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True Delights of French Cuisine

Marco Miranda Sr.

To coincide with the appearance of the latest edition of the Michelin Guide, I was asked, or ordered, to write about the true values of French Cuisine, its historical essence and the numerous influences it was exposed to throughout the centuries. I protested claiming that I am not a historian and while I love French food, I am more interested in the people who prepare it, the places where they do it and the people who consume it. Especially if it is a lovely lady sitting alone next to my table at Lanversin’s.

Some of the tables at Lanversin are placed very near each other with the seats on a comfortable bench along one of the walls, so I was quite close to her. She noticed my discreet appraisal, and also the thin folder and the copy of Patrick Deschamp’s recent book lying on the table. She turned to me and asked:

“How come you have a copy of Deschamp’s book when it has not been released yet?”

I like that. Straightforward. I answered:

“Family ties. His mother is my mother’s sister, or my aunt Emy. The book will be out in about two weeks; I always get an advanced copy. Are you familiar with his work?”

“Yes. Can I see it?’

I passed it on to her. She opened and read the words Patrick had written as a dedication:

“Hey, you! I wish I had some of those fancy writing assignments you get and could spend weeks on end sailing the Greek Islands or playing golf with Clint in the Monterrey peninsula. Here is one about ancient civilizations. It will not interest you simply because their golf courses were too tough!

She laughed and asked: “Is that true?’

“Wish it was. I am just a word mechanic, a writing robot and barely educated”

We introduced each other. Her name was Helen and she turned out to be a descendant of Curnonsky, a revered gastronome of the beginning of the last century. She happened to be a Clinical Psychologist attached to one of the Ministry of Health Units in Paris and had studied at the same lycee with Kathryn, Patrick’s wife. She was excited to learn that I was working on an article on French cuisine and, what was more admirable to her, was that I was familiar with her great grand father and his unique legacy to those who love French cuisine. We consumed several plates of coquillage at Lanversin’s and in the process I was able to learn about one of the more interesting stories of a famous restaurateur and her famous recipes. I figured that I had fulfilled my editor’s request if and when I turned in a story about people, places and food, and not a learned treatise on the ancient spirituality of chopped garlic fried in butter.

“You know” she said, this restaurant was founded by a woman named Chantal Chagny, who owned another in Beaujolais, and taught her nephew Pierre de Lanversin the secrets of her successful auberge. Perhaps, she can be a possible theme for your story”

I was of course interested and asked her to tell me about Chantal Gagny. She readily agreed, implying that it was a topic dear to her heart.

“In a trip to the Lyon, I first heard about Chantal Chagny and the single mindedness that propelled her and her restaurant in Fleurie-en-Beaujolais to the upper spheres of the Michelin Guide universe. A visit to her restaurant confirmed the existence of that touch of magic and tradition that is often discovered in the background of many French provincial restaurants”

“What made Chantal so special?” I asked Helene, beginning to smell the development of a good story and perhaps and exciting friendship.

“Her obsession. We French have many obsessions but they are never put ahead of our own comfort, you know. My grandfather used to say that at the age of four, mind you, four years of age, she already knew what she wanted in life.”

“It seems like a little too early in life to exhibit such personal preferences.”

“It would seem so, Monsieur, but when you have a child that age asking to be allowed in the kitchen all the time in stead of playing with other children, you know there is something special about that child.”

The story was beginning to acquire the rhythm of an interesting narrative. I was all ears.

“Please go on” I urged Helene as we continued to honor Lanversin’s delicate offerings.

She looked out the window and with a distant look in her lovely brown eyes, said:

“Her restaurant in Beaujolais, the Auberge du Sep had over the years earned Michelin’s stars and national recognition, if not international fame, and had been the subject of several feature articles. I also remembered the Bresse pigeon, the various versions of duck, partridge and pheasant and the artful manner in which complements like cabbage, mashed potatoes or small onions in wine sauce, could transform a meal into an experience not easily forgotten. And I do not forget that she went through WW2 in an area where survival was not easy”

“How did she manage during WW2?”

“The Occupation only affected her to the extent that her menus had to be limited to whatever was available in the region. She did not compromise on taste, however, and she was soon recognized as a versatile and imaginative restaurateur”

She paused to join me in another toast with that marvelous Côte de Brouilly, and then continued:

“My grandfather told us about some of the incredible improvisations that she was famous for. She took advantage of the wide variety of edible vegetables in the area; even those not raised as crops, like wild asparagus and, of course, mushroom, wild berries and beets. Her inventiveness knew no ends.”

“Tell me about those days. I understand that her fame originated during those harsh times. . “

“Yes. The German forces in the area were not fighting troops but support units engaged in administrative matters, so that the usual rabble associated with fighting units did not have a presence in the village. Most of the troops were professional people and as such, their behavior was quite acceptable. The locals, after a while realized that the troops were there by imposition and not by choice and were both friendly and fair. They ended up being treated like tourists.”

