Without being a restaurant I was particularly eager to visit at the time—or rather, preferring to go to other restaurants first—I ended up having lunch at Le Pré Catelan.
Frédéric Anton is a chef I became interested in around 2016 or 2017. At that time, I closely examined his offerings and read through his biography and the history of the restaurant. I was particularly drawn to the apparent luxury of the establishment and its setting. As for the cuisine, dishes like the soft-boiled egg with celery essence, morel cream with a crispy topping, crab, sea urchin royal, bone marrow, sweetbreads with bagna cauda, or the truffle and foie gras pastry struck me as utterly delicious. However, I still needed some additional incentive to make the trip to Paris.
November 16th fell on a Saturday. It was morning, the last day before returning home after spending a few days in Paris, with most of the city’s top restaurants either closed or fully booked. I had left this day open to decide what to do based on how I felt. I checked through the website to see if there was availability at the recently opened Ferme du Pré, but it was fully booked. However, I noticed that there was availability at the gastronomic restaurant.
Before making the reservation, I did something I had never done before—I called the restaurant to ask if they could confirm that Frédéric Anton would be there. Without providing any information about the chef’s presence and pretending not to understand me in either French or English, they told me the restaurant was fully booked that day. I pointed out that I was in front of my computer trying to make a reservation, and it appeared there was availability. Insisting once again, I asked if they could confirm that the chef would be present. Hesitantly, they told me that since he has so many restaurants, he is always moving between them and would probably be there at some point.
I thanked the man for his kindness, hung up, and after a few moments of reflection, decided to take the risk and book a table for lunch. As always, I accepted the potential consequences of everything I feared might happen, but I leapt forward with blind trust, mixed with that touch of hope, naivety, openness, curiosity, and excitement that still takes me to restaurants.
THE LOCATION
Le Pré Catelan is located in the heart of Paris’s famous Bois de Boulogne, to the west of the city. Spanning 850 hectares of forest—nearly twice the size of New York’s Central Park—the journey to the restaurant is a visual spectacle. From the “ladies” hidden among the trees, reminiscent of a Fellini film, to the stunning display of autumn colors, with poplars, elms, oaks, and chestnuts shedding their leaves in a breathtaking array of reddish, orange, yellow, green, and brown hues, the scene was delightful.
It’s a restaurant in a privileged setting, with all the ingredients to be a great establishment. I arrived at the grounds by car, where a valet awaited customers at the entrance of the restaurant. The restaurant itself stands right across from the charming and rustic Ferme du Pré, reminiscent of Les Prés d’Eugénie and the Ferme aux Grives.
Although it doesn’t have guest rooms, the Relais & Châteaux flag waves above the entrance, and the facade proudly displays both the cast iron plaques of Relais & Châteaux and the golden plaque of Les Grandes Tables du Monde. Additionally, there are several stainless steel plaques—lighter, thinner, and more malleable—such as the Michelin 2024 plaque with its 3 stars, the Restaurant de Qualité 2023 plaque recognized by the Collège Culinaire de France, and the Gault & Millau 2023 plaque with its 5 “toques” table d’exception. The only thing missing is the 19/20 score the restaurant has according to this last guide.
Of course, there is no mention of the OAD ranking, in which the restaurant is placed 59th in the Classical category for Europe, nor of The World’s 50 Best, where it doesn’t even appear. This seems to suggest either that they don’t value these relatively new lists or that the Anglo-Saxon world doesn’t appreciate this type of cuisine and restaurant.
THE HISTORY OF LE PRÉ CATELAN
I became curious about the origin of the name “Pré Catelan.” Regarding “Catelan,” I found two very different stories. On one hand, it seems to come from the name of Louis XIV’s hunting captain, Théophile Catelan. However, a legend also attributes the name to a troubadour named Arnault Catelan, who, in 1312, died at the location where the restaurant now stands while delivering gifts to King Philippe le Bel on behalf of Béatrice de Savoie. Other sources, however, claim he was delivering gifts to Margarita of Provence on behalf of Bérengère of Provence. In any case, it has nothing to do with “Catalan,” as I used to think when I was little and heard adults mentioning it, nor does it have anything to do with the “Cuvée Cathelin” from Gérard Chave in Hermitage.
As for “Pré,” it turns out that the area where the restaurant now stands was once a simple meadow (pré in French) from which stones were extracted to pave the paths of the Bois de Boulogne. After the quarries closed, the area became an amusement park in 1868, where people came to drink fresh milk at the dairy, listen to concerts, take rides on four-wheeled velocipedes, or enjoy the carousel rides. However, the park’s activity ended abruptly in 1870 with the Franco-Prussian War.
It wasn’t until 1905 that architect Guillaume Tronchet was commissioned by the city of Paris to build a luxury casino-restaurant in the Pré Catelan area. He drew inspiration from the 18th-century follies or maisons de plaisance, a type of vacation or weekend home typical of the aristocracy and bourgeoisie of that era, to design the long building. When the casino project was postponed, Paris granted the concession to the owner of the restaurant Chez Paillard, who also constructed the Pavillon Paillard (now the Pavillon Elysées Lenôtre on the Champs-Élysées).
Three years later, in 1908, Léopold Mourier, owner of the historic Fouquet’s, bought Le Pré Catelan and transformed it into one of the most popular restaurants in Paris. It became a bucolic venue known for the quality of its orchestras and the refinement of its parties. After Mourier’s death in 1923, the restaurant passed into the hands of Charles Drouant, owner of the Place Gaillon restaurant, who took over all of Mourier’s establishments. He is said to have elevated the cuisine and service at Le Pré Catelan to a high gastronomic standard until 1976, when Colette and Gaston Lenôtre purchased the restaurant, renovated it, and turned its reception rooms into one of the main event venues in the city, particularly renowned for its high-end cuisine.
Since 1976, the restaurant has belonged to the Lenôtre group—an empire of French pastry, cooking schools, catering, and more, with restaurants and patisseries in 11 countries. Since 2011, the Lenôtre group has been owned by Sodexo (rebranded as Pluxee in 2023), a French hospitality and facilities management company founded in 1966 by Pierre Bellon. Operating in 55 countries, Sodexo employs no less than 412,000 people.
