold, the sky heavy and dark. Crunching across the gravel he following the makeshift map out onto the country lane.
He breathed deeply, inhaling the crisp cold air. It felt invigorating after the airports, car heaters and hotel stuffiness and his pace livened as he strode up the village street. The houses that made up the small hamlet were few and he passed them and the lane narrowed and curved between shoulder height stone walls. He moved to the middle of the road to avoid the muddy verges and progressed to a T junction, the left fork disappearing down into a wooded valley the right towards a property. Muddy tyre marks followed the right fork as did he. The yellowish house lights stood out in the crepuscular greyness and smoke surged from the chimney.
As he approached he could see the building was antiquated. White and black, crooked wood and ancient stone but with obvious recent renovations. A new parking area, partly covered building materials and a half full skip off to one side.
His expectations were higher than this and he wondered had he got the date wrong? He had been to many opening nights where minor details had been overlooked but this looked unprepared. In fact the whole trip seemed somewhat disorganised.
The usual would be that a press release and overattentive PR reps would hound him. He generally made all his own arrangements. Giving a damning review was easier if you hadn’t taken liberties with hospitality beforehand. Even he had some morals.
Perhaps based on his hosts past achievements he had overestimated this invite. It had been some time since Bernard Favre had run a restaurant. He was one of the finest chefs and restauranters he had ever encountered, his meteoric rise largely assisted by well deserved supportive reviews. Lately Chef Favre had been away from the frontline, books and appearances, a guest on TV shows and consultant chef gigs he may have got flabby. It was common. Kitchens and restaurant routines were brutal. Many great chefs had got out by the age of 40.
Chef Favre had earned his reputation having worked through the kitchens of the greats which gave him the ability to please Francois, his style of cooking and subsequent eponymous restaurants all had the spirit of evolution and tradition that the grand salons evoked.
The path became perfectly level slabs between the low lit urns and a feeling of anticipation greeted Francois. Tension subsiding he pushed the heavy studded wooden door and as it opened the smell of wood fire, leather and perfumed candles greeted him. He ducked under the oddly angled door beam, entered the hallway and contrary to his expectations the interior was sparse and modern. The room was large and open, the ceiling high with the observation that the upper floor had been removed. Long curtains in silver velvet draped to the floor and sharp angular chromed steel supports complemented the light grey leather furniture and slate gray walls. A large original carved stone fireplace had huge logs glowing red and above this a mounted head of a rhino jutted from the wall.
He looked around acclimatising to the heat and smoothed his thinning grey hair back over his head with his hand. A young woman in a black suit appeared almost genie like. He noted her natural understated make up and elegant cheek bones as she greeted him
“Monsieur, Bon Soir. Welcome….may I take your coat.”
He slid out of the overcoat and handed it to her with his scarf. He moved towards the fireplace rubbing his hands and stretched towards the heat.
“Mon amis. Merci” a white jacketed chef came towards him “Merci, merci monsieur”
Francois turned, a hearty handshake and an exchange of kisses on each cheek.
Following the cursory enquiry about the journey with equally polite responses. A waitress with 2 flutes of champagne appeared.
“Cuvee Winston Churchill…I hope you don’t mind. It’s part of the little game that the Perdrix Gris plays” Bernard grinned. “Tonight will be a little…erm… different…”
Francois sipped, approved and then raised an eyebrow in query
‘Tonight is our launch night. It is the most important service we will ever do. It will be the finest”
Bernard went on to explain that the restaurant had been his dream for sometime. He missed cooking and he was sick of the business side of things. He wanted to get back to his roots and his creative being, crafting the best food in the world. Who better to do this for pre-opening than for the fiercest french critic in the world?
If he could impress Francois would this not prove his comeback was worthy?
He went on to explain that tonight was the result of over a year of practice and development. Chef Favre would create the greatest meal from the greatest ingredients available. If not he would down his tools and employ a chef. He would admit his time was done. He would retire.
Simply put this would be the best food prepared in the finest style.
“The food will be the best you have ever tasted” he fussed around brushing the velvet pile on the cushions as Francois edged toward the fireplace
“I will lead my brigade, I have prepared and I will cook. I want to get back to the great cuisine we knew, huh…” he shrugged.
Francois smiled. He had been apprehensive that this would be some modern fanciful attempt at a French kitchen. He had genuinely enjoyed Favre’s mastery in the kitchen and frankly welcomed some old fashioned French classic food, particularly now as he was feeling the hunger of an absent lunch.
He followed Bernard through to the kitchen, a standard assembly and of little interest to him but he politely nodded as equipment was explained. Fantastic aromas were emanating from the pots and pans tended to by a silently concentrating band of androgynous tattooed young chefs. They didn’t acknowledge or even notice him as he proceeded to the dining room and to the small table set for one.
