[Pigging by Wilfrid: June 1, 2009]
Just who or what was the Great Véfour, anyway? Jean Véfour, it turns out, who took over the Café des Chartres in 1817, and sold it just three years later, leaving it his name and a suitable epithet:
because whether or not Monsieur Jean himself was grand, Véfour itself most certainly is. You can still see the Café des Chartres name on the exterior of the building, and the sign over the door says only Véfour, but "Le Grand" has become an ineradicable part of its proper title.
It's one of the oldest restaurants in Paris too. As Café des Chartres, it was founded in 1784 (Zagat says 1860, but I'm not sure that's right), but even if one dates its existence as a restaurant from 1817, only a handful of other survivors have seniority. Le Tour d'Argent, of course, which can trace its origins to the sixteenth century; Lapérouse; the less distinguished Le Procope. One thing which makes Véfour special is that it has been a grand restaurant and dining destination throughout its history.
Location doesn't hurt. The Palais-Royal, actually created as the residence of Cardinal Richelieu, is a rambling structure with extensive colonnades, built around a popular public garden, sandwiched between the Louvre and the Comédie-Française. Véfour occupies rooms in the palace's northern extension, and is best approached by descending an almost concealed stairway leading from the Rue Richelieu to the tiny Rue Beaujolais, where one finds a handful of bars, a pizza restaurant, and the Théâtre du Palais-Royal. Unless you are immune to history, the setting could hardly be more atmospheric.
An aperitif was taken at the hole-in-the-wall Bar L'Entracte - named, presumably, for its function in quenching the thirst of patrons of the theatre across the street. The few tables outside were occupied, and there were only a couple of seats inside, but it was possible to squeeze in. Operations are conducted with great charm and even greater idiosyncracy by one Marcel, taking and delivering orders himself and recording each one - and its cost - in painstaking script in a ledger on the bar.
Ducking past the top-hatted doormen, I was seated in the first of Véfour's downstairs dining rooms (I immediately assumed it was the room for non-Francophones, of course), and seated moreover at Jean Cocteau's table. I don't mean he was holding forth over a canapé, simply that the tables at Véfour are named for famous patrons, and although I could have been seated with Hugo or Balzac, Cocteau it was. I decided not to take it personally.
There followed a brief speech by the maitre d' outlining the restaurant's history and fame (again, something tailored for non-Francophones I suspect), but after that all was peace and Taittinger from the champagne bucket, and quiet contemplation of the room's outrageous eighteenth century beauty. red banquettes, bursts of fresh flowers, gold chandeliers, gold boiserie, mirrors, spectacular panelling with classical themes, painted ceiling panels: it's worth waiting for the diorama page to load at Véfour's website to load, because if you've not visited, it's even more lavish than you imagine.
In this setting, only the chef's pleasure would do - or rather the menu plaisir, all surprises, at 268 euros. Guy Martin is the chef, and he ran a three star kitchen from 2000 until he was demoted to two in 2008 - a consistency issue, according to the guide. The dinner I ate was consistently good, anyway, although it's fair to say that it didn't hit the heights of inventiveness and perfection found respectively at Gagnaire and L'Ambroisie. The final check was about the same, but I am comfortable paying a premium for the extraordinary ambience.
Following an amuse of chilled carrot cream spiked with chinola and topped with lobster jelly, there were about eight savory courses, then a procession of sweet things. The first plate, based around a rather good langoustine, illustrated the chef's commitment to meticulous presentation. In interviews, Martin has said that his dishes begin as sketches - he's a dedicated amateur painter.
Seafood got even better with Breton lobster, impeccably tender tail and claw served separately, warm, over a bed of diced watermelon and tomato, a pesto sauce dividing the plate. A 2003 St. Joseph, Yves Cuilleron's St. Pierre, which nicely matched the sweetness of these dishes.
Apparently a tradition of the house, it's a biscuit de Savoie from the chef's home province, mildly lemony, and with a strange springy texture. Obviously cooked in a rather spectacular mold. Of the several desserts by Thierry Molinengo which arrived, I was impressed by the architecture of this grand chocolate cube, known as the Cube Manjari.
Topped with a blackberry, and an edible chocolate globe filled with a raspberry coulis, breaking into reveals a dramatic array of flavors.
Enveloped in fromage blanc one finds more delicious, sweet red fruit, with the salty and spicy accents of olives and piquillo peppers. The pudding of the trip.
All you need to know is right here.
