Steak - Mark Schatzker [38]
The question is often asked: Of France’s great many great dishes, which is the most French? A good argument could be made for tartiflette, a potato casserole from the Alps layered with fried bacon, butter, and melted cheese that is, even in France, a courageous celebration of fatty indulgence. Confit de carnard, which is French for herbed duck legs simmered for hours in hot fat and crisped under a broiler, makes an equally compelling case. As does coq au vin, in which a cut-up rooster is stewed in wine, mushrooms, and, if you can manage to find a butcher who sells it, chicken blood. But the best answer may be steak.
Roland Barthes, a heavy hitter among twentieth-century French intellectuals, was in the steak camp. His book Mythologies, one of the few easy reads in the movement known as structuralism, contains an excellent essay on the significance of steak in France. He describes it as “meat in its pure state,” and, like wine, “steak is in France a basic element,” one that “unites succulence and simplicity.” In it, he attributes the “craze for steak tartare” to a belief that it is “a magic spell against the romantic association between sensitiveness and sickliness.” Romantic sickliness aside, the relevant point is that I was in a country that has been known to experience crazes over certain forms of steak.
Steak may be the easiest meal to procure in France. It is most commonly served next to a heap of perfectly cooked French fries, a dish known both in and outside France as steak frites. You can order steak frites at service stops on any autoroute or take a walk through a leafy residential enclave and order it at one of the extremely charming bistros you will inevitably come across. Or you can reserve a table at a French steak house, the majority of which are not chain restaurants.
The more important question is, where can you get a good steak? France is just the country in which to make this kind of inquiry, being famous not only for food but for rating food. The field’s long-reigning champ is the world-famous Michelin guide, published by the same folks that make the tires. No other rating guide carries anywhere near the critical heft of Michelin. The mere listing of a restaurant in the Michelin guide—name, address, phone number—is taken as proof that a competent chef is manning the stove. Better restaurants are awarded a cute little knife-and-fork symbol next to their names. One knife-and-fork symbol is good, two are better, and five indicate a luxurious restaurant of high quality. There is, however, a level of quality that exceeds even the boundaries of the knife-and-fork scale. Such a restaurant receives a more special honor: a star.
Here, you might think, Michelin’s rating system would reach its limit. But it does not. Truly superb restaurants—kitchens that approach perfection in every aspect of creativity and execution—can actually earn two stars. Such establishments are rare, and if you should happen to find yourself within a one-to-two-hour drive of one, the guide advises that you take the detour and eat. (It is, presumably, acceptable in France to cancel an appointment due to unexpected proximity to an excellent restaurant.) Incredibly, there are restaurants that exceed the two-star rating. Such establishments do not warrant a detour so much as a trip on their own. These fantastic places—there are not many—are known as three-star re staurants.
It occurred to me that among all of France’s good and great chefs, there was one who had more Michelin stars than anyone else. His name is Alain Ducasse, and the day I contacted his office, he possessed no fewer than fourteen, with two three-star and eight one-star restaurants. Besides operating a restaurant empire, Ducasse has written an encyclopedia of food—currently standing at five volumes—and has helped develop meals for the European Space Agency, so that descendants of Magdalenian Woman may eat “Shredded Chicken Parmentier” or “Swordfish—Riviera Style” as they orbit Earth.
Ducasse, clearly, was the man I needed to talk to.