The French Obsession with Food

When I first started working in the wine importing business Moët & Chandon Champagne was one of the several marques I publicized.  Our key spokesperson for the brand—then and still the world’s most popular bubbly—was Count Ghislain de Vogüé, a managing director of the Champagne house. While Moët & Chandon was produced in Epernay, the corporate headquarters were in Paris in a very tony office building just down the street from l’Arc de Triomphe. Invariably, I’d find myself in Paris for meetings two or three times a year. 

The routine was always the same: After being announced, Count de Vogüé would meet me at the elevator outside his office. A small gentleman with sparse but perfectly groomed hair, the Count always wore beautifully tailored, double-breasted pinstripe suits, most likely Christian Dior Hommes. What fascinated me most, however, were his pastel-colored dress shirts with his initials regally monogramed on the cuffs.  To camouflage his heavy smoking habit, he always spritzed himself in the morning with a light but expensive-smelling men’s cologne. 

An aristocrat with a refined appetite

But, let’s get back to the elevator bank and the ritual of meeting with his American agent! After proffering an engaging smile, the Count would line up his heels, bend ever-so slightly from the waist, then take my hand to his lips for a barely discernable aristocratic kiss. Over the thirteen years we worked together on campaigns in the US and France, Count de Vogüé, eventually became Ghislain.  Instead of a bow, he would faire la bise. (This refers to the French form of welcome which takes place when friends gently bump cheeks on both sides of their faces while simultaneously making a kissing sound.)

Other than those subtle changes the format of our business meetings always started with, “Dear Mar-sha. Where shall we lunch?” A man after my own heart as I, too, am as obsessed with food as the French. Ghislain would lay out our options providing a food expert’s level of discerning critique of the different restaurant choices. Then he would sprinkle in tidbits of gossip about their chefs and their latest mistresses, and finally, quote the number of cases of Moët purchased that quarter from each establishment. We always ended up at some grand temple of haute French cuisine and invariably spent at least two hours à table. After that, the afternoon meetings were predicably short. 

Taillevent, a restaurant at the top of its game

How we ate over the years. My favorite Paris restaurant was Taillevent. Considered the best-run restaurant in the world at the time, its exemplary reputation was built on refinement at every level: impeccable service, delicious food, and hospitality no one could match. The food used to make me swoon.  Naturally, enjoying it with champagne and Ghislain charming presence while being pampered by the legendary owner, Jean-Claude Vrinat, made me not want to go home.

Needless to say, I would never discuss these business lunches with my staff back in New York. The reality was that except on rare occasions we all scoffed down our yoghurt or tuna-fish sandwiches at our desks at lunchtime. Back then forty years ago, food was dramatically less of a hot topic of discussion than it is today.  Luckily for us the ever-increasing number of astonishing young chefs around the country plus our foodie phenomenon has heightened our awareness of what constitutes good food.  But still, no one can match the French when it comes to food obsession.

A lunch bargain at 79 Euros

Recently, I discovered a one-star Michelin restaurant called Anne in the Marais where I have a small apartment. It’s the culinary showpiece for the luxury hotel called Le Pavilion de la Reine located along La Place des Vosges. Thanks to a French food blog, I learned that Wednesday through Friday Anne serves a three-course lunch for a mere 79 Euros. That may seem pricey if you didn’t know that the cheapest main course—just one dish— starts at 85 Euros!

Whenever I can, I treat myself to a lunch at Anne. In the summer months, you eat outdoors in the hotel’s private courtyard dotted with stunning pieces of modern sculpture. When the weather gets chilly, you’re invited to “repair” to a library. Filled with leather-bound books and small pieces of art, this converted dining room space quietly screams understated sophistication. Here, guests sit in low, taupe-colored upholstered club chairs under lighting which makes everyone look younger.

Une Parisienne with an impeccable taste in fashion and food

My first experience at Restaurant Anne was last winter. By chance, I was the sole single diner in the library. The waitstaff made every effort to make me feel welcomed. As I was settling in, an elegant Parisian woman walked into the dining room. She looked around with an air of regal self-assurance, then told the Maître’ d that she wanted to sit “right there” pointing to the table next to mine with her beautifully manicured hand. She was a well-preserved lady in her mid-sixties, exquisitely dressed from head to toe in winter white, the color of the season.  Even her ankle suede boots were a shade of nude. The only other subtle contrast in color was her light beige, quilted Chanel bag. She wore her gray hair severely pulled back in a stylish chignon. Her exquisite gold jewelry made me gasp it was so beautiful.  I could tell she must have spent a great deal of time shopping around Place Vendôme where I only allow myself to gape at the shop vitrines.

