July 23, 2004
At Bocuse when I was just learning…

I made my way from my ratty old hotel in Lyons in a taxi to Collonges. All I needed to say was "Bocuse" because everybody knows. Most Lyons hotels are old and filled with un-hospitality. Funny, everyone says that Lyons is such a beautiful city, well it is, actually, but my luck with Lyonnais hotels sucked. I was wearing my beat up but oh so comfortable favorite Perry Ellis wool plaid jacket with my yellow silk tie, the one with all the grease stains from every Michelin three star restaurant I ever visited.

I was already excited when I arrived, anticipating what I thought would be one of the best meals in my career. They make you feel so welcome there, no matter how great they are, they remain humble and friendly. I was so psyched up to finally taste his world famous specials, especially that crispy salmon skin and his Fricasee of Bresse chicken a la crème aux morilles. I nicked into a rare bottle of Chateauneuf which I knew would be deep, complex and light all at the same time. One full bottle was too much, I thought, but what the hell. I settled back and let the feast begin. Chef Bocuse was not in this evening, as he had just arrived from New York and was tired. Too bad, I was hoping to meet him.

Madame Bocuse was sitting at her elevated post by the kitchen door, keeping a strict eye on everything that was going on. Her face was devoid of any emotion, being la maitresse of the world's greatest restaurant, you'd expect that. The room was running like a Swiss watch. All of a sudden, the most wonderful crashing sound of a hundred dishes all breaking and falling to the floor occurred. It lasted for a full fifteen seconds. Time that on your watch and see how long that is for falling dishes. From my corner table I cast my eye over to Madame. She barely moved. She waited a good half minute and then slowly and without panicking she walked into the kitchen, returning around a minute later. The woman was unflappable. If that had happened at The Black Sheep, I'd have been in that kitchen in a heartbeat, having apoplexy. I learned an important lesson in 'cool' that night.

Just as the wine was about to be served, the wine steward came over and asked me how I like burgundy. "They are my favorites, but since I am near the Rhone, I thought…" "I think I can find you a Musigny, 1969, which would cost you about as much maybe as your Chateauneuf, and it's showing very well now". I was sold. "Send it please, and thank you so much. Beaucoup remercies". My French was fractured, but he understood. He had just earned a BIG tip from me, and I was happy to know that the highly prized grand cru was on its way up to little me. The wine was perfect, showing its age well, and it had a marvelous bouquet, raspberries, scents of spice and violets, and still went down so lightly. Pinot Noir should always be like this.

The salmon skin was crisp, as expected, and had no taste of fish; it was a pure texture food. The star of my meal was the velvet tender chicken flavored chicken, surrounded with a cream sauce and an abundance of Morels, which are still my favorite mushroom; I can never get enough of them. The wine had begun to go to my head, and the euphoria of the evening and the dinner, as best as I could manage it being a lone single diner, was making me float, when I felt a 'presence' behind me. I turned around to see a mountain if a man, wearing the tallest toque I ever saw. It was HIM. "You are a chef?" I'm overwhelmed by him and could only mouth, again in my plus mauvaise du monde French, "No, sir, YOU are the chef, I just make shoes". He smiled softly, and bade me welcome to his restaurant, and told me he had just returned from the airport and was going to get himself something to eat, and rest. Was I interested in seeing the cellar? My humility was genuine, so was the offer. I was in the presence of absolute royalty. Later, after he had finished making his rounds of his guests: "What year were you born? Here, have an Armagnac from that year". I couldn't believe he had found one, the war years and all, but there it was. I guess my year had a smoothness and rich aroma to it. It was overwhelming, and I was getting even more drunk.

Somehow we found ourselves walking through the kitchen, the restaurant was emptying out, and he said, "Are you hungry? I am. I feel like having some rognons de veau. Let's eat". Veal Kidneys, well after a meal like that you could not have fit a chicklet into me, but funny after that Armagnac I was able to find room. That's how the French do it, they numb the full stomach with a shot of brandy, and poof there's room for more. What a kitchen! Everything was perfectly polished solid copper, and so incredibly clean. Into the pan went the bacon while he perfectly trimmed a few deep rouge veal kidneys. The bacon was flipped out onto a plate, in went the kidneys and the high fire seared them and extracted their juices in no time. While they were draining, a cup of madiera went in, and some glace de viande, and some crème fraiche. Thus reduced, the kidneys went in for a final slosh, and on to a plate where two forks had magically appeared. My head was pounding with excitement. We were just two cooks having a midnight snack in his kitchen, and Paul Bocuse, the greatest chef in all of France -- in fact the world -- had cooked for me.

I can't describe the veal, it was stunning; there were hints of bacon, the veal, and the Madiera wine. I somehow found myself being loaded into a taxi and on my way back to my hotel with the window open to let in the cool late May night air. I swore I'd return to Bocuse, but I never did. I'll never forget that night.