Ruth Reichl and Nancy Silverton on the Tour de Fromage cheese tour

A few tastes from the Tour de Fromage cheese tasting

With Denise Acabo at L'Etoile d'Or

It used to be that, in addition to writing over at Paris by Mouth, I would occasionally find time on a spare and calm Sunday to post something over here, too.

Spare Sundays are now a thing of the past. Blame the food tours. We started offering them two months ago, and they’ve turned out to be rather popular (and time consuming). Who knew?

Word of mouth from happy clients has really helped, and that goes double when the happy client is Ruth Reichl. That’s right: the supremely knowledgeable Editor of Gilt Taste (former Editor of Gourmet magazine and restaurant critic for the New York Times) recently came on a tour with the awe-inspiring Nancy Silverton. I was, as you can imagine, in a state of panic about what to say to these two food stars. In the end, though, Ruth was kind enough to write that “I’d recommend these to anyone; in a very intense two hours we worked our way through Androuet and Barthelemy, and discovered a few cheeses that were completely new to me.”

I’m hoping to get back to blogging soon, but in the meantime you’ll find me cutting the cheese (and pastry and pâté) out on the sidewalks, rushing between one highly caloric stop to the next. It’s a lot of fun, and you’re very welcome to join us!

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Interior - chandeliers, zinc and graffiti. Not pictured: matador art and Mexican wrestling masks

Hens' eggs with cream & truffle

Bacon-wrapped salmon stuffed with pied de veau and surrounded by sea snails

A piece of cod a top a pile of boeuf carrottes

Lamb saddle with a blanket of black truffle atop a knob of (maybe) suckling pig

The famous rice pudding with salted caramel cream and nougatine

A miniature Saint-Honoré

Dining at the anglophone table

I felt like a stalker last night at L’Ami Jean. I walked into this place carrying more back-story than should ever be brought to a restaurant. I knew of love affairs that had taken off because of chef Stéphane Jego’s cooking. I’d heard about marathon sessions in which the most serious eaters I know couldn’t finish everything that was served. I’d been checking the Facebook page, on which they post the daily changing menu, for several months. And I’d been writing about it for years* without ever having been.

Virgins who wait too long before sex have a similar problem. We want it to be special, so we keep putting off the deed. I mean, it’s not like I didn’t have the opportunity, during these last years, to hook up with L’Ami Jean. But the timing was never right. I always seemed to think of it, and then perish the thought, when booking for a table that included one of the following: a vegetarian, a picky eater, a girl without the strength of Sophie or Barbra… someone who would interfere with the pig- and gut-feasting for which the restaurant is known.

I started 2012 with a list of restaurants that I really, finally had to visit, and L’Ami Jean was at the very top. When Cédric suggested that we grab a bite after the Stein expo on Saturday night, I knew I had found my moment. I called three days in advance and had no problem booking for the second, later service.

So there I was, standing in the doorway last night, trying to convey with my eyes all that had brought me to this place. “Yes, we have booked (and are so very excited)… under the name of Zimbeck (that’s not French but I’ll eat anything)… for two people (and we mean business).”

My telepathy was not well-understood. The man behind the bar suggested a 15 minute wait, but didn’t ask us about drinks or to take our coats. Instead, he continually reached over our heads to take everyone else’s coats and serve everyone else’s drinks. I finally wrangled two coupes** before being seated at a large table with eight other Anglophones.

I was beginning to regret not coming for the first time with a friend who was already known to the house. But that’s not the way that most of our readers get to experience a place. It was an inauspicious start, but things were about to become much better.

We ordered carte blanche, an €80 option including whatever Jego wants to make. I had starved myself all day in preparation for this feast and was more than ready to eat. The meal began on a soothing note with crouton-dotted crème de parmesan soup. Nothing wild, but quite nice as a base for an empty stomach. Next up: two hens’ eggs with mushrooms, cream and truffles. It didn’t make sense, having two dishes in quick succession that were largely composed of frothy cream. Especially since the truffles (they’re not yet at the peak of flavor) didn’t add very much.

After all of this moaning, let me say very clearly that the next three dishes were among the most delicious I’ve ever eaten. To wit: a perfect salmon nugget, wrapped in bacon skin and stuffed with a lucious sliver of pied de veau (calf’s foot), all surrounded by a sprinkling of tiny bulots (sea snails). A luxurious piece of cod atop an intensely flavored pile of boeuf carrottes (beef & carrots). Lamb saddle, served rosy and wearing a toupée of micro-planed truffle.*** Hiding under the lamb was an unnamed knob of what tasted a lot like suckling pig.