Everything about this person signified sophistication and good taste, the kind of breeding that can’t be bought. Her lunch companion was a tall, gangling young man with long, shaggy hair but who, surprisingly, was dressed in a fashionable, dark suit with a striking tie, perhaps Hermès. Most likely a young nephew out for a good meal with his wealthy, well-heeled tante. She was quick to educate her companion (or was he a particularly young lover?) about the restaurant and the menu of the day.  “Chéri, le chef est le fils de Bernard Pacaud,” pointing out that the chef was the son of the chef-owner of the nearby three-star restaurant L’Ambroisie. “His name is Mathieu,” she explained in a breathy tone of admiration saying how phenomenally talented the young chef was. Then, Madame went through every course of the special luncheon menu, ingredient by ingredient. When she arrived at dessert, she looked up and stated emphatically that even if there were a 20 Euro sur-charge, “il faut absoluement goûter le soufflé au chocolat.” And they did.  It was all I could do not to lean over and discreetly ask for a taste.

During my most recent trip to Paris, right before heading to Greece on a wine trip, I splurged on a Thursday lunch at Restaurant Anne.  I wore the best clothes I had packed for the occasion: An Alexander McQueen navy blue jacket with chic, wide-legged pants from the Carlise Collection plus matching knock-off Chanel ballet flats. To complete the wanna-be French look, I tied a natty silk scarf around my neck.

I realized that I was almost the last person seated for lunch that day. With great relish I perused the special menu for 79 Euros and declared that starting with foie gras would be my preference.  To my surprise, la serveuse declared, “Nous sommes desolés, Madame, mais, il n’y en a plus!” claiming that the foie gras had been “un grand succès” early on during luncheon service. You got it. The foie gras was sold out!

The French art of restaurant hospitality

My face dropped in disappointment. When offered the alternative first course, a deconstructed gazpacho, the quizzical look on my face no doubt channeled “Are you kidding me?” As discreetly as possible I explained how hard it was to find good foie gras in America—which is not altogether true. I continued proclaiming how it was my favorite dish to enjoy whenever in France. As compensation for my disappointment the young female server generously offered a glass of Taittinger champagne. My face immediately lit up.  That was a very clever way to handle a disgruntled client. “Rosé or Brut,” she quietly asked?  I’m no fool.  Not only was the rosé (definitely a more expensive choice) a better match with the amuse bouche —tomato water, mini salmon and avocado toast, and beef tartar in a cone—but it was also perfect for the gazpacho first course. With my main course, a seared duck breast served with a purée of celery root, I chose a glass of 2018 Chassagne-Montrachet from Olivier Leflaive. 

When I noticed that the cheese course was sourced from Laurent Dubois, who carries the much-coveted distinction of Meilleur Ouvrier de France for cheese, I didn’t hesitate. Not even the chocolate soufflé could tempt me. With my final course of three cheeses, I kept with the same Burgundy producer enjoying a glass of his 2019 Montagny 1er Cru. The cheese selection consisted of an aged chèvre from the Loire Valley, a runny Normandy Camembert, and a semi-soft cow’s milk cheese, Morbier Tomme Saint Pierre from Franche-Comté with its distinctive layer of ash in the middle. 

Gourmets Gourmands

Next to my table was a group of four men in their mid-thirties, slightly beefy and more casually dressed than the rest of the restaurant’s chichi clientele.  They were eating like ravished soldiers just back from battle. Unlike me sticking to the specially priced menu, this gang was not hesitating with the outrageously priced à la carte items. If fact, they appeared to be literally eating their way through the entire menu! With each course forks and spoon traveled across the table so that each and every dish could be sampled by all.

To top it off, the jovial foursome was enjoying, with great abandon expensive red wines served from magnums. Snifters of old Cognacs and Armagnacs followed their dessert and espresso. Normally, digestifs are reserved for dinnertime in France. However, clearly these fellows were not standing on ceremony. Turns out, the men were all pals of the chef who at the very end of their meal came out from the kitchen to greet them. He hugged each copain, then planted a generous kiss on each of their cheeks, right and left.  No air-kissing with this brawny group of macho men!  And all of the other diners had a chance to see who had just prepared their lunch: a full-bearded, 30-something Frenchman with a shiny, shaved head looking very confident, bold and buff in his chef’s whites. So, this is the famously talented Mathieu Pacaud!

A hidden gem beneath the Eiffel Tower’s shadow

On my last day before flying out to Greece I decided to explore Rue Cler and its legendary open air food market. Unlike most other marchés which function twice a week, this one goes on all day from Tuesday to Saturday and then again on Sunday morning. It consists of a cobble-stone pedestrian street running between Rue de Grenelle and Avenue de la Motte. Located in the 7th Arrondisement, it has been called “a hidden gem beneath the Eiffel Tower’s shadow.” The market is located in an upscale neighborhood of embassies, government offices and very expensive apartment buildings.  Everything about Rue Cler communicates discerning taste, top quality and abundant choice as demanded by its affluent local clientele. Not only do they do their shopping here, but they also meet up with friends for lunch and dinner or perhaps just pour prendre un verre or to enjoy a glass of wine and some conversation.