A graceful and slender waitress stood in the corner, hair cut short and asymmetrical. She smiled as she approached Francois, bouncing on her toes like a ballerina. Outlining the format of the evening she explained the slightly unusual nature of it, and as such she was at his disposal. He noted that despite her otherwise elegant appearance she had the telltale signs of a itinerant of the hospitality industry, unusual tattoo on her inner wrist and nape of neck, a gritty voice of a heavy smoker and a confidence beyond her years.
He nodded to signal her away having agreed to the sommeliers wine pairings and a bottle of still Evian. The black Moleskine was brought out from his pocket and the ribbon pulled to find his last page. Where normally he would make notes based on the menus as there was no menu he simply clicked the lid of his Mont Blanc on and off.
A small bowl of opaque liquid was presented, a rich earthy potato emulsion, scented with a wisp of herbs, smoked butter and saffron.
This was followed by a thumb sized slice of partridge terrine, a herb gel and tiny pickled wild mushrooms.
A cured fish carpaccio, a jelly of confit and cured tomatoes with crystal clear beef consommé poured over, the jelly immediately dissipating and generating a rich Demi glacé.
He mumbled to himself and scribbled away. Tasting and composing.
A small oak log was brought to him.
Unexpectedly this constituted what looked like a pile of sawdust and in a drilled out hole with a small steaming glass cup containing a broth the colour of a fine oloroso. On the board was a pair of surgical forceps.
He sniffed the liquid, it smelt sublime. Sweet, rich, woody and with a sensual musk. He tilted his head from side to side a few times and looked to the waitress for guidance.
She explained that the dust was to be used to make a tea with the glass of broth.
He obeyed as instructed, the shavings melting immediately amplifying the heavenly scent. Droplets of oil glinted on the surface. He sniffed again. The aroma was unmistakable. His heart rate quickened. He tipped the glassful into his mouth knowing that the liquid would release an explosion of umami into the depths of his olfaction.
A concentration of Iberico that he had only dreamed of.
He opened his eyes. The waitress was staring at him. He quickly composed himself. He wasn’t sure if he had made noises. Grunted or moaned perhaps in ecstasy of the flavour, an essence of the greatest taste in the world, his illicit desire distilled and presented not as food but as a sensation.
He didn’t write. He didn’t drink. He just stared unfocused at the fire and a breathed slowly but deliberately through pursed lips.
As the next plate arrived the waitress subtly coughed to break his trance. His eyes moist and full of tears.
The rest of the meal he worked through. He ate it but barely registered. He scribbled down what it was and some appropriate platitudes but he couldn’t concentrate.
A breast of woodcock in a pastry casket its feet and beak peeking out theatrically. A finely seared filet of beef, a dish of apples in many fancy ways. Burnt creme, cheeses. Jellied fruits both savoury and sweet.
All were fine. He knew that. He wrote down the facts but despite ample wine and a very fine calvados he was barely present.
As the last plate was cleared Bernard Fevre, red of face and somewhat apprehensive entered the dining room, the young brigade behind him. They assembled along the wall facing Francois and he stood and he applauded. Bravo. Bravo. He was uncharacteristically effusive in his praise heartily shaking hands with each of them and asking their names.
They bowed, returned to the kitchen and the chef now smiling broadly invited Francois to join him by the fire, a bottle of cognac and two glasses in his hand.
As he poured he stared at the glasses and confessed “I am very pleased you enjoyed my efforts. I trust you will report this favourably”
“ But of course, you remain the finest classic French chef. I have had the pleasure …”
Francois was interrupted by Bernard who passed him the glass of XO and leant back “I have to confess something…”
The critic anticipated a confession regarding the Iberico dish.
“I hope you are not shocked or offended by my little trick on you.”
“The iberico dish? I thought it was outstanding. A triumph!” he looked around cautiously, smiled and whispered “How did you know of my …. secret passion?”
“You liked it? I am so pleased. It was a concern for me. It is a fine, fine flavour is it not?”
“Of course. I have searched many years and never been able to write about the failings of this disappointment of France. Tell me who produced this magnificent ham? Was it Joselito or Carvajal? It is the finest I have ever tasted”
The chef leant towards him chuckling slightly “It is none of these. This is the amazing thing mon amis.” he leant in close and took a sip of the amber cognac. He raised his eyes and they met with the chefs “it is English, everything I served was British! The foie gras, the champingnon, the game in the terrine, the beouf, the poulet. Even that ham!”
The chef noticed Francois eyes open wider, his face redden and his shoulders tense up. Rather than the hoped for amused or pleasantly surprised response to this confession the critic appeared angry.
“You charlatan, you ….you criminal…!” Francois stuttered. “I do not believe you. I cannot write about this. This is treachery.”
“Come on, come on. This is the modern world Francois” the chef opened his arms aiming to pacify things.
