The Dining Alternative private dining experience

There are countless farmers’ markets throughout the neighborhoods of Paris, and they’re not part of some “grassroots locavore” movement, rather just a normal occurrence of everyday life.

This bustling street market takes up the entire median along Boulevard de la Villette.

There happens to be one of these markets as I step out my front door along the Boulevard de la Villette. It’s on Wednesdays and Saturdays. Wednesday is never possible for me, and I usually sleep too late to visit on Saturdays, since they are open from 8 am to 2 pm.

An endless supply of apples and pears.

So last Saturday I made it a specific mission to make it to the market. I begrudgingly set my alarm (7 am, Monday through Friday is already enough…), and woke up by noon to make sure I wouldn’t be simply picking through the final dregs of the market’s offerings.

These beautiful pears even have a wax seal on their stems.

I was delighted to find the market in full swing, showcasing the bounty that it’s known for. I wasn’t sure exactly what I wanted, but I was shopping for lunch, and remembering the armload of oysters my roommates brought home a few weeks prior, I might have subconsciously already made up my mind.

Round, or "globe," zucchinis.

The French love their pumpkins. In the top-right corner, potimarron (also courge châtaigne in French or hokkaido squash in English) is a winter squash that gets its name by combining the words potiron, for pumpkin, and marron, for chestnut, which are its two characteristic flavors.

This is the first time I had ever seen this incredible lettuce with bright red flecks.

So many different olives to choose from.

So many different cheeses to choose from.

These breads are simply as good as bread can be - so delicious with a great crunchy crust and soft chewy interior.

The French have many more names that detail different parts of the animal, so it's always a learning experience for me.

Freshly made sausages and pâtes.

Ballotines of rabbit, veal, and lamb, ready to be thrown in the oven.

The fishmonger preparing fish per the customer.

Turbot, monkfish, bass, sole... and some other fish I'm not sure about.

By chance, as if preordained, the oyster vendor was at the very end of the market, and by then, that’s all I wanted. I asked for some live sea urchins and live langoustines to be thrown in, just to round out my seafood tasting lunch.

An incredible oyster selection from the coasts of Brittany and Normandy.

Every single type of oyster has a specific Appellation d'Origine Contrôlée (AOC) label.

Live lobsters, crabs, and langoustines.

With the endless selections of incredible fruits and vegetables, the only other products I bought were some lemons and half a loaf of bread. Luckily there was a bottle of champagne left over from my roommates’ New Year’s Eve bash, which nicely rounded out my meal.

My oyster lunch.

After having so many options to choose from, I didn’t come home with much. However, very few ingredients of the best quality, is sometimes all you need to make a memorable dining experience.

Moving to Paris six months ago was a huge upheaval, not only in my life, but for my whole family, wife and children included. And it hasn’t gotten any easier with time. As soon as one aspect of life is simplified, another challenge approaches.

During these past several months, I’ve received many well-wishes from friends and blog-readers. I have also received many inquiries regarding the specifics of what I’m doing (although sometimes interpreted as “what the hell are you doing?”). I have seen many of the same questions arise, leading me to believe that there may be others thinking the same, so I thought that simply answering all of them here might do them justice.

Mixed throughout are photos of Ginhee and I taking a ride on La Grande Roue de Paris.

Looking up at La Grande Roue, just before stepping into the gondola.

Did your whole family move with you to Paris?

No, my family did not move with me. My wife and three boys have all stayed in Boston, maintaining as much of a “normal” life as possible.  Although since I was the primary caretaker of our children from the time they were born until the day I left for Paris, it has caused a tremendous disruption in our family. But we are all maintaining, and forging ahead towards the “big picture.” So far, my wife has visited three times, however, only once with our children. We Skype every single day, and speak on the phone several times a day.

Making our way up on the ferris wheel, as we share a photo with the Eiffel Tower.

Do you have to speak French?