After working my way up and down both sides of the street to check out its bustling food stalls and beautiful specialty shops, it’s easy to understand why Rue Cler is considered “the” quintessential Parisian market street. Starting with Maison Jeusselin charcuterie and Davoli Italian delicatessen—both family-owned for multiple generations— there was something there for everyone. Unlike most open-air markets with free-standing stalls, Rue Cler offers a miniature, plein-air version of what’s available inside the actual shops. This included: A fruit and vegetable vendor; cheese monger; florist; boulangerie; pâtisserie; chocolatier; honey merchant; a seafood purveyor; and a poultry specialist roasting chicken and ducks on the sidewalk in a portable rôtisserie.

 Mussels and Menetou: A match made in heaven

It was lunchtime and I was famished. I had surveyed the many menu options along Rue Cler’s two blocks. Finally, I landed at a seafood restaurant with the name La Sablaise written on its awning. What initially caught my attention, however, were the exquisite, hand-painted, Belle Epoque glass panels on either side of the entrance topped with an ornate commercial shop sign designating a boucherie chevaline, or horsemeat butcher. From hoofs to scales, I was delighted the establishment was now serving the latter.

As it was relatively early the garçon invited me to choose any table I wanted. I selected a high-top outdoors with a clear view of the passersby. Then I opted for one of my favorite classic French seafood dishes, Moules Marinières. Not only were the mussels prepared in a dreamy garlic, leek, and white wine sauce—perhaps the best I’d ever eaten anywhere—but they were also served with decadently delicious hand cut frites. Along with a glass (or was that two?) of Menetou Salon Sauvignon Blanc, my lunch was perfect.

As I was tucking into the mussels, an elderly gentleman asked if he could use my extra chair for his packages loaded with provisions from the Rue Cler market. “Bien sur, Monsieur,” I replied. I was delighted to have his company as a fellow diner. The gentleman, who was elegantly dressed in dark green corduroy slacks with a lemon-yellow turtleneck, was quickly joined by a female friend with a small dog in tow.  How very French.  The more the merrier I thought, so now I could perhaps discreetly eavesdrop as well. In the name of improving my French, of course.

His companion was a femme d’une certain âge with carefully dyed blond hair and neon orange lipstick.  She was smartly dressed for a casual Saturday lunch. Her outfit of lime green pants and matching sweater topped with a navy linen blazer and youthful brown leather sneakers was yet another example of how well French women “put it together” when it comes to fashion. Despite her permanently pleated upper lip and cheeks crisscrossed with wrinkles, her face lit up like a young woman when she playfully flirted with her male friend. She had one of those Parisian voices which sounds marginally falsetto to us as the register in French is much higher than what we use when speaking in English.

Knowing your bread and your butter

The two friends carefully studied the day’s menu listed on the chalkboard and settled on a plateau de fruits de mer. Out came a two-tiered seafood platter with a selection of miniature periwinkles, oysters, clams, tiny grey crevettes or shrimp, crayfish, and a lobster cut in half all displayed like crown jewels on a bed of crushed ice. Madame politely called after the waiter requesting in her high-pitched voice that she be brought brown bread instead of the sliced baguette served to other patrons. This was followed by a lengthy explanation of why she preferred the dense, dark bread as it was so much better with the Beurre d’Echiré, the top-of-the line butter traditionally served with seafood in France. Then she asked if her friend knew about the Maison Bodier brand and how its owner, Jean-Yves Bordier, had spent his life perfecting butter! She explained that he had also invented the most amazing array of flavored butters including seaweed, caviar, buckwheat and even yuzu! All the best French chefs use Maison Bordier butter, she enthusiastically added. So much lively discussion about bread and butter.

In between catching up with her ami, sipping a glass of white Bordeaux, and popping tidbits of seafood into her mouth, Madame would bend down to fuss over her tiny dog seated obediently at her feet. Her eyes twinkled as she pulled out from her jacket pocket some seemingly special dog biscuits. Cooing over her four-legged companion, I overheard her say in a gentle, comforting voice, “Mais oui, mon petit chou,” or “But yes, my little cabbage,” using a term of endearment French mothers bestow on their beloved baby boys.  With that, she fed him another treat as I wondered to myself whether the French are as fastidious and obsessive about what they feed their pets as what they feed themselves?

Much to my surprise, the Americans trump (sorry!) the French on this.  It appears there are more options for nutritional dog food in our country than in France.  But the differences of dog culture between the US and France will be the topic for another day, n’est-ce pas?