I can’t recall when I first started paying attention to Bruno Verjus, but I do remember that the menu used to cost €280 and now it’s €400. I associate this price increase more with the awards and recognition he’s received and the renovations he’s made than with an improvement in the quality of the product. Understanding what exactly you’re paying for is an important aspect to consider before going to a restaurant. So much so that, despite hearing great things about the place for years and wanting to visit, I hadn’t made a reservation before traveling to Paris. Instead, I booked on the same day, a Friday in November, at 7:40 AM through their website, paying 100% of the menu price upfront. Considering the trend, it seems we’ll soon have to be grateful if they don’t also make us pay the tip in advance, as Alinea in Chicago did years ago or as Ernst in Berlin did until its final days.
It’s worth highlighting that, despite being ranked 3rd on The World’s 50 Best Restaurants list, the restaurant has tables available every day—even though they’re only open four days a week (allegedly to ensure worker sustainability, work-life balance, and the right to personal life, etc.). On one hand, it’s somewhat understandable that, given they don’t do mise en place, you can make a same-day reservation. On the other hand, what’s surprising (or perhaps not) is how being at the top of one of the most internationally renowned lists doesn’t necessarily guarantee a long waiting list. As a customer, it’s still possible to decide on the same day whether or not to book a table.
BRUNO VERJUS
Bruno Verjus was born in October 1959 in Renaisson, near Roanne, in the Auvergne-Rhône-Alpes region—a village famously associated with the Troisgros family and home to their legendary restaurant before its recent relocation to Ouches. Verjus is, in fact, from the same generation as Michel Troisgros (born in 1958). Quite a remarkable village, especially when you add that it’s also the birthplace of the Mons cheese dairy, now run by Hervé Mons (MOF 2000), and that Roanne is where Auguste Pralus (MOF 1955) invented the Praluline—a buttery brioche filled with pieces of caramelized almonds and hazelnuts dyed red.
I find it amusing that his name, Verjus, refers to the ingredient verjuice—the acidic, fruity juice extracted from unripe white grapes. It’s an ingredient he uses frequently, even creating another sauce he calls “viergus” (vierge + verjus), adding a personal touch to the classic sauce vierge. This traditional sauce is made with olive oil, lemon juice, diced tomatoes, and finely chopped herbs like basil, chervil, chives, parsley, and others.
Bruno is a self-taught chef, which I find quite daring and a small act of rebellion in a country as institutionally academic as France. He studied medicine in Lyon, about 60 kilometers from Roanne. Later, he went to California and, starting in 1989 at the age of 30, spent long periods in China. He founded a medical packaging and devices company, which he sold in 2005. A doctor-turned-entrepreneur, Bruno spent nearly two decades traveling across China, Japan, Indonesia, the United States, and throughout Europe.
A turning point in his life came when he met a young pastry chef, none other than Pierre Hermé (born in 1961). Together, they dined at the great restaurants of Paris and developed a close friendship. In fact, it was Frédérick Ernestine Grasser Hermé, Pierre Hermé’s ex-wife, who taught Bruno to cook in a more professional manner.
It could be said that, from 2005 onward, Bruno shifted careers and became a well-known food journalist. Since December 2004, he had been writing on his own blog, Food Intelligence, which he stopped updating in 2017 (although it is still online). He also contributed to publications such as Le Fooding, Omnivore, and Identità Golose and even hosted a radio show, On ne parle pas la bouche pleine (“Don’t Speak With Your Mouth Full”) on France Culture. On the show, he discussed nutrition, macrobiotics, and what is considered balanced eating in different cultures, diets, and philosophies.
Cooking had always been a part of his life. He speaks fondly of memories from his childhood, either cooking or watching his mother and grandmother cook. He recalls walks around the Renaisson River and the Île d’Yeu, where he spent summers observing plants, flowers, and the sea, planting lettuces, trapping rabbits, and fishing.
