Marseille: It’s east and it’s west, a city with awe-inspiring force shrouded in mystery. It’s hard to pin down. It must be teased out, won over through discovery. And then suddenly, it’s yours! When you arrive in Marseille from the airport highway, the tracking shot is spectacular. The sea. The islands in the distance. The buildings straight ahead. And the long footbridge crossing that’s like an artery into the city. 

Marseille feels cinematic. The air is sweet even when the cold mistral wind is blowing. You slow down. There’s no rush. La Bonne Mère—the emblematic cathedral towering above the city—watches over you. The fishmonger is calling out the catch of the day. Suddenly you’re hungry, but there’s so much to choose from. Honey beignets on rue d’Aubagne. A “moitié-moitié” pizza. A Friday aïoli. Coffee with an orange-blossom navette. A table in full sun.

Gazing out over the jetties—that’s how I fell in love with Marseille, and knew I never wanted to leave. I was a food writer when I opened Épicerie L’Idéal, a delicatessen akin to Ali Baba’s cave where you can have a sit-down meal, sampling what’s in season, and all sorts of culinary treasures. A thousand products from Provence, Italy, the Mediterranean, and every corner of France. Harissa, candied lemon slices, fillets of Sicilian tuna in oil, Breton gomasio, pesto with pistachios and almonds, Italian coffee, Banyuls vinegar … My store had to be in Noailles, the Arab neighborhood in the heart of Marseille that constantly reminds me of my Sicilian and Tunisian ancestry.

Marseille has the wind at its back. The new culinary wave began about 10 years ago, going beyond bouillabaisse and pieds paquets (stewed lamb’s feet and tripe). And it hasn’t abated. More and more chefs are flocking to the Phocaean city to express themselves, and they’re bringing natural wines, spicy food, and unorthodox ingredients, all against the backdrop of the breathtaking sea view. —J.S.

Where to Eat

Ourea

72 rue Paix Marcel Paul,
04 91 73 21 53 

Here’s Matthieu Roche’s hideaway. The thrilling chef of this pocket restaurant casually rolls out a new menu each night, a gastronomic symphony in perfect harmony over five courses. I won’t soon forget his cooking à la nage, the frothy broths with mushrooms, cream, and raw fish. He cooks like it’s in his blood.

Chez Michel

6 rue des Catalans,
04 91 52 64 22

Look no further for bouillabaisse, the signature Marseille dish that turns the most beautiful local fish into a soup. This is the place to eat it, on a white tablecloth and served with panache, the fresh seafood presented to the table by a server in a suit and bow tie. You can also opt for the bourride, a more rustic fish stew thickened with aïoli.

À Moro 

3 rue Venture,
07 65 80 37 37

Here we have a just-opened “small Italian bistro” with a terrace that takes up half the street. A thoughtful menu is written on a chalkboard and presented in a trattoria-like room. Try the vitello tonnato, puntarelle and anchovies, squid-ink pacchieri, or Roman-style tripe. And don’t miss the chocolate and olive oil ganache with your coffee.

Ivresse

76 rue Léon Bourgeois

This is the wine bar we’ve been dreaming of in Marseille. Unconventional and extremely stylish, Max works the bar’s small kitchen while Nikolaj pours natural wines. Try the smoked fish, roasted beets, or the yogurt and buckwheat, and pair them with an excellent gewürztraminer, riesling, or New Zealand pinot noir.

Livingston 

5 rue Crudère,
04 96 10 00 00

Meet the wunderkind of Marseille. These punchy plates are served alongside natural wines beneath the graffitied walls of Cours Julien. I can still taste the ’nduja and stracciatella pizzetta, the fried pig’s feet with tom yum and lime. And, of course, the strawberry and pepper donuts!

Limmat

41 rue Estelle,
07 86 30 23 16

Lili Gadola opened her poetic restaurant, reminiscent of a little house, beside the famous colorful stairs of Cours Julien. The menu is all vegetarian and pescatarian food because that’s how Lili likes to eat. Note that there are always crazy-good desserts like the red fruit pavlova or the chocolate mousse cake.

Tuba Club

2 boulevard Alexandre Delabre,
04 91 25 13 16

Take a short boat ride to reach the Old Port in Les Goudes, and you’re at the end of the world. Perched on the rocks like the Italian coast, you’ll find a converted white cabanon designed by Marion Mailaender. Try the house-made taramasalata, fried calamari, and sea bass with bottarga—or spring for the grilled fish. Bonus: There’s now a second bar in Le Bikini, where you can have an aperitivo on the roof.

Maison Journo

28 rue Pavillon,
04 91 33 65 20 

David Journo has taken the reins at his grandfather’s bakery. Raised on the family’s fricasseés (fried bread stuffed with tuna, Tunisian salad, and harissa), almond macarons, brick à l’oeuf, and leblebi (chickpea soup)—not to mention Turkish delight and from-scratch orgeat made from sweet and bitter almond syrup—he continues the family legacy in the Jewish Tunisian tradition.

La Relève

41 rue d’Endoume,
04 95 09 87 81 

The real culinary muckety-mucks of Marseille are located in the 7th arrondissement in the Saint-Victor neighborhood. Duo Greg Hessman and Greg Mandonato bring the whole city to life at lunch and apéro time. Hurry there on Fridays for the aïoli (desalted cod and steamed green beans, carrots, and cauliflower, served with boiled eggs and garlic mayonnaise). Upstairs are two hotel rooms freshly designed by Maison Honoré. A marvel.

Chez Étienne

43 rue de Lorette,
04 91 54 76 33 

Eighty years on, Étienne Cassaro’s pizzeria still stands tall. In the legendary dining room now run by Cassaro’s son Pascal in the middle of Le Panier, don’t miss the classic moitié-moitié pizza (half tomato-Emmental, half tomato-anchovy), fried supions (baby calamari) cooked with garlic and parsley, and eggplant parmesan. On the walls hang photos of the extraordinary Étienne and all of the famous guests who have passed through. —J.S.

Where to Stay

Hôtel Mercure Marseille Canebière Vieux-Port 

48 La Canebière

Travelers eager to explore the North African melting pot neighborhood of Noailles will love this newly renovated mid-century modern hotel, whose ground-floor restaurant serves the original, cognac-spiked style of tapenade, believed to be invented on the premises in 1880.

Le Petit Nice Passedat 

17 rue des Braves Anse de Maldormé

A century-old Relais & Château stunner, this hotel houses a sensational three-Michelin-star seafood restaurant boasting sweeping Mediterranean views and a kitchen that works with more than 65 types of fish. Upstairs, spacious rooms feature deep-sink tubs and sleek wooden furniture.

Intercontinental Marseille – Hôtel Dieu 

1 Place de Daviel 

This stately grande dame with flags and manicured hedges out front has understated rooms with clean lines as well as more premium digs looking out over the Old Port. The terrace restaurant serves an exquisite pissaladière, Provence’s signature flatbread topped with anchovies, onions, and capers.

