The magazine cover, with ironically of all people, an American chef.

As soon as I reached the outside of the restaurant to meet everyone else, we were all instructed to now go and put on fresh, clean aprons. Nobody knew what was going on, but we’re rarely in a position to be asking questions, so everyone filed back down to “freshen up,” before emerging once again into the gardens of the Palais-Royal, just outside the restaurant.

We were met by a photographer with his typical bigger-than-your-head camera. He was in close discussion with Guy Martin until he yelled out for us to go all the way down to the other end of the gardens. Since we spent our entire day in a basement kitchen, we were ecstatic to suddenly be instructed to take a stroll in the garden. Once we reached the other end, we turned around, waiting for the next instructions, as we looked at each other in confusion. We were then told to line up and run the full distance back. We did as we were told, laughing all the way at the ridiculous spectacle we were creating for the innocent passers-by in the garden.

Then, as we all returned, we were asked to line up along the gated cloister for another group shot. At first I stood right next to Guy Martin. I thought… why not? But the height difference was unflattering, so the photographer quickly moved me. I was relegated behind the gate, at which point my sous chef grabbed the bars and made the classic “get me out of jail” motions. I immediately responded, “C’est presque la vérité,” alluding to our life in the kitchen. This got a rousing “LOL” from my colleagues, which really made me feel good.

After a few rearrangements of different people, the photographer settled on a line-up and took several shots. We were then released and the kitchen crew quickly filed back down into the basement to resume work and hopefully make up nearly an hour of lost time.

I had a lot of fish patiently waiting for me which I was not too excited to have to hastily shred through. However, since nearly every day is a struggle against the clock, I already had a game plan well rehearsed. I always start with the biggest fish (cod, turbot, monkfish) and work my way down to the smaller fish (sole, John Dory, bass).

The first reason for this strategy is simply a matter of negotiating space for everything. Since all the fish comes in at once, first thing in the morning, I have to figure out how to organize countless products. If I take care of the biggest fish first, I will be able to find space to store the finished portions much easier than if I did the small fish first.

A beautiful turbot, also very heavy at nearly 25 pounds.

As a second, and more practical reason, it’s exhausting moving huge boxes of fish packed to the brim with shaved ice first thing in the morning… before I’ve even had my first cup of coffee. It’s also a lot of physical work cleaning the various fish. It’s best to get the heavy lifting out of the way, so I only need to deal with small fish later during my prep time. That’s going to lead straight into service, so I can’t be physically burned out early in the day.

Fortunately, filleting a turbot is quick work.

Taking a second to play with the enormous turbot carcass before moving on.

As soon as the few big fish are done, I move right onto the smaller ones. At this point, I always feel a sense of relief knowing that I’m on the downhill part of my prep time. The few times that I’ve been really, really pressed for time, I’ve been able to quickly clean these smaller fish at my station during service. It’s far from ideal, but manageable nonetheless. It would simply be impossible to do that with a 30 pound fish.

Preparing Saint Pierre (John Dory) is always fun to fillet, simply following Mother Nature's dotted lines.

Sole nicely opened up.

As we got closer to service, my friends realized that I needed a little extra help. Julien, a three-year Véfour veteran, worked Poisson the year before, so he knows his way around fish and the station very well. Katsuji was a new addition to our kitchen team, having just come from Pierre Gagnaire Tokyo, where he was the Poissonnier.

The dream team coming in for the last push.

Even just ten or fifteen minutes of help can make a big difference. It gave me just enough time to set up my station and tidy up my fish prepping area. That way, I can roll into service without any loose ends. Earlier in the day when we had the photo shoot, none of us had any idea what it was for. There are all sorts of photographers and camera crews making their way through the dining room and kitchen on a weekly basis. Of course, this was the first time the entire front and back-of-house staff were called out into the gardens for a group shot. It was quite a pleasant surprise to see ourselves in 3 Étoiles a few months later!

E. Dehillerin takes up a lot of valuable Parisian real estate with its corner space.

I really love all my kitchen tools. Although I’d be the first to admit that simply having a good chef’s knife is all one truly needs in the kitchen, having the right tool for the right job often makes all the difference. So having Paris’ kitchen supply shops just a couple blocks from where I am working makes it all too easy to jaunt over during my break for that “one special tool” I happen to fantasize about while cooking… or to replace a tool that finally met its match in the middle of service.

