Dinner at Paul Bocuse, Lyon
Some people have bucket lists for places they want to travel. Adrenaline-pumping activities they want to do before they die. Things they want to buy, natural wonders they want to see, people they want to meet.
Mine is a little different. Because while it weaves many of those lines together, it’s primarily fueled by the meals I want to eat. Not sure whether that’s something to be ashamed of, or proud of.
Our itinerary for France was guided by this principle - each stop needed to take us somewhere to eat something, or drink something, remarkable. Perhaps our biggest box to check during this jaunt through France was to eat dinner at the late chef Paul Bocuse’s L’Auberge du Pont de Collonges.
Chef Paul Bocuse is essentially the Godfather of French Nouveau cooking. And really, the Godfather of eating “local” and culinary teaching, in general. He passed away this year in January at ninety one years old, about six months before his friend (and one of my idols), Anthony Bourdain took his own life. There’s an episode of AB’s Parts Unknown (season 3, episode 3 - on Netflix if you have the chance to watch!) where Bourdain travels to Lyon to visit with Bocuse and eat at his world famous ultra fine dining restaurant. We were extremely lucky to have the chance to dine there a few nights ago.
This is the kind of three Michelin star, jackets-required-or-the-doorman-will-provide-you-one restaurant that I fantasize about daily. So traditional and formal, yet warm and welcoming (and not opposed to me snapping iPhone pictures). And most importantly, some of the best food you’ll ever have in your life. Which I guess is to be expected when you have maintained your three-star status for over fifty years (they’ve attained three every year since 1965). It’s a bit atypical from American fine dining, because instead of 18 courses of one small bite each... this tasting menu had 10 courses of like, legitimate plates of food. Never in my life have I been more full.
We sat in the salon in the front of the restaurant. Just one of seemingly countless rooms filled with tables, every single one packed. The whole restaurant is a vibrantly colored, brightly lit, case study in branding. Everywhere you turn, there is a majestic painting of Bocuse, photograph of him with Bill Clintons or other world leaders, or extravagant gold leafed menu with his image on it. Each and every dish we dined on throughout the course of the meal had his name on it.
The first bite, our amuse bouche was a traditional vichyssoise, served chilled. For the uninitiated, it’s basically cold potato, leek and cream soup. But that description doesn’t do it anywhere near the justice it deserves, because it was fantastic. It came with a Parmesan cookie (!!!!) Not to be confused with the Parmesan ice cream we had in Paris. The French really have this magic combination figured out, because stinky cheese made into a novelty mini dessert-like object is straight up genius.
The next course was lobster and oesetra caviar layered over a clear gel that turned into an incredible citrus-y explosion the second it hit your tongue. It had to have been cast down upon the earth from heaven above to prove to the world that life has a purpose. Honestly I could have left after this course and felt like we got our 690€ worth. (Which, side note, was the cost for two tasting menus and wine pairings... WAY way cheaper than Alinea, Acadia, Smyth, it any of the other two- or three-Michelin starred restaurants in Chicago.)
Actually, that’s a lie, I couldn’t have left then. Because if I had, I would have left before trying Bocuse’s world famous Truffle Soup, which was created for the French president in 1975. I wish I could describe this in better detail, but all I can say is that it’s f%cking truffle soup. Wrapped in puff pastry. Created for a president. What do you think it tastes like? Because yeah, it tastes like that.
I kind of browned out at this point. It was an out of body experience. I remember seeing Chris’ face, and we looked at each other like, “WHAT IS HAPPENING???” as we started eating it. And we couldn’t speak. We just ate. I think I saw a single tear roll down his face. I think I saw God.
After that point I was really wondering what the hell I have been eating my whole life if I hadn’t been eating that soup. It was making me question everything. Like every food I’ve ever loved was actual trash and this was my first experience with divine food-tervention.
It was actually sort of a sad moment for the next course, which was a beautiful piece of red mullet (um, yeah. There’s a fish called RED MULLET. Oops, my American hillbilly heritage just kicked back in.) It was a perfectly cooked, flaky filet of delicate fish crusted in potato “scales,” which are meticulously applied by hand to each piece before roasting. It had a chug-able wine and cream sauce that Chris kept talking about, but all I kept thinking about was the truff soup.
We were next served a palate-cleansing Beaujolais wine sorbet to help us transition from the white wine courses to the red. The sorbet was also very good, but not truff soup good. Would I ever be happy again?
I guess they must have planned the menu this way, though, knowing that people would be mourning over the truffles of the past. Because the next course snapped me BACK TO REALITY, OH, THERE GOES GRAVITY. OH, because it was an entire chicken with black truffles stuffed under the skin cooked inside of a pork bladder blown up like a balloon.
Read that again slowly. Now look at this picture.
When I say I have never seen anything like this before, I mean, never. But this is the genius of French chefs, because it was the best chicken I’ve ever had. They wheeled over the inflated bladder to our table, and (sorry this sounds more graphic than it should) lance it with a knife and cut it open. And out pops an entire chicken. Like a baby.
It was then carved table-side and served with another phenomenal truffle sauce, steamed vegetables, and wild rice. This plate alone was more than enough food for a full meal. Chris and I looked at each other, scared. How much more was there? Was it safe for a person to eat this much food at one time? Could we die from overeating?
I’ll be damned if we weren’t going to find out. Because the cheese course was next. And when our waiter pushed together two tables worth of cheese and asked me what I wanted, I didn’t say, “nothing.” In fact, I must have said, “everything.” Because he then served me generous 1-oz portions of five different types of cheese. Which is eenie-meanie-500 calories-at-least but who’s counting?
All of the cheeses were good, but definitely not the best we had in Lyon. A later dinner in Lyon at Takao Takano showed us what cheese is really capable of.
Between the cheese course and the dessert course, there was a pre-dessert course. Why wouldn’t there be? It was a simple lemon custard and it was tasty, albeit completely unnecessary. Because where there had been two tables of cheese, they were quickly pushing over FOUR tables pilled with desserts. Every kind of pastry, cake, cookie, etc. that you can imagine. In any other situation, I would have been jumping for joy. But at this point, I was so full that all I wanted to do was curl up on one of the embroidered chaises in the lobby under an oil painting of the late chef and pet my head as I drifted off to sleep.
Unfortunately, food naps aren’t on the menu, so I had to pick from what was: an almond cake that was covered in lime green fondant, and a hazelnut pastry that tasted like Nutella. Chris selected a cake made almost entirely of jam, and a mini creme brûlée. We both agreed, we could have made better dessert decisions. The pressure was just too high to make a quick decision and we panicked. Maybe that was for the best, because then I didn’t eat all of it.
If the French know one thing, it’s that nothing goes better with too much dessert than more dessert. So our last course was a round of miniature pastries to send us on our merry way. I had to ask for these to be boxed for us to take home because I just COULDN’T carry on, and our waiter looked like he was going to stab me, because asking to take home food in France is one of the seven deadly sins. I ate them for breakfast the next morning.
All in all, an unforgettable experience. One worthy of a trip to France if only just to eat here. The Forkling says: 9.5 forks out of 10.0.
With this post done, I think I need some wine. I’m going to crack open some Pouilly Fuissé and head out to the pool for the afternoon.