Frankly, I have no idea where the cuisine fits in amidst this avalanche of figures. Nevertheless, in 1997, Frédéric Anton joined Le Pré Catelan as head chef, earning the restaurant its second Michelin star in 1999 and its third in 2007. Today, in addition to what we would call the gastronomic restaurant, the property also includes the recently opened Ferme du Pré, a contemporary bistro reimagining the old dairy with a bucolic spirit; Le Clos du Pré, a former barn with its garden of melliferous plants (suitable for bees to gather substances for honey production), a charmingly rustic space with a capacity for 80 diners; and 14 iconic reception rooms for weddings and all kinds of events, with a total capacity of 1,500 people.
So much so that, more than 100 years after its opening—having been visited by such illustrious figures as Salvador Dalí, Orson Welles, Marcello Mastroianni, Yves Montand, and Burt Lancaster—and after holding its third Michelin star for 14 years, I visited Le Pré Catelan for the first time.
FRÉDÉRIC ANTON
Born in 1964, the same year as Joan Roca and Moreno Cedroni, Frédéric Anton came into the world during a period of transformation in gastronomy. That year, Mercader of El Motel, with his predominantly French training supplemented by stints in England and Switzerland, was beginning to craft dishes of haute cuisine classique. At El Bulli, José Lozano was stepping aside for Otto Müller as head chef. In the Basque Country, Pedro Arregi (Aitor’s father) opened the original Elkano. In the wine world, Emidio Pepe founded his eponymous Azienda Agricola in Italy, using concrete vats still in use today after working alongside his father and grandfather, who had been making wine since 1889 at Casa Pepe. Meanwhile, in Oslavia (Gorizia, Friuli-Venezia Giulia), on the border with Slovenia, Silvan Primosic bottled his first harvest after recovering from the ravages of World War II.
Although Anton was born in Nancy, in the Meurthe-et-Moselle department (historically part of the Lorraine region) in the Grand Est region, he grew up about 80 kilometers south in Contrexéville, a village of 3,000-4,000 inhabitants in the Vosges, west of Alsace.
He began his culinary journey studying at the Lycée hôtelier in Gérardmer (also in the Vosges, heading toward Freiburg) and then worked in various kitchens. In 1983, he worked at Capucin Gourmand (Nancy) under Gérard Veissière (1936–2018), who specialized in Lorraine cuisine. In 1986, he worked at Le Flambard (Lille) with Robert Bardot and began at Les Crayères (Reims) with Gérard Boyer, where he spent two years. From late 1987 to 1996, he worked for seven years as head chef under Joël Robuchon, who was 19 years his senior—four years at Jamin (rue de Longchamp) and three years on avenue Raymond Poincaré, where the restaurant was renamed Joël Robuchon. Both were located in Paris.
Finally, in 1997, Anton joined Le Pré Catelan as chef, earning the second Michelin star in 1999, the third in 2007, and becoming a Meilleur Ouvrier de France (MOF) in 2000, the same year as the late Benoît Violier and Christophe Muller, Paul Bocuse’s right-hand man for over 25 years at Auberge du Pont de Collonges. Additionally, in 2011, he was named Chevalier de la Légion d’Honneur (France’s highest distinction, also awarded to Catalans such as Miró, Ràfols, and Savall). In 2015, he joined the Cinq Toques circle in the Gault Millau guide.
Beyond Le Pré Catelan and all the restaurants and catering services in the Bois de Boulogne, Anton has been collaborating with Sodexo since 2018 to oversee the restaurant Le Jules Verne on the second floor of the Eiffel Tower. He has also published about ten books, most of them with his loyal collaborator, pastry chef Christelle Brua (who spent 13 years at Le Pré Catelan), Japanese writer and chef Chihiro Masui, and photographer Richard Haughton.
THE SPACE – THE DINING ROOM
Le Pré Catelan is essentially a small palace in the Napoleon III style, characteristic of the bourgeoisie in the second half of the 19th century. It is luxurious and opulent, with eclectic touches that combine elements of classical antiquity (mainly Greco-Roman architecture), the Italian and French Renaissance, and features of Neoclassicism.
The space is adorned with grand curtains and an abundance of intricate ornamental details, such as ceilings embellished with handcrafted designs and friezes by Caran d’Ache. Its architecture and decor bear a resemblance to the style of the Garnier Opera House.
The interior decoration, overseen by designer Pierre-Yves Rochon (who has also decorated luxury restaurants and hotels such as most of Robuchon’s restaurants, Épicure at Le Bristol in Paris, Les Crayères in Reims, George V and Shangri-La in Paris, the Grand-Hôtel du Cap-Ferrat in Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat, and The Savoy in London), clearly reflects this eclectic mix of classic and modern styles.
This contrast is further emphasized by the furniture, which, despite diverging from the classicism of the building, modernizes the space in a very harmonious way—a balance I always find both challenging and delicate to achieve. With some differences, it is quite similar to the neo-classical pavilion at Ledoyen.
The dining area is divided into three rooms. The main salon features the famous ceiling chandelier, an enormous piece with around twenty lights made from Murano glass, along with a second chandelier with candelabras, an unlit fireplace, and sculptures of angels, cherubs, and hunting scenes.
Next, there is a rectangular room filled with natural light, thanks to a glass wall that doubles as a sliding door, offering views of the gardens. Finally, there is a private dining room for six to eight people, decorated in the same style as the main dining room.
The dominant colors are dark green, black, white, cream, and silver. Materials like chrome, stainless steel, silver, carpeting, stone, marble, and mirrors are used throughout the decor. The furniture differs between rooms: in the main salon, there are green leather armchairs and tall green sofas, while the garden-view dining room features well-cushioned, comfortable steel-framed armchairs. Despite their substantial size, the slim steel bars of their structure bring a sense of lightness to the space, avoiding an overly crowded feeling. Instead, it creates the impression of being in a wonderful, serene spot in the calm surroundings of the Bois de Boulogne.
THE CULINARY OFFERING
They offer only three menus, with no option to order à la carte. The Déjeuner Menu, consisting of 5 courses for €185, available exclusively for weekday lunch service. The Orsay Menu, featuring 9 courses for €330. The Pré Menu, comprising 12 courses for €390, which is the one we chose.
THE TABLE SETTING
Upon arrival, the table is already set with a plate engraved with the name Le Pré Catelan, along with a fork and knife. There is also a bread plate with its accompanying knife, a napkin placed on top, water and wine glasses, and a small silver vase holding a white rose.