Only French is spoken in the kitchen. In fact, no one speaks English, apart from the occasional “funny words” thrown at me, or their condescending Franglais. I studied as much French as I could before leaving, but seriously, nothing can prepare you for the 24/7 immersion into a foreign language. It’s a leap of faith trying to live out a dream of really and truly learning French. This is not just to “get by” or be able to have reading comprehension, but to actual speak the language properly… you know, like English. I believe that this is a major step in understanding French cuisine and culture, which will ultimately help me create the restaurant I envision in the future. Now, after six months, what first sounded like the teacher on Charlie Brown, is starting to evolve into something I can actually process. Spending sixteen hours a day, five days a week, in a kitchen where French is being screamed back and forth constantly, I’ve gotten more than I could’ve ever imagined for as an immersion experience.

A truly unique view down the Champs-Élysées, with the Obélisque in the foreground, the Arc de Triomphe in the background, and the Grand Palais on the left.

Is this an internship or a stage?

This is a real job as a commis de cuisine that will last 1-2 years, depending on how long I think I will benefit. It is not an internship, stage, or apprenticeship. I am paid in euros (€), just like all the other cooks, deposited directly into my Crédit Lyonnais account. I opened it when I was a study-abroad student with Boston University in 1997, which I thankfully saved in hopes of having exactly this opportunity.

How are you able to work in France as an American?

The reason I am able to legally work in France is because I am a Hungarian citizen, thanks to my Hungarian-born parents. I therefore have dual citizenship with the U.S. and Hungary, which is a member of the European Union, allowing me full employment rights in France, just as any other French citizen.

Place de la Concorde and the River Seine in the background.

When is the restaurant open?

Le Grand Véfour serves lunch and dinner Monday through Friday. We are closed Saturday and Sunday. Yes, this makes absolutely no sense to any American, including myself. However, several Parisian restaurants are closed during the weekends, and it just happens to be “a thing.” The French take time off very seriously, despite the fact that I manage to work eighty hours during the week. Additionally, in defense of Le Grand Véfour’s decision to stay closed during the weekends, it’s right inside the Palais-Royal building, which functions strictly Monday through Friday, therefore leaving the area somewhat deserted on the weekends.

Is it possible to come and eat at Le Grand Véfour?

Yes, and I can even make the reservation for you. Usually, it is best to give me about a month’s notice to assure availability. I recommend the three-course lunch menu, which is affordable at 88€ (includes service, but not wine). There is a tasting menu available during lunch and dinner that is a true gastronomic marathon, but enters into the “most-expensive-meal-I’ve-ever-had” category. Dinner in the evening is a truly romantic culinary experience: a pre-dinner walk through the Palais-Royal gardens, a meal inside the neoclassical opulence of Le Grand Véfour, and a post-dinner window-shopping stroll along the Palais-Royal cloisters, results in a dining experience that doesn’t get more French. On a final note, if I make a reservation for you, please keep it. I had a couple cancel at the last moment, and the reservationist wasn’t happy since we were otherwise fully booked. Regardless, as “Peter’s friends,” you will be treated very well. I can offer you a tour of the kitchen before your meal, which will give you greater insight as to where your dishes are coming from… certainly a unique perspective.

Looking past the ferris wheel to the Basilique du Sacré-Cœur in the far distance.

I sincerely appreciate all of your well-wishes, interest, and intrigue. I really enjoy this opportunity to connect with you and be able to share the experience I am having while working in Paris. I am learning aspects of cuisine and culture that I know will greatly benefit my cooking once I return home. In the meantime, please continue to write, including commenting on this blog… which I will respond to the best of my ability!

During our brief 48-hour weekend together, Ginhee and I really wanted to see a part of Paris “off the beaten track.” Of course in a city that is over a thousand years old, there is no such thing, but we basically wanted to avoid all the typical tourist areas.

My beautiful wife, Ginhee and I, at the top of the grand staircase in the main entranceway.

Opposing view from the previous photo, depicting the ornate wrought iron along the grand staircase.

