Bienvenue À Benoit

[Pigging by Wilfrid: April 28, 2007]

In which Alain Ducasse delivers the double - how do you say it? - whammy.

Bookending the jewel-like wine showcase Adour with a re-invention of an old Paris favorite for midtown Manhattan.

In the noisy run-up to this opening, in the space which for more than forty years housed La Côte Basque, misunderstandings were rife.  Some appeared to expect Ducasse's version of a grand Parisian brasserie - a Bofinger or Lipp.  Others anticipated yet another attempt to repackage for a New York audience the cooking which earned Ducasse multiple Michelin three-star awards.

Mais non.  A little context, maestro, please.

Chez Benoit, as it was often called, opened on the right bank of the Seine, in the 4th Arrondissement - just outside the noisiest part of central Paris, back in 1912.  It is pleasantly reached by strolling across the bridge which links the Île-St-Louis with the right bank, after a pre-prandial stroll chasing the ghosts of Gautier and Baudelaire around the  hôtel particuliers of the little island.

By all accounts, it served the simple, traditional French home cooking which came to be thought of as "bistro" food.  It was one of hundreds of such restaurants in the city serving familiar, often regional cuisine.

But it became unusually popular doing so: before the Second World War, the great Liebling recalls tout Paris rushing to Benoit every Saturday night for the pot-au-feu, the long-simmered stew of vegetables, beef and various meats which was recognized by Dumas as the foundation stone of French home cooking.

By 1986, James Salter - author of that passionate romance of la France profonde, A Sport And A Pastime - was describing Benoit as "no longer the unspoiled Lyonnais bistro...polished up, larger, and a favorite of tourists...".  Indeed, the reliability of the cooking, romance of the setting, and sheer longevity of the place transformed it gradually into a distinctly swanky destination for cuisine grand-mère - the scene a contemporary version of evening-dress-clad toffs descending on Les Halles for a late night onion soup.

My first visit was memorable.  I had been engaged in an aimless dérive  when I stumbled across the restaurant late one lunch-time.  "Ah, the famous Benoit," I thought - and being hungry, stepped inside.  The small rooms were quiet, spiffily decorated, unexpectedly formal.  The owner ascertained I had no reservation, and looking me up and down told me to come back in half an hour.  There were many empty tables, and they were empty still when I returned after a thoughtful pastis at a nearby counter.

I was seated right alongside another Anglophone table.  That it was occupied by the actor Robert Wagner, and his wife Jill St. John, was sufficient to distract me somewhat from the business of ordering.  But I remember a one-page, fairly short menu, from which I selected the only dish I could find with a hint of rusticity about it - braised beef cheeks.  They were delicious, as was the overheard conversation, and they were followed by cheese.

This was Benoit.  Held in a tension between plain, home-style simplicity and pricey glamor.

Alors, au table, mes enfants.

As I have been saying all week, Benoit was never a brasserie - a bustling, fast-turnover drinking hall, with all-day service, long menu and a groaning raw bar on the street outside.  There are no in-shell crustacea at Benoit on 55th Street either, so consider the classic langue de veau Lucullus, a specialty of the Parisian original.

This is a dish one can't conceive being offered at a New York born-and-bred version of a French restaurant: Balthazar, Artisanal, even Bar Boulud.  Utterly simple, cleverly constructed, ridiculously rich, here we have velvety leaves of poached calves tongue, alternating with slivers of poached foie.  Just that.  The flavor is gentle, the mouthfeel is - well - lucullan.  Balance is required, and supplied by the mustard dressing on the crisp lettuce garnish, and a few crunchy croutons.

The pâté en croûte, by the way, looked like a picture-perfect alternative.

As I was saying: Benoit was a part of the furniture of Paris, owned by the same family for over ninety years.  Then along came the Ducasse group - in 2005, I believe, and snapped it up.  Benoit is not the only Parisian legend Ducasse has added to his porfolio.  The cozy, red-hued bouchon Aux Lyonnais was also aquired (and if he wants to open a branch on the Lower East Side, he should be my guest).

Swiftly, a sibling Benoit appeared in Tokyo.  And now the apple has one too.  With the history under one's belt, one can readily perceive, I think, that Benoit on 55th is far from being a new attempt by Ducasse to deliver his Michelin three star cuisine to Manhattan's fins-becs.  It is part of a larger strategy by the group to build a casual (by their standards) international portfolio.  And I might add that it's a much better conceived strategy than Spoon or the infantile Mix.

If you must have crustacea, try the soup.

Lobster bisque, some rather meagre lobster meat and sour cream served in the dish, the soup poured over.  Smooth, not over-salty as so many renditions are.

This is a smashing refurbishment, by the way.  The central banquette from the brief LCB Brasserie Rachou period has gone.  I can't swear to it, but my impression is that more free-standing tables are jammed in - close together, separated by pretty privacy screens -  and the number of covers is considerably higher.  That impression will only have been reinforced by the general hubbub.

