Christmas Bonus

I’m not prone to spontaneous outbursts of emotion, but on this occasion I’m prepared to make an exception. A couple of weeks ago we welcomed a perfect addition to our family, just in time for Christmas. She’s gorgeous. So fragile, and I was so nervous about transporting her for the first time. I didn’t imagine she could be made more exquisite, but the addition of a ribbon proved me wrong. On first sight I wept with joy, and here are the first shots:

Slightly smaller than usual, but nonetheless perfect. Just the right amount of fat, a precise angle of the score, a lovely hue on the glaze – I really couldn’t have hoped for more. So perfect, she almost threatened to overshadow the arrival of  Abigail, daughter number three in the household. Everyone’s smitten.

By some miracle Mum and Dad arrived a day before the birth (of Abigail, not the ham) having made possibly the most indirect journey in the world, driving from Kangaroo Island to Pt Lincoln to visit my sister Pip and her family and then on to Sydney. The first leg of the journey requires a complete circumnavigation of the vaguely horse shoe-shaped Spencer Gulf; the distance being some 752 km by road, or one quarter of the distance by boat, should one be in possession of such a vessel. 

After pre-Christmassing and recuperating in Pt Lincoln, they arrived in Sydney following a pit stop in Broken Hill for some genealogy. My Great Grandfather John Souter was mayor of Broken Hill - quite some distance from Perth, Scotland where he was born in 1871. History does not record if he retained the kilt for ceremonial occasions in one of the hottest places on earth.

But enough of the tedious lineage. More importantly, I’ve been doing a version of my beloved glazed ham for years. It's lineage is less clear than my own, but I do recall a scrap of paper - I think originating from a  Gourmet Traveller circa 1995 - which was possibly the original source. The scrap of paper is ancient history, and this recipe's no doubt morphed over the years (the result of an annual Chinese whispers of memory I’ve been playing with my self for a decade and a half), but the underlying principles remain strong. The principles being –  procure ham, remove skin, score, rub in sugar, stud with cloves, bake, add marmalade glaze, bake again, add more glaze, secretly consume warm fat pieces, present for Christmas, then continue eating ham until the following year.

The process is fail-safe and was my sole culinary contribution to Christmas Day this year. With other events threatening to disrupt my usual preparation, I entrusted management of the day to my younger sister Penny. We had a tremendous lunch, commencing with oysters, prawn cocktails, and then scallops topped with a bit of tarragon and garlic butter and allowed the most minor flirtation with the barbecue.

Penny also put together this magnificently refreshing beverage with lemonade and mineral water which kept the girls happy.

My brother in law Sam procured a magnificent turkey from what I know as the old pie shop on Birrell St Bondi Junction. The groaning bird was accompanied by potatoes roasted in goose fat, a selection of vegetables and the ham. And with the same certainty that Christmas rolls around, so too will Dad be sure to question on at least one occasion on December 26 as to why we do not consumer this divine manifestation of porcine inspiration on other days of the year - which I've been known to do and recommend highly. It's an easy one when called upon to feed scavenging hordes on mass. If, like me, you will be picnicing on Australia Day then this is ideal. Do this, and you'll start to appreciate my apprehension about transporting such a valuable bundle of joy. It's simple, here's how to do it.

Christmas Glazed Ham for 365 Days of the Year

5kg leg of ham (bone in)
2 cups of brown sugar (the soft stuff)
cloves

Glaze
1 jar of breakfast marmalade approx 4-500g
3 bay leaves
2/3s of a cup of red wine or port
1 thumbnail-size piece of ginger, finely sliced
optional for glaze
2 cinnamon sticks
5 star anise
zest of half a lemon

1) Select a ham with the bone in. It should be at least 5 kg or it will be a visual disappointment. Ideally select a ham with a layer of fat at least 5mm thick under the skin - this allows a good quality score.

2) This is the only tricky bit: looking at the cut end of the ham, take a knife with a rounded end (like a butter knife) and work the knife gently between the skin and  the fat. The idea is to take the skin off, leaving as much fat as possible. As it comes away, gently work down with your fingers and/or the knife and progressively work the skin off - but it is crucial to leave as much fat as possible.