Another angle of the storefront, showing off the countless kitchenwares available inside.

Although I usually maximize my precious time off with a serious nap on a bench within the Palais-Royal, I occasionally satisfy my urge for that “one special tool,” and with glazed eyes peruse the wares along the shelves and isles in the different stores… all conveniently located within vicinity of each other.

The iconic rooster in copper displayed in the case surrounded by other gleaming copperware.

Even after my first visit to all of them, I quickly deduced which stores were for mommies baking cookies with the kids and which ones were for professional cooks. It came down to three shops, with a final honorable mention. My favorite shop, simply because it could only exist in the heart of Paris, open since 1820, is E. Dehillerin located at 18, rue Coquillière. This is the real deal, with stacks and stacks of copper, carbon steel, Le Creuset, and Staub cookware, and with rows and rows of tiny kitchen utensils, it’s enough to make your head spin and wish for every item. And the gruff, yet surprisingly helpful clerks (if you have the patience) just add to the charm.

You are immediately welcomed by this wall of copper as you enter the store.

I found some items here that I've been searching for a long time.

Every size and type of pots and pans stacked up and up and up...

Another great culinary shop is Mora, just around the corner from E. Dehillerin, at 13, rue Montmartre, which opened in 1814. This store specializes in equipment for bakers and pâtissiers. They have an endless supply of hard-to-find ring molds, silicon molds, and chocolate molds of every shape and size imaginable.

The storefront of Mora as you approach from the street.

A decent selection of pots and pans, along with an entire wall of ring molds in the back.

Pastry cutters, piping tips, and numerous tools of which I can only guess their use.

Endlessly varying shapes and sizes of silicon and baking molds.

The third shop that I really enjoy going to is A. Simon, just down the street from Mora, at 48, 52, rue Montmartre, the “youngest” of the shops, opening in 1884. Just recently, the owners of the famous G. Detou bought A. Simon and they did some renovations to the kitchen equipment side of the store. Now the two sides are more distinct, with the “red” storefront depicting the kitchenware side of the operation, and the “green” storefront depicts the dinnerware side of the operation (hence the “48, 52″ address).

The red storefront of the kitchenware side of A. Simon.

Each store has so many things, there's always something new to find... which led me to spend plenty of hard-earned euros, yet again.

The green storefront of the dinnerware side of A. Simon.

Inside A. Simon shows the ceiling track that helps move big, heavy boxes throughout the store... although the rest of the shop simply reminds me of a department store.

I wouldn’t be completely honest if I gave the impression that it’s only these specialty kitchen stores that I frequent, since I’ve made several trips to BHV as well… a department store. Although I did take one trip up to the 3rd floor (Culinaire & Table) to buy an affordable digital scale, it’s usually the basement on the -1 floor (Bricolage) where I find what I need, such as scissors, rulers, masking tape, tweezers, pliers, and other kitchen essentials that can only be found in the hardware store.

"Here You Are" sign at BHV... important floors to note: 3 and -1.

Kitchen utensils at BHV are geared more for the home cook, but there's still an impressive collection of Le Creuset pots.

The expression “like a kid in a candy store” couldn’t be more appropriate. I often contemplate purchasing an item which I may not even know what its use is, but it look so useful. I have so many kitchen tools and gadgets at home that my wife has banned me from ever complaining about how many shoes she has… but having the right tool for the right job is truly worth it. And I can’t wait to test out my new toys at the next Chef’s Table Event.

The line of people waiting to get in at the Louvre's pyramid entrance.

I was recounting a time to my roommate, many years ago when Ginhee and I waited in the rain by the Louvre’s glass pyramid to get into the museum. “Why don’t you just go through the Carrousel? There’s never a line there. I don’t understand why everyone waits in line by the pyramid.” I was dubious. We went to take a look at the glass pyramid anyway, just to show the boys for the first time. Then we turned back, to the Rue de Rivoli to enter Le Carrousel du Louvre.

99 Rue de Rivoli.

Looking down the street, with the Tuileries further down on the left and Place de la Concorde at the end.