New Hotel Le Quai – Vieux Port

2 Place de Gabriel Péri

After a nine-month renovation that added six spacious guest rooms and an all-day café (where non-patrons are welcome to post up with a coffee and a pastry), this Belle Époque property recently reopened. Its location between Canebière and the Old Port can’t be beat. —B.K.

Essential Culinary Souvenirs

Les Terres de Pierre Fruité Noir Extra-Virgin Olive Oil 

Provisions, 95 rue de Lodi 

Olive growers of yore often left their harvest to ferment in jute bags, imbuing the oil with an earthy, chocolatey flavor that plays well with anchovies, tomatoes, and goat cheese. Few continue the tradition; this local producer is one of them.

Tava Rose Harissa

Piou, 70 rue Grignan

Yotam Ottolenghi’s favorite small-batch chile paste, Tava, is made in Marseille and fragrant with Isfahan rose petals—a nod to the city’s history of North African influence. A little goes a long way, which makes the $9 price tag an absolute steal.

Navettes from Les Navettes des Accoules

68 rue Caisserie

Perfumed with orange blossom water, these canoe-shaped cookies are the city’s signature sweet. They’re lovely alongside coffee or liqueur, and keep for weeks. The Corsican owners of this legendary biscuiterie bake theirs to a crumbly (read: less tooth-breaking) texture than their competitors across town at Four des Navettes.

Torchons from Maison Empereur 

4 rue des Récolettes

This wonderland of a kitchen store dates back nearly two centuries. Thiers knives, canelé molds, and earthenware cassoles are terrific buys, but far more affordable are these durable tea towels.

Mélets de Martigues from Épicerie L’Idéal

11 rue d’Aubagne

Mélets are an ancestral, garum-like condiment heady with fennel seeds made from fermented baby anchovies. Julia Sammut, of Épicerie L’Idéal, keeps her plug a secret (“If he quits, we’re dead!”). At the Épicerie, she serves it drizzled with olive oil as a dip for country bread, while at home, she likes whisking it with bread crumbs, olive oil, and lemon juice to make a quick bagna cauda sauce for pouring over broccolini and soft-boiled eggs.

Henri Bardouin Pastis 

Cavavin – Marseille Opéra, 1 rue Saint-Saëns 

Marseille’s anisey, milky-white tipple is a must-buy. One of the best, by Henri Bardouin, happens to be widely available (in France and the United States). It’s flavored with over 65 spices and herbs and has buoyant thyme and citrus notes.

Fer à Cheval Soap 

66 chemin de Sainte-Marthe

Olive oil-based Marseille soap, with its sage-green hue and rustic stamped insignia, doesn’t dry the skin, and can be used as a stain-busting laundry detergent. Founded in 1856, this local producer sells the real deal—no dyes, perfumes, or funny stuff.

Taste the World in Marseille 

Azul, 73 rue Francis Davso 

This 300-page volume from Marseille-born filmmaker and journalist Vérane Frédiani is a gastronomical goldmine. Chef interviews tell the story of local bakeries and restaurants, while recipes for regional greatest hits—rouille, soupe au pistou, and more—let you bring the city’s flavors home. —B.K.

The post Where to Eat, Stay, and Shop in Marseille appeared first on Saveur.

I first encountered “savory cake” as most French people do: at an apéro dînatoire, a boozy buffet-style dinner of room-temperature offerings. On the table were a number of unfamiliar dishes—I recall a cold rice salad studded with bright pink surimi and dainty plastic verrines of layered vegetable purées—but one was a revelation: a loaf cake filled with black olives, shredded deli ham, and hunks of barnyardy goat cheese. They told me it was cake salé (“savory cake”), and with one bite, I was hooked on its tender, olive oil-scented crumb. 

When you hear the French 101 word “gâteau,” you probably envision architectural pâtisserie marvels, but le cake is far humbler. The sweet versions are domed loaves that are often glazed with lemon or marbled with chocolate, while the savory iterations are filled with meats and cheeses, perfect for lunches and picnics. 

In the 16 years I’ve lived in France, I’ve encountered many such casual cakes, but while quiches have become a Starbucks mainstay and savory tarts like pissaladière have starred on Food Network, le cake salé is nowhere to be found Stateside. 

I’m not the only one who’s noticed a dearth of this delight. “I don’t get it,” says author and French pastry eminence Dorie Greenspan, who has included a savory cake recipe in nearly every cookbook she’s published in the last decade. “It’s easy to make. It keeps well. And once you have the basic recipe, you can add whatever you find in your refrigerator or pantry.”

Indeed, le cake salé is a testament to what Aleksandra Crapanzano, author of Gâteau: The Surprising Simplicity of French Cakes, considers a characteristic frugality in French home cooking. It isn’t so much about the cake itself as it is about the add-ins: sun-dried tomatoes and goat cheese in Provence, perhaps, or Reblochon cheese and lardons in Savoie. (Or, more pragmatically, chopped-up leftover roast chicken, or cubes of those past-their-prime cheeses kicking around the fridge.)

But cake salé wasn’t always an anything-goes blank culinary canvas, according to French baker and cookbook author Sophie Dudemaine. When she discovered the dish in a magazine in 1998, there was only one type French people were making, filled with olives and ham. 

Dudemaine saw huge potential in cake salé, but she didn’t dig that recipe, which turned out a dry, one-note brick. So she got to work, first reducing the flour, which made the cake less dense. Then she swapped the butter out for sunflower oil, which resulted in a moister crumb. Finally, she turned to the fillings, where she really let her imagination run wild, developing versions filled with melty raclette cheese and bacon or seasonal creations with chanterelle mushrooms and asparagus. Bonus: She could fit far more loaf tins in her oven than pie pans, which led her to abandon the idea of selling savory tarts at the local market in favor of the rectangular cakes.

A decade later, Dudemaine had enough loaf cake recipes to fill a cookbook. Les Cakes de Sophie, published in 2000, sold over a million copies. The media dubbed her the French Martha Stewart, and suddenly savory cakes were omnipresent on French tables. Twenty years later, they still are: The 2022 edition features 100 recipes, most of which are new (think cake salé with rabbit in mustard sauce, a nostalgic French favorite revisited in a new format).

Most French cooks don’t know the debt they owe to Dudemaine. And yet, despite the unabating cake salé craze back in the Mother Country, the dish has hardly leapt its borders. This cake-shaped hole Stateside may have less to do with the dish itself and more to do with when it’s traditionally served. In France, wedges of savory cake are a mainstay of the aperitif, the course of pre-dinner drinks and nibbles so sacrosanct it’s protected by UNESCO. Americans love their cocktail hour, but there’s simply no U.S. equivalent to the French apéro. 

Beyond divergent mealtime traditions, cake salé has a visibility problem. Unlike their sweet counterparts, savory cakes are glaringly absent from French bakeries and restaurants both in France and abroad. “I’ve never seen a savory cake outside the home,” says Crapanzano. That means even the most adamant visiting Francophile would struggle to catch a glimpse of the dish, let alone taste it.