3) As you get down toward the bone end, take a sharp knife and make a jagged incision through the skin just above where the bone meets meat so that the whole skin will come off like a flap and leaves a series of connected mountain-like points over the bone. Retain the skin for storage purposes. The finished, cooked part of the jagged points will look something like this:

4) All the skin should be off, leaving a layer of white fat. Using a sharp knife, gently score the fat across the whole ham in long parallel lines about 1-2mm deep and 1 inch apart. Next, score long parallel lines diagonally across the first lines to create diamond shapes.

5) Preheat the oven to 180C. Place all other ingredients except the sugar and cloves into a small saucepan and bring to a steady bubble over medium heat so the glaze thickens and gradually becomes syrupy.

6) Gently rub the sugar over the fat until it is covered in a light layer. This will bring out the diamond shapes and you can now stud one clove into the centre of each diamond.

7) Put the ham on a baking tray and place in the oven for 15 minutes until skin is slightly browned and caramelised.

8) The glaze should now be bubbling. Using a large spoon or ladle, carefully spoon half to two-thirds of the glaze over the scored part of the ham. Leave the remaining glaze off the heat.

9) Place the ham back in the oven and put a tray of warm water underneath, or next to, the tray containing the ham.

10) After 15 minutes, turn the ham to prevent the glaze from burning. Put the remaining glaze back on a low heat.

11). After another 15 -20 minutes, remove the ham from the oven. The remaining glaze on the stove top will now be quiet thick. Spoon or pour this over the ham for a final glazing.

The ham can now be eaten warm. If it is not to be consumed immediately, allow the glaze to cool,  place the skin back over the ham and then place a damp, clean cloth or ham bag over the top of this. Place in the fridge until you are ready to buckle it up and drive it off to your picnic or yuletide celebration.

A Very Rich(ie) Curry

If it’s good enough for Richie, then it’s good enough for you.

When I say “Richie”, Australians automatically know to whom I refer. But my expansive global readership may be barking up the wrong tree - perhaps thinking I allude to Lionel; or maybe the ex-Mr Madonna; or the lesser known and recently deceased Clinton Charles Augustus Ritchie, who had a twenty year stint on the US soap opera One Life To Live, and (according to Wikipedia) taught Tom Selleck to ride a horse.

But here in Australia there’s only one Richie, and I’d like to share a recipe I know he loves. I know this, because 17 years ago I was wiping a table clean as I glanced down the corridor of the restaurant where I was working, and saw a tall, white haired gent strolling towards me in a relaxed fashion. His upper-sartorial structure needs little reference – the jacket was unquestionably the “off-white”. This evidence alone was sufficient to confirm the patron’s identity, but it was beyond doubt when he opened his mouth slightly, and requested in that voice synonymous with cricket, “just a table for one, thanks”.

Before Shane Warne, there was Richard “Richie” Benaud. Leg spinner, punishing lower order batsmen, and Australian cricket captain from 1958-1964.  Now deep into retirement, his fondness for pale coloured jackets in the commentary box is well documented, but clothing was also part of his playing identity. On the field he unbuttoned his shirt to dangerously low levels (by post-war standards) - usually flirting just north of the navel. He only buttoned up for the traditional encounter with royalty at Lords, where instead he let his collar do the talking by positioning it well beyond the boundaries of his blazer’s lapel.

His charisma facilitated a natural move into the commentary box, where he’s remained pretty much since television was invented. Where Richie's concerned, time seems to have frozen. Apart from a possible shift in lip-hue (from faint-puce to light-lilac) he's barely changed since I clapped eyes on him that quiet afternoon where I was toiling at the Bath Spa Hotel in England. Fortunately there were few lunchers that day, giving me an opportunity to chat to the great man. He enthusiastically endorsed my impending visit to Wimbledon, where he rated the atmosphere as on par with “day one of an Adelaide Test”. Enough said.

It was a warm afternoon and Richie clearly had a thirst. Having dispensed with the pleasantries, he launched into his first glass of Stoney Vale chardonnay. He then asked for a food recommendation, and I pushed him towards the green curry chicken, a suggestion he enthusiastically accepted. Despite the staining potential of the sauce, I felt it was the right choice for Richie and he polished off the whole thing – along with another two glasses of the Australian white.

 

He didn’t specifically ask for the recipe, and whilst I suspect Daphne does most of the cooking in the Benaud household, I’ve decided to publish it here, should it be something he wants to re-visit. If you have Daphne’s email, please do forward this on.

