Portrait of an Artist as a Young Gastronome

April 2018 // Paris / Pavillon Ledoyen

Eating is, to me, many things. Yet it was not until Pavillon Ledoyen that I unearthed its true possibilities. Eating as high art. What glorious theater lies nestled within the Jardins des Champs-Élysées—a temple of gastronomy if I ever saw. And so, the first entry of Hunger Pangs is dedicated to this moment. The birth of passion; my first steps into this strange and glorious world.

The year was 2018. I was seventeen years old, and mere months from madness setting in. But another kind of madness awoke in me that evening. We had a long day, my family and I, walking nearly eleven miles around the 8th. The sheer chaos and teeming crowds of the Avenue des Champs-Élysées had imbedded itself into the back of my brain, the set of my shoulders, and the soles of my feet. A low level hum of anxiety coursed through me. Suffice to say I didn’t exactly feel the poise or bourgeois nonchalance dining of this caliber encourages. But it was I who made the reservation earlier that week, frantically calling every three star restaurant in Paris until one tolerated my hopeless attempts at French and accepted a reservation with such little advance. I might have been green, but I knew one thing—when in Paris one must eat, and eat well.

Like something out of a dream the building emerged before us. Its neoclassical façade radiated with history, the kind of well-maintained patina that does not exist in America. I immediately felt something within me quiet. My instincts had not failed me. Pavillon Ledoyen is over 200 years old. By some strike of fate, the restaurant had reopened just a month earlier, under the name Pavyllon. Chef Yannick Alléno spearheaded a massive renovation lasting some three years. Once a rowdy cabernet turned gastronomic destination by Antoine-Nicolas Doyen in 1792, if this building could speak it would have endless stories. It is said Napoleon met Josephine in this building. But this was a new era, and I was right at its cusp.

As I crossed the restaurant’s threshold, I entered the same blessed hush that I felt within. Quietude is a luxury in itself. Ascending the staircase, I felt as if I was entering rarefied air. Forest green velvet underfoot soothed my aching soles. Here quotidian malaise ceased to exist. The dining room itself oozed with quiet richesse: warm golden light, sumptuous textures, exquisitely molded ceilings. We are seated, us swashbuckling three, at a massive round table with a view of the twilight gardens. In the first of many ballet-like flourishes, our chairs were pulled out at exactly the same time. I chose a prime seat from which I might look out the windows, but also survey the room. The diners were worthy of just as much fascination as rest of the environs. In a table at the outskirts of the room, a balding man lavishing attention on a woman barely feigning interest. Just to the left, a grand dame wearing jeweled earrings lifting a spoon to her mouth with a trembling hand.

However, it was time to put mise-en-scène aside, for a server wearing literal white gloves arrived at our table with a cart. The cart’s inlaid silver bowl held bottles of champagne. I wanted to giggle, but that seemed inappropriate. I needed to put the rules of real life aside. This was a different world. A world in which champagne and flutes with wisp thin stems appeared before you like a bouquet of flowers from an ardent admirer. Each of us chose a different one. I was accustomed to the bubbly swill handed out at holidays. Taking my first sip of real champagne, I felt a giddiness rising to the surface like the many tight bubbles in my glass. The term for those delight-inducing bubbles in champagne is known in French as perlage, or a “string of pearls”.

Before the delight had a chance to subside, another suited server appeared. With practiced flourish he set a flat dish with a glass cloche which encased…dough ? My guess was later confirmed by his heavily accented explanation: brioche, meant to rise at the table during our meal to be served later with dessert. A marker of the passing of time and a winking hint at the work spent to create the magical food that would soon appear.

The years have softened what followed into a pleasurable blur. But some dishes have imbedded deep in my brain. White asparagus and sorrel leaf with the tender but firm bounce of a cherub’s cheek. Langoustine under a translucent blanket of white strawberry gel; sweet yet tart; fleshy and chewy all at once. Fruits and vegetables I thought of as one color could apparently be blanche white and alchemized into something all together new. A quote oft attributed to Voltaire: “England has a hundred religions and only one sauce”. Knowing as one might about relations between the British and French, one can surmise the opposite being true of France. And my God, did that ring true at Pavillion Ledoyen. Sauces that left me dreaming: light foam of coconut, verdant emulsions, reductions so potent a swipe across the plate sufficed. Just when I thought I could bear the indulgence no longer—another cart appeared.

Still Life with Asparagus, Adriaen Coorte, 1697

Like alien emissaries from another planet, the cheeses presented themselves me. A pale dusty circle with a surface like leaves. Another one shaped like a pyramid with its head chopped off. And perhaps most fascinating, a cheese that appeared for all intents and purposes, to look like a halved cantaloupe. Their names I came to recognize much later, le saint-nectaire, valençay, mimolette. Mimolette, or cantaloupe cheese as I earlier referred to it as, has a particularly interesting history. During the reign of Louis XIV, his chief minister banned the import of the beloved Edam cheese from Holland. In protest, local cheese makers began making their own version—with a bit of flair. The most distinctive addition: roucrou, or annatto as it is known in English (achiote in Latin America). This gave the cheese that distinctive orange hue. We sampled a few, and declared mimolette to be our favorite. It tasted of salted egg yolk, a common ingredient in Chinese cuisine (Think of the moon center of a Lunar New Year’s mooncake). These common flavor threads found in unexpected places speak to the beauty and importance of cross cultural eating.

In traditional French fashion, dessert followed cheese. At this point I was so full I thought I would burst. I ordered a pot of Earl Grey in an attempt to soothe my overworked stomach. But the delights weren’t over yet. A single dessert stands out to me as the best bite I had that night. A tiny citrus tart. Okay, big deal. But one thing to know about me is I love citrus with a devotion that borders on religiosity. This tart, meant to be eaten in a single bite, was so redolent I felt the ghost of oil from every peel I’ve ever held to my nose. The reaction it drew from me was multi-fold: nostalgia, pleasure, incredulity. Like a shooting star, its symphony of flavors soon came to an end. And with it the meal.

We stumbled out of the building at around 1 o’clock in the morning. Dazed, a little drunk, and 2,000 euros lighter. In my state, my eyes still caught at the outskirts of the building. Standing surreptitiously behind a bush—the servers, looking decidedly more rumpled, and cooks, discernible by their white coats. Smoking and murmuring in the blue night. I caught a glimpse of the underbelly. The people who helped orchestrate the magic of that dinner, who propped up that rarefied world on their shoulders. A glimpse was not enough. I wanted in.

P.S. I almost bled all over my sage brushed velvet chair. When I asked where the toilet was, I was led all the way to the door. There was no waste bin in sight. Only a basket to deposit plush hand towels once you finished drying your hands. I was mortified. But the snafu only warms the memory of this night in my mind. A sparkling anecdote to tell friends—and now you.