“Unless you’re close enough with a French person to be a frequent houseguest,” she says, “these are things that you would never know about.” French dinner invitations tend to be hard-won, following weeks or months of meeting in bars, cafés, and restaurants—and even then, it would likely take several such meals before you could be served what’s essentially upgraded leftovers.

But there’s hope for the savory cake seekers among us, whether a trip to France is in the cards or not. Recipes by Greenspan and Crapanzano abound; some are filled with Roquefort and walnuts, while others toss in chorizo and crumbled goat cheese. 

Back in France, there are signs that cake salé is finally beginning to fly the nest. Recently I glimpsed shrink-wrapped tomato-feta cakes in the apéro aisle of my local Monoprix, and two savory cakes have popped up on the menu at the Marcounet, a floating bar on the Seine. 

Paris even has a new bakery, CakePart, that’s dedicated to “les cakes” both savory and sweet. The owners, Sarah Zerbib and Margaux Sodoyer, say the business is an homage to their childhood love of cake: the vanilla-scented ones Zerbib’s mother made for four o’clock goûter, or the chocolate ones Sodoyer’s mom brought to weekend meals with extended family. 

Each day, in addition to these sweeter offerings, CakePart bakes off a handful of cakes salés, whose ingredients vary seasonally: In winter, butternut squash may dot the batter; in summer, tomato and eggplant peek through the crust. “We see it as a ‘fast good’ meal—one with healthful ingredients, but where you don’t necessarily have to go sit in a restaurant for hours to eat,” says Sodoyer.

Americans may never fully embrace the French apéro, but savory cake is a gateway to its palpable joie de vivre, whether you serve the dish for lunch or brunch (which Greenspan recommends) or take it on the go. Crapanzano rightly points out that savory cakes keep longer and hold up better than most sandwiches, making them perfect for hikes and picnics.

Regardless of the occasion, you’ll want to keep a few tips and tricks in mind when making cake salé. Crapanzano says full-fat buttermilk is your best bet for achieving a moist crumb. A tablespoon or two of extra olive oil ensures the cake remains moist even when  the add-ins are on the drier and less fatty side. Filling-wise, three cups is a good amount to add to the batter to ensure each bite marries rich, eggy dough with pleasing pockets of texture. 

“I say, open your fridge. Now that you have the base, add whatever you like,” says Dudemaine. Greenspan agrees: “It’s the kind of thing where if you make it and love it, it can become yours.”

Recipe

Cake d’Alsace (Bacon, Guyère, and Caramelized Onion Loaf)

Get the recipe >

The post Is This Humble Dish France’s Best-Kept Culinary Secret? appeared first on Saveur.

Welcome to SAVEUR’s column on making the most of local produce according to contributing editor Fatima Khawaja. Here you’ll find creative, unfussy meal ideas plus plenty of cooking advice—like what to do with that bumper crop of zucchini or how to store delicate heirloom tomatoes. Follow along, and you’ll learn how to turn the season’s bounty into easy plant-based meals.

This hibiscus-poached pear and frangipane tart recipe is a great way to use up overripe pears. To core a pear neatly, first halve it from pole to pole, then use a melon baller to remove the seeds and fibrous center. An in-depth, beginner-friendly guide to making pie crust can be found here. The tart tastes even better the next day at room temperature, so feel free to make it ahead. Leftover poaching liquid can be turned into a refreshing beverage with the addition of sparkling water (or bubbly if you fancy).

The post Hibiscus-Poached Pear and Frangipane Tart appeared first on Saveur.

I came for the cake. When Jean-Georges Vongerichten opened his eponymous dining room on the ground floor of the brassy Trump International Hotel and Tower in early 1997, it was the most desired reservation in Manhattan. The launch catapulted the Alsatian-born chef to stardom and soon after he earned a four-star rave from restaurant critic Ruth Reichl. Every night, stretch limos lined the curb outside the front door, while celebrity sightings and opulent flourishes were delivered tableside. Poached foie gras and creamed morels, rack of lamb in a green garlic crust, Muscovy duck with Chinese five spice were all tempered with Vongerichten’s signature vegetable broths and emulsions.

When I first sat in one of the sleek leather banquettes with a view of Columbus Circle, Mike Tyson and Donald Trump were in the house. (The combover was weirdly bad even back then.) I don’t remember much about the meal, although thankfully, someone else picked up the tab. But the finale? The dessert menu’s pièce de résistance had such an underwhelming name. “Warm chocolate cake.” It arrived at the table embarrassingly under-dressed for a restaurant with a no-jeans dress code. A fluted mold baked good, dusted with confectioners’ sugar. A quenelle of plain vanilla ice cream on the side. And yet, one swipe with a dessert spoon released the molten flow of bittersweet Valrhona chocolate, oozing from the soft center like lava escaping Kīlauea on a moonless night. No wonder everyone ordered it. Luxe in a Y2K fin de siècle way. I may have licked the plate.

Like any viral culinary creation, this cake came with its own disputed origin story. In 1981, French chef Michel Bras invented coulant au chocolat—cookie dough with a creamy ganache center—inspired by the après ski hot chocolate. Vongerichten also claimed ownership, after he accidentally pulled a runny chocolate sponge from the oven a little too soon in 1987, during his residency at Restaurant Lafayette in the Drake Swissôtel on Park Avenue. Eventually, variations appeared on menus all over town, and then all over the world. One bastardized version even wound up trademarked as Death By Chocolate at Bennigan’s, the fast casual Irish pub-themed chain. Still another can be microwaved in a coffee mug. Sadly, warm chocolate cake soon lost its exclusivity, and as the millennium turned, other swanky desserts sang a sweeter siren song.
Enough time has passed that I almost miss that retro cake. Not that I would ever order it again, or be caught dead in a dining room owned by a chef who admitted in a recent memoir that he lost his cool and beat up a dish washer in the walk-in. But maybe I’ll bake my own, minus the dark gooey history.

Recipe

Molten Chocolate Cakes

Get the recipe >

The post You Don’t Have to Apologize for Loving This ’90s Dessert appeared first on Saveur.

Paris’ most emblematic sandwich, the jambon beurre, may be in danger. Last Tuesday, the French Government announced a “plan of action” to reduce the use of nitrites—an additive commonly found in cured meats—in food. The news came on the same day that the country’s national health security agency (ANSES) confirmed a link between the consumption of processed meats containing nitrites and certain types of cancer. 

The agency called for limiting the use of nitrites to what’s “strictly necessary”—as little as possible while not creating adverse health impacts. Nitrites serve as a preservative and prevent the growth of noxious microorganisms. But they also add flavor and color: in the case of baked ham, they lend the meat its characteristic blushing pink hue.

The cured meats industry, unsurprisingly, was quick to respond to the government’s announcement. But their reaction wasn’t quite what one might expect. 

According to Bernard Vallat, president of France’s cured meat industry federation (FICT), the organization was satisfied that the plan calls for reducing nitrites, rather than entirely eliminating them. As he explained on a phone call, the industry in France had been scaling back on nitrites since 2016, from 150 milligrams per kilo (the maximum allowed under European Union regulations) to 100 milligrams. 