Through conversations with my American roommate, Christopher, who has lived in Paris for twenty years, he easily recommended many great little museums that were sure to be fascinating and devoid of the usual crowds.

Beautiful spiral staircase leading from the 2nd to the 3rd floor (ou en France, du 1er au 2ème étage).

The Musée Nissim de Camondo, located at 63, rue Monceau, was on of them, and we were enthralled by this once-private-mansion-turned-museum. And quite frankly, it wasn’t the endless rooms of priceless artwork and furniture, collected over a lifetime, that impressed us (such as the Grand Salon, Grand Bureau, or Library). Simply, it was all the “behind the scenes” aspects to the household that were so fascinating.

The "dish pit" next to the kitchen, was filled with beautiful copper, wood, and gleaming tile.

As we began walking around the premises, I immediately thought about scenes from the movie, Gosford Park, where the lives of the family who lived in the mansion and all the servants who ran the household, although living under the same roof, where completely and systematically segregated. There are glimpses of that here at 0:26 and 0:58:

Despite the truly remarkable and priceless collection of furniture and art packing every room of the mansion, Ginhee and I were much more interested in the kitchen facilities and servants’ quarters.

Dishwashing sinks, heated by steam, and a dumbwaiter seen on the left are part of the simple, utilitarian design, in sharp contrast to the rest of the mansion.

More simple design in the servants' quarters, built strictly for functionality, but still beautiful in its simplicity using natural wood.

Cooking is one of those professions, which I believe time (to some degree) can never change. Yes, obviously with the introduction of “molecular” gastronomy, sous vide cooking, and induction ranges, there have been vast progressions in the culinary world, and all for the best in my opinion. But when we blanch, sauté, sear, roast, braise… we are doing it in exactly the same way that was done hundreds of years ago, and certainly hundreds of years to come.

The island cooking suite with copper cookware hanging nearby on the wall.

And that’s one aspect of the kitchen at the Nissim de Camondo mansion that impressed me the most – despite the fact that it was built in 1911, one hundred years ago, the idea is still the same today, evident in the modern kitchen where I am working now at Le Grand Véfour (depicted in my pervious post).

Another angle of the cooking island, with a rotisserie in the background, the mechanics of which were originally powered by steam, and later upgraded to electricity.

There still remains the cooking island suite, with its large cooktop surface and ovens below. The cooks all stand working around the suite, so they face each other and are able to communicate efficiently. For 1911, this kitchen was ahead of its time. Items like double-lined copper sink basins (with steam pumped in between the linings to maintain water temperature within the sink to soak silverware overnight) and a spit rotisserie with a steam driven turning mechanism, are just a couple aspects that allude to their aspirations of excellence. And today, one hundred years later, I am working in a kitchen that is also ahead of its time. Fully integrated induction ranges and an electrically operated combi oven completely alleviate the need for natural gas – a fossil fuel. This also greatly reduces the need for air conditioning, since there are no open flames, further reducing energy costs.

And yet another angle... hey, as a cook, this is exciting stuff.

Ginhee and I were the only ones in the kitchen as we took our tour. We could only imagine what it could have been like working in such an environment. As with the photos I took of Le Grand Véfour’s kitchen, just seeing the kitchen facilities is to learn a mere fraction of what actually goes on there.

"They don't build them like they used to." Well they do, but they cost more than a house.

When any kitchen with a purpose of excellence is in full swing – in the middle of service when all of its equipment is being used to its maximum capacity and all of the cooks are exerting themselves to their full potential – the kitchen takes on a life of its own. The kitchen has a pulse that is unmistakable and incomparable. There is no way to explain it, and you can never watch it on a reality show or food channel. It’s why I cook. And I can only wonder what it could have been like in the kitchen at the Nissim de Camondo mansion.

It is such an incredible experience working in sync with cooks where there is very little verbal communication. It’s mainly nods and looks, pokes and subtle pats, nudges on your back and shoulders. It’s these signs that let everyone know where you are, where you’re going, and how that person needs to react to accommodate you. It’s the dance in the kitchen.