I know from the aforementioned Facebook stalking that Jego sources from Terroirs d’Avenir and other great producers. The base product is impeccable. But the real joy comes from watching/eating what the chef does with these ingredients. Jego’s tweaking of classic bistro flavors doesn’t feel, as is so often the case, haphazard or goofy. Those three great dishes each conveyed a feeling of comfort while also sharing – and this is difficult – something new.

My earlier complaints about the welcome dissolved in the wake of Jego’s food. And the Anglophone table turned out to be delightful – we shared an Armagnac with a couple of Maltese experts in Bordeaux wine who have been coming to L’Ami Jean for years.  The problems I mentioned (and a few others I didn’t) stem largely from having two seatings and not enough time to devote to every table. If they had only one seating, prices would be higher, it would be harder to get in, and not as many people would have the pleasure of discovering Jego’s food. It’s a trade-off that I can live with.

Practical information

Address: 27 rue Malar, 75007
Nearest transport: La Tour Maubourg (8)
Hours: Closed Sunday, Closed Monday
Telephone: 01 47 05 86 89
Website

Read other trusted reviews on our website Paris by Mouth

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* When I say that I had written about it, I mean short blurbs (not proper reviews) for guide books like Frommer’s Paris.

** Everyone at the bar was drinking Jacquesson (Champagne) with ice cubes. Are we doing that now?

*** The dish was outstanding, but I’m not sure that shaving truffles this fine is the best way to maximize their flavor.

BBQ burger topped with fried onion ring

Classic burger

Burger madness

Not exactly diet food

Assembling the burgers

Kristen at the window

For practical information and a collection of trusted reviews, please see our page for Le Camion Qui Fume on Paris by Mouth.

Dining room at Albion

Foie gras at Albion

Salad with blue cheese, pancetta and apple at Albion

Filet mignon de porc with caramelized onions and boudin noir at Albion

Salmon at Albion

Lemon posset at Albion

Menu at Albion

Open kitchen at Albion

Tables at Albion

Exposed stone and wine shelves at Albion

Wines of the week at Albion

Wine list at Albion

Wine list 2 at Albion

Wine list 3 at Albion

Exterior at Albion

For practical information and a collection of trusted reviews, please see our page for Albion on Paris by Mouth.

Egg with pork belly, tomato reduction and pickled red onion at L'Office

Velouté of mushrooms with soft-boiled egg at L'Office

Carre d'agneau (lamb chops) with cabbage, endive and Jerusalem artichokes at L'Office

Chocolate with caramelized bananas, banana ice cream, and hazelnuts at L'Office

Eating at the bar at L'Office

For practical information and a collection of trusted reviews, please see our page for L’Office on Paris by Mouth.

Outside-Inside at O Divin

Inside-Outside at O Divin

Summer calm at O Divin

On the terrasse at O Divin

Stuffed piquillo peppers at O Divin

Salmon, avocado & tomato at O Divin

Pâté with caper berries at O Divin

Oysters with Bordier butter at O Divin

Warm Camembert from Bordier at O Divin

Natural wines at O Divin

More natural wines at O Divin

Exterior O Divin

I treasure this little spot near the Parc des Buttes-Chaumont, and come often for the selection of natural wines and simple food. It’s neither expensive nor ambitious nor crowded, and the welcome from Nafouel is always sweet.

For practical information and a collection of trusted reviews, please see our page for Ô Divin on Paris by Mouth.

I shook my head no.

“Frappuccino?” He asked hopefully, although the sounds from the kitchen must have tipped him off to the true contents of that glass: fresh brown juice.

It’s not always a joy to be the boyfriend of a food person, especially when that person’s newest hobby is pulverizing the contents of the crisper. Up to now, the experiments have been cheerful: carrot-apple-ginger and citrus combinations that turned out sweet and sunny juice. Today I crossed over to the dark side and began to toy with spinach-celery-garlic and so on. My eyes are bright, my tail is bushy, my breath is rank.

You see, I am (perhaps temporarily, as these things go) a new convert to juicing. My inspiration is the avoidance of scurvy, not the denial of anything fun. I’m not on a diet or trying to detox (these toxins being key to my personality). I simply find it fun – really, really fun – to obliterate carrots and other noisy fare. Juicing has also helped me to lower my coffee consumption from, say, ten cups a day to three. And this should go a long way toward preventing my heart from exploding.

I beg you blogosphere: what should I juice next?

It arrived in a mason jar packed with ice and hosting three other doomed crustaceans. One by one, the sea bugs were plucked and carried without protest into the mouths of my companions. My shrimp was different and did not go gentle into the bite. He opted to rage, squirming out of my hand and prompting a shameful little squeak. I grabbed again, but he whapped me with his tail and spattered meltwater across the table. After four failed attempts, I felt a presence behind my shoulder and looked up into the face of René Redzepi. His expression hung somewhere between smile and smirk as he waited for the inevitable conclusion. “You want the truth?” it seemed to say. “You can’t handle the truth!” I jumped a little when the fist of my tablemate came down on the shrimp’s tiny head. Stunned and half-conscious, the body barely twitched as I laid it upon my tongue. The mass dissolved between my molars into a clump of sea-scented hay. The shrimp went south with a slug of Champagne and the chef returned to his post in the kitchen.