The unusual thing about this Thai recipe is that it came from England, a place not usually associated with Thai cooking. In fact it’s not a traditional “curry” in that it doesn’t contain any curry paste or shrimp paste, but this does mean it's so deliciously fresh in flavour that the sauce can be used cold for dipping. And don't be perplexed by the presence of olive oil in this recipe, it adds excellent 'roundness' to the flavour profile.

Freshness of ingredients is absolutely paramount in this recipe, and if you don’t grow your own herbs, then you must buy them on the day of use. As Daphne and Richie spend much of the year tanning (and channelling Richie's Huguenot heritage) at their home in Beaulieu-sur-Mer in the South of France, Daphne may find some of the Asian ingredients difficult to procure at her local market. But I’ve always found Jean-Luc - the manager of the produce section at her local Carrefour supermarche (on the road to Nice) - most accommodating, and I’m sure he’d happily source any exotics Daphne requires - and I know for a fact Richie will be thrilled with the result.

Richie's Thai Green Curry

3 bunches coriander

1 bunch basil

1 bunch mint

3 limes

4 cloves garlic

1 piece ginger

3 spring (green) onions (trimmed as per image above)

1 stalk lemongrass (remove the hard outer layers, and keep the small 'rubbery" inner section)

8 kaffir lime leaves

1 tin coconut milk

3 tablespoons mango chutney

3 tablespoons fish sauce

1 teaspoon palm sugar (or brown sugar)

1 tablespoon sweet chili sauce

2 teaspoons salt

3 tablespoons olive oil

fresh chili - optional

1kg chicken breast
jasmine rice

1) Wash the herbs thoroughly including the coriander roots.

2) Remove all the leaves from the basil and mint and place in blender.

3) Put 2 bunches of coriander including the stalks and roots into the blender. Tear  leaves only off the third bunch and add them to the blender (reserve a few leaves as garnish).

4) Grate in the zest of half a lime. Squeeze the juice of the two limes into the blender. Reserve the third lime for serving.

4) Place all other ingredients (including the chili if you want it spicy) - except the lime leaves, chicken and the olive oil - in the blender and pulse for 1 minute.

5) Blend again and steadily pour in the olive oil.

6) Adjust seasoning - the sauce should be slightly sharp from the lime and garlic; subtly sweet from the sugar, chutney and sweet chili sauce; have well rounded saltiness from the fish sauce and salt. Adjust any ingredients to bring into balance.

7) Prepare the rice

8) Slice the chicken breast. Heat a wok to high, add canola and brown the chicken for 2 minutes. Pour in all the sauce and toss in the kaffir lime leaves .When the chicken is cooked through, serve with jasmine rice, lime wedges, mango chutney - and a cleansing white like Richie.

Feel Good Food

My foie gras, might be your fatty organ. Where I see foam, someone else might just think 'snot'. My sublime fish, could be your stinky seafood. Where someone detects nuances of elderberry and high notes of lavender, I might just sneeze into my dinner. Taste is, of course, subjective; which means there’s a lot more to a “good meal” than just the quality of the food.  

When ascertaining what makes up a decent feed in a restaurant, there are many intricate bits and pieces, such as provenance (Was my cow happy? How the hell do you tell? A pre-slaughter questionnaire?), cooking technique, freshness of ingredients, presentation, music, décor, setting and service. But what all this boils down to for me, is how a restaurant makes you feel. Nothing tastes good on a stomach of welling bile - which is precisely what I experienced this week.

But first, the joyous opposite experience, which I had a couple of weeks ago at Italian and Sons, in the unlikely location of Lonsdale St, Braddon, ACT 2600 - sort of in the middle of Canberra where kangaroos are more common than humans at any time after the offices empty between 4 and 4.59pm. Everything feels just a bit weird in Canberra, and the location of Italian and Sons on a big wide boulevard better suited to car yards, is no odder than the other bits about Canberra such as the dominance of Soviet era-inspired residential architecture.

The stark location certainly provided a contrast to the sea of spectacular tulips we slogged through all day at Floriade, which, like Canberra, is a marvel of human planning – except that Floriade is beautiful. Departing the flower show, I sent the girls on ahead to Lonsdale St to ensure we kept our 6.00pm booking, while I ran the ruler over the magnificent ales dispensed from The Wig & Pen just around the corner.