The table itself was relatively small and could have been better cushioned—or rather, cushioned at all. It seemed as though there was no protective layer between the table and the tablecloth, and I believe that in establishments of this type, the sensation should be exceptionally soft. Personally, I love that feeling of buoyancy, of being in heaven, both in the carpeting underfoot and at the table.
The tablecloths were white and made of piqué, but with a piqué pattern that lacked depth; I have yet to find any piqué as extraordinary as the one I remember from Crissier. The undercloths, which draped down to the floor, were a disappointment: a faded gold color that appeared worn and made of a more synthetic and rather unattractive material. Moreover, the tablecloths displayed fold marks, as though they hadn’t been ironed directly on the table.
As for the cutlery, the entire meal was served using the same set from the Parisian Maison Christofle, specifically one of their silver ranges with a matte effect—subtly dull and slightly muted. This was not due to a lack of proper maintenance, as it was in perfect condition and not tarnished at all, but because it was originally designed that way.
The cutlery, in the Louis XVI style, irresistibly evoked the romantic charm of the 18th century. It featured a heritage-inspired, understated pattern that matched more with the baroque touches of the building rather than its classical elements. It was not one of those shiny contemporary cutlery sets with modern patterns; instead, it had a simple double-line border and a sort of bow detail at the base. Additionally, the name of the restaurant was engraved diagonally in calligraphic script on each and every piece, from the butter knife (which wasn’t an actual butter knife but simply a smaller knife, like a dessert knife) to the coffee spoon.
It was possibly an older Rubans collection, which is currently sold for €185 per piece. I can’t even imagine the investment they must have made at the time just for the cutlery!
The room is also decorated with silver vases holding white orchids, a cart with an impressive selection of spirits, a few silver guéridons (which were filled with menus and papers, unused during the service), and a silver press, which, at least on this day, was also not used.
As for the dinnerware, they alternated throughout the meal between different collections from Bernardaud (including the Bulles and one designed by Pierre Yves Rochon specifically for them, always in white), a set with the satin white Hemisphere by Coquet, and various collections from Jars (such as Dashi and Plume). However, I find the Jars collections unsuitable for the venue, as the Limoges white dinnerware they use so well seems much more appropriate. In this regard, I would have preferred a more unified dinnerware selection.
I also felt they overused bowls and deep plates, especially since the portion sizes didn’t necessarily require such depth. Furthermore, they used Alessi for the bread basket, whereas they could have continued with Christofle for consistency.
The wine glasses were by Lehmann, rather simple. Perhaps if you order a specific wine, they bring out the heavy artillery.
THE MEAL
We chose the Du Pré menu, consisting of 17 dishes, which I break down as follows: 3 amuse-bouches, 9 main courses, 1 “cheese” dish, 1 pre-dessert, 2 desserts, and 1 petit four.
3 AMUSE-BOUCHES served simultaneously.
A puff pastry stick with Comté and Parmesan.
The puff pastry was perfect, both in its crisp texture and the countless delicate layers that were visually impressive and satisfying to the touch, as well as the balanced intensity of flavor, with the Parmesan not overly salty. Delicious.
The only question I had—though I admit it’s probably overthinking—was why they didn’t use one of the hundreds of cheeses France offers and instead opted for Parmesan. I believe there are French cheeses, such as Beaufort, that could provide similar characteristics without having to resort to less well-known options.
As for the presentation, it was magnificent: placed on a piqué napkin matching the tablecloths, neatly folded with volume, positioning the pastry stick as if it were floating.
Tartlet of caviar, burrata, and citron vert (sweet lemon or lime).
It had the scent of this wonderful aromatic citrus—fragrant but not overly perfumed—a sweet aroma reminiscent of the Sicilian lemons from Uliassi. The burrata wasn’t exactly burrata but rather a dense burrata foam.
The tart base was like a wafer or ice cream cone, which I didn’t enjoy; I had expected and would have preferred a very thin layer of filo pastry, for example. It featured Oscietra caviar from Kaviari, both on the outside and at the base. On the outside, the dots of caviar, grated lemon zest, and grated black truffle were reminiscent of Robuchon’s style.
Lobster Cappuccino
A piping hot liquid, a magnificent lobster velouté with a foam layer on top, freshly whipped with an immersion blender. It had an intensely rich flavor of shellfish—lobster, shrimp heads, and crab—powerful and buttery.
This is a flavor and recipe that brings me great joy, one of those dishes I often long for and crave. It’s a taste I associate with haute French cuisine and, more specifically, the luxurious and opulent flavor of a grand Parisian restaurant.
All three appetizers transported me back to childhood memories, to moments of dolce vita spent at the grand tables of France in the late ’90s and early 2000s.
THE BREAD AND BUTTER
Raw (unpasteurized) demi-sel butter (lightly salted, without the crunch of fleur de sel crystals), personalized with the restaurant’s name embossed on the surface. Although I was told it was from Pascal Belvert, I would say it was from Pascal Beillevaire in Brittany.
Round wheat bread, about 15 cm in diameter, served in a silver Alessi basket, cut into four pieces and placed on a burlap cloth. It wasn’t hot, just slightly warm inside. Decent. I imagine they must make it themselves—being part of the Lenôtre group, I think that’s the minimum standard.
THE MAIN PART OF THE MEAL
La Saint Jacques. Roasted with rosemary butter.
La Saint Jacques. Marinated, with walnut vinegar jus and smoked mustard.
A scallop from Normandy served in two preparations at the same time.
On one hand, in front of each diner, they placed the scallop cooked with rosemary butter and citron vert. It had a scent of lemon verbena, rather than scallop, rosemary, or citrus. The flavor of the scallop was mild, but it was warm, had a firm texture, and was incredibly delicate to the touch.
It was served in a thick and overly deep Jars bowl, making it awkward to cut and eat, which I didn’t particularly enjoy.
On the other hand, next to each diner, they placed a glass plate with the scallop cut into tartare—raw and simply marinated with walnut vinegar and smoked mustard. On top, there was a kind of gelatin made from walnut vinegar (the transparent layer) and smoked mustard (the white streaks). With a presentation very reminiscent of Robuchon, the scallop had a meaty yet incredibly delicate texture, completely free of fibrous parts, even with that slight “sweatiness” of raw shrimp. It was unimaginable—a scallop tartare worthy of an MOF.
What didn’t convince me was the decision to serve both dishes at the same time. I prefer things served one at a time, with service tout de suite, without waiting between courses. However, I would have served them one after the other—that’s the idea behind “in two services.” Additionally, the two dishes weren’t meant to be combined, mixed, or eaten together or alternately.