“Along with Denmark, we are the country that uses the least nitrites in charcuterie. We did it because we knew we were facing societal pressure, as people are emphasizing more natural products and fewer additives,” said Vallat. In fact, the federation supports reducing the maximum permissible amount even further. “But first, there’s an enormous amount of research to be done.”

Baked ham, such as “Prince de Paris” (considered by many to be the gold standard for French ham), represents about 25% of the charcuterie industry in France. According to Vallat, approximately 15% of those producers are already nitrite-free. Instead, they’re using a newer additive called Prosur, which is made in Spain. But it’s not as effective as nitrites, so products made with it have a much shorter shelf life. The biggest barrier holding up its adoption is that it’s more expensive: “Only huge corporations have been able to use it. Smaller companies can’t afford it for now,” said Vallat.  

Vallat says the biggest consequence of the French Government’s proposed plan of action is a crisis of public perception. Since manufacturers had already been reducing the use of nitrites, the call for their reduction won’t impact production. “The problem is the media campaign that influences consumers and could hurt consumption. They’ll decide to eat something else,” he said. For now, all the industry can do is reiterate its commitment to adhering to government regulations and continuing its quest to minimize nitrites to the extent possible.  

Strictly speaking, the jambon beurre won’t be affected by the French government—not yet, at least. But whether the established cancer link prompts Parisians and visitors to opt for a different sandwich is another question entirely.

The post France Says Non To Nitrites—and the Country’s Meat Industry Is on Board appeared first on Saveur.

This story first appeared on MEL, with features writer Eddie Kim interviewing the father-daughter duo.

For her entire life, Claudine Pépin had insisted that she didn’t want to cook in a professional setting. She had no inkling to follow in her father’s footsteps, and indeed pursued a degree in political science while attending Boston University. But when the Jacques Pépin asks you to cook, you can’t say no—which is exactly the situation she found herself in while traveling from the East Coast to San Francisco with her father. 

“He tells me, ‘We’re going to Aspen for the Food & Wine Classic.’ And an hour before his demonstration on stage, he looks at me and goes, ‘You’re coming with me.’ I just responded, ‘I’m going to what?’” Claudine says. “He goes, ‘Don’t worry, it’ll be fine.’ I asked him why he just didn’t tell me more in advance, and he just said: ‘What good would it have done?’” 

Thus began the first collaboration of many, though Claudine didn’t quite know it yet. The duo would go on to shoot three television series together, starting with Cooking With Claudine in the 1990s. The episodes have aged beautifully, balanced on the chemistry between father and daughter; she is the perfect foil for Jacques, playing the everyman and asking lots of fundamental questions. 

“But all through that initial time we started working together, people would always come up to me and say, ‘Oh, you know what you’re doing! You’re just faking!’” Claudine tells me, laughing. “But I was not. I really was learning everything for the first time.”

To be fair, it is hard to believe that the daughter of Jacques Pépin—as mythical and revered a figure in food as one can find—ever avoided learning how to cook. He started his professional career at just 13 years old, training in some of France’s best kitchens, then cooking for French President Charles de Gaulle, leading New York’s legendary Le Pavillon, and even revolutionizing the menu at Howard Johnson’s during the heyday of the casual restaurant. 

Jacques is the author of countless influential books, including the indomitable cooking bible La Technique, and an educator who has lectured around the world. He is also a pioneer in food television, growing into a household name in the 1980s thanks to his blend of brilliant skills, relaxed storytelling and practical advice. Much like his good friend Julia Child, Pépin became an aspirational figure to those trying to learn not just how to cook, but to truly love all aspects of food and eating. 

Being raised by Jacques and Gloria Pépin, who was a culinary force of nature herself, left quite an impression on Claudine. She may not have fully understood Pépin’s renown, nor picked up on the fact that his friends were towering legends in the food world. But she did learn to eat really, really well—and despite never wanting to cook for a paycheck, Claudine forged a professional bond with her father that has informed and strengthened their relationship over decades.

Claudine has built a formidable career for herself, becoming an expert voice in the wine industry, lecturing at the French Culinary Institute and authoring several books. Today, she is the president of the Jacques Pépin Foundation, which started in 2016 and aims to train and assist people who are struggling and disenfranchised from the workforce. But she is also forever intertwined in the myths of her heritage, and is continuing to add upon the legacy of her father and late mother. Claudine’s own daughter, now graduated from high school, also claims she won’t work in food—but then again, her grandfather already got her on TV and in a cookbook, so who knows?  

I recently spoke to Jacques, 86, and Claudine, 53, to reflect on a lifetime of incredible food, memories from the road and how the kitchen became their conduit for bonding.  

So that first experience, at Aspen Food & Wine… did you have that surprise for Claudine all planned out, or was it a spontaneous decision? 

Jacques: I don’t know if it was planned out before, but I thought it was time. I did three series called Today’s Gourmet, each 26 shows, and afterward I thought, “Maybe I should have someone with me.” I didn’t want to have another chef next to me, trying to compete or anything like that. I wanted someone that I love next to me, to be the vox populi, if you will. To be able to ask questions that everyday people would want to ask, if they could be with me. So I thought Claudine was great—she was good on camera, and comfortable. 

When we worked together, I never told her what the menu would be, on purpose. People would say, “Well, she must already know that.” She didn’t! Maybe she ate that over the course of her life, but she was never interested in how things were done.

I mean, I remember when she was 10, 12, whatever, she didn’t know what she would do in life, but she thought she would never, never do what I’m doing.

Claudine: That’s true! 

Claudine, when you were growing up, how aware were you of your father’s renown? Like the fact that JFK had wanted him to be his chef, or the fact that he knew all the superstars in the cooking world. 

Claudine: I think the awareness really started when I went to college. I didn’t think much of it at first. We were friends with Julia Child, so we’d go to her house all the time when I was young. I mean, she wasn’t terribly interested in chatting with me. [Laughs] But we were surrounded by all of these chefs who were really, really, really famous in their own right. So it was hard for me to see my dad as a standout when you’re hanging out with Martin Yan. You go to Chinatown with Martin Yan, which we did, and my dad isn’t the famous one.

But I remember we were in San Francisco or something, and we were walking down the street and one guy the size of a Mack truck started running straight at us. I had no idea what was going to happen, but all he wanted was to hug my father and say, “Oh my God, I love your shows.” Two people also stopped us on the street, unprompted, just to say how much they loved my dad. My awareness grew a lot when that happened. 

So it was clear from a young age that Claudine didn’t want to cook, but when did you first see and realize that she loved to eat, Jacques? 

Jacques: It was always like that. As a family, we didn’t eat a la carte— every day we sat down to have dinner for an hour, at least. She did that since she was born. Even when she was very, very small, we never bought baby food. Whatever we ate that night, I put it into a blender without too much salt and pepper, and made a puree out of it. So she had that taste. It was a part of who she was, and she knew the taste even when she was tiny. 