Francois leapt to his feet, wagging his finger and jumped towards the fire. “This is blasphemy, betrayal.. You were a student of the greats. The great kitchens of France. The honour of working with those who learnt from Point, Bocuse, Chapel! The dishes you served tonight, they were soiled by this confession. How could you? How dare you!”
He was now pacing back and forth, his voice raised, shouting at the chef. “I cannot stay here any longer” he downed his cognac, shakily placed the glass on the fireplace and made for the door “Quel Faux Cul!!”
“Come along Francois, calm down, was this not the best French cooking you have had. Isn’t that the fun part?” Bernard didn’t stand assuming the discussion would go on.
He heard the door slam behind him “…Connard!!” shaking his head he poured another large cognac and slumped into the soft cushions and rested his head on the wingback of the chair.
Outside Francois immediately noticed the cold. He pulled his overcoat coat on, now grateful that he had grabbed it on his rushed exit. The rain was heavily mixed with flecks of snow and he pulled his lapels up to protect his neck.
He was furious. Insulted by a so called friend. Tricked. he had travelled to this miserable place only to be betrayed. He marched up the rough road away from the site of the offence. He did not believe the claim. His brain raced. Maybe some items were local, the potatoes perhaps but the rest no way. His palate was so well developed. Foie gras from Britain. Pah. That ham was jamon de Bellota. It was from Spain. No doubt. It may have been from a producer or a vintage that he had not tasted but he could taste the terroir. The sweet, oaky acorns of the south of Spain were only capable of this. He looked to the dark fields ahead, barely visible despite the bright moonlight. This place smelt of soil, of damp and earth and manure and wet grass. This was not the land of jamon. Not even the south of France can produce this.
His inner dialogue continued as he marched on. The rain had turned to snow and it was getting heavier. He stopped and looked back. He could no longer see the Perdrix Gris. He was now going downhill on a farmtrack. Over the wall he could see a few lights of the village to his left. He continued on the track the visibility worsening. Ahead he could just about see something ahead.
Rather than the road to the village that he was expecting he discovered a gate into a field with the track continuing onwards. Although he had not paid much attention on the way he anticipated a T junction with the paved road that he had arrived by.
Continuing but barely able to see more than a few metres ahead due to the snow now coming down thick and heavy, he pulled up his arms into his sleeves and leant forwards into the weather.
A few minutes later the track narrowed and passed steeply down the hill, a route he definitely had not taken earlier. He could no longer see the village lights or in fact much at all. It was dark all around. He shook his head.
The path ahead was wrong. No doubt. He should head back. Find the road and he would be ok. Turning around and quickening his pace his light fine leather loafers slipped on muddy snow coated stones.
The path once again narrowed down and the stone walls on either side turned at right angles away from him. The gateway had deep tire tracks and led onwards into a field.
He was starting to get irritated, cold and starting to panic. His gut feeling was to go back although his innate sense of direction warned him off this. He could go ahead. It was rough and not even a track but he felt should lead him to the village. He couldn’t go back anyway. Dizzy from a combination of the cold, the alcohol from dinner and his now rapidly developing anxious state he pressed on.
The ground of the field was soft and wet in parts and his shoes disappeared below frozen mud, his feet and trousers legs were wet. He slipped and landed heavily on his side. Swearing and cursing he righted himself, his hands covered in think mud and his clothes heavy and laden with dirt. As he stood the snow began to feel heavy and wet on his coat.
He stared forward squinting to see lights. Nothing but he could make out a shape of a building at the edge of the field. Lifting his pace and almost jogging towards it his feet slid sideways in the slippery grass. The door to the small barn was closed with a rusty metal hook securing it. Despite his frozen fingers he managed to undo the clasp and shuffled inside. Stamping his feet and shaking the snow from his head he blew into his cupped insensate hands.
In total darkness he intuitively felt around the door frame for a switch and in so doing a suspended cord brushed against his face. He pulled it and a dim golden bulb shone in the far corner. He blinked and looked around.
White sacks were stacked on pallets. On the back wall beneath the light a pyramid of what looked like gravel was piled high in a wide concrete trough.
The gravel had a soft forgiving crust on top that broke as he pushed his hand into it. It felt fine, like fine sand. Cold but dry and soft.
He was tired, wet and cold and with a need for shelter this seemed as good as anywhere. A rest from the weather until daylight.
A plastic scoop lay to one side and he proceeded to dig a primitive bed into the heap. The heavy wet overcoat was offering him little protection and hindering his progress. He removed it and shivered but continued in creating a bed, a shelter.
Rolling up his coat as a pillow and grabbing some sacks from a rough pile secured with half a brick, he fashioned a bed and shuffled in to let the soft sand conform to his aching body. Finally he began to warm up and feel some comfort. The heat he had generated by digging not being conducted away by wetness but retained by the dry sacks.
