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CHAPTER THREE
IF YOU WIN IT (THREE STARS THAT IS), THEY WILL COME
When I woke up this morning, Lynn asked me if I was researching hotels for our road trip since I had spent most of the night on the computer. I said I hadn't, I was writing a book.
"What's it called?" he asked
I did a quick calculation and said the first thing that came to my mind.
"29 years and 6 days in a car?"
He wanted to know if it was science fiction.
I laughed. "It could be."
"What? You're swept up and away and come back down and find yourself living in a town with a three-star Michelin restaurant," he said.
He thought he was being funny. I reminded him we had only eaten in a three star Michelin restaurant twice. Paul Bocuse outside of Lyon one summer and at Residenz Heinz Winkler in the tiny town of Aschau am Chiemgau in Germany the following summer.
Let's start with Bocuse first.
July 2006
Paul Bocuse
Collonges-au-Mont-d'Or, France
I have just spent the last two days at the Villa Florentine, a wonderful Relais & Chateaux hotel overlooking the city of Lyon, throwing up. No, I wasn't pregnant but had actually gotten a wicked bout of food poisoning in Carcassonne. It could have been the avocado with prawn appetizer or the too-rich-for-the-heat-wave cassoulet entrée but more likely someone hadn't properly washed their hands. Yep, that's pretty gross.
Lyon is known in all the guidebooks as the gastronomic capital of France - meaning yes you can get a damn good meal in Paris but what counts is traveling outside of Paris and being surrounded by more Michelin-starred chefs than in any other part of the country. We had made three reservations (two dinners, one lunch) for the two days we were there. But with my stomach literally in knots, eating anything was going to be a challenge. The culinary gods, however, weren't going to let me leave Lyon without at least attempting a meal at the legendary Paul Bocuse.
After trying to get down some dry baguette and a cup of tea at our hotel, we spent the morning visiting Le Corbusier's La Tourette. (Since no one uses Le Corbusier's given name, Charles-Edouard Jeanneret, he will be referred to as "Le Corbusier" or simply "Corb" in the book.) La Tourette (officially known as Couvent Sainte-Marie-de-la Tourette) is perched on a hillside country road (with an official address of Eveux-sur-l'Abresle) about 45 minutes north of Lyon. I hoped a quick visit to La Tourette (and perhaps even a prayer or two inside the dark cement church interior) would calm my stomach but alas it didn't. We had missed the one guided tour of the day so we walked around the building until we decided to attempt lunch.
We almost didn't find Bocuse's restaurant in the small town of Collonges-au-Mont-d'Or which is about 15 minutes outside of Lyon. I was feeling too ill to get out of the car to ask for directions so Lynn took it upon himself to ask a landscape gardener if he could help us. Working with Lynn's non-existent French and the gardener's non-existent English (they drew pictures and made hand gestures), we ascertained that Bocuse was near the railroad tracks. We thought if we could simply find the tracks, we would eventually find the restaurant.
This plan proved to be brilliant and after a while we did find Bocuses' brightly painted pink restaurant near a busy intersection. We were also 20 minutes late for our reservation. Lateness however, didn't seem to be a big deal. Chef Bocuse may be a legend but that day for lunch there were only three other tables dining - two were obviously birthday celebrations; the third a business lunch.
I was so annoyed with myself that I didn't feel well. Surely, I wasn't going to appreciate what might possibly be the best meal I had ever had. Truth be told, Lynn, whose stomach was just fine, was less than impressed with what eventually came out of the kitchen.
The Legend of Bocuse
To start we had an amuse bouche of shrimp flavored flan with a single shrimp on top. Lynn tried the escargots, traditionally served in porcelain cups. They were garlicky and snail like. Nothing earth shattering. To keep him company while he ate his snails, the maitre d' insisted on bringing me a small green salad. It was green but devoid of any salad dressing or taste whatsoever. Whatever happened to the dressing, only Chef knows.