When I’d finished my Rumpole Pale Ale and joined the others at the entrance of Italian and Sons, we had a couple of issues alerting the staff to our arrival (and existence); until we fell into the hands of an older gent, whom I assume is the “Italian” in Italian and Sons. And what he knows how to do, is to make you feel good about being in his restaurant. The non–Soviet style fit out helps:  blackboards, horizontal timber palings on the walls, industrial bar stools, piles of wood for the oven, the oven itself, and the hanging salumi, all contribute to the sensation that tonight, everything’s falling into place.

The food is excellent, with a limited offering concentrating on core Italian capabilities. As we sat down, the wood-fired oven just over our shoulder gave birth to to fluffy focaccia which lapped up the rosemary infused oil accompanying it. Shortly after, the oven disgorged the girls’ classic margherita featuring Victorian buffalo bocconcini (which I thought gave it the edge over my local favourite pizzeria Napoli in Bocca).

I had a quick cleanser of marinated sardines with pine nuts and currants, before my main course of milk-fed veal marsala with wild mushrooms and thyme. This was a tender, mountainous portion lurking precariously on the side of being too sweet, but I enjoyed it immensely. Tania was fortunate enough to have the roast suckling pig on the bone (with apple and sage ‘mostarda’- like a fruit condiment), which usually only trots to the table on Tuesdays. A side dish deliciously merged onion, red peppers and potatoes, and while I found our other side dish of braised flat beans a bit over-cooked, they were a valuable countenance to my marsala sauce. Excellent Italian wines by the glass (each recommended by The Italian) left me even happier to be in this culinary outpost on the streets of Our Nation's Capital. And while I was happy, I kept on spending, something my experienced host clearly understood.

For the final leg, the girls had gelati while I tucked into a Ligurian honey panna cotta and poached red wine pear (above). The espresso was as good as I’d hoped. All up, we consumed a large amount of largely very good (but not faultless) food, but I couldn’t have been made to feel better, and heartily shook hands with The Italian before plunging back into the twentieth century reality of twenty first century Braddon.

Having returned from Canberra, I also had an excellent piece of kangaroo in Sydney on Wednesday night, but the following day phoned the owner of this establishment and made my first ever call of complaint to any restaurant, anywhere - because we were treated like shit by the staff in the dining room of a pub where I’ve spent thousands of dollars over the last few years. I won’t be back, because whilst the food tasted good, the ultimate job of a restaurant is to make you feel good.  And nothing tastes good, when you feel this bad. Perhaps a quick tutorial in Braddon might be in order.

Spring Into Life - Fresh Vegies are Back

I recently sacked my greengrocer. He’s not the type in a leather apron, but a nice franchisee in a van for a high-profile national company delivering a weekly, mystery selection of fruit and vegetables. His role is less about vegies, and more about smiling and depositing boxes on doorsteps; but not ours any longer.

It was a shame to part company with this chap, but no matter how much pumpkin soup and how many pumpkin scones I manufactured, I simply couldn’t utilize Halloween quantities of this one vegetable every seven days.  Combined with 1500kg of left-over onions each week - even after I’d produced a vat of French onion soup, and fried sporting-ground-hot dog-volumes of onions - I was forced to acknowledged I was flogging a dead horse. Perhaps he thought the year was 1770, my name was Cook, and scurvy was a real threat, but combined with the emergence of Spring and the resurgence of life in my vegetable garden, his redundancy was a fairly straightforward managerial decision.

His other problem, was that the weekly 5.30pm Wednesday delivery was often a culinary saviour when I was working full time, and domestic provisions usually bottomed out at this precise moment. It’s not his fault I’m currently semi-retired and consequently should be able to squeeze in a visit to the greengrocer.

So once more, my supplier of choice is Galluzzo (est. 1934) on Glebe Point Road. I can fill a box of my previously delivered provisions at half the price and still afford all the produce I actually want. Their wares are straight from Flemington Markets, unlike the van network which I suspect has fallen foul of the warehousing requirements burdening our supermarkets. This seems to undermine the franchise group's claims to freshness and seasonality of the selection. Alarm bells started ringing for me when oranges with the taste and texture of honeycomb tripe started cascading through the letterbox in March and April.