“What happened next?”

“A very strange thing happened. One of the officers of the German detachment was a free-lance writer who secretly filed regular reports with a Swiss publication, from which it was syndicated to newspapers and magazines in Canada, Spain, the US and some publications in Latin America. While he could not mention Chantal’s restaurant by name, he made sure that some of her specialties were described and lauded so that they could not be easily forgotten. The strange thing is that a modest Swiss restaurateur followed the articles assiduously and after the war, traced the author, who had used a false name, through the publisher and from there he located the restaurant and Chantal.

“It is an extraordinary story," I said while doing away with the last oysters on the plate.

“Well, it had a happy ending. The Swiss man married Chantal in 1950 and helped her open up a new restaurant in Beaujolais, which she called Auberge du Cep. The building had no great facilities nor conveniences but it compensated with a great scenic view of one of the most charming corners of France, Beaujolais”

As we ordered another bottle of wine she continued with Chantal’s story.

“Soon after she had opened the restaurant, she was lucky to find Maurice, a versatile and ingenious chef and in a short time her Auberge du Cep was bursting at the seams, as her coq au vin, andouillette au Beaujolais blanc and cote de boeuf bathed in red wine sauce attracted local notables, passing businessmen, wine merchants during the week and masses of wine tourists visiting the chateaux of the region during weekends.”

By some strange coincidence, we both looked at our watches at the same instant. We looked at each other and laughed. “We have lost the notion of time, as people say when they have lost the notion of time” she laughed. “It is almost evening and it’s Friday!’

“Why? You have an important appointment?”

“Not at all. It is only that I had to check my mail box at the Poste and it is closed by now. Nothing important”

I had to ask her. The perspective of having dinner by myself, again, did not appeal to me and I wondered if the same occurred to her. I asked her with the best smile I could muster, but without exaggerating:

“Why don’t we continue this fascinating conversation at dinner tonight?”

She smiled again with that lovely expression in her eyes and replied:

“I barely know you and I do not make a habit of picking up strange men in restaurants, except that any friend or relative of Patrick and Kathryn Deschamps is a friend of mine

At diner that evening, we continued our conversation or, rather, her careful and detailed narrative about Chandal.

“In 1973 Chandal did not seem too surprised when a client showed her the newest edition of the red Michelin Guide and announced that the Auberge du Cep had received a Michelin star. She hadn't even had time to open the official letter of recognition and had not even looked at the diploma that came with it. Again, in 1979, a second Michelin star was awarded to her Auberge du Cep. This time she knew it was coming and all she could do was to cry with joy. ‘I didn't sleep for two months,'' she said. 'I was delighted with the honor and recognition but was also filled with doubts. The restaurant was a modest installation but didn't have the staff, the atmosphere, and the decor, of a two-star restaurant. How are we going to maintain the level demanded by a two star restaurant?.''

“Chantal continued to improve what was already a superb menu and her restaurant thrived in the 80’s. The death of her chef in the early nineties was a deeply felt loss not only by Chantal but also by a clientele accustomed to Maurice’s unique touch.”

Helene smiled at me and said:

“I hope my descriptions are helpful to you. To me, it has always been a fascinating story and I hope it is the same with you. Also, people around us must think that I have eaten a CD that can not be turned off, or that you are a handsome writer whose cat stole his tongue!”

“Helene, I am having a wonderful evening thanks to your incredible memory and your overall beauty and charm! On top of that you have related to me a story that is worth writing about. I will have to give you the appropriate credit when it is published!”

“Thank you, but I do not know if you noticed that Chandal is a favorite subject with me and has been for years. You see, people not only remember her for her outstanding cuisine but for her sense of humor and the innumerable quotes she left for posterity. For instance, she always claimed that bread was some sort of visiting card: ‘Bread tells you how important the menu is going to be and the butter served with it confirms or denies it!’ Then I remember the phrase about the menu being as ‘old and as new as ever’. Years ago I memorized some of the menus and used to amuse friends and acquaintances with my knowledge of ingredients and final product”

I continued to be amazed by her vivid memories and the zest she attached to each description.

“All you need is pictures for your article and you will then have a complete record of French provincial cuisine!’

I laughed and asked her:

“Do you happen to have one of those digital cameras?’

“Yes. Why?’ she answered with smiling eyes, knowing what was coming.

“I would like to drive to Beaujolais tomorrow and perhaps eat at the Auberge du Sep. You see, I feel that anyone who wishes to savor the France of long ago must visit the Auberge du Cep. Your description of the place creates the desire to enjoy its atmosphere which you so aptly describe as full of placidite. And, dear Helen, placidite is the key to enjoyment and good digestion.” I paused and then said to her:

“My problem is that I would need some outstanding digital pictures. Would you?

CopyrightÓAstro,Inc. 2007