The Bouillabaisse. Sauce rouille with saffron.
A bouillabaisse without any chunks of fish, simply the liquid portion, with a circle of rouille sauce in the center—a sauce typical of Occitan cuisine that resembled more of an aioli or garlic mayonnaise, though with a mild garlic flavor. In essence, it is a similar sauce made with olive oil, egg yolk for binding, and seasonings—in this case, saffron.
The bouillabaisse didn’t appear to contain potatoes; its texture was liquid, like a stock or a fumet, exquisitely intense and refined. It is made using fish from the Mediterranean, sourced specifically from fisherman Mathieu Chapel in Le Grau-du-Roi, near Montpellier, in the Gard department, in the Petite Camargue region of Occitania, where this recipe originates.
I want to emphasize the importance of Mathieu—a 32-year-old captain who has been fishing since he was 16. Despite his parents owning a brasserie and not being part of the industry, he has committed to artisanal, local, and sustainable fishing to ensure the future of the sector.
A passionate and skilled professional, Mathieu also supplies chefs like Pierre Gagnaire. Among his projects, he offers the opportunity to spend a night fishing aboard his boat to share the values of responsible fishing—an activity also available at the Port of Palamós. I find this experience both wonderful and essential for understanding the hardships of this indispensable yet endangered profession.
Returning to the bouillabaisse, the dishware was warm, but the liquid itself was only lukewarm. What an incredible aroma! The intensity of the sea, rockfish, redfish, shellfish, and even oyster! This fumet had substance—intense and concentrated. It was also generously seasoned with saffron, just the way I like it! I loved it, though it’s a shame they served such a tiny portion—it deserved to be double the amount offered.
A few minutes later, even after the next dish hadn’t arrived yet, I could still taste the after-flavors of the bouillabaisse.
The fact that it didn’t include any pieces of fish, nor were they served separately, made me perceive the dish more as a soup than a suquet. For me, this was the best aspect of the bouillabaisse: the liquid. When prepared traditionally, the fish often ends up overcooked, boiled, and with a texture that we now recognize as outdated—soft, weakened, and fibrous.
In the same way that Jordi Vilà serves “the best of onion soup” at Alkostat, we could say that Le Pré Catelan served “the best of bouillabaisse.” A kind of essence of the dish, as if it were an assoluto by Niko Romito. Exquisite—a benchmark bouillabaisse and truly unforgettable.
However, there was a long wait between courses.
Le Crabe. Dashi, warm jelly, fennel cream.
One of Frédéric Anton’s dishes I had dreamed of and was especially excited to taste.
At the base, what they referred to generically as crabe was crab, but as you know, I like to be specific—it was tourteau (brown crab), specifically from Brittany, and shredded. On top was a warm dashi jelly, silky in texture, somewhere between a royale and a custard—not airy or foamy, leaning more towards the smooth texture of a flan or curd. Its color was light brown, beige, or yellowish.
On top of that was a fennel foam and a quenelle of Oscietra caviar from the Gironde, supplied by Kaviari (which surprised me because I understood that this maison farmed baeri caviar in Bordeaux and sourced their Oscietra from other countries like Italy, Bulgaria, China, Israel, Uruguay, etc.).
It was served in a warm bowl. The dish had a delightful aroma, reminiscent of vanilla, nutmeg, and an aromatic pepper such as Jamaican or Sichuan pepper. The caviar was intensely flavorful, with a taste of the sea, even of seaweed! I don’t recall ever having caviar with such a wonderful seaweed flavor, and it was as creamy as the royale.
I didn’t notice the fennel, perhaps because it contained so much butter that its flavor was muted. Yet, the butter itself wasn’t overwhelming either. An exquisitely good dish—refined, delicious, and very Robuchon, both in appearance and taste. It was one of the dishes from the menu that moved me the most.
Once again, there was a long wait between courses. We were the first to arrive, and they were pacing us with the other two-person tables in our dining room.
La Langoustine. Ravioli, duck foie gras, fine jelly with gold leaf.
Another of Frédéric Anton’s dishes I had been eager to try, and one of his signature creations.
A Brittany langoustine tail with a sheet of pasta on top. They described it as “like a ravioli,” but to me, it felt more like a layer of lasagna. On top was a transparent jelly made of duck foie gras and gold leaf. Around it was a foamy velouté, blended with an immersion blender, also made with foie gras.
It had a slightly aged aroma, reminiscent of ham fat—very pleasant but rather curious, as, at first glance, the dish didn’t seem to contain any, and there was no trace of it in the flavor either. Perhaps I associate the scent of foie gras with cream to this aged profile, or maybe the butter, when cooked thoroughly, developed a hint of “aged” character. In any case, I insist—it was a wonderful aroma.
The langoustine was quite sizable, meant to be eaten in three or four bites, and it was well-cooked—not raw. However, it could have been more flavorful. I felt the ravioli pasta layer could have been thinner. The transparent foie gras and gold jelly lacked flavor, contributing more to the aesthetics than anything else.
As for the white foie gras foam… as many would say, “it was significant.” Absolutely delicious, delicate, refined—what I would technically call perfection. That said, it contained so much cream that it reminded me of a well-aged Comté.
Another dish I associate with Robuchon’s style and one of the best dishes on the menu. I was thrilled—everything was going very well.
Le Cabillaud. Brandade moelleuse.
A dish described as “cod prepared like a brandade,” with seaweed on top.
I had seen photos of this dish so many times… As they distinguish so well in French, this was made with fresh cod (cabillaud), not salted cod (morue), a distinction I find interesting when discussing brandades. They used cod from Brittany.
It consisted of a one-millimeter-thick layer of cod brandade, gratinéed. It was like the concept of rice dishes with such a thin layer that there’s only a single grain of rice, applied to the realm of brandade, which is typically served with more volume. It was served warm, though I would have preferred it hotter.
It smelled like gratinéed cheese, even though there was none. The dried seaweed and fried garlic powder sprinkled on top were imperceptible. It seemed to contain potato, butter, milk, and cream; I didn’t detect any onion, citrus hints (which brandades sometimes have), nor was it oily. Its texture was very smooth, even finer than a purée, as is typical in Paris.
I would have liked a larger portion or for it to be served in a smaller bowl, allowing for fuller spoonfuls, with more volume and substance in the mouth. But I also appreciated the extensive gratinéed surface.