Reverting to my traditional procurement strategy is providing me with fresh produce again (and the proximity of Galluzzo to Glenmore Meat and Sonoma is another bonus), but parking on Glebe Point Rd is the Achilles Heel of the plan. So I have back up arrangements. I’m not precious about sometimes buying fruit and vegetable from Australia’s double-headed anti-Christ, Woolworths and Coles, as the yoke of offspring has forced me to ditch the old system of buying hardware from the supermarket, and then the fresh stuff from Harris Farm or Norton St Grocer. This lovely old idea was great pre-children, but now it just doubles the duration of the shop and I’m not prepared to make the sacrifice.

The truly delightful aspect of my current produce-sourcing blueprints, is that the sun is back - and this means I’m a producer again. My vegetable garden is forced into hibernation during the colder months, when the sun is unable to muster sufficient altitude to bathe the garden in its life-giving rays. During this period everything puts on about 1cm per month at best, and I burn more calories walking three metres from the kitchen to the garden, than my meagre harvest is able to put back into my feeble body.

Over the last few weeks things have changed, and the sun’s angle of incidence is now sufficient that me and my vegies are back in the money. It happened quickly. Suddenly everything emerged from its winter funk. Spinach mitts capture the sun thrown at them.

Seemingly perennial endive has actual leaves, rather than just being a tight frizz. Cos lettuce are no longer miniaturized. Purple cabbage  has taken on the form one would expect of the mature version, rather than being an umbrella for nothing bigger than a fairy.

 French Breakfast radishes are now launching themselves from the soil.

Alpine Strawberry flowers are transforming into dimpled little fruit.

Sweet peas are not just a floral adjunct, but will die down and inject valuable nitrogen into the soil where I’ll be raising rat-inducing tomatoes.

The herbs are back. Rosemary leaves are soft and fleshy. Their aroma lingers from the slightest touch. Thyme, with its deep and rounded scent, is growing long, soft stems, replacing its winter woodiness.

That weed-like herb mint, which  I’ve had in the same pot for about a decade, is more luscious than the newest and over-fertilized enticement you’ll ever see in a nursery.

Sun loving sage has floppy, pungent, rabbit-eared leaves again, and its neighbour, marjoram, has also been restored.

Young, malleable, yellow-green bay leaves augment mature, hardy flavour-bombs from this most important and practically indestructible tree.

Tarragon is pining for chicken.

Optimistically, I bought some basil a couple of months ago. Somehow it survived and is now on a quick path to pesto - assuming the caterpillars don't digest the spoils first.

After only producing lemons this year, it's a relief to see the oranges, mandarins and blood oranges are decorated with flowers, hopefully heralding the magnitude of the next citrus season. The lime tree is in the worst spot, facing south and espaliered hard up against the fence. Only now that it’s into its third season and has breached the lattice, is it experiencing any direct sun for the first time - and it's celebrating with an explosion of fruit foetuses.

The star performing lemon is sprouting siblings large and small.

Which all means the man in the van is out of a job, and I'll persist with the quasi self-sufficiency, real greengrocer, and occasional supermarket plan. The strategy will be up for revue when the sun once again prepares to descend into its winter depression.

How to Poach an Egg

When I was growing up we had a house cleaner called Slava who was from somewhere just east of The Adriatic Sea. On meeting her, it became apparent why tension in her homeland prior to WWI gave rise to the term “The Balkan Powder Keg” - you suspected Slava might explode at any moment. Luckily for us, most of her angst was directed at her unemployed, nicotine addicted, alcoholic husband; whom she bagged relentlessly whilst providing a very satisfactory cleaning service - a cleaning service seemingly unavailable today.

Another part of Slava's service was an intimate description of her dental problems - right down to the part where they tore out her teeth, sliced open the gums, and re-inserted new ones. But at least - as the blood poured from her mouth - she continued to work. She was happy to wash up a few dishes (in a household of four children) if they were still in the sink when she arrived at 8.00am. She then spent several hours vigorously scrubbing away her pain.

Things are different now. I was hoping to make fresh pasta today, but had to postpone this, as my cleaners just turn up whenever they feel like it. When they do eventually arrive, and in spite of limited English, they are excellent at communicating their wants - which essentially boil down to “move those piles of shit and get the hell out of here.” Everything must be perfect for their invasion.