I love the story in your memoir when she’s young and she’s over at a friend’s house for dinner, and her friend’s mother asks her, “Why aren’t you eating your asparagus, Claudine?” And she responds along the lines of, “I’m waiting for the Hollandaise!”

Jacques: Right, yes. [Laughs] That’s funny.

Claudine: I know Mrs. Pratt, and I still call her Mrs. Pratt, and yeah, she loves that story. She called my mom. She’s like, “What kind of insane child did you send me?”

Jacques: Claudine did not realize how sophisticated her taste was. She maybe was not interested in cooking, but all her life she had been going to places like Lutéce in New York, led by André Soltner. He was a good friend of mine; she called him “uncle.” And many other great restaurants from Le Cirque to whatever. She had been going to France since she was six years old. So she may not have known regular elements of cooking technique, but she was exposed to the greatest restaurants and markets in the world. 

Claudine, what was it like to start cooking with your dad and think about it more critically, having avoided the nuts and bolts for most of your life? 

Claudine: Well, it was interesting. It firmed my resolve that I didn’t want to ever work in a professional kitchen, I’ll tell you that. That’s just a lot of work. But I do remember a few events that we did where we had to put food out for a lot of people. I was needed in the kitchen, and after all those years, I was surprised by what I had learned just through osmosis. 

Well, Jacques, maybe in a different universe, Claudine never ended up working in wine. Never ended up on a TV show with you. What would you be missing in your life? 

Jacques: She taught me to be patient. I mean, I don’t work with her now the same way I did back in 1989, when she really didn’t know anything, and so forth. I’m not sure if you remember, but in my book, I mention that when she started at Boston University, she had a little apartment near the campus, which I fixed up for her. And she invited me one night for dinner. You read that one?

Yeah. She made the infamous chicken. 

Claudine: No, it wasn’t a chicken. I made a hen. I roasted an old hen. Because it was more expensive, therefore it was better. I went to the store, saw chicken, then saw hen cost more money. It turned out pretty much like whatever shoe you’re wearing. [Laughs]

Jacques: It’s quite different now, because she has quite a knowledge of cooking and has her own ideas. She does it her own way now, not necessarily my way. 

What was something challenging about working with your father, Claudine? 

Claudine: I think that probably what’s challenging is to never be seen as a professional in your own right. Because it’s family. So I am a professional, and I know a lot about what I’m doing, whether it’s with the foundation or anything else. It’s very challenging for him to see me as anything other than his daughter. So, look, I feel like my professional opinion always has to be supported by someone else. That’s challenging to me. But it’s probably that way with everyone that works with their family.

To be fair, I follow the Tony Bourdain line to a T: If Jacques Pépin says this is how you make an omelet, I consider the matter closed. My husband, who is a chef, might say there is a different way. And I would reply, “Well, that’s wrong—my father does it this way, and that’s how it’s done.” So maybe there’s blind spots on both sides. 

Jacques: I don’t know if I agree with her that I don’t respect her opinion on one thing or another. That’s not really true. I mean, maybe it was when you were six years old. But now, if you don’t like this or that, I will respect what you feel, even if I don’t agree with it.

Claudine: [Pauses] Oh, that’s progress! 

It’s always tough when you work with family, I think. But nonetheless, Claudine: You’ve seen your father be a pro for your entire life. Jacques: You raised her and now work with her, 50 years later. What has this bond given you both? 

Jacques: Well, Claudine is my whole life now. So working together is very rewarding. I mean, I can picture when she was four years old, and I can see her now when she’s a little older, and see the way she has progressed. Now she has a kid, and we are very close, maybe even closer than [Claudine and I] were when she was a child herself. So it’s been very rewarding, and all of that is basically based on cooking and being together and sharing food.

When a kid comes back from school, the best place is in the kitchen. To hear your mother or your father’s voice, and the smell of the kitchen, and the taste of those dishes—it will stay with you the rest of your life. They are very visceral moments. Very powerful. So this is a culmination of what we’ve been doing our whole life. And we are happy to be able to do that together now. I mean, I am.

Claudine: And for me I think it’s 100 percent trust. Like one million percent. And for me, a father is the first man in your life—and unfortunately for every boyfriend I’ve had, he’s been the one by which all others shall be judged. I know he has my best interest at heart, of course. So it’s just trust. There’s nobody I trust more.

The post Jacques Pépin’s Daughter Never Wanted To Cook–Until She Started Working With Her Dad appeared first on Saveur.

At 86, Jacques Pépin still speaks with an unmistakable French accent that makes the chef immediately recognizable.

“But I am the most quintessential American chef,” he asserts, citing his long tenure in the U.S., his focus on a wide range of culinary influences beyond traditional French culinary training, and his stint at Howard Johnson’s, a beacon of mid-century American dining. For Pépin, his journey has cemented his place in American culture: a culinary icon who has remained accessible through the intimacy of his role as chef instructor and master of technique. 

Throughout his career, Pépin has shared his vast culinary knowledge through multiple mediums. He has released more than 30 books, starred in various instructional television shows through a longstanding partnership with PBS, and even filmed a series of videos in his Connecticut kitchen for Facebook and Instagram. But Jacques Pépin’s most comprehensive cooking primer is perhaps the 685-page Essential Pépin: More Than 700 All-Time Favorites from My Life in Food. First published in 2011, the volume compiles many recipes from across his wide-ranging source material.

Although Pépin started working in professional kitchens at 14, his interests have always been diverse. At one point, he thought he might teach a literary subject at Columbia University, where he earned a graduate degree in French literature, but he “went back to cooking, what I know the best, and what I’m the best at,” he says. Through the connections he made while working at New York’s Le Pavillon (one of the top French restaurants in the world during its time), he later went upstate and taught private cooking classes in the Catskills. To reconnect with his love of writing, he also penned a food column for Helen McCollough, food editor of House Beautiful, who had become a good friend and introduced him to James Beard, Julia Child, and Craig Claiborne. 

In 1974, Pépin suffered a bad car accident. After recovering, he found that teaching was more palatable than spending hours behind a restaurant stove. By the mid-70s, cookware shops equipped with kitchens were popping up all over the U.S., so Pépin began touring and teaching, all the while hosting a lecture series at Boston University. Then PBS came calling, and his career reached a new stratosphere; suddenly, Pépin graced TV screens across America on a weekly basis, cheerfully deboning a fish alongside Julia Child or showing his daughter Claudine how to make rice paper rolls with avocado and sun-dried tomatoes. His skill is undeniable on camera; his knife moves deftly as if an extension of his fingers, while he calmly chats with a co-host or instructs viewers.

Pépin stresses that, as a teacher, he is not so much patient as he is pragmatic. His practical approach to technique shines brightly across his canon of work—from his television series Jacques Pépin: Fast Food My Way, to the cookbook The Art of Cooking which includes 1500 images, to Facebook videos he shared during the pandemic demonstrating how to make eggs en cocotte and butter roses in step-by-step fashion. His explanations are easy to follow, and his careful guidance helps readers and viewers believe that they, too, can master the recipe or technique.