It was a very good dish but served in a minimal quantity. Moreover, it was ultimately just a brandade—a dish traditionally associated with a side or appetizer in more rustic, traditional, and simple restaurants.
Honestly, I also think it takes a certain boldness to serve a dish like this in a €390 menu without even offering some narrative to justify it. For example, conceptually questioning whether the accompaniment might sometimes be more important than the main element in many dishes or explaining the desire to highlight a sauce as important as brandade—a traditional recipe of fishermen, subsistence, and humble cooking.
For the record, brandade is a recipe typical of Catalan, Valencian, Occitan, and Venetian cuisine. I would say it is made from Valencia to Liguria, as well as in Portugal; and both in coastal and inland areas, where cod has always been widely consumed due to its excellent preservation, with recipes like brandade precisely showcasing this.
I’m a big fan of cod brandade. I often buy it ready-made from the few remaining saltfish shops and cod specialists, and I also make it myself. Wherever it’s from, it never lasts long in my house. Once, I even tried making it with fresh cod, but I preferred to stick to the traditional recipe using salted cod, both for the texture and the intensity of the fish’s flavor and saltiness.
When I was a teenager, I even made something similar to this dish from Le Pré Catelan at home: little gratinéed brandade balls that ended up like cod fritters but without the need for flour.
At first, I could recall only a few instances of brandade in fine dining restaurants: the one at Da Vittorio with polenta and a few others. Naturally, I thought of the crispy potato with cod brandade from 1994 at El Celler de Can Roca and the cod-filled tricorni from Ruscalleda in the early ’90s. However, in both cases, these dishes were served before those chefs became so highly starred. And, of course, there’s the unforgettable brandade layer in Carmen’s “gastronomic Mondrian.”
But as I kept thinking, I began to remember that Jordi Vilà often includes it in various dishes, such as cod brandade with green beans and horseradish or brandade with peas and plankton (although I couldn’t detect the plankton). Albert Ventura also made a very flavorful brandade with baby onions, and Miquel Aldana from Tres Macarrons created a crispy cod brandade.
Artur Martínez, at La Mesa del Buen Gusto, served a dish that fused a cod fritter and bacallà a la llauna, presenting a cod fritter a la llauna made with smoked cod brandade, garlic, and roasted cod. At Terra de Berga, Pere Venturós prepared a brandade with sweet tomato and lemon confit, while at Hostal dels Ossos in Garrotxa, they served a delicious mille-feuille with cod brandade and zucchini jam.
In Mallorca, I had ray with borrida by Joan Marc and pink tomato with cod brandade, olives, avocado, and almond vinaigrette at Ca Na Toneta. I also believe Pedro Sánchez’s “Almendra/Caviar” dish includes brandade in the white sauce, a sort of ajoblanco with brandade and a couple of raw almonds.
This past August, I had cod cheeks with pilpil and bizkaina by Josean Alija at Nerua, which also featured brandade—a dish that reminded me of the delicious “confit cod cheeks with brandade and bizkaina” from Zuberoa.
Subijana makes the “flower of cod, brandade, and beets,” Paco Roncero serves the “lemon pie of cod brandade,” and Iván Cerdeño included it at La Carmen de Montesión, right in Toledo.
In Italy, I also had an excellent version by Enrico Croatti at Moebius Sperimentale in Milan, served with white truffle, or the one from Pagaia in Senigallia, which was not salty at all, contained no garlic, and likely had a significant proportion of milk. It was served on a biscuit or toasted bread with herbs. Additionally, Fabrizia Meroi made a black rice chip with baccalà mantecato at Laite in Sappada.
The long waits between courses continued without any explanation. What’s more, it wasn’t just a matter of pacing us with the other tables; at this point in the meal, two tables had already overtaken us. There are some aspects of service I will never understand.
Le Saumon. Fumé au bois de cerisier, confit, wasabi.
Served under a silver cloche, the dish was unveiled in front of the diner, with circular motions to disperse the smoke and allow us to take in the smoky aroma.
Interestingly, I had noticed the smoky scent more from the neighboring table than when the dish was in front of me. What had seemed overly intense a few minutes earlier now felt mild, and I don’t think it was because I had become accustomed to it.
The dish featured a small piece of Scottish Label Rouge salmon, which I understood to be farmed, of good quality, and sustainably raised, though I highly doubted it was wild. As far as I know, Scottish Label Rouge salmon refers to Atlantic salmon (Salmo salar), with the fish raised for 2 to 3 years. They typically spend up to 15 or 16 months in freshwater before being transferred to the sea, where they remain for 10 to 36 months, depending on the size of the fish at the time of harvest.
Without knowing the specific farm it came from, most of these salmon are sourced from the Highlands and the Hebrides on the west coast. At Le Pré Catelan, they purchase fish weighing between 4 and 6 kg.
It was cut into a circle about 3 cm in diameter, a salmon that had been previously salted (in dry salt, not brine), smoked in-house (cold-smoked at 17ºC with cherry wood), and then confited.
It was very delicate, both in flavor (not salty at all) and texture (firm yet tender, not dry or fibrous, and with a restrained fat content). It resembled raw, marinated salmon. To me, it seemed like good-quality salmon, though not extraordinary. Comparisons are always tricky, but if we translate this to tuna, it reminded me of Balfegó tuna—very decent but not among the most exceptional almadraba-caught varieties. That said, it was very well handled in the kitchen, both in the slicing and the smoking, which was sweet and mild, without overwhelming the dish.
Next to it, they served a foamy wasabi emulsion sourced from Japan, very mild—so much so that the toasted sesame sprinkled on top was more noticeable. It seemed as though it contained butter, which would explain the muted strength of the wasabi. And indeed, it did: the emulsion was made with a base of sabayon, egg yolk, butter, and wasabi, prepared using a siphon.
It was a dish that didn’t particularly excite me. Possibly the weakest course of the menu. Despite the technical difficulty of achieving balanced smoking, it felt more like an appetizer than a main course or a dish to be served so late in the menu sequence.
Regarding the recipe, I think it’s a dish worthy of analysis. To which cuisine does it belong? Nordic cuisine because of the smoking technique? Scottish cuisine because of the salmon’s origin? Japanese cuisine because of the wasabi? If it had used French wasabi, would it then be considered part of French gastronomy? Does the use of sabayon and butter in the emulsion make the dish French? Was it an attempt to modernize Troisgros’ salmon à l’oseille? Or, because it featured a siphon foam, could it be considered a Bullin-inspired dish? Or was it simply a version of salmon that they personally enjoy eating, and that’s it?