We had originally wanted to try the chicken from Bresse (the house special) but were told it would take at least 45 minutes to cook. Since we still wanted to make another "Corb" detour to see the town of Firminy (filled with numerous Le Corbusier designed buildings including the massive housing complex -- Unité D'Habitation), we didn't think that would be an option. The waiter offered us a quicker (fast food?) version of the famous chicken dish - roast pigeon with veggies. Lynn took him up on the offer; I opted for the sea bass which was plated with peas. Peas? This is three-star cooking? The fish was decent but the entrée was entirely underwhelming.
We had two simple courses and then were encouraged to have dessert. I was already on stomach overload but decided to at least look at the offerings. If you happen to be celebrating your birthday at Bocuse that day, they do this weird thing at dessert time. A black waiter wearing a little hat approaches your table and begins to crank an antique organ while the other waiters gather round and sing "Happy Birthday" in French. I didn't know if I should laugh or be offended by this literal interpretation of a "monkey" playing the organ but surely Al Sharpton would have closed down the restaurant had Bocuse been in New York City.
After the "entertainment," no less than three tables piled with desserts were wheeled over to us. We were presented with a staggering amount of dessert options from chocolate cake to any fruit one can possibly imagine. Lynn went with the chocolate cake and a scoop of ice cream; I had a simple poached peach. We shared a half bottle of Chateauneuf-du-Pape and the bill was 226 Euros. To sum it up, we had three very simple courses and even without my gastronomic distress the day before, I don't know if the meal would have been anymore enjoyable.
Our second three-star meal was the following summer.
July 2007
Residenz Heinz Winkler
Aschau im Chiemgau, Germany
We were doing another road trip and needed a stopping point between Milan and Vienna. Ok, so maybe it wasn't a direct shoot between Milan and Vienna but when we travel, stopping points inevitably revolve around what famous chef we can visit. Although on the map Aschau im Chiemgau looked to be very near the German lake of Chiemsee, it was really a small farm town in the middle of nowhere. It was also a mecca for foodies wanting to visit Heinz Winkler's three star restaurant and "Residenz" hotel.
It was a very pretty day but hot and humid and thanks to global warming, the kind of heat one didn't use to experience in Germany. Uh oh. Hot and humid in Germany means no A/C! After all, we were in the middle of the mountains and it's supposed to be cooler in the mountains, right? Wrong.
The "Residenz" part of this establishment was a little dowdy looking but the staff was young and friendly and quickly led us up to our room. For reasons known only to them, we had been upgraded to a duplex suite. (It's moments like this that I sometimes like to believe they think we're food critics.) So we had a medium-sized bedroom and bath on one floor and a downstairs living area with French doors that opened onto a patio with a lovely view of the mountains. They had left us a welcoming gift of a plate of strawberries which we devoured. There was neither a fan nor A/C in the room and the upstairs bedroom only had three small windows looking out at the cool green mountains. Except the mountains weren't that cool; I didn't see even the slightest leaf sway on any of the trees. We were trapped in the mountains and there wasn't even a breeze!
Then we heard the bells. I went into the bathroom, looked out the window and realized our room was right next door to a very quaint baroque church. One of our first apartments in Munich in the 1970's had been next door to a baroque church. Back then the bells would ring with German punctuality every 15 minutes, starting at 6 a.m. and ringing right through until midnight. The church next to Chef Winkler's would prove to be no different.
At this point I think I should mention Lynn hates being in the "country." He actually is scared. If he finds himself around too many trees in the middle of nowhere, he'll usually start laughing and then begin to hum the theme from "Deliverance." Why does the thought of being butt-fucked in the woods make grown men giggle?
So we listen to the bells for a few seconds and then decide to head down to the air conditioned bar and cool off with a drink. We stumble across a small wedding in progress in the courtyard of the hotel where a make-up less bride, looking around the age of our son (nearly 18), is wearing a simple off-white dress and carrying a beautiful bouquet of red roses. Where was the limo? The DJ? The bridal party? Even at their young age (they were probably older than they looked), I thought this bride and groom had their priorities straight. Surrounded by a few family members, they would celebrate their new life together with a fabulous meal in a great restaurant with a stunning mountain view. We quickly finished our cocktails and went upstairs to dress for dinner - jackets required at this three-star eatery.