Today, I kept the house in its once-weekly pristine condition for what we'd agreed would be a morning arrival. Instead the cleaners dropped by late in the afternoon, just before I had to collect the girls from school. If I was snowed under by several tonnes of flour, they would simply turn around and leave, so I dared not break out any ingredients or cooking implements. So I resorted to something easy to clean up, an impromptu lunch of smoked salmon, poached eggs, and spinach leaves plucked from the garden.

Fortunately fortified by my high-protein lunch, the cleaners, when they did arrive, ejected me from my house in a manner that would make a bouncer at The Ivy nightclub blush. From my exiled position, I deduced the three invaders were carrying one vacuum, one mop and one rag. After thirty minutes they evacuated.

When I engaged the current cleaning brigade I didn’t expect they’d be reorganising my cooking schedule, and nor did I expect to be unwittingly colluding in a grand Sino Ponzi cleaning scheme. The scheme works like this: when you start out with the new cleaners you initially engage with a person who turns out to be The Grand Master (GM). Initial negotiations will be conducted with The GM. The GM will turn up for a couple of weeks and help with the “cleaning” - despite the physical burden of an enormous new Rolex. After some time, the GM disappears and you will be given the telephone number of someone you vaguely identify as one of the assailants who descends on your house each week. This person is Number Two. You must then communicate directly with Number Two, and only resume contact with The GM in emergencies.

Time elapses, and one day Number Two will arrive with a Seiko, and before you know it there's a distinctive flash of a Tag Heuer. This means Number Two’s on the way up, and will shortly evaporate from your life; to be replaced by another person brandishing a copy of their PRC passport to give you comfort they are a suitable custodian of your house key. This person is Number Three - so on and so forth.......

With a profitable business this complex, there’s very little time for either punctuality or cleaning, which means all my plans get blown out of the water and the house merely receives a cursory wipe by three people I no longer recognise. Thank goodness Slava’s husband was too busy sucking at the teat of his wine cask to devise such a dastardly scheme - which meant our house was actually clean when she left. At least my impromptu poached eggs were perfect.

PS See below for how to cook a poached egg - without all the fuss of vinegar, glad wrap, ramekins and a whirlpool.

1) Ideally remove your egg at least 10 minutes prior to cooking so it is about room-temperature.
2) Pour water into a saucepan to 10cm depth and bring to the boil.
3) Once boiling, turn the temperature to low, then wait for the vigorous bubbles to dissipate.
4) Carefully crack in the egg. For a runny egg it will be ready after two and a half to three minutes - depending on egg size, egg temperature and general climatic vagaries.
5) After two and a half minutes use a flat slotted spatula and gently move it under the egg and raise it out of the water to check its progress. (Do not use a round, concave slotted spoon as the yolk will be inclined to collapse through its centre.)
6) The egg is ready as soon as all the white is cooked (ie no visible and wobbling gelatinous white). Allow water to drip off before gently sliding onto your toast.

Dictatorial Dining - Le Meurice, Paris

Conquerors rarely opt for the worst digs in town after they’ve finished the business of invading. When the Germans rolled into Paris in June 1940, they didn't move into the deserted slums of the city, but instead the eighteenth century building on 228 Rue de Rivoli which housed – and still does - Hotel Le Meurice.

This is the sort of endorsement you simply can’t pay for. We all know Dictators just love grandeur, and it speaks volumes about the place. Today, it’s all the more fabulous thanks to its recent restoration and the fact it's now Gestapo-free. (Although  management don't seem too particular about guests’ Human Rights credentials, as the sons of Dictatorial villain du jour Muammar Gadaffi recently shacked up there for several weeks.)

Le Meurice doesn't only welcome homicidal dictators. In fact, the 3 Star Michelin Restaurant le Meurice within the hotel is the only restaurant on earth where I’ve walked in and been greeted by name. And I don’t mean after we’d gone through the pleasantries, I mean as I actually walked in. This also impressed my wife-to-be, until it dawned on her this was the by-product of my afternoon reconnaissance to ensure all was in order for our impending visit. But, at least the maître d’hôtel had remembered me - in one of only four hotels in Paris granted palace status by the French government.