Le Caviar. Sorbet Champagne.
The third and final dish featuring caviar.
A Champagne sorbet made with Billecart-Salmon, prepared in a traditional ice cream maker (not a Paco Jet), topped with a quenelle of Oscietra caviar from Kaviari—the same caviar served in the appetizer tartlet and the brown crab dish.
It was served with a small silver dessert spoon, the same one we were given when we requested a spoon for the lobster cappuccino. This was the only spoon not engraved with the restaurant’s name and not part of the collection used for the rest of the meal.
The caviar was served at an excellent temperature and was very enjoyable when mixed with the top layer of the sorbet. However, the base of the sorbet was too cold and even crystallized, as it was in contact with the ice at the bottom of the silver bowl. The bowl itself was engraved with the restaurant’s name on the side.
I’m not particularly a fan of sorbets or overly frozen items, but the granita’s texture was magnificent—smooth and creamy, with no noticeable concentration of water or ice crystals, except for a slight crystallization at the base due to contact with the bowl’s ice. That said, the quenelle of sorbet was larger than the quenelle of caviar, and I would have preferred the proportions to be reversed to reduce the overall coldness.
I’ve eaten caviar on all kinds of foods (different types of bread, blinis, toast, and dough-based items; meat and fish; fried eggs, omelets, poached eggs, scrambled eggs; croquettes, creams, and purées of varying densities; chocolate cake, etc.), but I couldn’t recall having it with ice cream—since the popsicle at Coda barely had any caviar.
Conceptually, it remains a very common pairing—caviar with Champagne—though here, the liquid is transported into the sweet or savory realm, a very Bullin-inspired idea, even if alcohol-based ice creams and sorbets are quite ancient.
A versatile dish both in terms of flavor and concept, which could also work as an appetizer or as a palate cleanser after the squab, acting as a bridge between the savory courses and the cheeses or desserts.
Le Pigeonneau. Poché, dates, crispy semolina.
Served under a silver cloche, unveiled in front of the diner.
A breast of a young farmed squab, specifically from Renard Rouge in Gourgé (in the Deux-Sèvres department of the Nouvelle-Aquitaine region, about 50 km west of Poitiers), though they also raise squabs in Vendée (Pays de la Loire).
It was cooked submerged in a broth of honey and dates. On top, finely grated citron vert zest and crispy semolina. At the table, they poured a broth made from the squab’s carcass into the base of the dish.
The dish was served rather cold. It had a citron vert aroma. The texture was especially tender, but the initial flavor was overly citrusy. I missed the blood intensity typical of squab and felt they could have included another part of the bird or another preparation using the same animal.
Like the salmon or scallop dishes, this felt like a type of cuisine I’ve grown a bit tired of. I don’t expect anything revolutionary, but certain dishes have started to bore me. I still think the most enjoyable aspect of squab is the two small bites of stuffing served on a hot, well-toasted piece of bread—the right kind, like tramezzini, with plenty of crumb, slightly crispy but well-soaked.
Additionally, it was served with a 9.47 knife with an artistic handle that I didn’t like at all. I found it far too modern for the setting and the otherwise harmonious ensemble of Christofle cutlery.
Le Fromage. Soufflé chaud vapeur, crème de Comté.
Served by a single waiter—the sense of luxury was starting to decline.
A warm soufflé with an incredible texture—lighter and more airy (thanks to albumin) than a traditional soufflé, and with a very mild flavor. The intensity came from the unforgettable, delicious, and addictive sauce poured over it: a cream made from 18-month-aged Comté.
The small flecks were grated black truffle from Vaucluse. While they didn’t add any aroma or flavor, they provided a slightly crunchy texture. Magnificent! Another highlight of the menu and an ideal way to replace the traditional cheese service with those marvelous carts I can never fully enjoy by this stage of the meal.
It reminded me distinctly of the mozzarella soufflé at Enigma from late 2023, although at Le Pré Catelan, they’ve been serving it for over 10 years as a traditional soufflé, baked with steam, rather than the whey bound with xanthan, methylcellulose, and gelatin that Albert Adrià whips with a siphon and cooks in the microwave.
THE PRE-DESSERTS
Basil sorbet, meringue, and citron.
A basil sorbet (also made with a traditional ice cream maker) with pieces of dried meringue, lemon zest, and dill leaves.
It smelled of dill.
A pre-dessert they’ve been serving for years. Personally, I would have preferred to skip this course and have more brandade or something else instead.
The service remained slow between courses.
THE 2 DESSERTS
La Pomme. Compote, crème légère à la vanille, comme une tatin.
A sort of deconstructed tatin: stewed apple at the base and puff pastry on top.
It smelled of butter, was very crispy, and not overly sweet. The stewed apple wasn’t heavily caramelized but rather fresh.
Served separately, in a bowl, was a scoop of fleur de lait and vanilla ice cream, made like the other sorbets in a traditional ice cream maker. It was very creamy and absolutely delicious!
By this point, we hadn’t had water for a while, and the entire team of waiters seemed to have disappeared.
Le Pollen. Sablé, glace au miel.
At the bottom (not visible in the photo, but the bowl tapered into a cone shape), there was honey ice cream and pieces of buttery cookie. The white sphere you see was a sort of yogurt and Corsican poncem mousse, topped with honey, pollen, and flower petals.
They recommended eating it from the bottom up, scooping all the ingredients together with each bite.
The scent of pollen was dominant—very aromatic and flavorful. A good dessert, not overly sweet, with plenty of citrus freshness.
THE PETIT FOURS
In singular: a single chocolate and hazelnut petit four, which wasn’t even announced.
Being part of a pastry group like Lenôtre, with MOFs on their team and having held three Michelin stars in Paris for 17 years, they should create desserts that are more complete, more delicious, more ceremonious, more festive, etc.
THE SERVICE
The staff consists of 50 people serving 40 guests.
The team spans a wide range of ages, from young individuals in their 20s to veterans who have worked at the establishment for decades. It is filled with internationally recognized professionals, both in the kitchen and in service. Among them is the now-retired Jean-Jacques Chauveau (1959), who worked at Le Pré for 39 years, starting in 1980. He was someone who understood service at every level—family, work, country, the poor, young people, and clients. He passed on this profession to his two sons, who now work at Le Bristol and the wonderful Connaught in London.
