Dining in Le Meurice by Matt Morley
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Le Meurice is perhaps best known as one of Paris’ most prestigious hotels. This long-standing A-List favourite has associations of refined Louis XVI-style rooms, the best bathrooms in Paris and a perfect location between le Louvre and Place Vendôme.
If 36-year-old Yannick Alleno, chef de cuisines at the Meurice, has his way though, all that is about to change. Alleno and his team of 72 won a second Michelin star in 2004 and recently had the illusive third star pinned on his sleeve, meaning the hotel’s restaurant gastronomique is on fire, if you’ll excuse the pun.
Nothing is as exciting as a kitchen pushing for its first star; nothing that is, except one fighting to retain its third. Alleno has a CV bursting with medailles d’or, prix internationaux and apprenticeships at the hands of French masters; all of which is largely irrelevant of course, unless he is able to produce the goods twice a day every day. You just never know who might be ‘in’ on any particular sitting.
His self-styled cuisine parisienne uses influences from all over the country and flicks between staunch traditionalism and avant-garde innovation. This is without doubt an haute dining experience, yet the room, and the diners in it, all had a relaxed, starch-free air about them on a recent visit that came as a welcome surprise.
Alleno’s opening gambit showed both the quality of his suppliers and his own playful persona. A smooth broccoli jus concealed a fleshy piece of steamed crayfish with an ingenious foaming crème that evaporated upon hitting the tongue.
A starter of lightly smoked balik salmon fillet in a wafer thin potato crust was topped with a generous portion of French Aquitaine caviar. Despite involving some rather complicated wizardry to create such a perfect potato parcel, the kitchen deliberately left the plate unadorned. No beetroot swirls, olive oil drizzles or lavishly strewn parsley sprinkles here, just the quiet confidence of a chef’s signature dish.
By this stage (a good hour into the proceedings) I have to admit it was already getting a bit much. Having borrowed a chum’s model girlfriend for the occasion, as you do, my trans-tabula view was inviting to say the least. Warm, sandy coloured rays of light, such as one finds only in Paris, were filtering through the curtains casting diaphanous, near beatific beams triumphantly across the room. Add in a Midas-like décor and feminine frescos all over, and it is easy to see how a chap’s imagination could run away with itself.
Perhaps my senses may yet have been able to avoid complete meltdown however, had it not been for the sommelier. His opener of Bruno Paillard champagne went down particularly well, so well in fact that we had opted for a second round with our amuse-bouches just to make sure we hadn’t missed something the first time.
Two glasses of Macon Milly Lamartine from Bourgogne were to follow. Fresh, herby and amply bodied, the wine sat so well with the scallop mains that we were both forced into submission. Critical aptitudes were henceforth placed calmly on the handbag stand between our seats and we simply sit back to enjoy the rest of the ride. This was a restaurant firing on every one of its many cylinders, and enjoying every moment of it.
It is hard not to make at least a passing comment on the waiting staff at this point however. As a rule of thumb in Paris, where the Michelin stars go, pompousness follows. Not so au Meurice.
For each course, three immaculate young men would arrive in perfectly choreographed synchronicity to serve, present and introduce our dishes. Flicking deftly between English for her and French pour moi, descriptions were detailed without making us feel like we owed the chef our lives and delivered from a peculiar duck-feet stance that we took to be de rigeur amongst fine culinary establishments this season.
Now if any other nationality tried to get away with that little act, I fear the result would have been near hilarity. Yet there was no suggestion of haughtiness or disdain here, rather a rare sense of complicity between server and served. For the record, it is hard to think of a more glowing comment one can bestow upon a front of house team.
After such a lunch of course, it is always best to leave the rest of the afternoon free from all commitments, save those of the amorous variety. As a siesta en deux with my delectable companion was still out of the question however, we elected to make a half-hearted attempt at digestion in the Meurice’s Bar Fontainebleau.
So dark and brooding is this place that I had never quite worked out its appeal, until then. As we rolled disgracefully into a back banquette, all sense of day or night was mercifully removed by the flattering chiaroscuro light effect. Judging by the other couples and ‘middle-aged’ glamour pusses seated around us, the local cognoscenti had long since worked this out too.
Marvelling at just how many others were intent on whiling away the afternoon in that secluded cubby hole, Paris suddenly felt like the most blissful place in the world. It isn’t always of course, but rare are the restaurants that can offer that kind of postprandial glow as part of the package. Some things really are worth paying for.
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