It was a good line, infusing his tea talk in what, given the Illy marker, you would assume to be espresso territory with its first refreshing sip of reverse snobbism. Jumeau-Lafond may be one of the world’s great tea snobs, boasting, for example, that Dammann Frères has Chanel and Hermès as its immediate neighbours at Tokyo’s great Takashimaya department store. But the third-generation French tea merchant could not let 30 seconds pass without poking a mischievous thumb in the refined ribs of tea drinkers, notably Anglo-Saxon ones, who hold their noses – and pinkies – high. Far from being offended the Londoners drank it up.

“Green tea,” he told a half-astonished, half-amused group that included breakfast tea drinker Riccardo Illy, “is not good for the taste.” What made it trendy and popular, he suggested, were magazine and newspaper articles that reported its benefits to mind and body.

That view reflected Jumeau-Lafond’s preference for strong, spicy, full-bodied teas over smooth, subtle, lightly bitter ones. He loves black teas, none more so than the assam his father brought home to the family’s flat, a rare luxury in the deprived 1950s Paris of his youth.

He doesn’t much like the fashion for herbal teas and fruit teas – “they’re not teas, they’re infusions“, though he sells them, and winces at the thought of certain perfumed teas aromatized with fruits, flowers or tastes that don’t exist in nature. That stance seemed one of hypocrisy, if not of betrayal, coming from the president of a company famous for its Earl Grey, a black tea blend flavoured with the citrus fruit bergamot. Dammann Frères in fact claims to be the last tea company using pure bergamot oil (from Calabria) in its Earl Grey. Moreover, Dammann’s prestigious Goût Russe blend, created by Jumeau-Lafond’s grandmother, first brewed in his boyhood bedroom and copied, he says, by 5,000 tea companies, is perfumed with citrus oils.

You’re an anti-snob snob, aren’t you?!, I asked Jumeau-Lafond, with admiration, at the conclusion of his surprising Galleria Illy talk. He thought about it for a few seconds, then broke out in a wide smile.

“C’est vrai“, he responded. Guilty as charged.

Bistro Is Cool for Dinner, Not So Hot for Lunch: Paris Dining

2007-02-01 03:58:20.510 GMT

Review by Daniel Young

Feb. 1 (Bloomberg) — Dinner and lunch at Le Chateaubriand, a
fashionable bistro in Paris’s 11th arrondissement, are like night
and day.

At night, globe lights cast a flattering amber glow over
walls painted eggshell white and deep maroon. Minimal flourish and
wattage provide a plain, soft-focused backdrop for the modern,
meticulously crafted plates of the French Basque chef-proprietor,
Inaki Aizpitarte.

A visit the day after is sobering, as it can be in Paris. The
food and presentation are so workmanlike, you might assume they
are by another chef: A capable one, sure, but not Aizpitarte.
Light cast through the casement storefront exposes seams,
wrinkles, tobacco-stained walls. Even Erwin and Franck, silky-
smooth servers except for the five-day stubble they maintain in
solidarity with Aizpitarte, somehow look less dark, less handsome.
Aizpitarte, 34, who took over Le Chateaubriand almost a year
ago, transformed it into a dining destination from a neighborhood
relic in a matter of weeks.

So flow the currents in a city whose culinary compass is
stuck on SW: Today the city’s most restless chefs are foraging the
rustic glories of Gascony and the Basque country, more than
Provence and the Rhone-Alpes, for inspiration. Though Aizpitarte
hails from the hottest corner of contemporary French gastronomy,
his riveting cooking defies regional affiliation.

Divine Dessert

He cultivates ideas from unimagined flavor relationships,
marrying tuna tartare to flash-seared foie gras in one exceptional
appetizer or squid ink to passion fruit in another. He ennobles
humble ingredients, substituting “La vache qui rit” (“The
Laughing Cow”) processed cheese for mascarpone in a divine
dessert cream for poached pears. Nothing feels forced or silly.

The dinner menu, great value at 33 euros ($42.60) for two
courses and 39 euros for three, lists three choices each for
starter, main course and dessert. When asked if this menu changed
from night to night, Franck, a suave, accommodating server, said
the already overloaded staff would be dead if it did. Even with
this short program they didn’t manage to keep the dishware warm.

Sometimes that isn’t an issue. In an Asian take on the French
classic oeuf en gelee, the egg yolk is ingeniously submerged in a
soy jelly and paired with tiny cubes of smoked eel. The yolk, once
pierced, slowly oozes but doesn’t spill richness into the almost-
solid jelly. The eel bits detonate upon contact, providing more
smoke, gram for gram, than TNT.

A Basque-ish appetizer alternative floats tender chipirones
(baby calamari) in garlicky black squid ink with black rice
(Italian Venere) to match. Brilliant.