His successor, Thierry Pruvôt, the maître d’hôtel who attended to us, has also been with Le Pré for a long time—43 years, since 1982, when he was only 18 years old. The waiter who served us, Nicolas Lepinay, while occasionally showing less refined gestures, was also part of that generation of waiters who prioritized intimate contact with the client, ennobling the magnificent profession of service. He showcased human skills, doing everything possible for the client’s happiness and handling the delicate task of welcoming diners with cordiality, respect, and friendly kindness.
It’s worth noting that some members of the service team have been at Le Pré longer than Frédéric Anton himself.
As for the sommelier, Boris Thuillier replaced Olivier Poussier when he left. However, we were attended to by Max Power (yes, like Homer Simpson’s alter ego) and his assistant, Viktorija Zemaityte from Lithuania. It was a delight to see such a well-trained brigade with a diverse age range. While they shared a common approach to service, each brought their own character to the role.
The service is classic and luxurious, following the Franco-Swiss school of thought. Two young waiters brought the dishes on silver trays, while two senior waiters of higher rank plated and served the dishes. Four waiters for two diners.
At no point do they perform guéridon service; all the dishes come plated directly from the kitchen, with only the occasional addition of sauce in front of the diner. However, many dishes are presented under a cloche, which they lift in unison, synchronized and coordinated.
They don’t provide a keepsake menu, which I think is a mandatory touch for restaurants of this level.
After confirming from the start of the meal that Frédéric Anton was at the restaurant and that we would be able to meet him and visit the kitchen at the end of the meal, when the time came, the maître d’hôtel told me it was impossible to meet the chef because he was at the other end of the restaurant. Additionally, he said it was not possible to visit the kitchen for hygiene reasons, as it is not open to the public and exclusively reserved for the chefs.
Instead, he offered to take my address so they could send me the menu signed by the chef, something I hadn’t requested. It didn’t seem like a joke. I had no choice but to accept the situation and show my utmost understanding and gratitude for the offer to send the signed menu to my home—a gesture I do consider thoughtful.
It’s a detail reminiscent of what they offer at Pierre Gagnaire; perhaps this is the modus operandi of Parisian three-star restaurants. In Spain, there are restaurants that let you pose with a life-sized cardboard cutout of the chef, as if it were a wax museum, while in Paris, they send you the chef’s signed menu.
Just as we were about to get up and leave, the maître d’hôtel hurriedly approached me, almost in secret, whispering in my ear that now was the moment to see the chef and the kitchen. Imagine my surprise when I met not the titular chef but the head chef instead!
MEHDI SGARD, the Chef de Cuisine
Born in Paris in 1991, Mehdi Sgard began working with Frédéric Anton in 2012, 13 years ago. He started as a demi-chef de partie, then moved up to chef de partie, sous chef, and finally became chef de cuisine in September 2019.
He studied for four years at Ecofih École Hôtelière Grand Paris, interned at the InterContinental Paris Le Grand, and worked at the Espadon restaurant in the Ritz Hotel under Michel Roth (MOF 1991) from 2011, shortly after they won their second star, until it closed in July 2012 for a complete renovation. It was then that he joined Le Pré.
A young chef who came across as very kind, attentive, dedicated, and proud of his work. Both Mehdi and Frédéric appear to be hardworking, confident chefs who are convinced of the value of their craft and who embrace recognition and accolades rather than shying away from them. They proudly display all kinds of plaques, insignias, and distinctions.
As I mentioned earlier, this pride is evident even at the restaurant’s entrance, with flags flying and plaques adorning the facade. Frédéric Anton’s Meilleur Ouvrier de France title is also prominently framed in the restaurant’s reception area—a title I personally respect and admire deeply.
Additionally, they seemed like chefs who travel, who are restaurant-goers themselves, and who are well-informed about the culinary scene in Barcelona. Their references and preferences include Disfrutar, Enigma, and Tickets, but also Ultramarinos, Suculent, and Teatro.
It’s clear they enjoy and pay close attention to what is being done in Catalonia, or at least in Barcelona. When I travel, I am always delighted to see Catalan cuisine appreciated abroad and to know that top chefs from countries with such strong gastronomic traditions as France and Italy take an interest in what we do in our country.
Most importantly, I deeply valued the sincerity and naturalness with which they expressed this. It’s worth noting that 20 years ago, in both France and Italy, this recognition may not have been so openly acknowledged.
THE KITCHEN – THE SPACE
It is neither particularly large nor especially modern or luxurious. It appears to be practical and functional—a kitchen designed for cooking.
THE KITCHEN – THE STYLE
Expressed through a 12-course menu (17 preparations), it’s a length and breadth I particularly enjoy—long enough to try various dishes but wide enough to truly savor them. It follows a very classic structure: amuse-bouches, a series of courses that I mostly perceive as appetizers, fish, meat, cheese, a pre-dessert sorbet, desserts, and petit fours.
That said, I struggle to understand the order of the courses in the central part of the meal. The crab, langoustine, brandade, and caviar sorbet felt more subtle than the bouillabaisse, which was served second. Similarly, the main fish course (which I assume was the salmon) seemed more like an appetizer, being the same size—or even smaller—than the scallop.
The menu includes very few vegetables, a predominance of seafood, a single meat course, and no rice or pasta dishes (apart from the ravioli layer in the langoustine dish). It’s a light menu, without being heavy on dough-based dishes.
They neither serve nor offer the possibility of a cheese course. While I never particularly miss cheese in the middle of a meal, I think that having a renowned affineur like Bernard Antony in their homeland of Alsace, and given the restaurant’s stature, they could at least include a small selection.
I also find it surprising that for a three-star restaurant, and in Paris no less, three amuse-bouches and a single petit four feel insufficient. Perhaps we are spoiled by places like El Celler de Can Roca, for example, with its remarkable series of high-level amuse-bouches.
Considering they belong to the Lenôtre group, supposedly masters in the art of French pastry, and have a team filled with MOFs and world-class pastry chefs, I think they could offer more variety in breads, dough-based items throughout the meal, and petit fours. Moreover, the service of these elements should be more ceremonious and grand—more in the style of Da Vittorio or with a broader variety of cakes, as seen at Fermes de Marie in Megève, Maison Carrier in Chamonix, or even at least the dessert cart at El Motel in Figueres (Catalonia).