This is the steep descent into the cellar kitchen, which is the only entrance and exit. All kitchen and service personnel have to pass each other here, all produce comes down, all trash goes up, and the servers carry up all the dishes from the kitchen to the dining room on large silver platters. No structural changes have occurred since the restaurant first opened in 1760, and since it has been declared a historical site, no changes are ever allowed.

Even when I was still learning dishes, I’d be reaching in one direction about to plate something, and a hand would come down to turn my hand another way, positioning the ingredient slightly differently. Or if I sauced a plate in a way that wasn’t literally picture perfect (corresponding to the photos on the wall) I’d suddenly get a new blank plate in front of me. Since the actual dish was on its way out to the dining room, I knew it wasn’t a re-plate, but rather an indication that I need to practice that sauce. I’d give it a few streaks, creating the desired effect, followed by a handshake – sarcasm included. No words were exchanged during the whole process, but everyone knows what needs to be done. The only words spoken are from Chef Martin calling out orders, and the entire kitchen chanting back in unison, “CHEF!”

Signs On The Walk-In Refrigerator Door – Left: "Food Labeling." Right: "Film and label all finished products. No original packaging in cold storage. Do not take in hot products, cool first by cooling cell (blast freezer). Do not store anything on the ground."

This instantly reminded me of the show, ”Chef!” However, at first I found myself instinctively calling back the orders, and quickly stopping myself as soon as I realized I was the only one. It’s something I have gotten so used to working in kitchens in the U.S.: the chef calls out the order, and your response is repeating back the order. Here, it’s simply, “CHEF!” said as loudly as the initial order.

The small, yet effective, walk-in refrigerator is spotless. The floor, along with the entire kitchen floor, is cleaned four times a day. The entire walk-in is emptied once a week, with the walls washed, and all the shelving and produce bins run through the dishwasher. Notice the curved ceiling, since the kitchen was built into a cellar, with the low arched ceilings typical of all Parisian basements.

There is one cook in particular at Garniture Poisson (each kitchen station is explained in my previous post) with whom I’ve made a connection with, most probably since he’s the only other foreigner, apart from me. Of about fifteen cooks, everyone is French, except for us – the German and the American.

White cases are for vegetable and fruit produce, and grey cases are for meat products (fish products have their own iced drawers next to the walk-in). Here, baby lamb hangs drying. Also seen is nearly twenty pounds of duck foie gras, which we go through every two days. Every single item is strictly labeled.

The orders are called out, “Deux foie gras, trios homards, un cabillaud, une lotte, deux agneaux, une poulette!!!” I glance at him and he gives a slight nod, letting me know he’s ready for the plates to come out of the warming shelves. Even though they are already very hot – often times forcing me to use a towel to hold them – I usually try to just endure it. With all the chefs standing right there, bumping into me, I move as fast as possible, and as cleanly and neatly as I can.

Garde Manger, the largest station in the kitchen, is where I spent my first two months. The grating along the floor has a constant stream of water flowing, so it's easy to strain things and get rid of little items. Although its main use is to aid in cleaning the floors... four times a day: before and after each service, lunch and dinner. The counter-top is filmed at the end of each day, in anticipation of the following day's produce arrival.

Everything has to be perfect, the first time. Anything that is not exactly the way it should be, is instantaneously brought to your attention in varying degrees of discipline. Even veterans of the kitchen are verbally torn apart if something is not up to par at any time. It’s never about the quality of the food, but rather about the organization of your mise en place, sequencing of your plating, or the timing of your dishes.

The entire kitchen is completely equipped with induction ranges, which is truly amazing to cook with, although it takes some getting used to. "A watched pot never boils" is no longer the case. Those two huge pots of water came to a boil in just a few minutes. The closest black plaque is Entremet, to the right (with the stock pots) is Poisson, the stainless steel flat-top and the black plaque to its left is Viande, and the last two black plaques to the far left is Viande Garniture (currently my station).