Asian Influence

Among main courses, the Asian influence is notable in the
pollack (the North Atlantic fish the French call lieu jaune)
poached in a broth with winter greens and black trumpet mushrooms
and striped with wasabi. A beef duo sets pristine fillets beside a
woven ball of stringy, crusty, fatty, succulent oxtail.

The best finish may be an ironic commentary on a prevalent
fashion of Parisian patisserie, peppered chocolate. Whereas most
pastry chefs do theirs with piment d’Espelette, the French Basque
chili pepper, Aizpitarte forgoes the spicy warmth of his native
red powder for the natural sweetness of roasted red pepper
prepared as a dip for bittersweet chocolate bars.

Le Chateaubriand’s location is a Metro-map millimeter too far
west of the Parmentier-Oberkampf intersection to be labeled
trendy. The bobos (bourgeois bohemians) who clog its small dark-
wood tables and chairs with monochromic chic don’t mind. The buzz
is unmistakable, yet the mood is relaxed and casual.

Case in point: A reservation was accepted for 8 p.m., though
the staff meal didn’t finish until 20 minutes later. While few
repeat diners sit down earlier than 9 p.m., some meet a bit
earlier at the bar for pintxos (Basque for tapas) and a wine
listed on the slate board.

Small Producers

The bistro personalizes its selection of wines from small
producers doing grand things through natural means by featuring
the names of the vignerons themselves instead of their domains,
e.g. Jean-Franois Nicq, the maker of an organic, fruity Syrah from
the Languedoc-Roussillon, rather than his Domaine des Foulards
Rouges. Most bottles fall within the 20-35 euro bracket.

Returning to the matter of Le Chateaubriand’s split
personality, it could seem ungrateful to fault Aizpitarte and
partner Frederic Penau for trying to preserve their bistro’s soul
and our “sous” through their 14 euro lunches. Only in an honest
bistro do you find an oversize entrecote quite as fatty as theirs.

Still, it is necessary to warn lunch regulars who might
puzzle over fare rendered unrecognizable to them by the chef’s
nocturnal aspirations.

Le Chateaubriand, 129 Avenue Parmentier, 75011 Paris. Tel.
+33-1-4357-4595

The Bloomberg Questions

How much? Dinner is 39 euros for three courses.
Sound levels? Parisian buzz.
Special feature? Breads from Au Levain du Marais.
Private room? No.
Date place? If you’re dating a foodie who wears black.
Will I go back? Yes.

(Daniel Young is a food critic for Bloomberg News. The
opinions expressed are his own.)

–Editor: Vines (jmr/fnn/bam)

Likewise, discriminating young Londoners who, when within three Chardonnays of sober, wouldn’t be caught dead with a Tesco tomato in their organic jute carrier bags can be seen stuffing their reddened faces with questionable kebabs from an Upper Street shop that recycles its moulded and fully cooked meat, unrefrigerated and unprotected, for hours at a time.

At the risk of sounding like a drunken pensioner, things aren’t what they used to be, at least not for me.

In my younger & foodish days, when I got smashed with much greater frequency and far more dedication than I do now, I always tried to finish off a night of binge drinking by stuffing my face with trash food of the highest quality. As a student in Montreal I looked forward to being booted from my local, Taverne Henri Richard, so my drinking buddies and I could rush off to Schwartz’s for its incomparable smoked meat, Le Chalet for succulent rotisserie chicken, an all-night Polish social club for handmade potato pierogi, Arahova Souvlaki for juice-dripping gyro sandwiches or St-Viateur for sesame bagels fresh and hot from a wood-burning brick oven. From these experiences grew a straight C student – and eventually a professional food critic.

Back in my native New York we would hobble if necessary to Katz’s Deli for world-class pastrami, the Market Diner for a copious burger deluxe, Florent for steak frites, Junior’s for its famous cheesecake, Wo Hop for the greasiest subterranean chow fun noodles in Chinatown or, on one particular Saturday night bender, three of the aforementioned.

Living in Paris years later we would crawl on our knees to L’As du Falafel for its amazing spécial, Au Pied du Cochon for gelatinous pig’s trotters and golden onion soup gratinée or the last Vietnamese open in Belleville for a crusty banh mi.

In fairness to London’s late-night, liquored-up foragers, their city is lacking in 24-hour eateries worthy of their loyalty. If London imagines itself a – or even the – gastronomic capital it will have to improve in this category.

To this end I have a suggestion to underground, pop-up restaurateurs, existing as well as aspiring: Why don’t you serve high-quality impulse food in your flat on weekends from midnight to 4 am? Think of all the advantages: You wouldn’t be competing with licensed restaurants. You’d be performing a public service while enhancing London’s status as a great dining city. Were your soufflés to fall it’s unlikely that anyone would notice, much less give you grief. And given the likelihood that someone will purge the food you spent hours preparing you would not be expected to put out fancy linens.