Having earlier farewelled the girls and our babysitter (whom I procured over the internet….) at our apartment on the Ile de la Cité,  the short taxi ride had us arrive at the embarrassingly early time of 7.30pm.  After my ego-boosting greeting, we were escorted through the hotel foyer and into the dining room where there are only about fourteen tables spaced over several acres.  And yet, the room is even higher than it is wide. The entrancing opulence of the Philippe Starck restored interior (inspired by the Salon de la Paix at the Château de Versailles) is quite breathtaking, with its chandeliers, gilded mirrors, several mints worth of gold on the walls and ceilings, enormous artworks, and floor-to-ceiling windows facing the Tuileries gardens.

Once seated, we had pleasant chats with the mostly English-speaking French staff about our origins and travel plans. A few gags were thrown in which lightened everyone up, and the waiter offered to photograph us before the culinary onslaught commenced. A small Hermès stool - which appeared tailored to provide a resting place for a poodle - was brought to the foot of my chair to house accoutrements such as handbags and notebooks which threatened to destroy the aesthetics of the table setting.

Menus in both French and English (offered without the slightest whiff of condescension) presented the option of à la carte, degustation, or a combination of both. Knowing the sommelier and chef would be better equipped than us to generate a superior combination (there are 1100 different wines in a cellar of 30,000 bottles), we ran with the eight course degustation and matching wines.

Having announced our decision, house-made butter (lurking beneath Le Meurice-emblazoned wax paper) was unveiled with a flick of miniature silver tongs, and accompanied by a choice of three different types of rolls. This was like a quick warm up for the staff. Every one of the main eight courses which rolled out over the next four hours was ferried to the table on a large silver tray supporting two cloche-covered plates. Each plate was placed simultaneously on the table by a different waiter. Each retained a hand on the cloche as their superior stood by and described the lineage of what we were about to eat, before the waiters theatrically revealed the contents at the precise moment the story concluded.

The genius behind the food appeared before our meal started, and he toured the room, greeting every table. Chef Yannick Alléno is a bit of a rock star in France, and is annoyingly handsome. If he ran off with your wife after the coffee was served, you’d be left shrugging your shoulders without any great degree of surprise. He was granted 3 Michelin Stars four years ago aged just 39.  His team of more than seventy staff work predominantly with classic French ingredients and techniques, but combine them with modern flavour twists, methods and presentation. He came back a bit later and kissed a lot of people, but inexplicably by-passed our table.

While his food is particularly “French”, and despite spending his career almost entirely in French kitchens, the maitre de explained he has been influenced by Japanese colleagues and this was evident in our first course, Delicate Jelly of Turnip Broth with Yuzu - yuzu being a small, distant relative of the mandarin, used in Japanese cooking to impart its unique citrus flavour, and as a base for teas and preserves. This jelly “broth” was served with seabass tartar and scattered with clippings of iodized seaweed. This first course arrived after a complimentary amuse-bouche of salmon mousse under a canopy of spinach puree, embedded with a mouthful of fresh salmon in a miniscule wafer sandwich.

The next dish displayed a simple use of new-in-season ingredients (it was autumn). Chanterelle Mushrooms with Vin Jaune was exquisite and unimaginable to anyone whose experience of mushrooms extends no further than the button variety. These gorgeous fungi were cooked in little more than butter and parsley, and served with a superb salad leaf stuffed with pork fat, Swiss chard and veal juice. Unfortunately I was so enamoured with the dish I forgot to photograph it.

The hint of delightful richness nestled in the salad leaf was brought to a crescendo in the subsequent course, Roasted Duck Foie Gras, served with mango juice and spiced thin biscuits. Four plump wedges of perfectly cooked, rosy foie gras, adorned a plate punctuated with half a dozen tiny mango balls crowned with micro-coriander, nestling in puddles of mango juice. The wafer thin, ginger and clove-flavoured biscuits, helped the fruit lance the liver’s wonderful fatty richness. My dining partner found the intensity too much to defeat. I did not.

The fish following the foie gras was my favourite dish of the evening. A superbly cooked Fillet of Turbot Braised with Thinly Sliced Parisian Mushrooms in a juice of soup herbs, was simply delightful. A magnificent piece of this firm-fleshed fish was enhanced by the most exquisite herb, butter and wine sauce (which the head waiter happily delivered more of in a beautiful silver saucepan, and confessed to an afternoon of consuming several helpings of the sauce with nothing but bread).

