Here's the first one - what a way to begin...
Ledoyen 13/5/11
When I first arrived in Paris I was homeless, near friendless and less-than-fluent in the language. Rare indeed was the day, during that period of integration and house hunting, that my emotions didn't swing drastically with every oversized cupboard narrowly missed out on and every vin rouge sipped in the company of a mysterious, chain-smoking young parisienne (contrary to popular belief in blighty, an English accent is very much a help, not a hindrance, in these two differing gallic tribunals. But enough about that). Rather appropriately, my recent celebratory end of year meal followed the same pattern.
I should say right away that it was far more up than down. It would be frivolous and frankly inaccurate not to. This was, after all, the 3 Michelin starred Ledoyen, one of the grands restaurants not just of France but the entire world. The bill wasn't quite as dear as we thought it would be. We got to meet the chef at the end. Minor aesthetic issues we had with the décor and the ugliness of the plates were an amusement rather than an annoyance. And yet I still left feeling as if it had been less than perfect.
It's the stress it caused me, you see. I wish I was wealthy enough to be blasé about spending hundreds of pounds on a single meal, but I'm not. I'm a student and that's a lot of money to me. It's not that I regret spending what I did – absolutely not. It's more the fact that at restaurants of this level (or of this price range at least) it seems to be de rigeur that you are expected to behave as if you are the wealthiest person alive. This is more so the case at Ledoyen than any other restaurant I've been to, and it made me feel uncomfortable. They don't ask if we'd like a glass of champagne to begin, just which kind we'd like. The arrival of the lunch menu with the much larger a la carte is accompanied with a slightly sneering, regretful acknowledgement of its' presence by our waiter, and neither bears a price. Once it becomes clear that we have the cheek to order a single bottle of one of the more affordable (55 euros) wines, our mains and desserts are plonked down in front of us, desserts the wrong way round, with no explanation of what any of the delights before our eyes might be.
And that's why I can't bring myself to dwell on this snootery. For every stress I feel, another surprise appears from the kitchen to compensate. Quite simply, the food is fabulous. Pre-amuse bouches, including a technically bewildering ginger and campari bubble , demonstrate the skill and subtlety on show here, as does the house-baked bread. The main event, amuse-bouche wise (ha!) is a perfect taste-bud awakener, a zesty little piece of dorado sushi with a cucumber jelly that is modest enough to impress rather than thrill. The real thrills are yet to come.
Our lobster entrée is strikingly fresh and clean flavoured. Good fish should not taste of fish but of the sea, and the buttery soft flesh of the claw plunges me deep into the Atlantic. Whilst I'm gasping away, I stumble upon four little pearls of various flavours including squid ink and watermelon which compliment without overpowering. This is the first indication of just how good the ingredients used here are. It is followed by another one in the form of steak, chips and ketchup. We do not require the steak knives we were provided with, so meltingly tender are the little strips of sirloin, which also manage to deliver a depth of savoury intensity I had never previously known existed in beef. This is by far the best steak I've ever had, and how witty of the chef to include ketchup in the little dabs one associates with Michelin star cooking. I suspect Mr. Heinz had about as much to do with its' production as Mr. McCain had to do with the hollow potato ovals that were somehow just as satisfying as anything you'll find on Brighton beach, or indeed your local Iceland.
Pre-desserts are stunning – my favourite being a moreishly crunchy little brandy snap with a salted caramel peanut entangled in it – and then onto the highlight of the meal. Funnily enough, it's not my dessert, but my companions' – or more accurately, his reaction to it. I take as much pleasure out of watching his expression as he tucks into his red fruit crumble as I do eating anything in the entire lunch. “Oh my god,” he says, “The sauce...”. I try some. He was right. The sauce... It is not an insult to my dish to say that it is not as good as his, because my textures of raspberry and lemon with rosewater is refreshing and delicious. But everything is relative, and thus I feel ever so slightly miffed that I didn't get the crumble. Any resentment I might be carrying is swiftly alleviated by the revelation that he doesn't like toffee, and thus will not be eating his fair share of the petit-fours. It was his loss – even in my bloated state, the dense and creamy toffees are the final straw for the bad feeling in my mind about the snobby waiters. With food this good, it's just not possible to leave unsatisfied.
That, I think, is what makes or breaks a good restaurant experience, the feeling you take away from the meal. Any niggling doubts about whether we really belonged there were just blown away by the quality of the food. Our brief chat at the end with humble chef Christian Le Squer only added to the immense sense of satisfaction in us both. As I said to my friend as we wallowed out the front doors: “Now you know the greatest sadness in the world”. When you're that content, you're allowed to exaggerate a tad.