Crossing the street to get to the entrance.

Although there was quite a number of people milling about, not a single person was waiting in line at the automated machines to buy tickets to the museum. We quickly ran up to them, as though this was some secret about to be discovered at any moment, and everyone around would scramble to get in line (like when a new register opens at a grocery store when the lines get long). But nobody seemed to care about our personal discovery, and we had tickets in our hands within seconds.

The ticket machines await.

By now, our boys had spotted the food court in this mall atmosphere, unfortunately nothing unlike any of the baneful wastes of space we have in America, and they ensued with their “I want a snaaaaack” chants. Quickly overlooking all the typical heat lamp infused platters of food, we were draw to a seemingly appetizing display of pastries, cookies, and other confections.

An attractive display case...

As we were about to order, Ginhee said to me, “You know, this is a McDonald’s.” I hesitated, weighed my options, and with bug-eyed children beaming up at me, continued to place my order.

... until I realized where I was standing.

Everything was good, and Ginhee and I laughed to each other that this was in fact our sons’ very first McDonald’s experience. Not too bad for American children, eating McDonald’s chocolate croissant, chocolate cake, hot chocolate, and macaroons, underneath the Rue de Rivoli, right next to the Louvre, in the heart of Paris… I suppose there can be exceptions.

Our goodies.

A good snack got us ready to explore the museum.

Our tour guide.

Tired of walking, we did a piggy back ride through the museum's long halls.

Playing by the water (please don't fall in).

Here’s a short video of us taking a ride up in the elevator underneath the glass pyramid:

January 25, 2011:

That Tuesday I walked in per my usual schedule, and little did I know what was in store for me that day… or for the whole kitchen, for that matter. Three months had now passed for me on the Garniture Viande station, and I had firmly created a routine for myself on the post. There had been some other shifting around amongst the other cooks. There was a new Poissonnier, and he was having a hell of a time, every single day, every single service. There was a constant tirade of yelling and screaming directed at him, and he wasn’t taking it well, nor seemed to be improving.

Gorgeous sea urchins from the coast of Spain, all cleaned up and ready to go.

Once in a while, there is a cook who is a few minutes late, and as long as it’s not chronic, it’s not really a problem. But after half an hour, the fish cook still hadn’t shown up and everyone was starting to wonder what was going on. The chefs looked around the station and noticed that all of his tools and knives were no longer there. He was gone.

Delicious sea urchin roe, and lots of it.

Forty-five minutes into my day, and my chef de partie stormed up to me, “Peter! Va à poisson!” I wasn’t sure what that meant. I had a ton of stuff out and was in the middle of several prep jobs. My station was packed with all sorts of produce, stocks, and gelling agents, while I had about five or six different pots on the stove top. “Qu’est-ce qui va passer avec tout ça?” I asked. “Chef m’a dit que tu dois aller tout de suite!” I left everything as is and went over to the Poisson chef de partie, who was actually my best friend in the kitchen. “What’s going on?” I asked. “I have absolutely no idea,” he responded. “So what am I supposed to do?” “I have absolutely no idea,” he repeated. The chefs were busy now cleaning all the fish, the poissionner‘s responsibility during the mornings, who had now gone missing. The Poisson chef de partie, who works Garniture Poisson, gave me some of his work to keep me busy. No one knew what was going on…

Live langoustines from the Mediterranean Sea.

The time was getting closer to service. Nobody was saying anything. I was running out of things to do, which was an extremely worrisome situation, since I know that there is always so much to do, but I was now on a different station, being given absolutely no information or guidance. The Poisson station was being set up around me by the sous chef and my friend, the Poisson chef de partie. Once in a while I would be given a direction to go get this or that, but nothing more specific. Suddenly, the orders started rolling in: “Deux cabillaud, une lotte!”

A langoustine tail, showing their razor sharp points, which routinely draw blood, especially after cleaning a few dozen of them.

The sous chef directed me to take the fish out of the reach-in refrigerator, and continued instructing me about how to sear it and how to finish it, whether basting it with butter, or putting it in the combi-oven, at what temperature, and for how long. As this continued, I started to pick up on the patterns of how the different fish needed to be prepared and began to figure out how the orders corresponded to what I needed to do. I kept up the rhythm, leaving the sous chef less and less to instruct. Before I could fully grasp the reality of the situation, I was working the fish station.