Tuxedos, Please!
I've come to realize men of a certain age (my husband being one of them) like to be served their meals by people their own age (or older) and want those servers to be men. Men in tuxedos to be precise. I'm not sure what this is about but I think it goes back to "old school" French cuisine where being a waiter is not a stopping point for someone thinking about doing something else. It's a career and one that is taken quite seriously. I don't mind servers who are female but I do have a problem with teenagers serving three star meals.
At Winkler, the wait staff was very young. Ok, so maybe they weren't teenagers but the oldest among them looked around 20 ½. Lynn wasn't impressed.
"I hate teenagers," he said.
I reminded him we had two of our own.
"I don't like teenagers serving me," he insisted.
I didn't either but tried to placate him.
"But they're multi-lingual," I said.
I guess he still would have preferred the old guy in the tux who brought him his food without comment. Maybe that's what this was really about. All these young guys, albeit in tuxes, but insistent on describing every ingredient we were about to put in our mouths. I always wondered if there was an ingredient you as a diner didn't recognize would you not eat the dish, thinking maybe it was poison?
Since we had ordered the tasting menu, there was going to be a lot of eating going on as well as descriptive commentary. We listened. There were only a few ingredients we didn't recognize. We ate the dishes anyway. They didn't poison us.
The Tasting Menu of all Tasting Menus
Our first amuse bouche started with a cold tomato and coconut soup. Our second amuse bouche was a small serving of herring with crisp apple slices accompanied by a shot glass filled with a simultaneously hot and cold puree of cauliflower soup. Whether the temperature range was intentional or not, it worked. Accompanying the shot glass was a fried veggie tempura.
I was wondering, how many amuse bouche(s) would there be before we hit the floor? I believe the chef had sufficiently whetted our appetites at this point, no? Luckily, the "teenagers" brought out our first course, a warm lobster salad on a bed of wild mushrooms. Knowing how much lobster costs at home, I tried not to calculate how much of the prix fixe menu price was going to buy that lobster. Hopefully, they hadn't flown it in from Long Island. I put that thought out of my head though because the lobster was absolutely delicious.
Our second "first" course of fried zucchini blossoms stuffed with a ratatouille of zucchini and mushrooms and onions arrived at the table. I was thinking this was beginning to sound like fuzzy math. Was it our second first course or our first second course? Whatever course we were on, our next course was an impeccable portion of St. Peters fish in a light citrus/blood orange sauce.
After all these courses, the chef decided we needed a palette cleanser. The "teenagers" brought us each a large silver spoon holding a dollop of refreshing citrus sorbet swimming, believe it or not, in vinaigrette. It sounds strange describing it now, but it actually worked.
I was beginning to lose track of where we were in the menu (i.e., how many more courses we had to go) but realized when they brought out the main dish of lamb en croute with green beans, parsley puree and stuffed tomatoes, the end was at least in sight. Not that we weren't having a good time. Two things were working in our favor: the dining room was air conditioned and we weren't too keen on going upstairs to a very hot hotel room; portions were reasonable so there was no menu fatigue on our part. Yet.
After the lamb, we apparently needed yet another palette cleanser (or stimulator) since a pungent blue cheese on an endive leaf was brought out next. Finally, we were ready for dessert. Considering the multitude of our previous courses, dessert was pretty straightforward -- a fresh apricot mille feuille with a bit of cream on the side. But we were wrong. This was the pre-dessert! The final (truly) final dessert was a small bowl of elderflower soup with wild strawberries.
Were we done yet? Yes. Thankfully, they didn't bring out anything else. And for those wondering how we would have rated the ambience, food and service: it was definitely an experience worthy of those three stars.
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