But the dining room remains light and cheerful.  Stone butterflies alight on a rugged column.  The ceiling is straight out of Tiepolo.  Monochrome photos of central Paris are enlarged on some walls.  A series of French society cartoons in oval panels around the walls are a sheer joy.  The front bar is contrastingly dark and stark.

The whole roast chickens being paraded around the room in copper pans, trailing a scent of rosemary and garlic, can't fail to tempt. But to test the kitchen's skill with the classics, duck with bigararde sauce was commanded.

Set aside thoughts of sickly sweet ' n' sour-ish canard à l'orange - this is a bigarade sauce such as you'll find in Larousse.  Redolent of bitter orange, yes, but deeply flavored with a demi-glace, coating the tongue.  Especially if, as I did, you spoon is straight from the little copper pot in which it's served.  The duck itself was excellent, a braised leg and slices of breast cooked to medium as requested.  Duck is not supposed to be raw in this dish (and the Laguiole knife, though pretty, was hardly required).  A side-dish, served in a lovely, covered silver vessel, was a set of baby turnips; another classic bistro accompaniment to duck.

Cassoulet was a perennial specialty of La Côte Basque, the New York classic opened by Henri Soulé in the space which had housed the first incarnation of his legendary restaurant Pavillon.  It was Jean-Jacques Rachou, however, who will be forever associated with the place, and the cassoulet is modestly named for him on the menu.

From a distant memory, I believe Rachou's cassoulet was a more metropolitan affair, although very good.  This heap of beans and meat, served in a grizzled stone kettle, looks like it could be thrown on a bare wood table in some farmyard kitchen outside Amiens.  As I was saying: the tension between simplicity and glamor which is Benoit.

It would have served two hungry feeders, four normal people.  A hunk of duck confit, an entire length of smooth pork sausage, a couple of slices of a much coarser one, a big piece of fatty pork.  Above all the beans, large format (controversial - some cassoulet recipes demand bijou beans); but - and this is the essence of the matter - cooked long and slow enough that they burst softly with the good meat juices.  Nothing al dente about these beans, and nor should there be.

Now is the time to start worrying about me. Noticing the golden bird's nests of fries being served to some tables, I thought I should at least try a potato dish. The gratin was pleasantly creamy, but I cannot advise you to order it alongside the cassoulet.  Especially if you are thinking of cheese to follow.

The simple line of the meal - considered from the viewpoint of the hearth rather than the viewpoint of the wasp-waisted jetset, indicated cheese.  Here, I confess, I erred.  I asked my server for the cheese choices: St Marcellin and Camembert were mentioned. 

Since I'd eaten, earlier this week, the former, I chose the latter. Had I consulted a menu, I'd have seen this course described as cheese "to share". So there I am, with an entire cheese on the plate before me, toasted baguette playing sentry, and a fresh helping of the restaurant's breads too (served, amusingly, in what appears to be some sort Communard's cap).  I worked at it piggishly, but eventually told my waiter: "Usually I can eat an entire cheese, but not after a cassoulet."  I took some home.

Just to cleanse the palate, of course, a coupe of fresh strawberries in a martini glass.  Some syrup was spooned over them, touched with balsamico - which is appropriate enough, except the shape of the vessel left the syrup to lurk uninformatively beneath the fruit.  A lovely little pistachio sorbet hotdog on the side, the bun made of  meringue.  One nervously remembers Ducasse's whimsical parodies of the American appetite at Mix - platters of Nutella and peanut butter.  This was a more restrained quip.  A quipette.

Complaints I have, of course, but all peripheral.  The only problem with the food was that the cheese had been snatched, unforgiveably, from the refrigerator.  The cheese program, of course, does need to be expanded beyond just two options.  But what joy to find the cheese served as it really is in France: a big piece, on a plate, bread.  The contrast is with the Manhattan habit of stringing morsels too small for a mouse-trap along a narrow designer plate, each chunk paired with its personal valet of an infused honey or macerated nut.  Pfui.

On day three, playing to a full house, service was heads-down-boogie.  I perceive a stratum of excellent French staff - presumably from the Ducasse stable.  A young sommelier handling a BYO maelstrom (they await the license) with aplomb; waiters coping handsomely with the longeurs of a kitchen in the weeds.  Another stratum - local hires - not yet ready for prime time.  They'll get there.

Prices are ground floor for food of this quality.  Portions are kind of weird, but tending heavily to the generous.  Look, it's a delightful addition.  Salut.

Benoit's web-site, with too many skippable "intros" is over here.

A good article by wine writer Jancis Robinson about Ducasse's acquisition of Benoit can be found here.

The Salter quote is from his preface to the Modern Library's 1986 re-issue of Liebling's gospel, Between Meals.  If you haven't read A Sport And A Pastime, please do.  And if you haven't read Between Meals, you can't be in my gang.  Raspberry.