My fish delivery... literally a mountain of work.

We became busy, and I got moving fast. I was concentrating as hard as possible to make sure I heard all the orders correctly and ensure all of the timing of the fish was correct. With a couple dozen pieces of six different types of fish, there are a lot of different cooking times and methods. I was employing all of my cooking senses to their maximum capacity. The sous chef dropped back into a supporting role, and was doing no instructing now, just occasionally pointing to different pans, if the fish needed to be turned, or helping me set and stop timers (there are three to manage). The chef de cuisine and Guy Martin were at the head of the kitchen, expediting as always, but with their eyes glued on me… I could feel them watching my every movement.

The invoices I have to sign off on, nearly 2,000€ of products.

As soon as service was over, I started cleaning up as best as I knew how. The sous chef approached me and let me know that the fish station was now mine. I had just become the new Poissonnier at Le Grand Véfour. The whole kitchen was in a frenzy over the events of the morning. With a no-show-no-call from one cook, me being moved over without anyone knowing what was going on, and then a hard service, where everyone had to simply assume their positions and continue with the day as normally as possible, it was a very emotional situation. I told my friend that the station was just given to me, and he said, yes, he was just told as well. We gave each other a big congratulatory hug. This was truly amazing. We had been friends since we began working together in the same kitchen, and now we were working together on the same station. It was too good to be true. I got big hugs from others in the kitchen whom I was close with, but certainly not from the chefs de partie of Garde Manger and Viande, whom I had worked with and now departed.

A rare moment of levity, "taking a nap" in an emptied shelf while I was trying to clean it.

And for me, this was an absolute dream. As an American coming to France to work in a restaurant, I was prepared to clean the salad greens for my entire stay. Now I had been put in charge of all the seafood for the restaurant, upwards of 2,000€ worth of products per day. From the moment the seafood purveyors put the fish into their iced boxes on the coast of France in Brittany, to the moment the guests ate the fish from their dishes in the dining room, I was the only other person to touch the fish: receiving, fabrication, cooking, and plating.

Fresh scallops from the northeast Atlantic Ocean, ready to be shucked.

With these daily ups and downs, there have been two days in particular that have really stood out and have made me realize that not only do I know what I’m doing, but I’m excelling, even as a foreigner in a French kitchen in the heart of Paris. November 5, 2010 and January 25, 2011 are days now considered personal milestones that will remain with me for the rest of my life.

November 5, 2010:

I remember this date since it was the Friday before my second son’s fourth birthday. I started in August on the Garde Manger station, typical for anyone starting out in a kitchen, especially when they are not sure of your ability. Thankfully, I realized that I was way over-qualified for this position, but the language barrier knocked me down a few notches, which I especially had to fight against. Moreover, my chef de partie knew I was better than him, and he’d throw me under the bus any chance he could, even blaming me for things that were his own fault. He thought I couldn’t understand, but I did. I let things lie, although I would be infuriated. I felt strongly that they would see what I’m capable of and hoped that would outshine any bulls— “he said she said” kitchen politics.

Being a Friday, and since we are closed on weekends, the prep list was somewhat light. I quickly cranked through my duties, hoping to perhaps give a helping hand on another station, a gesture that my chef de partie did not like… he knew what I was trying to do, which was branch out and show that I’m capable of more than just Garde Manger. I had the Poissionner (who I was friendly with) ask him if I could help out elsewhere, and when I verified that I was nearly done with my mise en place, he begrudgingly agreed. Later that morning, I was helping the poissionner clean sea urchins and sea scallops – now this was fun! I even had the fortitude to take photos of the actual products right before we cleaned them. I never have a camera with me, so the fact that I by sheer chance decided to take pictures of these adds to how crazy this day was.

Fresh sea urchins from the coast of Iceland, ready for their painstaking cleaning process.