I had come to Copenhagen for no other reason than to eat this meal. The sheer absurdity of this – of traveling to eat – was matched by Redzepi’s opening act. The shrimp disarmed me, made me forget my fancy dress and the fact that I had flown on a plane for lunch. I realized with that first swallow that I was really on a trip – one that would last for hours, create a bond within our group, and leave me altered and exhausted. How often does that happen without hallucinogens?

The group itself was a weird one. I knew Barbra well and had met Emmanuel once, but I only knew Yves-Marie from a series of portraits that featured lots of beef and little clothing. These two men had become close years ago when Emmanuel, then a fellow at the Villa Medici in Rome, reenacted the Banquet of Trimalchio from The Satyricon. Yves-Marie flew in to help with the meat, which was eaten off the bodies of naked women.

They were delighted, unsurprisingly, by Redzepi’s own take on beef tartare. At first glance, we saw a trail of peppery crumbs, a plot of bright green wood sorrel and a smear of tarragon cream. There was no cutlery and we were instructed to eat with our hands, grabbing hunks of raw beef (these were hidden beneath the sorrel) and dragging them across the forest floor. Having already been broken by the shrimp, I was able to dive in and really enjoy this sanctioned mess. A bowl with wet towels arrived to clean us afterward, but my stained cuticles bore a visceral reminder of the dish for many days to come.

Next up: a large langoustine had washed up on a warm stone set before each diner. We were again using our hands – grabbing the monster with our fingers, dragging it through sharp dollops of oyster emulsion and chomping undaintily at the mass. Slightly euphoric from the wine and theatrics, Emmanuel began to enact, upon the stage of one stone, an attack of the sea monsters. He assailed me with his langoustine and accompanying cries of “yar!” all while wearing a flouncy ascot.

I expected Noma to be good, but I didn’t count on it being this fun. Gastronomic meals are not generally fun. The most that one can hope for from a normal restaurant is to be delighted. And that’s not nothing. But Noma, in this particular moment, was something more - something that would more rightly be called a “happening” than a meal. Sheer pleasure balanced out the provocation and kept it from descending into Lars von Trier territory. But without that provocation – stripping the gastronomes of silverware and shoving their noses in “the freshest possible seafood” – there wouldn’t have been the same possibility for exhileration.

I’m writing about this meal more than a year after it happened. This feels less like a review (because how could it be?) than the recounting of a brief affair. I remember Noma as the Viking who grabbed me on a dock, made out with me roughly, and left me quivering and changed. Noma has long since forgotten my name (if he even knew it to begin with) but remains the filter through which I view every other restaurant.

A few details

Bouquet of snails, affixed with jerusalem artichoke paste to nasturtium blossoms.

Ceramic egg containing a bed of smoking hay and two trembling quail eggs.

A sandwich made from “the scum that rises to the surface when we are making duck stock, dried.”

Raw vegetables from reclaimed land in edible soil.

Slim leeks with fried whiskers.

Sandwich of seabuckhorn and chicken skin with rye bread, yellow split peas and lovage.

Appeskeur – sweet apple and salty fish.

Pork fat with aquavit and scratchings.

Virgin cow butter: a partial churn for a looser texture.

Frozen seascape with sea urchin foam, cold shrimp and other bits to forage between the rocks.

Dried sea scallop with grains (barley, spelt, kamut) and hazelnuts in watercress emulsion and squid ink.

Beef tartare à la Viking with wood sorrel, bread crumbs and tarragon cream.

Langoustine with oyster emulsion. The stone is hot.

Oyster with horseradish tapioca, served in its own (inedible) ecosystem.

Pine-scented cauliflower.

Celery root with Swedish truffle. The least successful dish of the day.

DIY egg with fresh herbs and hay oil. Not every egg made it into the pan.

Young deer dressed in beet petals with seeds and fruits from the forest floor – “the diet of the deer.”

Dessert 1: malt shortbread, apple disks, Jerusalem artichoke ice cream

Dessert 2: pine ice cream, blueberry sorbet, pine granita, fresh blueberries.

Mignardises, taken outside on the dock: smoked marrow caramels.

The Noma team, who happened to assemble for another photographer as we were leaving.

The surrounding neighborhood of Christianshavn in Copenhagen.

You might also like:

Barbra Austin’s account of the same meal.

An early and very detailed report by Food Snob.

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