Pépin himself learned to cook by visual instruction, repetition, and a hefty dose of osmosis during his formative years. He grew up in the family’s restaurant and began his career with a formal apprenticeship at Le Grand Hôtel de l’Europe in Bourg-en-Bresse. He later joined the military, where his cooking skills were lauded and he even cooked for heads of state. At every step of his journey, Pépin gleaned culinary techniques and practiced different preparation styles. The education was immersive, and his resulting understanding of different ways to learn has made him not only a beloved teacher, but also an innovator in a culture hungry for…well, culture. 

When Essential Pépin debuted in 2011, Bonnie Benwick of The Washington Post wrote: “This cookbook is not all dacquoise and cocottes and foie gras in aspic. The [then] almost-76-year-old master was an early adapter of good food prepared fast. His inventiveness outshines any fix-it-quick, Food Network fodder I’ve seen.”

Dishes such as shrimp-cilantro pizza, cucumbers in cream, and eggs with brown butter are all “fast and easy” recipes—ready to eat in the time it takes to bake a frozen pizza—yet they’re still real food, with a dash of panache. 

In Pépin’s eyes, he still has work to do. There is always more to teach and more people with whom to share his knowledge. He has always been willing to try something new, and that impulse remains. 

Most recently, Pépin shared subscription-based videos on the new platform Rouxbe, which offers—among other expert-led courses—exclusive content from Pépin, grading from industry experts, and certification. Pépin’s proceeds will go toward The Jacques Pépin Foundation, a non-profit he launched in 2016 to support community kitchens that offer free skills and culinary training to adults with high barriers to employment, including previous incarceration, homelessness, and lack of work history. 

Pépin’s work with both Rouxbe and the Foundation are simply two more ways for the chef to continue teaching essential skills that can bring his students a lifetime of joy in the kitchen. And yet, as much as he cooks in his day-to-day work, he still loves preparing food as much as ever.

“I basically am a glutton, and I am hungry every day, and that’s why I cook,” Pépin says with a twinkle in his eye. “But there is something soothing, also, in the cooking process—of cooking with friends, eventually sitting down and sharing the food. You know, that is an extraordinary thing.” And with Essential Pépin, there are more than 700 recipes to inspire that daily practice—a lifetime of apprenticeship under the simple guise of putting dinner on the table, one recipe at a time. Extraordinary indeed.

Braised Green Peas with Egg Yolks

Get the recipe >

The post Jacques Pépin Is the Teacher and His Ultimate Apprentice is America appeared first on Saveur.

Today I’m breaking down a whole pork shoulder. I procured the meat from a pig farmer operating in the Willamette Valley, near my home in Portland, Oregon. With my boning knife, I separate trotter from hock, hock from picnic, picnic from coppa. I’ll use bones and skin for stock, hock for salting and smoking, coppa for curing and drying, the rest of the shoulder for sausage, and there will be just enough leftover meat and fat to make rillettes. I repeat the French names in my head: pied, jarret, palette, echine. This ritual is my modern translation of a centuries-old peasant tradition—and as close to worship as my atheist bones will ever get. 

In 2009, having just lost my job as a magazine editor and ended a relationship with the man I thought I would marry, I reached out to the American cook and instructor Kate Hill, whom I’d met when she passed through Portland a few years prior to teach a class on Gascon cooking. Kate’s Kitchen-at-Camont, an 18^th century farmhouse in southwestern France, is situated on the banks of the Canal de Garonne. Her lush and welcoming culinary retreat and school has hosted hundreds of guests each year since she arrived in the 1990s. All those years ago, Kate learned the Gascon ways of duck fat and cassoulet, saucisson and ventreche. She befriended the butchers, bakers, and Armagnac-makers of Gascony—people who would also eventually become dear friends and mentors to Kate’s guests and students.

When we met in Portland, I imagined the Kitchen-at-Camont as a mythical haven for lost people like me. In our modern times, it’s so easy to forget where our sustenance comes from, and I was ready to reconnect. So I called her up. 

“Can you teach me how to butcher a pig?” I asked. 

“I know just the person,” she said. 

In the cold salle de coupe, or cutting room, on the farm of Dominique Chapolard, Kate’s friend, pig farmer, and butcher, I not only studied the art of cutting up hogs. I also learned how to transform the entire animal into delicious, nourishing food. “If someone worked hard to raise this animal well,” Dominique taught me, “you should use every part.”

Here, on the vertically integrated pig farm that Dominique owns and operates with his wife, sister-in-law, and three brothers, I was educated, as Kate liked to say, “seed to sausage.” “It isn’t just about the cuts,” she told me, “It all starts with a well-raised pig.” 

“Kate has a fantastic open-mindedness,” Dominique recently told me. “She took us out of our comfort zone by asking us to explain why we cut the pigs the way that we did, and why we cooked what we cooked. Then she asked us to teach our trade to others.”     

Together, Dominique and Kate gradually built what he likes to call their “school without walls.” When I wasn’t in the cutting room, Kate marched me into local slaughterhouses, through market stalls, and even into her own kitchen, where she taught me to properly salt a ham. 

Back then, I was only the second student to pass through Kate and Dominique’s doors, but right around the time I left, a butchery and charcuterie renaissance was afoot, both here in the United States and elsewhere. Hundreds more students would eventually follow me.

“We didn’t want to just teach butchery,” Kate and Dominique have both told me. “We wanted to teach a way of life.” And so they did. The Camont principles have spread far across the globe. High-profile figures have visited—among them writer and author Michael Ruhlman and pastry chef and Paris-based blogger David Lebovitz. Kate and Dominique have traveled to the States as well, to teach alongside chefs including Craig Diehl, of Charleston’s European-style butcher shop Artisan Meat Share, and Portland’s trailblazing restaurateur Vitaly Paley. However, the pair speaks most proudly about the countless unsung kitchen heroes and career changers who came to Camont with a vague idea—perhaps to start a pig farm, open a meat-focused restaurant, or launch a butcher shop—then returned home with a concrete plan and ample inspiration. “Take what you learn with us in France,” Kate always told her students, “and translate it to wherever you live.”

After Peruvian chef Renzo Garibaldi studied with Kate and Dominique, he returned to Lima and launched his renowned whole-animal butcher shop and restaurant, Osso, which combines the techniques he learned in Gascony with the flavors of Peru. Erika Lynch visited Kate and Dominique as a school teacher, but returned home a charcutière. Her company, Babette’s Table, now sources pork from Vermont farms and sells handmade, Kate-and-Dominique-inspired charcuterie all over the country. “I’m always trying to recreate the feeling I got sitting around their table,” Lynch says. 

“They worked so hard,” recalls Charles Lee, who studied at Camont in 2015, before opening the American Pig, a wholesale charcuterie company in North Carolina. “But they always took so much care, and so much integrity.” 