Later, we were absolutely crushed during service. The avalanche of orders was overwhelming. When you stop caring about what the new orders are, and have trouble keeping up with the backlog of orders already in, it’s a problem, and a big one at that! I was reminding my chef de partie what we needed to do. These are times when my expertise in the kitchen shows the most. The stress level couldn’t be higher, and I’m always as calm as can be. However, I’m still moving as fast and as smartly as possible. And at 6’2″, 180 lbs., I can make my presence felt. We were shredding through orders: food, plates, and hands flying through the air. Everybody screaming at everybody at the same time. And then finally the light at the end of the tunnel, and it was all over with as quickly as it had started. When the dust settled, I knew I had done well, and I felt good about it.

After such a service, it looked literally like a tornado had hit the kitchen. Plus, since it was Friday, we had all of our end of the week cleaning chores to fulfill. The entire place was a chaotic mess of food containers, trays, plastic wrap, discarded mise en place, knives, plating spoons, dishes… you name it. The jet hose was out, spraying down the insides of our reach-in refrigerators, with over a dozen cooks milling about one way or another, desperately trying to get their chores done as quickly as possible, constantly fighting each other for space, cleaning supplies, the jet hose, plastic wrap… the list goes on…

The Viande and Garniture Viande stations.

Through this beehive mess of cooks cleaning, I all of a sudden heard my sous chef call out to me, “Peter! Viens avec moi!” He was heading into the walk-in refrigerator and I was thinking, although I felt that everything had gone well during service, what had I done wrong, or forgotten…?! Once we were inside and the heavy door latched shut, the quiet droll of the cooling fans replaced the tumultuous cleaning frenzy of the kitchen, and it was just my sous chef and I. He told me that the Garniture Viande cook, who had already missed the past couple days, had called in and simply quit. My sous chef, along with the chef de cuisine and Guy Martin, had discussed that I would replace him. He said that he believed that I could handle the stress on the meat station, and they were most confident about my competence to work the station because of my seasoning ability. They were concerned about the language barrier and felt that it would present some problems, but hoped for the best.

I could not believe it. My first question (foolishly) was if Chef Martin knew about this. “Yes, of course. We discussed it with him.” Does my chef de partie know? “Yes, I already told him that you’re leaving Garde Manger and starting Garniture Viande on Monday.” Does the Viande cook know this? “Yes, I’ve already told him as well.”

Setting up my camera (hoping to take a video that never worked), I accidentally took this shot, a glimpse into the kitchen right before service.

I was floored. Completely light-headed, in a surreal state, we exited the walk-in, right back into the frenzied mess of the kitchen. It certainly didn’t seem so bad as it did moments ago. I had a smile chiseled onto my face that I couldn’t remove. Although a somewhat simple move in the kitchen had taken place, the meaning behind it was tremendous. Within that instant which he told me of my move, it had verified my entire career as a cook. Not only did I have the ambitions to move to France to work in a kitchen, not only did I actually get accepted at one of the best restaurants in Paris, not only did I survive the first few months, but now I got promoted, and placed right into the middle of the lions’ den. The meat station was one of the fiercest stations and I’d be working with the most aggressive cooks in the kitchen. The “American boy” had just leap-frogged over a couple stations, and with all the chefs backing me up, there was nothing anyone could say about it.

Continue onto day two.

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.

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!

Chartier's sign at the entrance.

The reviews for Restaurant Bouillon Chartier, located at 7, rue du Faubourg Montmartre, run the gamut from the best to the worst. But after reading that it’s one of the oldest restaurants in Paris, popping up on nearly every “cheap eats” list I researched, I had to go. Arriving at 19H00, early by Parisian standards, the fabled line was already queued all the way down the street. I waited in line for twenty minutes, only halfway to the front door, when someone asked me how many in my party. I responded “one” and she signaled me to walk straight in.

Waiting to eat... or rather "get fed." I was lucky enough to skip the latter half of this never ending line.

I marched past everyone else waiting and was ushered through a seemingly constantly revolving glass door. Once inside you’re immediately hit with the buzzing sounds of a dining room full of people busily eating, and everything else that goes on to make that happen.

This is the view as you enter, swinging through the revolving doors.

