The Man Who Ate Everything - Jeffrey Steingarten [173]
Eric Fréchon was the last to leave Constant. He had earned the title of Meilleur Ouvrier de France—the highest accomplishment of a French artisan—and had risen to become Constant’s second in command. But in November 1995, at the age of thirty-two, he opened La Verrière in ample, cheerful quarters in the Nineteenth Arrondissement in northwest Paris. Every dish I have eaten at La Verrière has been something of a revelation. Warm oysters roasted in their shells or cold oysters with little slivers of foie gras; salted breast of pork, lacquered with spices, and served on a mound of “sauerkraut” made from shredded turnips; a circle of gratinéed buttery mashed potatoes over a rich oxtail stew; roasted cod in an herbed crust—all of Fréchon’s dishes are deeply satisfying and true to both French regional traditions and Fréchon’s own imagination. The desserts are old-fashioned and modern at the same time, like the roasted mango on puff pastry with almond cream and a sorbet of lemon with basil—this is French technique on a frolic in the tropics, all for 180 francs.
L’Os à Moëlle means “marrow bone,” Thierry Faucher’s symbol for the robust and essential tastes that he transforms with his nearly haute-cuisine magic. The third of our sous-chefs from the Crillon, Faucher brings something like the menu dégustation of a grand gastronomic palace to a residential neighborhood in the Fifteenth. And he succeeds with nearly every dish I have tried. When you enter his place, an old restaurant built on a triangular plot with windows on two sides, you remember that this is why you, or at least why I, born with an immunity to shoe stores, come to Paris: a happy room, groups of all ages in animated conversation, people eating very, very well.
Lunch is three courses for 145 francs ($28), with a number of choices for each course, and dinner is six courses for 190 francs ($37) but with no choice at all. Faucher’s food is amazingly, continually changing, with new ideas on every menu. Soup might be Jerusalem artichokes or asparagus with morels, or in the summer cold melon with ginger and ham; the second course a rabbit salad hiding under a rosette of crispy potatoes, or a fricassee of wild mushrooms—pleurotes and girolles—with chicken pan juices and somehow a quail’s egg. Then comes the fish, a generous piece of skate in browned butter and vinegar; or roasted rascasse scented with branches of dried fennel and surrounded by a pool of peppery, sweet crustacean broth, not easy to forget. Meat comes next, and then a salad with a wedge of cheese. For dessert, you may be offered the silkiest dark-chocolate quenelle with a stylish Asian sauce of saffron, star anise, and cinnamon, or hazelnut cake topped with crème brûlée. Can you imagine a restaurant in the United States with a fixed menu, a place that ignores the phobias and hypochondria of its customers, where everybody gladly eats the same dishes? Don’t they have lactose intolerance in France, or allergies to peas?
François Pasteau, thirty-four, did not work at the Crillon before opening L’Épi Dupin, on the rue Dupin in the Sixth, just beyond Poilâne’s revered bakery. But he did apprentice at Faugeron, Duc d’Enghien, and La Vieille Fontaine in the Paris suburbs (all holders of two Michelin stars). A cold terrine layered with every little treasure from a pot-au-feu and served with a surprising compote of pears and tomatoes; small chunks of spiced lamb long stewed with eggplant and called capitolade; a guinea hen flavored with fennel and anise; a crispy square of phyllo and apple concealing dark, spicy sausage meat; a generous puffy flaming crepe soufflé of chestnuts; a deep, dark molten chocolate dariole streaming into a brilliant green pool of pistachio; a perfect Brie—these are what Pasteau exchanges for your 153 francs ($30), nearly everything delicious, intelligently made, and exceedingly generous.
Do you crave some kig ha farz or kouingaman? This is Breton dialect for stewed pig’s cheeks with stuffing and an unusual,