In 2012, after completing an internship with Sven Chartier (who was then the chef at Saturne), Bruno opened his first “restaurant” on the Île d’Yeu, a small island of about 20 km² in the Vendée department of the Pays de la Loire region, where he had spent many summers as a child. Located roughly 700 kilometers west of Roanne and south of Noirmoutier, he ran daily lunch and dinner services from his home. He worked alone in the kitchen, while his 14-year-old son, Stanislav, served as the waiter. The menu consisted of fish and seafood, both raw and grilled. Due to limited resources and infrastructure, Bruno had to streamline his cooking processes, leading him to abandon traditional mise en place and “production” methods. He believes that the essential part of cooking happens during service, not between services.
At Table Bruno Verjus, everything is prepared to order, a feature I consider one of today’s true luxuries—food made from scratch right before being served. This approach is perfectly evident in his restaurant, where the kitchen is completely open. And when I say open, I mean the actual production kitchen, not the plating zones often passed off as “open kitchens” in many restaurants. Bruno seems to embody the philosophy of Alain Chapel, who in the 1970s and 1980s argued that recipes shouldn’t be immutable commandments but rather “a play of personal desires and the most indulgent emotions.” Similarly, Bruno aligns with Claude Peyrot of the three-Michelin-starred Vivarois in Paris, who believed that chefs shouldn’t touch an ingredient until the customer had placed their order. Long live living cuisine!
This reminds me of another self-taught chef and food blogger, Mikael Jonsson of Hedone, which opened two years earlier in Chiswick, London. I had the pleasure of dining there multiple times between 2012 and 2016. It’s fascinating to see a food enthusiast with no formal culinary education or training—simply as a customer and restaurant-goer—go on to open their own restaurant. Their perspective and approach must be vastly different from those of their professionally trained peers. However, I’m sure Bruno’s view of the industry has significantly evolved since he opened Table more than a decade ago.
On April 11, 2013, at the age of 54, Bruno Verjus opened Table in Paris. As he himself says, he is the oldest of the young chefs. He earned his first Michelin star five years later, in February 2018, and his second in 2022, four years after that. He also received a Green Star in 2020, despite his reputation for theatrically discarding half a sole into the trash in front of diners or sourcing lettuce from 1,200 kilometers away. In 2024, he ranked 3rd on The World’s 50 Best Restaurants list, behind Disfrutar and Etxebarri. This came after an extraordinary leap from 77th to 10th place in 2023, making him the highest-ranked French chef in the list’s history. Neither Ducasse, Bocuse, Gagnaire, the Troisgros family, Passard, nor many other French culinary legends have ever reached the podium. It almost feels like a conspiracy by the Anglo-Saxon magazine to undermine France’s culinary heritage. According to OAD, he ranked 32nd in the Europe Top Restaurants list in 2024.
Bruno Verjus has also published six books:
- Le pesto: Dix façons de le préparer (2006): A 10-page booklet from a collection that also includes works by authors like Mesplède, a former director of Michelin France.
- D’Yeu que c’est bon. Le tour de l’île d’Yeu en 45 histoires et 45 recettes (2007): A journey through Île d’Yeu, its products, producers, and recipes.
- L’amour: Dix façons de le préparer (2008): Another 10-page booklet from the same collection, this time co-written with his wife, Ingrid Astier.
- Recettes pour ma femme, cuisine d’amour et d’humeurs (2009): A poetic book with over 50 recipes tailored to his wife’s moods, accompanied by illustrations from Russian artist Irina Volkonskii.
- Le goût du Champagne (2011): Co-written with his wife, this book celebrates Champagne while referencing writers and philosophers in a poetic and intellectual manner.
- L’art de nourrir (2021): Translated into Spanish as El arte de alimentar and published by RBA, this book reflects on his unique journey to the pinnacle of gastronomy. It explores the art of discovering flavors, the importance of sharing meals, and the societal duty (almost an obligation) to pass on culinary culture and values. The book also includes some recipes.
