I’m no stranger to dining alone. I do it a lot, whether at home or at the bar of one of my favorite spots in Paris, Le Saint-Sébastien. But before this weekend, I had never before spent nearly four hours dining alone… and I think I kind of loved it.
Of course, it would be hard not to love dining alone when one is dining at Bernard Loiseau, the storied two-Michelin-starred culinary destination off of the Nationale 6. The restaurant is a testament not only to Loiseau’s stalwart pursuit of excellence but to that of his wife and long-time chef Patrick Bertron, who has helmed the kitchens here for four decades. I hadn’t been sitting at my table, with a silver crab for company, for more than 30 minutes before I was niggled by an intrusive thought that didn’t budge: What if I was currently eating the best meal I’d ever eat in my life?
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
At Bernard Loiseau, there’s a choice between a prix fixe and and à la carte menu. I went for the à la carte, not only because it seemed more doable (ha.) but also because it meant I didn’t have to choose between two must-tries, both of which exceeded my expectations.
I veritable ballet of service saw me soon enjoying a glass of pink Champagne and an assortment of amuse-bouches. (When I told my father this, he quipped that he could live entirely off of amuse-bouches, and frankly, I get it.)
The first bite truly set the stage for excellence: a pig’s trotter cromesquis that was silky, rich, and crisp. It sat side-by-side with a marriage of truffle and creamy scallop, the former never overpowering the latter. Indeed, the flavors here were muted and mild, all the better for appreciating the gorgeous textural contrasts between the tender scallop, the crunchy fleur de sel and cazette (Burgundian hazelnut), and the snap of the truffle.
A pickled raw beetroot ravioli offered bursts of sweet and sour, and it came notably with its own three-pronged wooden utensil of sorts that I was skeptical would effectively convey the bite from its plate to my mouth. I was, of course, mistaken.
The tube on the left hearkened to the Breton origins of the chef, with a lovely marriage of crab and bright, bitter citrus zest notes. The tartlet on the right, meanwhile, saw one of my all-time favorite autumnal vegetables piled into a tart shell whose texture I wasn’t wholly convinced by, making it my least-favorite of the parade.
A final nod to autumn saw chestnuts in multiple forms paired with creamy whipped cheese. It was right around this moment, as I noticed a statue of a little girl in the garden, keeping me company, that I wondered for the first of many times over the course of the evening if I wasn’t, perhaps, having one of the dining experiences of my life.
And then the second amuse-bouche course came.
If autumn were to be incarnated in a single dish, i think it would be this one: a luscious velouté of chestnut and parsnip, with crunchy parsnip chips, toothsome chunks of chestnut, and a sprinkling of toasted cazette over the top. I was smiling the entire time I ate this; I wanted to lick the bowl, but such things are frowned upon in an establishment of this caliber.
As an appetizer, I had ordered one of the only dishes that has remained untouched on the menu since Bertrand Loiseau ran the kitchen, but before it was served, the chef sent another dish reminiscent of his native Burgundy: crab paired with kaffir lime and salicornia. I loved the crab – how could one not? – but the little quenelles of cream were rather bland and didn’t add much to the dish. The tiny dollops of bright citrus and earthy, cow parsnip-infused oil were far more interesting accompaniments.
The sommelier had paired this dish – as he would each ensuing one – with a wine, mainly local, that, upon my request, he happily noted on a sheet of paper and presented to me when the meal was over. This dish was paired with a 2018 Chablis premier cru from Domaine Isabelle et Denis Pommier.
Next, the pièce de résistance: the frog’s legs (paired with a rich and creamy 2019 Mersault from Domaine Joseph Drouhin). There’s something so naughty about eating an 80-euro appetizer with your fingers, and yet, as my server told me while setting down my silver finger bowl, it was totally encouraged. The fan of frogs’ legs was arranged in a pool of parsley sauce and around a mound of garlic purée so lovely and sweet and mild I ended up using it as a dip. (Frowned upon? Maybe. Delicious? Definitely.)
I also mopped up some of that sauce with a lovely chestnut bread, one of two I was given, along with the dreamiest butter, to accompany the meal. Oddly, the mini baguette seemed slightly stale, but the chestnut bread was divine, and more than sufficient.