Our respective ways of life are always changing, of course. Dominique and his wife Cristiane recently retired, and the other Chapolard brothers aren’t keen to continue teaching. Kate recently published a new digital edition of her transportive 25-year-old cookbook, A Culinary Journey In Gascony. She hosted her last “Camp Charcuterie” in 2019; the COVID-19 pandemic has put a stop to her once nearly constant stream of international visitors. She doesn’t foresee hosting in-person classes anytime soon, but—ever scrappy and innovative with her mentorship—she has branched out to offer online classes, now live-streamed from her familiar farmhouse kitchen. 

Back in my own Oregon kitchen, I’m finishing up a batch of Gascon-style pork rillettes, relishing the relative quiet—something I’m not used to. When I returned from Gascony, I launched two businesses, a butchery school called the Portland Meat Collective, and a national nonprofit, the Good Meat Project. Both aim to teach consumers, farmers, and food professionals the same basic tenets I learned all those years ago in France: how to transform an animal from seed to sausage with respect and care for the land, the animals, and the people who raise and eat them. 

When I’m butchering during normal times, I’m usually surrounded by at least a dozen people with endless questions. These days, it’s often just me, and sometimes my three-year-old daughter, Djuna, asking “who killed that pig?” and “how?” and “why?” and “can I taste that?” Kate and Dominique inspired so many of us to ask those same questions, and now my daughter will carry those lessons with her throughout her life. Their legacy will make Djuna—as they did myself and so many others—an eater who doesn’t just take pleasure in the food on her plate, but also in the complex and nuanced story behind it.  

Camas Davis is the founder of the Portland Meat Collective, a meat school and culinary resource in Oregon, as well as of the Good Meat Project, an initiative to facilitate responsible meat production and consumption. She is also the author of Killing It, a memoir about her adventures in the world of meat. 

The post How Learning to Butcher in France Made Me Rediscover Myself appeared first on Saveur.

Cheesemaking, mankind’s long-­running alchemy of controlled rot, involves transforming perishable milk into something exponentially more complex, long-lasting, and valuable. It requires the dedication and patience of a monk.

Until recently, Antoine Ricardou was, in no way, a cheesemaker. An architect and co-founder of the branding and design firm Be-poles, Ricardou spent his days jetting between the firm’s Paris and New York City offices, overseeing projects for such clients as Eleven Madison Park in Manhattan and Les Roches Rouges on the Côte d’Azur.

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Then, this past March—well, you know what happened this past March. So, the 47-year-old, along with his wife and their three children, left a pandemic-stricken Paris for the relative isolation of France’s Haute-Savoie region, where the family owns an early-1800s chalet. Ricardou, who chuckles at the word “chalet,” is quick to dispel any notions of grandeur: “It’s simple and traditional, and did not have heat or hot water when we bought it last year.”

Nor did he have any gentleman-farmer pretensions. Ricardou rented the small plot of land surrounding the house back to relatives of the cheesemaking family he purchased the place from so they could continue to graze their Abondance dairy cows there, as they’d done for centuries.

One descendant of that family, Peggy Josserand, usually produces Reblochon, a soft and highly perishable fermier cheese. As coronavirus-­related supply-chain issues caused Reblochon sales to plummet, Josserand hoped to pivot to Tomme de Savoie, a cheese with a shelf life of months, not weeks. The hitch? The ideal tomme-ripening cave sat below the house that her family had just sold.

Ricardou, eager to entertain his school-age children, leapt at the opportunity to age the cheese. He added fresh limewash to the cave’s walls and ceiling, and installed shelves of untreated Alpine spruce, before welcoming 37 two-kilo wheels of tomme. Every few days, the architect and his offspring flipped the wheels and wiped down the mold that would eventually form their rinds, occasionally adjusting the cave’s humidity levels by pouring buckets of cold mountain spring water over the mud floor.

When he wasn’t tending cheese or running Be-poles remotely, Ricardou—the grand-nephew of famed Italian illustrator René Gruau—documented his surroundings in oil, pastels, and graphite. On March 22, @antoinericardou posted a simple sketch of his chalet, and its snowy environs, on Instagram, with the caption: “DAY ONE…A drawing a day keeps the virus away.” On May 11, while preparing to bid adieu to the Alps, he shared an oil painting of the house, this time surrounded by lush, spring fields.

Related: The Complete SAVEUR Guide to All Things Cheese

Back in Paris, Ricardou couldn’t shake a sense of responsibility for the cheese he’d tended, all 37 wheels of which he’d pre-sold to friends and colleagues around the city. Once the Tomme de Savoie “Ferme La Praise” (the name of his chalet) came of age in June, Ricardou personally delivered each wheel by bicycle. He’s already talking with Josserand about aging another batch in his cellar next spring.

“When we bought the chalet last May,” Ricardou recalls, “my wife and I said to each other, ‘Listen, if something happens one day, a war or whatever, we could stay here. We would be able to make or grow whatever we need for a basic life.’ This spring, my god, it came true.”

The post The Unlikely Affineur: Cheesemaking in a Culture of Pandemic appeared first on Saveur.

As far as food museums go, the stakes couldn’t have been higher. Lyon, the culinary capital of France, was finally getting a Cité Internationale de la Gastronomie (“International Gastronomy Center”) to celebrate its hallowed food culture—which brought us Paul Bocuse, bouchon-style dining, and dishes like quenelles in Nantua sauce and salade lyonnaise—and share it with the world. But from the moment the cité opened on October 23, visitors have been bickering over whether it lives up to the hype.

Off to a good start…

First, what does impress: The newly renovated complex occupies a 42,000-square-foot swath of the Hôtel-Dieu, a stunning UNESCO-protected building that served as the city’s main hospital for the better part of nine centuries, closing in 2010. It sits on the edge of the Rhône in the heart of the old town. When you walk through the main entrance, the first thing you notice is a jaw-dropping 105-foot dome, nearly 500 years old, from which 13 gigantic spoons hang suspended in a circle. A number of online reviews by locals say it’s worth visiting the museum to catch a glimpse of this ancient architectural marvel alone. The dome competes for attention with a wall of intricately painted urns from the hospital’s original 17th-century apothecary, which marks the first stop of the visit, memorable by all accounts. “Gastronomy was extremely important in the history of the hospital because, for centuries, food was the medicine that doctors used to treat patients,” said Florent Bonnetain, director of the center, in a phone interview.

After reading up on medicinal herbs and early modern medicine, you’ll move on to the Bon Appétit room, where food-obsessed francophiles can view Paul Bocuse’s cooking range and get an overview of local gastro-celebrities such as the Mères Lyonnaises (“Mothers of Lyon”), a cadre of female chefs who, beginning in the 18th century, struck out on their own and laid the groundwork for the city’s refined comfort-food cuisine that remains a mainstay of bouchons (raucous old-school taverns). So far, so good.

But not for long

But the exhibit begins losing steam in the subsequent “À Table” and “Atlas” exhibits. Here, touchscreens are swiped this way and that to reveal historical and nutritional information on a range of meats, dairy products, insects, fish, and produce, plus recipes for international dishes like paella, couscous, haggis, and tamales. Needless to say, if you are an avid devourer of food media and love taking a deep dive into cooking projects, this ultra-basic material is yawn-worthy, patronizing even, regardless of the nifty graphics.