In summary, once again, I’m writing about someone I haven’t met in person. On the day I visited, he wasn’t there—apparently, he had caught a cold and gone home, possibly planning to return for the dinner service. Whatever the reason… it’s a shame, really, as he seems to be a charismatic figure who fills the restaurant with his presence—a bit eccentric, in a way. Tall and broad-shouldered, often wearing checkered pants, with slightly long and unruly hair, he comes across as full of life and energy. He appears to be fun and ironic, cultured and intelligent, well-read and well-traveled. He’s someone who has enjoyed food, restaurants, and wine—a bon vivant who inspires you to learn and live fully, savoring the pleasures of life. He radiates joy and seems happy.
A few days after my lunch at Table, he hosted a four-hands dinner with Jessica Rosval (from Al Gatto Verde at Casa Maria Luigia, Massimo Bottura’s venue), attended by the likes of Ducasse, Bottura himself and his wife, Lara Gilmore, several prominent journalists, and a strong production team. What might initially seem like a self-taught cooking enthusiast diving into the restaurant business out of romanticism and a love for the craft turns out to be someone with excellent connections, well-networked, and a skilled marketer—though one quality doesn’t negate the other.
LOCATION / THE SPACE / THE KITCHEN
Table is located in the east of Paris, in the 12th arrondissement, away from the cluster of Michelin-starred restaurants. It’s very close to the Gare de Lyon and the covered Beauvau Market at Place d’Aligre, which I highly recommend visiting before lunch. You’ll find a variety of ingredients and products that are different from those typically seen in Catalonia and may very well appear on your plate a little later. Additionally, you’ll come across Michel Brunon’s butcher shop, where Verjus learned the art of lamb butchery.
Table is a small venue located on a ground floor, with a glass façade partially covered by a curtain that offers a glimpse inside. Outside, there’s a cozy terrace with a green awning and a pair of matching green chairs—a vibrant shade commonly seen at natural wine bars in France, Copenhagen, or Barcelona, similar to the hues of Gresca Bar and Torpedo.
The restaurant accommodates 24 diners seated around a sinuous brass metal counter, designed by Bruno Verjus himself. More than just a bar with a view of the kitchen, it feels like sitting at the pass. The chefs are even closer than bartenders typically are. In fact, it’s hard to tell whether it’s a bar within a kitchen or a kitchen integrated into a bar. Behind the counter is a narrow, elongated galley kitchen, where just two chefs can work back-to-back. The space features black stone floors and high stools with armrests and cushioned seats, almost like armchairs, all in the same signature green.
The open kitchen, situated at the heart of the venue, encourages interaction between chefs and diners, creating a unique and singular atmosphere. This design earned Table a spot on Forbes magazine’s list of the 10 coolest restaurants in the world, alongside venues like Noor in Córdoba, Koks in the Faroe Islands, Ynyshir in Wales, and Sorn in Thailand.
Just as I said about Bagá, where I felt like I was sitting at my mother’s kitchen table, eating and talking with her, Table gave me a similar feeling. However, the culinary spectacle at Table is much more immediate, visceral, and alive. It’s like going to the theater rather than watching a film—comparable to dining at the Tavolo dello Chef at Del Cambio, the “theatrical” version by Baronetto, whereas dining in the Risorgimento room would feel more like going to the cinema.
It’s also worth noting that the experience at Table can vary greatly depending on where you’re seated. Fortunately, I had the privilege of sitting at what I consider the best spot in the restaurant—right in front of the stoves. From there, you can fully immerse yourself in the vitality of the ingredients and witness a series of almost picturesque scenes, perfect for capturing, filming, and recording. This is a restaurant that isn’t just Instagram-worthy but entirely film-worthy. You could leave your phone on the counter recording the whole time and watch it later as if it were a movie. Changing scenes of exceptional culinary beauty unfold—an endless parade of exquisite ingredients.
I watched them peeling and boiling French chestnuts, preparing fillets of red mullet, and handling massive 3-kilogram soles. This is a restaurant that truly smells like food. Moreover, you can observe the silent focus and natural composure of the young chefs as they cook. And, by the way, these chefs actually taste what they’re cooking!
