Brasserie Les Halles
We all have our heroes. People we look up to, admire or aspire to be like; for something they did or even just the way they live their life. When I was younger, most of my heroes didn't exist. I wanted to be like Spiderman (so much so that while playing in a ska band called DoleMyte,
I wrote a song about that very thing), or Wolverine, or -on my angsty-er days- Batman. Hell, the only person I really admired that existed outside of a comic book was my dad.
As I got older and began my slow decent into culinary madness, this -of course- changed. Sure, I still try to emulate the way Peter Parker always puts the happiness of other imaginary people before his own happiness, and Batman's desire for justice above all is influential. As with all young men, I aspire to be like my dad in most ways, and probably always will, especially given his skill in the kitchen (he has the innate ability to throw a bunch of seemingly incongruous items in a pot, let it cook for a few hours and it inevitably comes out as a delicious, hearty soup).
However, as food has become one of the most important things in my life, the list has expanded to include names like Paul Bocuse, Bernard Loiseau, Eric Ripert, Daniel Boulud, Ferran Adria, Marco Pierre White and -last but NEVER least- Anthony Bourdain.
Now if I were to tell Mr. Bourdain that I mention him in the same breath as those other culinary titans, he would probably laugh at me. Yes, he is certainly famous for at one time being a chef, but he is adamant that he, while a great cook, is not in the same league as the "big boys".
In my eyes, he is, indeed, a great cook. He can do classic French food like few others today can. He may not be super creative, or reimagining classics, but what he lacks in creativity he has made up for in hard work, attitude and a quality we chefs like to call "badass-ness". He is the old school bucaneer cook we all strive to be like. He's a CIA grad, a former junkie and current TV host and author.
Speaking of which, have you read his opus, "
Kitchen Confidential"?
No?
Do it.
Now. I'll wait.
OK, fine. Do it later. Man, are you lazy.
Anyway, that book has, since I started cooking seriously, helped me through many a tough day; reminding me not-so-subtly why we do this thing we do. It made me want to be a better chef. It made me want to be the BEST chef. It taught me about hard work and hard times and a lot of the philosphy I use in station and mise-en-place management. For a cook, it's a life changing read. For anyone who is married to, dating or related to a chef, it explains everything.
So since the first time I read "Kitchen Confidential" a number of years ago, I've wanted to eat at
Les Halles, the restaurant where Bourdain worked in Manhattan while writing it, and to this day remains "Chef-At-Large". It is a classic French joint, serving classic peasent faire in a classic brasserie atmosphere. It is justifiably famous for it's pommes frites (french fries, dummy). Last weekend, I finally got that oppurtunity.
My fiancee Erin and I were going to spend the weekend in Newark with our friends
Rob and
Carrie. Our plans included a day in the city, so I figured I'd try to get us reservations at Les Halles. Low and behold, I did. 7:00 Saturday night, we showed up for a meal I've been anticipating for years.
The room is on the dark side (lighting wise, not a
Sith lord) and decked out like you'd expect a Parisian bistro to be: old add posters for cheeses and wines on the walls, pictures of the French countryside and butcher paper over the white tablecloths. The bar, where we grabbed a drink as we waited for our table, is small, old school and attentively tended. I had a very nice dry martini and Erin had some sort of drink involving vodka, chambord and macerated berries. It was pretty good for a girly drink.
Then we sat down at our table (the closest table to the kitchen, no less!!!) and I held the menu in my hands. I noticed as I perused the offerings and listened to our waiter give the specials that my facial muscles were a little on the crampy side. It was then that I realized I was grinning like a complete moron and entering some sort of fugue state which I will forever refer to as Les Halles' Syndrome.
After much debate we setlled on our meals.
I would have the escargot, the soup du jour (which was a pureed soup of brocolli rabe, fennel and potato) and the Onglet a l'Eschalote (hangar steak with shallot sauce).
Erin ordered the Gateau du Crabe alla Maximilien (a crab cake with cilantro and peppers) and the Streak au Poivre.
Carrie had the Gratin de Macaroni (gruyere mac and cheese with serrano ham), followed by Moules Mariniere (muscles in white wine).
Rob (who had gastric bypass surgery mere months ago and therefore could not gluttonize as we have done in the past) had the Gratinee des Les Halles (the famous onion soup) and a Salade du Onglet.
Everything was perfect.
EVERYTHING.
I know, I tasted it all.
The escargot, which is far too easy to overcook and turn to inedible rubber, was so tender it barely needed to be chewed. It fell apart bettween your teeth. They were so excellently seasoned and wonderfully garlicky that even Erin (who, while she is always willing to expand her horizons, does not yet have a palate that would normally like, say, snails) loved them.
The crabcake and gruyere mac were equally impressive. The texture of the crab cake was perfect, and the macaroni was unctious without being overpoweringly stinky.
Both of the soups were amazing. My soup, the potato-fennel-broccoli rabe affair, was an inspired interplay of sweet, savory and bitter, each bite working its way across the tongue from papillae to papillae, opening up new sensations as it went. The onion soup was sweet and thick, by far the best I've ever had. I will be trying to duplicate that one for a long, long time.
The mains were exquisite: The onglet and shallot sauce tender and ethereal, the mussels perfectly cooked and flavorful, the steak au poivre spicy and the salad simple and perfectly constructed. The shallot sauce was a real awakening for me, and this week I came pretty close to duplicating it, but I just didn't have the time to reduce it properly. I also don't have the homemade demi glace used in it. That makes a big, big difference.
This meal was everything I expected it to be, and I find myself (as with the shallot sauce) already adding more French to my repetoire of specials. I desire to buy more French cookbooks and read about more French chefs. The cheese-eating surrender-monkeys have a much more firm hold on me than before. Just as Bourdain's "Kitchen Confidential" opened my eyes and mind to the ins and outs of my trade, so did his food to my palate. I am begging my supervisors to get some snails in so I can try my hand. I want to get some hanger steak. I want more duck. The experimentation has begun.
Thanks again, Anthony, for everything.
Not THAT "Episode I"!
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