We rolled into Paul Bocuse for lunch on a rainy Friday afternoon. Rolled. Literally. We had had dinner at Troisgros the prior evening and weren’t exactly ravenous. We were looking forward very much to the contrast between Troisgros’ refined and precise cuisine acidulée and Paul Bocuse’s traditional French grande cusine. Michel Troisgros is a diminutive almost shy man who seems embarrassed at the adulation and success. Paul Bocuse does not mind being reminded of his greatness. His name is in two foot tall letters on the outside of the restaurant, the lobby has a bigger than life full body portrait of the large chef (fortunately clothed), another such portrait in the wine cellar, china emblazoned with the Paul Bocuse signature, his picture on the front of the menu and a photo on the menu’s back of the statue announcing his chef of the century status, a full page Bocuse biography on the back of the menu stating that French cuisine is divided into two periods—before Paul Bocuse and after Paul Bocuse, with Michelin 3 star recognition for 49 consecutive years. I was surprised not to see “Paul Bocuse” tattoos on the waitstaff, but maybe they were covered up. At 88 years of age, he is still firmly in control of his restaurant though we did not see him that day. His wife, a frail elderly woman who seemed not all there, cruised the restaurant and periodically asked how we were doing, stopping at various tables as if she were a bit lost; she was set on cruise control though there didn’t seem to be a lot of gas left in the tank.
The restaurant presented a contrast to Troisgros’ understated quiet elegance. The yellow walls were accented in gold, trophies and adulation hung on the walls with various pictures of the staff in past years interspersed with art, a very formal room in a stately manor. There were several dining rooms. The kitchen, which we later toured, had no sous vide or microwave, just old stoves and granite counters, very traditional stations, clean but aged.
We chose the “Menu Grande Tradition Classique” at 250 Euro par personne and selected a 2010 Roulot Meursault from the expensive wine list—the Cuvée Mon Plaisir that was nice, but paled before last night’s Carillon BBM. The prix fixe starts with escalope de foie gras de canard poelee, sauce passion, a perfectly prepared piece of foie that was delicious. The Bocuse classic soupe aux truffes noires was next, a consommé with foie, truffles, mirepoix in a mini-tureen covered with a puff pastry—en croute. This is the famous dish served to the President of France in 1975. Filet de sole Fernand Point was next, a piece of sole in a cream sauce that had a light brulee on it, evidently a tribute to mentor F. Point and quite classic. Beaujolais granita cleansed the palate before the volaille de Bresse en Vessie “Mère Filioux,” a dish that requires a bit of anatomical explanation.
As a urologist, I found this plate quite humorous, a Bresse chicken with truffles under the skin stuffed into the (cleaned) bladder of a cow and then cooked in the oven. The bladder inflates with steam to the size of a small beach ball, probably an 18 inch diameter ball, making me think of severe cases of urinary retention. I was afraid, during the presentation, that the punctured viscus might fly around the room like a balloon before landing on our plate, but that did not happen—and it did not explode when opened. I was happy they did not use a catheter to empty the organ. The now-collapsed bladder was slid off the chicken like it was sliding out of a sleeping bag, the bird then being cut by a master ninja waiter who, in 4 precise cuts, completely took apart the bird for the four of us in about 8 seconds. A classic smooth as silk cream sauce covered the slices of bird, with rice and fresh vegetables on the side. The women were given their choice of dark or white meat before the men, but we traded back and forth. The bird was delicious, but the method of cooking precluded any crisp or edible skin since it had basically been steam-cooked.
A gigantic cheese board ensued, some of the cheeses (from Mère Richard) looking like they were from the restaurant’s opening half a century before, with wizened wrinkled rinds—the classics such as Reblochon, Camembert, and Comté were there, but no Epoisses. They were excellent and we were beginning to become quite full.
Desserts were next, two full tables of them wheeled to our table, including some made in house and others from the Bernachon establishment (where we had eaten lunch the previous day, gorging on chocolate and these same desserts). Various chocolate desserts, Tarte Tatin, ice creams, pastries, meringues, mousse, all the classics were represented and there was no limit on the choices one could make.
The meal was elegant comfort food, no high wire scintillating display of culinary artistry or edgy nouvelle—but classic cuisine in the grand tradition—exactly as advertised. It was a great experience to taste this food so well prepared and so important in the tradition of French cooking, but one visit would be enough. “Traditions and Qualité” is the Bocuse motto and it well states the intention and delivery of this classic French restaurant.
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