A gimmick of genius
Marc Carnegie
Paris MY friend, a film and theatre director not averse to a longish night out, was ecstatic about the prospect of dinner at Lucas Carton. 'We're going to go there and attack,' he said with a worrying demonic glare, as we strapped on helmets and mounted his Vespa. 'Let's see if they can handle us.'
The restaurant, on an unassuming corner of the Place de la Madeleine, has been a Paris institution for more than a century, and Paris institutions can be awfully boring. But chef Alain Senderens, with three Michelin stars to his credit, has turned the idea of a meal on its head. His menu is built around the wine; one chooses each course by what one wants to drink, and the food is served as an automatic accompaniment. Senderens says his quest is for the perfect marriage of plate and glass, or wet and dry, or something like that. I confess that I tune out when a Frenchman talks about marriage.
A.J. Liebling said that one developed one's palate in Paris because there was never enough money to order everything one wanted. One had to learn to choose. But Lucas Carton is not a place for the faint of wallet — which is another way of saying it is full of Americans. Yanks in Paris take an odd satisfaction in being sniffed at, and the restaurant's classic Majorelle interior, all carved panelling and Art Nouveau mirrors and Jugendstil lamps, immediately announces the possibility of exquisite cultural torture. The scrubbed young American at the next table, straight from Republican central casting, mumbled bad French to the waiters, and sat in the unhappy posture of the interrogation room. But he clasped his girlfriend's wrist with the confidence that comes from knowing that the firm is picking up the tab.
We were, by contrast, in relaxed philosophical mood. Is wine really the foundation of a great meal? Isn't the Senderens concept a bit silly? What do they offer the poor sap who drinks Diet Coke? A separate menu for the amuse-gueules alone seemed a bit much, with the champagne placed first to weed out the ingenus. The sommelier seemed relieved by my choice of a manzanilla de Sanlucar, and unfazed by my friend's insistence on an off-menu vendange tardive, The sherry came with a fillet of anchovy, its tiny skeleton strung ostentatiously upon what a waiter felt compelled to explain was a toothpick. It was followed by cornets of unimpressive squid, stuffed with chorizo and peppers. No fireworks to begin my nuptials.
But the 1997 Trimbach Gewurztraminer was magnificent, served with a perfect morsel of foie gras — delicately crispy outside, obscenely creamy inside — and a spoonful of corn in lemon sauce. A delight. Our appreciation brought out the warmth of the sommelier, whom we badgered with queries. Asked about non-drinkers, he offered a sad Gallic shrug. 'C'est vrai. On ne peut pas s'imposer: He had already had two non-alcoholic tables that night, and three others that insisted on ordering a bottle from the wine list. 'But I can see you are serious. And it is time to be serious.' How he must enjoy saying that.
It took some time to discern why my friend was enthralled, and not recoiling with horreur, when we received the menus. He had graciously been given the lady's carte, without prices. Good God. I had visions of having to clean The Specta tor offices at weekends in perpetuity. We agreed on the Corton Charlemagne 1990, accompanied by polenta with white truffles, and a Condrieu Coteau de Vernon 2000 served with Brittany lobster and coral polenta, laced with ginger, lemon and basil-scented oil. At around 150 euros per entrée, we were expecting whatever surpasses the sublime.
The Chardonnay, itself redolent of wood and truffles, was transcendent. Wedded to the exquisite and nutty polenta, it did indeed make a happy but brief marriage. The last bites were marred by slivers of egg-white, and we expressed our displeasure. 'I will tell the chef, messieurs. It is important for us to know your reaction.' The exceptional Condrieu — with notes of apricot and spice that we savoured with awe — simply overpowered the lobster.
We both felt we could have stopped there, but in Parisian fashion I found myself thinking of Samuel Beckett: I can't go on, go on. We had momentum. A waiter came to inform us that there was no more turbot, and my friend exploded with laughter. 'Shouldn't you be saying no more Château-Chalon instead?' The waiter was chastened. Take that for cultural superiority. For the main course, then, a Clos de Vougeot 1995 Chateau de la Tour, a pinot noir graced with braised duck and a rougail of leeks, mango and ginger. He had the Chateau de Beaucastel 1985, accompanied by hare or, in full title, /ievre a la royale d'apres in recette d'Antonin Carew pour le Prince de Talleyrand. We were already accustomed to ordering by the wine, and the food seemed almost an afterthought. In another context, the hare would have been the highlight of the evening, juicy and gamy and altogether extraordinary. But instead we marvelled, mouths agape, at his Chateauneuf du Pape — simple words do it no justice. I tried to forget that his course alone cost more than 200 euros.
In the end — still far away after a sublime Hoyo des Dieux Porto Andresen 1975, with Thai-spiced prawns, for dessert — there was no forgetting, and maybe not so much remembering either. 'The con cept is quite brilliant, like the poetry of Yves Bonnefoy.' my friend said, but he was babbling. The evening was blurring a bit at the edges. In the culinary equivalent of scissors, paper, stone, the best wines can overmatch everything. As the Edwina diaries remind us, no man is the same to his wife and his mistress — and it is a tricky thing to do glass and plate equal justice.
But no matter. At 850 euros for dinner, we felt we had got off cheaply. France so often has that effect. Riding home on his scooter, bouncing over the wet cobblestones of this beautiful city, we felt like unperturbable kings. And when the policeman pulled us over for ignoring a red light, we felt no trepidation. 1 am at fault, monsieur,' my friend told the copper. 'But we were in the midst of an important discussion. I was explaining to my comrade that he must drop his silly idea to move away from Paris.' The policeman was amused, and sent us on our way.
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