The next course presented the only choice to be made from the degustation menu. Demonstrating the chef’s capacity to adroitly merge the traditional and the contemporary, Scottish Grouse with Aged Malt was presented in a most unlikely rectangular slab, with layers of grouse leg and foie gras cooked sous vide, while the Larded Fillet of Beef Marinated with a Seaweed Jam (accompanied by braised vegetable compressions and polenta balls stuffed with fresh cream) was cooked to perfection; but not by sous vide as is often the case now with such cuts. We opted for both and shared. The flavours and textures of the grouse were intense and terrine-like. This was accompanied by buttered rat potatoes, a masterstroke in which this fingerling, heirloom variety (La Ratte) was presented in silky pureed form, with tiny, crunchy, round, potato-crisp type pieces layered on top like dinosaur scales.

                                   Above: Scottish Grouse served with Buttered Rat Potatoes

                      Above Larded Fillet of Beef Marinated with a Seaweed Jam

A cleanser of Tomato and Mozzarella with Basil was served after the meat course, and consisted of three miniature pouches of mozzarella balls topped with tiny fresh basil leaves. The balls disgorged liquid mozzarella onto a plate dotted with basil oil and discs of tomato jelly.

The tomato dish seemed designed as a sort of cleansing anti-venom to what we’d eaten, and what was to come – which was two pre-desserts, prior to the two desserts proper.  At this point a stroll was in order.

The most acute manifestation of the staff’s intuition is evident at the time one is required to attend to one’s lavatory. That first faint crackle of a signal from bladder to cerebral cortex seems to be hot wired to a small bell, in wherever it is the waiters mingle to recuperate in between service. The split second one commences a flexing of thigh, to launch the derriere from it’s station, a phalanx of waiters immediately assemble at the rear, ensuring the diner never has to undertake the unpleasant task of propelling the chair backwards unassisted.

One waiter is then empowered with the role of toilet guide. Simultaneously majestic and subservient, I followed while a path was cleared by my gesticulating overseer – through the dining room, out past the hotel’s “other” restaurant, past the guitarist in the bar, down the corridor before being delivered into the bathroom’s welcoming embrace. Surprisingly, the facility was free of staff.

I felt relieved I’d been empowered to navigate the return journey unassisted, as I was slightly disappointed with the performance of my new shoes I’d purchased in London. Specifically, their cheap rubber soles did not create what I deemed an appropriate cacophonic accompaniment to their majestic surroundings. I’d been able to mask this inadequacy on the outward journey by veering towards carpeted areas, but whenever I deviated too dramatically from the wake of my leader, a quick turn of his head pulled me back into line. Each time I squeaked onto hard ground (polished marble I think), I felt as if the room collectively observed and derided the absence of leather on my soles. Our proximity to the restaurant’s entrance fortunately kept this a secret from my fellow diners as I scurried back to our table.

Mercifully, the first pre-dessert was designed to cleanse, and a bowl of fresh figs in light syrup with gold leaf garnish, was accompanied by another bowl of pink grapefruit in a fairly neutral citrus foam. This led into a daunting array of petit fours which we simply couldn’t conquer whilst burdened with the expectation of the ensuing two actual desserts.

The first, was a lovely simple serving of Roasted Pear Hearts with Caramel and Liquorice accompanied by a light vanilla chiboust cream and crunchy “arlette” biscuits wedged like sails in the cream. This was served with a Hungarian Tokaji, not something I would ever have chosen, proving why it’s worth putting yourself in the hands of a great sommelier.  

The final dish was a masterpiece in appearance, texture and taste. Warm Soft Chocolate Mousse Cake with bourbon vanilla ice cream, was a rectangular offering no bigger than a playing card, built about half a centimetre high from thin chocolate cake encasing an epicentre of soft chocolate mousse. On top, a wafer thin, crunchy, gold leaf-decorated toffee roof supported the ice cream.

As the clock approached midnight there was time for a quick brandy and a €12 cup of coffee to aide the digestion - which I needed when I received the bill, as it came in at just shy of €1000, or about $1600 AUD. Plus tip.

Footwear aberrations and slight budget blow out aside, it was impossible to fault the experience. We ate majestically and were looked after as well as even the most ruthless Dictator could hope to be. We arrived home to find our children bore no visible scars from an evening with the web-sourced babysitter, and I fell asleep, not with the bitterness of a $20 cup of coffee in my mouth, but the sweetness of twelve perfect courses and a $1600 bill. I hope to go again.