And what an impressive array of tools and equipment! All the pots, pans, and casseroles were from Mauviel, mostly from the Élite line of stainless steel and aluminum, featuring the characteristic hammered design of the collection. Even the steamer was Mauviel! The only exception was a single blue cocotte that wasn’t from Mauviel but from Le Creuset, where they were preparing their own rice for dinner. They also had a high-performance Rational iCombi Pro, along with a griddle, two gas burners, two traditional stovetops, and two wall-mounted rotating grills from a brand resembling Charvet (though I couldn’t confirm this from a distance—they appeared to be Flamberge roasters from La Cornue).
Even the paper towels were extraordinary! They looked like white, pristine piqué fabric, used to wrap and care for the finest ingredients.
It made you want to leap over the counter and start cooking alongside them!
There were about six chefs in the kitchen, including three sous-chefs: Jules Letteron (1995), Giuseppe Mariani (from Senigallia, 1993), and Leandre Mage (1997). Also on the team were Sara Lee from Taiwan, another Taiwanese chef, and the dishwasher, a young man from Bangladesh who occasionally stepped in to cook as well. They worked with focus, formality, and discipline, but without rigidity or a visibly strict hierarchy. They appeared happy and at ease, showing camaraderie and fostering a positive atmosphere.
At times, the chefs themselves served the dishes, and I thoroughly enjoyed the interaction and dialogue with them, especially as a guest seated right in front of them. At no point did I feel the absence of a prominent figure or an authoritative head chef. Instead, the team showcased excellent savoir-faire, combining professionalism with humility.
In the dining area, there were the kind and sweet Antoine Mouktar, Laure Cluzan, and the sommelier Agnese Morandi, an Italian from near Modena who had previously worked at Piazza Duomo with Crippa. They were all very pleasant, approachable, and professional, maintaining just the right amount of distance.
The green uniforms worn by the servers—some with long sleeves and others sleeveless—seemed to be from Issey Miyake’s Pleats Please line, characterized by its signature pleats and polyester fabric. Given the setting, I dared to ask, thinking I might be right, and I was able to confirm it!
THE CULINARY OFFERING
Currently, Table offers a €400 menu (service and taxes included) called the “Menu couleur du jour” and a white truffle menu priced at €600.
They mention that when the restaurant first opened, the menu cost €25, though I’ve never seen that. What I do recall is that when I first became seriously interested in dining there, the menu was €280, and they still offered an à la carte option with dishes priced between €49 and €89 and desserts for €29.
THE LIQUID OFFERING
Although the restaurant offers a €300 wine pairing curated by sommelier Agnese Morandi (details unspecified), as usual, I opted for a bottle instead. I didn’t ask about the wines included in the pairing, but judging by the wine list, I imagine it would be excellent.
The wine list is relatively short but very well curated. It includes both highly exclusive (and understandably expensive) options as well as more accessible selections that are still of great interest and reasonably priced, considering we’re in Paris.
We chose a Saint-Aubin Le Ban 2018 from Derain (€89), served in a wide Zalto Bourgogne glass. While I usually prefer white or sparkling wines for this type of menu, the opportunity to enjoy such a refined producer swayed me toward this bottle. It was the first time I had revisited a wine from this Côte de Beaune estate since Dominique Derain—one of the first winemakers to implement biodynamic farming—sold the winery in 2016. Carole Schwab and Julien Altaber, his protégés and former employees, continue to follow the master’s methods.
The wine is a fine and tender example of red wine—a Pinot Noir from a white wine terroir very close to the legendary Montrachet parcel. Remarkably clean in aroma for a natural wine, it stands out with its expected red fruit notes but offers more depth than a typical generic Bourgogne. On the palate, it retained a youthful freshness, with the stem integration being particularly well-executed. It’s a wine that is at an ideal point for drinking and paired quite well with the entire menu.
I found it amusing that they served the water in Riedel’s Mosel decanter—it also feels more like a water pitcher than a decanter to me! Especially considering the stunning decanters Riedel produces.
THE MEAL
The meal begins without any amuse-bouche, going straight to the first course—or at least that’s how I interpreted this salad.