His panic began to subside but his anger remained. He would not only give the restaurant a bad review but the country as well. He knew this place was uncivilised and medieval. Was this not the proof. Sleeping like an animal. Barely surviving. Never again would he be coerced into a favour to be tricked and made a fool of. At first light he would find the hotel and leave. Back to Paris and civilisation.
Turning sideways into the sand he attempted to get some rest. As he shuffled a small avalanche fell from above. A few grains landing on his face the moisture on his lips turning into a strong saline. He licked them. Salt. This was salt not sand. A huge pile of salt. He also detected a meaty note to it. He had written previously about salt. The volcanic, the fine Sel de Fleur of the Vienne. This was none of these. It was undoubtedly salt but it had a sweet meaty funk about it. Angrily, he shook his head. This was survival not a review of barnyard flavours. As he settled back a further avalanche of grains fell from the pile above him. He stared up and as he did so the corniche above him, made unstable from his digging collapsed.
Chef Fevre had awoken as the early light entered through the large windows of the restaurant. Still in the chair with only embers remaining in the fire his head ached and his mouth was dry and uncomfortable. The bottle of cognac was still open and appeared to have largely evaporated. A blanket lay over him placed by the kindley staff as they pleaded with him and went to their rooms.
A barrage of vague recollections started to enter his head. The meal, the petulant anger of the critic. Would this be the end? Would Francois calm down and see the funny side. Hopefully he would. The chef looked out of the window to see snow falling heavily over the fields. He threw another few logs on the fire and shuffled towards the Nespresso machine in the corner of the room. He shrugged. His head was too sore for such thoughts.
The review never came out. The chef waited anxiously for it. He had tried to contact Francois. His mail simply responded with an out of office response. His phone calls went directly to answer phone.
Bernard worried. Maybe he had taken this too far. He knew Francois was fiercely patriotic but had hoped that this would change his mind. The most classical french recipes performed with finest french technique using English ingredients in England, Bernard Had thought this showed an ironic sense of history. All the way from the Norman conquest. The name, la Perdrix Gris a play on the fact that the English native partridge was largely replaced by the french red legged variety across most of the country was itself a subtle clue.
He hoped Francois had put the experience behind him and been benevolent in his silence and pondered that whilst endorsing such a concept was beyond the critic, not publishing a review may be apology for his outburst.
He shrugged, his lower lip everting in a Gallic dismissal.
The restaurant was fully booked for weeks ahead and the British critics were galvanised in their veneration. The Spring menu was being conceptualised in earnest. A bad review from Francois at this stage would unlikely to lead to ruin but it would sting him personally.
As a chef his calling, his mission, was to achieve perfection and this could only evaluated by a respected and educated critic. The opinions of the customers mattered but the history and nuance behind each and every dish was lost. If you’ve never tasted Louis Outhier’s millefuielle of salmon or Joel Rebuchon’s Quail with Foie Gras what credentials do you have to judge?
Bernard had appreciated these great dishes and more, personally as a chef, as Chef Favre. He had returned to the kitchen to improve on his legacy, as a craftsman not a businessman. As an artist not a performer. The raison d’etre was to achieve immortality in the French culinary tradition. Perdrix as the best French restaurant in the world and Bernard Fevre as the greatest French chef of his generation, of all time.
Doing this outside of France was revolutionary. Beyond the archetype of mahogany and brass, white jacketed maitre’d and surly service with a faux french accent.
Chef Bernard Favre surveyed the dining room, the golden glow of the low winter sun glowing over the fields and woods. He had admired similar in Parisian galleries as a boy. His life had been bringing the art of fine french food to a new canvas using new paints. Like Monet in London. Tower Bridge in the smog was immediately recognisable as Monet and in its own way still French despite the location. Bernard reflected that Francois would argue that Van Gogh was less a painter of France than Paul Gaugin!
As he headed into the kitchen and wiped down the spotless pass with a brand new cloth he reflected that an existential crisis must have hit Bernard that night. He wouldn’t be surprised if he was planning his revenge in a new book on the history of extravagant Parisian dining.
Smiling the chef centred a chopping board, picked up a knife and began to create.
~~~~~~
The television in Bernards room remained on but unobserved.
“Remains of a body believed to be the french food critic Francois Florent, widely recognised as the greatest authority of French food has been found buried in a industrial building belonging to H. Saxons Butchers and Charcutiers” the regional news reader announced dramatically. “It is not known how long the body of the famed critic had been there but the coroner has stated that due to unusual issues with the state of preservation of the body suspicious circumstances cannot be ruled out.”
He continued
“the premises are close to the widely lauded French restaurant La Perdix Gris where the esteemed critic is believed to have visited and may be linked to his disappearance.
Chef Bernard Favre, owner of the famous restaurant and hotel is being questioned by police…”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Nick Inston 