Next up was pigeon, perfectly pink and served with a cassis-infused jus. The blackcurrant flavor was far more pronounced in those little balls of chard leaf that accompanied the pigeon, which I cheerfully began referring to “blette-balls” in my head. It was right around this time that I dripped some jus on the tablecloth and was very glad I was dining alone.
The little drummette – the best part, in my opinion, with all the texture and rich, fatty flavor of duck confit – was settled atop a pigeon offal “millefeuille” my server warned me would be “assertive.” It did taste livery, but not overwhelmingly so. If anything, it was slightly under-seasoned and led me to rescind my approval of chard, at least in part: Turns out I love the leaves but do not like the ribs.
This dish was paired with a Vosne-Romanée 2016 from Philippe Charlopin, and it also made me wonder, almost out loud, if I was not now halfway through the best meal of my life.
And this was before I was asked perhaps the silliest question I’ve ever had to answer:
“Would Madame like some cheese?”
Well yes, yes she would. Five, in fact, from this gorgeous cart.
From left to right, the goat cheese bûche’s pinkish color was the only real indicator that it was aged in blackcurrant. This creamy cheese had a downy rind almost like soft skin and a curdy, almost cottage cheesy interior. It also had a grassy kick at the back, with that throat-itchy quality you get on a good English cheddar. It was very, very happy with the last mouthful of the Chablis I’d been hanging onto since the beginning of the meal.
Next, a Tomme des Sapins had that Swiss cheese-type nutty funk, but with a melt-in-your-mouth texture. No elastic cheese here! It – and the other cheeses on the board – were lovey with a 2020 Nuits-Saint-Georges from Domaine Machard de Gramont.
The melting Colombiers de Sivry came next, bursting with cream cheese vibes and a note I spent a long time trying to identify – Brie? Brillat? – before finally realizing it was that nutty, brown-butter quality of Vacherin. Lovely.
Abbaye des Citeaux was a perfect iteration of the washed-rind genre: funk and cream with a rich, buttery texture and less graininess in the rind than usual.
I finished on a high note with Epoisses from GAEC Marronniers – the last fermier producer of the stinky cheese washed in Marc de Bourgogne. “I have been waiting for you, friend,” I might have said out loud as I dug in with fork and knife – no bread for distraction – to the rich cheese redolent with fresh cream and hazelnut sweetness and a pleasantly bitter, umami-rich finish.
Before dessert, the kitchen supplied a house-made effervescent infusion of thyme and mint – all the better for the digestion – before presenting me with this beauty, a study of pêche de vigne and smoke.
Now I’ll be honest. Most of my favorite desserts are fruit-based, and yet, I often find when facing such a dessert that I would have preferred to just have a whole, ripe piece of fruit on its own. That was kind of how I felt here, with a gorgeous peach sorbet that was a little too cold to catch the nuance, with those pretty chunks of meringue that nevertheless were as sweet as sugar cubes. The peach slices themselves were crisp and not terribly rich in flavor. The dish was saved by the peach skin chips and the smoky hay cream with fermented black lemon. (And the wine pairing – a 2017 late-harvest muscat from Domaine Muré in Alsace.)
My place was cleared… and then my server brought another spoon.
“Just to keep you company,” he said, before bringing out yet another dessert, this one a study in mirabelles, that tiny late-season yellow plum I so love.
Was it because the mirabelles themselves were riper? Because the sauce married them with coriander? Because that pastry layer was so rich with caramelized butter, the sauce so good I could have drunk it with a straw? It didn’t work with the wine, but it knocked the pretty peach dessert out of the water.
A fruity flight of mignardises followed: cassis, rhubarb, and yuzu afforded brightness, though by this point, my palate was exhausted. There were, however, two standouts: That macaron, which is my new favorite (an unfortunate turn of events, seeing as my old favorite was down the block, and my new favorite is in the middle of nowhere in Burgundy), and…
Chocolate.
Shock. Horror. It should honestly be illegal for someone to make me like chocolate this much, but with a touch of salt and the perfect juxtaposition of crisp and melting textures, it definitely was the second runner-up.
After upwards of three hours, I retired to my room, thinking that the meal, with its bounty and complexity, might have been even more enjoyable sans dining partner. An unpopular opinion, perhaps, but I appreciated the fact that I could ruminate on what I was tasting at every moment, without the distraction of conversation.
Is that weird? Yes, and I don’t care.
In fact, I think this might not be my last solo Michelin-starred meal.
Disclosure: I was a guest of this property.