Conspicuously absent throughout is, well, food—unless you opt for a supplemental (as in, for a fee) chef-led tasting workshop, also geared toward beginners, on ever-changing themes ranging from modern Spanish cuisine to cooking with grains. In online reviews, cooking newbies and families with kids rave about these classes; more seasoned culinarians, on the other hand, leave unimpressed—lots of smoke and mirrors but little memorable substance, regardless of the topic. Bonnetain noted that the format and content of the workshops will be more varied in the future, with plans for demonstrations by local artisans (bakers, sausage makers, etc.). There will be plenty of sushi and sake on the docket this year (Japan is the cité’s country-in-residence for 2020), but some of these additions seem thin and—not to mention beside the point in a museum meant to celebrate Lyon’s culinary heritage.

By now you’re probably wondering, how does this “gastronomy center” get away with forgoing a closer look at the culture of this famed region for such entry-level material? The short answer is, sometimes it doesn’t. At the time of writing, the average Google review for the center was 2.6 (out of 5) stars, and TripAdvisor’s average is three stars, a rating most pommes frites joints in Lyon easily exceed. Some reviewers extol the facility’s “well-designed play area,” “interactive screens,” and “beautifully renovated building,” but the negative reviews are (as always) far more colorful. “Gastronomy?? I do not know where. Just some long halls and empty corridors,” chides one recent visitor, while another calls the tour the “worst ‘cultural’ (if one dares to use such a word for this type of place) experience we’ve had since… forever.”

Above all, sticker shock is the main gripe. It costs €12 (which is roughly $13, according to exchange rates at time of publication) to see the permanent exhibit and another €12 to participate in the tasting, which includes a beverage but not enough food for a meal. Spring for a guided tour, and you’re out another €7. (For perspective, entry into Lyon’s most popular museum, Musée des Confluence, costs €9.) Bonnetain acknowledged that the prices are higher than average but also notes that many museums receive government subsidies. “We don’t have those here—it’s a fully private project, even if the initial investment was from public services,” he said.

Bonnetain did, however, level a bit with the the peeved reviewers. “To the ones who say [the exhibit] is too digital and a bit short on content, I could agree with that, because the topic is so huge. Especially in Lyon, we have a lot of people who are very aware of that history, so when they come here, they’ve probably seen better things,” he said.

Perhaps a €31-a-pop experience would be more palatable if you knew part of the proceeds were going to a good cause—after all, a brochure for the venue asserts that “good food and healthy eating should not be reserved for a small portion of the population.” But surprisingly, the *cité* doesn’t engage in any community outreach related to hunger, sustainability, malnutrition, or other issues that plague Lyon and beyond. “It’s too early for us to think about this, for now,” said Bonnetain.

But he’s confident that these are all growing pains. “We’re always listening and trying to make improvements,” he said. “Now we just need some time to let the cité develop.”

The post Lyon’s New ‘Cité Internationale de la Gastronomie’ Leaves Some Visitors Hungry appeared first on Saveur.

This story is part of our 25th Anniversary extravaganza, a celebration of the magazine’s first quarter century.

Restaurants are living things and, sadly, like all living things, they eventually come to an end. Here are 14 we covered at various points, all now gone, all sorely missed.

72 Market Street

Venice, California (1983–2000)

This monument to seaside culture and comfort food—oh, the meatloaf!—was owned by actor/producer/director Tony Bill and actor/musician Dudley Moore, who sometimes played piano here.

Aux Amis du Beaujolais

Paris (1921–2009)

French and American journalists flocked to this quintessential bistro du quartier, or neighborhood joint, serving unpretentious food and honest wine to generations of locals.

Chasen’s

West Hollywood (1936–1995)

The ultimate Hollywood hangout, Chasen’s appealed to everyone (W.C. Fields, Charlie Chaplin, John F. Kennedy, and Ronald Reagan) with such midcentury American specialties as shrimp cocktail, lobster ­Newburg, and strawberry shortcake.

El Bulli

Roses, Spain (1961–2011)

Arguably the most influential chef of the millenium, Ferran Adrià reinvented what food could be, drawing pilgrims up a ­treacherous road to a middle-of-nowhere location on the Catalan coast. (In 2020, El Bulli will be reborn as a creative foundation.)

Four Seasons

New York City (1959–2016; 2018–2019)

It was the first luxury restaurant in the country to feature American cuisine, courtesy of a menu curated by James Beard. The space—designed by Mies van der Rohe and Philip Johnson, with art by Picasso and Miró—attracted political, financial, and media barons, giving rise to the “power lunch” before closing in 2016. The Four Seasons reopened nearby two years later, but the luster had faded, and it quickly closed again.

Hibiscus

London (2000–2016)

French chef Claude Bosi’s groundbreaking modernist restaurant—in its time, arguably the most exciting place to eat in London—earned two Michelin stars. Bosi is now the chef at the city’s much-lauded Bibendum.

Ports

West Hollywood (1972–1992)

You might have seen anyone from Warren Beatty to Claes Oldenburg to Eve Babitz scarfing down a range of international fare (eggplant parmigiana, albóndigas in chipotle) at this quirky, clubby boite.

El Racó de Can Fabes

Sant Celoni, Spain (1981–2013)

Chef Santi Santamaria—considered the anti-Ferran Adrià for his refusal to use scientific trickery—made this the first restaurant in Catalonia, and the second in all of Spain, to receive three Michelin stars.

Rose Pistola

San Francisco (1996–2017)

This place was inspired by, and named for, the key figure in Peggy Knickerbocker’s beloved feature, “The ‘Old Stoves’ of North Beach,” which ran in Saveur’s second issue.

Savoy

New York City (1990–2011)

Peter Hoffman’s eclectic American bistro in SoHo did the farm-to-table thing long before the rest of the world caught on.

Trader Vic’s

Beverly Hills (1955–2007)

This kitschy pseudo-South Seas fantasy also happened to serve some of the best food in Los Angeles during the 1960s and ’70s.

Uglesich’s

New Orleans (1924–2005)

There was almost always a long line of folks outside Uglesich’s, clamoring for classic New Orleans fare like po’boys, Gulf oysters and crawfish étouffée.

Valentino

Santa Monica (1972–2018)

Valentino brought real Italian cooking to Los Angeles and was, for 40-plus years, perhaps the finest Italian restaurant in the nation, with one of the biggest wine lists.

Windows on the World

New York City (1973–2001)

Sadly, the whole world witnessed Windows on the World’s demise. On September 11, 2001, this dazzlingly ambitious, iconic restaurant on the 106th and 107th floors of Tower One of the World Trade Center lost 73 members of its incredibly diverse staff. In 2006, some surviving employees started a new restaurant on New York’s Lower East Side. Named Colors, it operated until 2017, then reopened this past October.

The post Closing Time: 14 Restaurants That We Sorely Miss appeared first on Saveur.