Ending a meal with a single, tiny, ordinary, and uninspired petit four that isn’t even announced is one of the least luxurious, palace-like ways I could have imagined for such a restaurant to conclude an experience.
Regarding the INGREDIENTS, everything used was familiar—no exotic ingredients or rare, rediscovered varieties or species. They stick to the classics: scallops, lobster, caviar, salmon, foie gras, and squab.
They source ingredients from various regions: primarily France (Normandy, Brittany, Occitania, Loire… from both the Atlantic and the Mediterranean), but also Scotland and Japan.
Many of the ingredients are expensive, like the lobster in the cappuccino, the scallops, or the caviar. However, they also use mid-range items, such as brown crab (around €30/kg?) or salmon, and affordable ones, like squab, butter, and flour. Like nearly all kitchens, they also use xanthan gum, agar-agar, albumin, gelatins, etc.
As for the TECHNIQUES they use, they are very traditional—no equipment like Ocoo, Paco Jet, or Rotovaps, not even sous-vide cooking. The most modern tool might be a siphon. They blanch, boil, griddle, bake, confit, smoke…
Regarding the RECIPES, they have a strong foundation in cuisine classique but with a Nouvelle Cuisine perspective. It could be said that they create French cuisine in its broadest sense, blending classic, modern, and contemporary styles, though not avant-garde.
The style is undeniably fine dining, but without shock value or unnecessary theatrics. Frédéric Anton demonstrates a refined, elegant style that isn’t overly subtle or bland, but instead delivers bold, flavorful dishes.
Just as the dinnerware and cutlery are extraordinary handcrafted pieces, certain preparations, like the royales, veloutés, and stocks, reveal exceptional technical skill and taste balance.
In a world increasingly saturated with overpowering flavors—glutamate, saltiness, fat, excessive sugar, and masked ingredients—it is a pleasure to encounter cuisine that is both intense and clean, refined, and tastefully balanced.
Aesthetically, the dishes are minimalist, with accompaniments usually integrated into the plate rather than served separately, with the exception of the ice cream for the deconstructed tatin. It feels like an updated, more essentialist Robuchon, with fewer flourishes.
It’s not a complex cuisine in the sense of having a large number of ingredients in each preparation or dish, as you might find at DiverXo or El Celler de Can Roca.
Regarding the quality of the products, I was slightly surprised that it wasn’t excellent (or at least it didn’t shine), except for certain dishes like the bouillabaisse, where high-quality ingredients are essential to create such a fumet. I’m referring to the squab, for instance, which was surely sourced from a producer who works excellently but wasn’t Miéral or Label Rouge nor displayed any medal or label—something that seems highly valued at a restaurant like Le Pré. I’m also referring to the salmon, which, despite being Label Rouge, is still farmed. Or the black truffle, which, despite the minimal amount grated, didn’t release any aroma.
It no longer feels like the product is at the center of the restaurant’s focus, or at least they don’t communicate it. When serving the dishes, the descriptions are brief, without mentioning the origin or quality of the ingredients, nor any preparation techniques or recipes. In this sense, the storytelling is completely absent. Personally, I appreciate a narrative that conveys knowledge and culinary culture, creating a connection between the producer, the kitchen, and the diner. While I am critical of certain ways this storytelling is executed, I am a staunch advocate for its presence.
Ultimately, this storytelling is another form of entertainment that a restaurant offers—an establishment which, in today’s world, where basic needs are already met, is about pure leisure, entertainment, and cultural enrichment.
Sometimes, I think that this type of non-specialized restaurant, which tries to cover all bases in terms of both products and techniques, rarely delivers excellence. To reach that level, one often needs to visit thematic restaurants, where a master craftsman has spent half their professional life honing their expertise around a single product or technique. That said, I don’t believe this entirely—places like Verjus, Guérard, or Crissier showcase excellence while still offering a broad repertoire.
At Le Pré Catelan, for instance, products are mentioned generically. It’s as if they were to say simply “Bourgogne,” without specifying the village, vineyard, vintage, producer, or methods. Or as if they were to say “a Pinot Noir,” without elaborating on where it’s from, the winemaker’s philosophy, or the soil and climate it hails from. Honestly, I don’t understand it, and I don’t like it. I see knowing the traceability of raw materials as essential and necessary—something that, unfortunately, is becoming a luxury to know. A quick visit to markets and supermarkets is enough to reveal the disappointing lack of knowledge among both sellers and buyers, as well as on product labels.
At times, as with the salmon and squab dishes, the menu lacked emotion, perhaps also exacerbated by the slow service. Without a doubt, the dishes I enjoyed the most were the lobster cappuccino, the scallop tartare, the bouillabaisse, the crab, the langoustine, and the cheese soufflé—precisely the most Robuchon-inspired dishes.
Does this mean that Frédéric Anton doesn’t demonstrate a unique and distinguishable style of his own? Not quite.
Regarding a DISTINCTIVE STYLE…Often, chefs pass through prestigious kitchens, showcasing renowned names on their résumés. They do internships everywhere, learning and absorbing from celebrated and accomplished chefs. Many chefs boast experience at El Bulli, El Celler de Can Roca, Noma, Disfrutar, or Mugaritz. However, what is less common is finding chefs who not only carry the influence of the kitchens where they trained but also demonstrate their unique character—a fusion and balance that I deeply enjoy.
I greatly appreciate chefs with their own character, identity, thought process, reasoning, and style in their cooking—regardless of the type of cuisine and even if they lack technical perfection or don’t serve the most exceptional products. But I also enjoy chefs who, while showcasing a highly personal style, carry the clear mark of their mentors.
In the case of Frédéric Anton, I appreciate the clearly Robuchon-inspired style. To me, he is undoubtedly a disciple of Robuchon, even though, in conversations with Mehdi and Frédéric, they denied any Robuchon influence.
I tried to think of chefs who trained under Anton and have since opened their own restaurants, wondering if any of them show the influence of their time at Le Pré. However, I would say most of them are still too young to have clear disciples of their own.
I left the restaurant, but before exiting the Bois de Boulogne and heading to the cocktail bars at the Georges V and the Plaza Athénée, I stopped by the Fondation Louis Vuitton, designed by Franck Gehry, just five minutes from Le Pré Catelan.
An end to the review that feels a bit cold, perhaps, to convey my final impressions upon leaving the restaurant. There was something intangible that left me without the same sense of grandeur and satisfaction I’ve experienced at places like Pacaud, Guérard, Troisgros, or Crissier.