The plates come out. I’m literally squeezing myself between the Chef de Cuisine and Guy Martin, gently pushing them both aside as I grab the right type and amount of plates, quickly putting them down on the induction burner range, trying not to make any excessive sound, which is difficult when placing burning hot, heavy plates on a hard metal surface.

A better perspective of my current station, Viande Garniture (the first two black plaques), with Viande and Entremet further to the right. Facing me, seen on the left, is Poisson Garniture. My hands have cleaned every square millimeter of this kitchen.

Immediately I grab the ring molds which hold the upcoming ingredients in place: one vertical rectangle on the left side, and one tall round on the right. Just as I place the tall round mold, in comes a spoonful of confit yellow tomato purée, thicken slightly with xantana to help keep its shape and give it additional silkiness. I tap down into the mold the tomato with a well made, although makeshift, wine bottle cork that has a shortened wooden skewer forced into it. Right afterwards, comes the confit red tomato purée – I tap that down as well. Another spoonful of confit red tomato purée goes into the rectangle. I spread it evenly through the narrow space with another well made, although makeshift, small plastic piece cut out from one of our countless storage container lids. Just as I’m done, a small pot is swiveled to me containing a fine brunoise of charred zucchini, oven dried tomato petals, and prosciutto – sautéed in olive oil. I carefully spoon that on top of the red tomato rectangle. Another well made, although makeshift, bottle cork, although this time with its sides shaved off in order to fit perfectly into the rectangular mold – and the skewer to the side. I pat down the zucchini mixture quickly before taking a block of cilantro gelatin, shaving off a perfect slice with a peeler, punching several holes out with a tiny ring mold, and wrapping it around the yellow and red tomato tower, just as he is lifting off the ring mold. Even with the xantana, it’s a soft purée that immediately starts to fall if the gelatin sheet isn’t wrapped around immediately. This produces a bright green tower on the plate with varying red and yellow circles. I take a bunch of crispy fried vermicelli noodles and stick them straight into the top the tomato tower.

A better perspective of Poisson Garniture, where the only other foreigner works (German), apart from me. We commiserate daily about "the French"... in French. My station, Viande Garniture, is on the opposite facing side. To the left in the photo is Poisson, where the stock pot sits. The pass, where all the dishes are brought for inspection by the chefs and given to the service staff, is directly to the right of the photo.

Just then the fish is being finished by the Poissonnier, a few feet away. I scoot over to him, prepare a tray with a paper towel (they’re already torn from a spool on the wall, and neatly folded in half, awaiting in a container). I spray the paper towel with a water bottle (with “Eau” written on it), which will create steam when the hot fish sits on it, maintaining its temperature for the moment that it takes to get the fish to Garniture Poisson. The fish lands on the papered tray, I give it a quick turn of the pepper mill, take another (this one dry) paper towel, and gently press it on the fish, blotting excess olive oil – used for searing the fish, and butter –used for basting the fish. I shuttle that back to the plate that was being finished a moment ago. The appropriate sauce is frothed, a few spoonfuls put into a saucière d’argent, and I drape some over the middle of the fish, with some specifically cascading down the front, followed by five evenly spaced dots, descending in size, curving out from the fish and around the green tower – au passe. Immediately, I swivel about and reach in between whoever’s at the passe, placing it right down next the other dishes on the service tray for that specific table. And we’ll go through that process dozens of times each service, lunch and dinner.

Although there were several of the first days and weeks of playing “bumper cars” with my fellow cooks, figuring out where I could fit into this dance, I have finally forged a place for myself. It was essential to be that helping hand exactly at the right place, at the right time, without ever being in the way. And since nothing is ever explained, it was all about watching, learning, and absorbing everything that needed to be done, slowly forcing myself into the mix. It doesn’t matter what language we speak, since we all speak “kitchen” and communicate through non-verbal means. Now I’m moving right along with all the other cooks – dancing with them – not stepping on toes.