Here is the description of Chartier from Wikipedia:

“The restaurant was created in 1896 by two brothers, Frédéric and Camille Chartier, in a former train station concourse under the name “Le Bouillon” (lit. broth, or stock, but in this context, a sort of brasserie; originally a cheap workers’ eatery that served stew). Over its hundred-and-some years of existence, the restaurant has had only four owners.

The conservation of architecture of the building and Belle Époque interior decoration has led to its classification as a historical monument in 1989. The long dining room has a high ceiling which allows for a mezzanine, where the service is also provided. Large columns support the ceiling.

The restaurant is open 365 days a year with a menu offering traditional French cuisine. The table service is provided by waiting staff dressed in the traditional rondin, a tight-fitting black waistcoat with multiple pockets, and long white apron.

The restaurant’s popularity forces patrons to wait in line in the courtyard or under the porch and sometimes on the sidewalk outside. Tables are shared between strangers. The bill is written directly on the disposable paper tablecloth.”

The menu is posted to give you plenty of time to decide while waiting in line... which is a good thing, since once you sit down, you have ten seconds to order.

Since I was a party of one and was promptly ushered into the restaurant, they didn’t exactly have a table waiting for me. They just knew that I’d be able to easily sit anywhere. They still had to look around for a bit, leaving me in the intersecting path of two service corridors. I was constantly moving out of someone’s way until a waitress flagged me down and I went over to a four-top with a couple already seated. At least I was able to imagine Ginhee sitting across from me in the empty seat, helping me through the somewhat odd experience of suddenly feeling like a third wheel.

Translation: "1 Avocat, 1 Confit, 1/2 Rosé"

I ordered avocat sauce crevettes, confit de canard pommes persillées, and a half carafe of the house rosé wine. The couple next to me ordered the roast chicken and the rump steak, which looked like a photocopy of this. It’s easy to eavesdrop on a conversation when you’re nearly touching shoulders, although I couldn’t understand what they were saying, since it wasn’t French, English, or Hungarian. Fairly quickly, I was served my avocat and my dining companions, their chicken and steak. Mine was as simple as you could imagine: an avocado cut in half, filled with little shrimp, served on a lettuce leaf, which I ate as well, since garnishes should always be edible.

The famous vaulted ceilings and coats racks right above your head.

The moment the lady next to me cut into her steak, she waved to the waitress and returned it, saying she ordered it well-done. The French always eat their steak bleu (known in the U.S. as “black and blue” or “Pittsburgh rare”), which is seared really hot to a char on the outside, left cool and raw on the inside. Anything beyond that is blasphemy. For example bien cuit (“well done”) is what we in the U.S. consider “medium well.” It took over twenty minutes for it to come back, by which time the man was completely finished with his dish, so they both ended up eating alone, like me.

Service here is a privilege, which has to be earned.

Earlier, when I had ordered my dinner, I spoke perfect French. Despite this, she still responded in English, clearly hearing my accent. So after about twenty minutes of waiting for my duck, the waitress walks by my table and says (from what I understood), “Coffee?” Since I still hadn’t had my main course, I reply, “No, duck,” to which she yells back, “Oui, duck confit!” I hate it when people speak Franglais to me. They think they’re helping, when all it’s doing is complicating the situation. I’m in France, so I’m speaking French. Do me a favor and do the same, especially since my accented French is much better than the few words you’ve acquired from watching “Two and a Half Men” (a French favorite known as Mon Oncle Charlie).

When the restaurant originally opened, guests would store their own silverware in these individually labeled boxes specifically for their personal use.

Within a few minutes, the server brought me exactly what I had ordered: duck confit with parsleyed potatoes. Three ingredients on a plate. Afterwards, I ordered the île flottante, which was tolerable as a “classic that must be tried.” But it certainly didn’t rival my version from a Chef’s Table last year:

Île flottante with black currant meringue, pistachio crème anglaise, saffron syrup, and pistachio tuile, served with Warre's Otima 10 Year Tawny Port.

After dessert, I paid as quickly as I could and made my way back out the revolving doors, while at the same time some new patrons were revolving in. I felt like we were cattle being shuffled in and out of a feeding area, provided as a service to quell our hunger. Everything was correct, nothing was bad, but nothing was good. A “must see” Parisian culinary experience checked off my list.

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.

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.