The perceived excellence of their cuisine and restaurants has long represented a vital part of French national identity. In 2010, when the French restaurant meal was added to Unesco’s list of the world’s “intangible cultural heritage”, it felt as if the French restaurant had become a museum piece, and a parody of itself. The bistros cleaved to the traditional red-and-white checked table cloths and chalked-up menus even as they were microwaving pre-prepared boeuf bourguignon in the back. In France, the old guard of critics and restaurateurs remained convinced that French cuisine was still the best in the world and a point of national pride.
“It’s a tyranny of meat-in-brown-sauce.” As the rest of the world had begun to (re)discover their own cuisines and innovate, the French restaurant seemed to be stagnating in a pool of congealing demi-glace.Įlsewhere, places such as Balthazar in New York and the Wolseley in London seemed to be doing the French restaurant better than the French.
“Paté followed by nothing but entrecôte, entrecôte, entrecôte. My friends all said: “Oh Paris, how lovely! You must be eating well.” They were surprised to hear me complain that Parisian menus were dull and repetitive. It was meant to be temporary at the time I was just looking for somewhere to hole up and finish a book.
It was an accidental choice, the serendipity of a sublet through a friend of a friend. I n 2006, after years reporting in the Middle East, I moved to Paris.
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