Page 94 - The Economist Asia January 2018

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Obituary Paul Bocuse The Economist January 27th 2018
pastry. He was no fad-follower, no fiddler.
Molecular cuisine, bof! Nitrogen, pfuit!
Give him some sausage and a glassofgood
Mâcon, in the companyoffriends, any day.
What made him most content, though,
were two apparently smaller things. The
firstwasthe rescue ofhisfamilyname. The
Bocuses had been chefs since the 18th cen-
tury, always in that little auberge on the
Saône: the house he had been born in,
with the murmur of the river outside.
There he caught fish, and in that kitchen, at
nine, he had first served up veal kidneys
with puréed potatoes. But the restaurant
had been sold, and the name lost, by his
grandfather, and not until 1959 could he get
the building back. He won his first Miche-
lin star when there were still paper cloths
on the tables. Gradually it became splen-
did, with crimson shuttersand green paint,
a ceremonial courtyard and much brass.
Inside, preserved as a shrine, was his
grandmother’s kitchen, with its battery of
copper pans; and the name “Paul Bocuse”
marched in neon across the roof.
The second source of pride was easier
to overlook. By the 21st century, celebrity
The maker of chefs chefs were everywhere, foraging, posing,
fronting restaurants, writing books. Yet
when he began, just after the war, chefs
toiled and broiled behind the scenes,
while the owners patrolled the dining
rooms. At La Mère Brazier’s in Lyon, as an
apprentice, he had to feed the pigs and do
Paul Bocuse, popularlyacclaimed as the bestFrench chefsince Escoffier, died on the laundry, aswell asbringin the coal. Per-
January20th, aged 91
haps his chief accomplishment was to
N IMPISH mood, Paul Bocuse would roll singing. Forwhatcountrywasbetterprovi- make chefs emerge, proud ofthemselves.
Iup the sleeve of his whites to reveal, on sioned than France? Her shores were Theyhad everyreason to be, asartisans
his left bicep, a tattoo ofa Gallic cock crow- washed with a seething bouillabaisse of who loved theircraft. Agood cheflike him-
ing. An American GI had done it for him fish, her gardens laden with good things; selfworked (and worked, and worked!) by
during the war, and it seemed just right for Charolais cattle grazed the fields, chickens instinct, accepting that a recipe would be
his subsequent career as France’s most cel- from Bresse pecked in farmyards. And the subtly different every time. That final sea-
ebrated chef. This was a man who was wines! He was France’s most fervent am- soning, with the tips of the fingers, was a
called the pope, even God, by lowlier bassador, settingup restaurantsin America beautiful gesture, his signing of the dish.
meal-makers, and whose death, said Em- and Japan, and providing food both for And once it was done, the chef should
manuel Macron, had chefs everywhere Disney’s French enterprises and for Con- leave the kitchen, greet the diners, present
weepingin theirkitchens. corde—always taking his own ingredients what he had made. Hence the many por-
He was the most decorated of them all, with him, to be sure they were the best. traits of him in his restaurant, so that even
and not simply with Michelin stars, of when he was away, or no longer cooked
which his restaurant, L’Auberge du Pont de Nitrogen, pfuit! himself, he was there. He positively en-
Collonges “Paul Bocuse”, near Lyons, had He could crow about French cooking, too. couraged his cooks to open their own res-
held three for over 50 years. (To match his From Carême to Maître Escoffier to him- taurants, and was delighted to welcome
three stars he had, for almost as long, three self, there was none better. Cuisine clas- 650 students each year to his chef’s school
women, fairly harmoniously; his appetites sique had become over-fussy, but its funda- at Écully. Even young women came—
were large.) With his whites he usually mentals, butter, cream and wine, were so though he preferred women in bed, and
wore the tricolore collarofa Meilleur Ouv- magical that nothing could replace them. smellingofChanel ratherthan cooking fat.
rier de France, and occasionally his Légion (A dish of just-made fromage frais with A chef’s sense of his own importance
d’Honneur on its red ribbon. On that glori- cream was, for him, pure joy.) With a little began, he insisted, with the uniform: the
ous evening in 1975, when his medal had simplifying, more emphasis on freshness, calot or the tall toque, the immaculate
been pinned on by the president, they had French cuisine would again be unbeatable. white jacket and the apron, the clothes of
sat down to his own invention, black-truf- He signed on brieflyto nouvelle cuisine, but his trade. That moment when, preparing
fle soup VGE, for Valéry Giscard d’Estaing. in the end it bored him; nothing on the forhis entrée en scène, he tied his apron rib-
It was served ever after in his restaurant, in plate, lots on the bill, was his conclusion. bons round his capacious waist, was the
specially inscribed white bowls. Instead his menus offered the grand, sub- proudestpartofall. And he mightjust have
The cockerel proclaimed his patriotism, stantial dishes of the decades: duck with time too to roll up his sleeve, flash a smile
as if it were in any doubt; he was ever the foie gras, pike quenelles, filletofbeef Rossi- and cry “Cocorico!”, in case anyone
small boywho loved to run aftermarching ni, coq au vin. The only inventions of his doubted who, and which country, ruled
bands on the 14th of July, shouting and own were the truffle soup and sea bass in the culinary world. 7