French restaurants

Faith in the stars

John Ralston Saul

All of this may well be true, but for most people a three star restaurant is just a good meal. They are wrong. These 19 eating places are in fact the high altar around which the entire cathedral of French food is constructed. Below and beyond, there kneel in worship unending rows of food exports and exports related to food and gigantic exchange control earnings from tourism. By comparison, the Force de Frappe, la Francophonie and the Airbus industry are minor chapels in national and foreign policy. World-wide belief in the superiority of the three star restaurants is the key to French economic survival.

It was hardly surprising therefore when this leadership in the struggle for the hearts and stomachs of the world became, a few years ago, a stranglehold, thanks to the creation of a new guide with a new method of restaurant evaluation: Gault-Millau. At first, people expected a battle to the death between these Messiahs of nouvelle cuisine and the old Michelin Pharisees of butter and cream. But no. The Ecole Libre des Sciences Politiques in Paris has always made it clear that all arguments come in three parts. Michelin was the thesis; Gault- Millau was the antithesis; the superiority of French cooking is the synthesis.

Gault-Millau's answer to Michelin's three star system is the Super-Quatre Toques; that is, restaurants awarded four chefs' hats plus the adjective 'super'. They are also cross-rated at 191/2 out of 20. M. Millau refuses to give a higher mark 'unless God himself steps up to the oven'; a complex argument given that ovens are more suited to the devil, and that, in any case, there is no room left between 191/2 and God for an Italian or Chinese chef to squeeze in. What is more, seven of Gault- Millau's eight high priests also have Miche- lin's three stars.

The only curious thing about all of these great cooks is that their restaurants tend to be not very good. Often they are terrible. In fact, it sometimes seems that the last meal they serve worthy of their reputation is on the night before they win their third star.

Years of struggle precede that moment. A young chef must fight his way past tens of thousands of others to win his first star or toque. He must have great talent and imagination to reach the second. But far more than courage and talent are needed if he hopes actually to mount the high altar.

For a start, his restaurant must be large and glamorous. France won't waste her accolades on someone who can't seat the world's eating elite, and in a suitable style — ideally, imitation Louis XIII furniture, baroque mirrors and fake ormolu. The best restaurant I know in France (note, in France) has two stars and three toques, but functioned until recently out of a tacky little country inn. The chef has just decided to risk all by investing a fortune in expan- sion and transformation. His pumpkin has become a golden coach; now the third star must arrive before the banks foreclose at midnight. I won't name this anxiety-ridden man. Why should I hasten his simultaneous financial success and qualitative decline?

Anyway, hocking himself up to his taste- buds will not be enough. Three star res- taurants must also belong to 'ideal' cou- ples, capable of hosting in the name of France. The wife ought to have blond(ish) hair, matt finish make-up and rigid designer-label clothes. Where, for exam- ple, would the great George Blanc of La Mere Blanc be without his `exquise femme Jacqueline' (Gault-Millau)?

The ambitious two star chef must also assume his identity, for example by fixing his signature large onto every glass, plate and napkin. When people wipe their mouth with your name, they know you are somebody. And finally, the chef must devote himself to the Guidemen — at any hour, at any cost — to win their approval. Later, after success has come and quality has fallen, he will need their protection; then M. Millau himself, in print, will answer the critical public: `Ah no, no! The other day Bocuse cooked me a meal . . . dear Mr X, you should have been there!'

But I anticipate. First comes the glorious day of the third star. The world seems to stand still. Then all hell breaks loose. Journalists flood through the door and hard on their heels comes the first Town and Country article. The waves of rich Americans are just behind, followed by an endless international flow which soon has the restaurant booked three months in advance.

Only gradually does the chef realise, to his horror, that these Star Eaters don't mind how well he cooks as long as he puts on a good show. What he now owns is not a restaurant but a money machine. So he raises his prices; he mass-produces cook- books; he becomes the spokesman for an oven company; he travels abroad for vast fees to sell his wares. He assumes his full international responsibilities as a cardinal of France. In fact, he does everything except produce good food.

That doesn't matter so long as he never lets on that he is catering to foreigners, because the foreigner must believe the opposite is true. This illusion is maintained in many ways. For example, it was recently announced that the best French restaurants have a non-French quota of 40 per cent; i.e., 'we'll take a few of you on sufferance'. This was brilliant publicity but untrue. M. Millau himself states that the Moulin de Mougins serves 70 per cent foreigners. In the Tour d'Argent and Bocuse, the French language is scarce. Even out of season at l'Esperance, a new three star near Veze- lay, some 80 per cent seemed to be foreign.

As for the kind of show offered in lieu of good food, that depends on how the chef reacts to the personal agony of replacing self-pride with glory. Bocuse became a Barnum-style circus ringleader. M. Verge of the Moulin de Mougins near Cannes caters to the stars (film), who are so busy looking at and being looked at that no one notices the grey breast of duck (theoreti- cally pink) beneath a greasy sauce or the famous apple tart soggy from its time in a microwave while swimming upon a taste- less ooze. Taillevent in Paris prefers to overwhelm the client with an atmosphere of worship, but once you are outside and your eyes are raised you will recall the same demi-glace sauce on a series of different main courses. As for M. Chapel, the cooking Jansenist at Mionnay, he terrifies the client, reducing him, as he might a sauce, to silence. He will serve a tasteless cockscomb, two lima beans, a blandly boiled pigeon and watery coffee, but fear of being roasted as a heretic will stifle all complaints. Finally, there are M.

Robuchon and M. Senderens, the Paris intellectuals. Each will feed you impecc- ably. So impeccably, so cleverly, so expen- sively, that you will be speechless. You will also go away dissatisfied and hungry.

But concrete complaints count for no- thing so long as people believe. And they do. Because in no other area, on no other subject can men and women be certain that they are getting the best in the world. This absolute knowledge is some sort of com- pensation for lives filled with uncertainty, compromise and disappointment.