The Colors of the Day: An explosion of ripe vegetables, seedlings, flowers, and wild fruits in a colorful palette, dressed with a vegetable vinaigrette, fig leaf oil, and bottarga from the Trikalinos family.
A dish titled “The Colors of the Day,” the same name as the menu, referring to the “Colors of the Day” salad. This salad evolves with the seasons and is how Verjus always begins the meal, conveying the idea of micro-seasons and eating in a micro-seasonal way, similar to kaiseki cuisine, as the ingredients change daily. It’s an explosion of a few ripe vegetables, seedlings (interpreted as germinating seeds or sprouts), flowers, and wild fruits, presented as a colorful palette, accompanied by a vegetable vinaigrette, fig leaf oil, and bottarga from the Trikalinos family.
There was a piece of round radish and a piece of elongated radish, both slightly spicy. A piece of purple cauliflower, a thin slice of mandarin, a piece of peeled pear, and a long purple slice that contributed more to the visual appeal and crunchy texture than to flavor. Additionally, there were a few leaves, two flowers, and three sauces: one light green and dense, another darker green, more liquid and vegetal, and a red one.
Finally, there were two thin slices of bottarga from the flathead mullet (Mugil cephalus) harvested in the Missolonghi and Aitoliko lagoons, located in the northern part of the Gulf of Patras on the central-west coast of Greece. These lagoons are among the most important in the Mediterranean, well-known and highly regarded for their production of flathead mullet bottarga. This particular bottarga was from the Trikalinos family, a product endorsed by caviar houses like Petrossian and Kaviari and by chefs such as Ferran Adrià, José Andrés, and the Roca brothers, who in 2014 created a dish specifically for this Trikalinos family product.
The bottarga was exceptionally good—very soft, melting in the mouth while retaining its moisture. It was also incredibly balanced, seeming lightly cured. I particularly enjoy bottarga where the fish flavor is slightly noticeable and not overpowered by saltiness. It was exquisite, confirming the effectiveness of the Trikalinos family’s unique production method of coating the bottarga with beeswax.
A very Passard-esque beginning—perhaps even better than the salads I had the day before at L’Arpège, in the sense that it was more chewable, though also less unique and more replicable. That said, it still didn’t feel like a salad on par with Bras’s Gargouillou or the complexity of Baronetto’s “insalata piemontese” or Crippa’s “insalata 21, 31, 41, 51…”.
The tableware was stunning: white, flat, delicate, glazed but textured, modern—a creation by Sarah Linda from Limoges.
THE BREAD
Although some of the doughs are made in-house, they also source bread from bakeries like Boulangerie Les Copains du Faubourg for the rye brioche and dark bread, and Boulangerie de La Boutique Jaune by Sacha Finkelsztajn (102 Boulevard Diderot, near the restaurant, where Boulangerie Perséphone used to be before its recent move to Haute-Savoie) for the baguette and pain de campagne with two days of fermentation. The bread was decent but served cold.
One of the chefs was slicing a magnificent pig’s ear.
Three dishes were served simultaneously under the title “Les Mer Veille“, a clever wordplay combining la mer belle (the beautiful sea) and les merveilles (the wonders of the sea).
Liquid sushi – Utah Beach oyster lightly cooked, rice and watercress emulsion, grilled leek used like salt.
A dish called “Liquid Sushi” features an oyster from Utah Beach (Normandy, in the Manche department) by Monsieur Jean Paul Guernier. The oyster was briefly poached and cut in half. It was delightfully fresh, with a subtle chill and a distinct, delicious taste of the sea. On top was a green sauce—a dense and slightly sticky emulsion of watercress and rice. It felt as though it had some fish collagen for binding or that the rice used was glutinous. The filaments on top were grilled leek.
Tartelette bouquets de rose – Taramatable, crevettes bouquets
A dish called “Rose Bouquet Tart,” playing on the word bouquet, which refers to both a bouquet of flowers, the type of shrimp used in the dish, and the aroma of a wine. It consisted of a phyllo tart filled with taramatable—a tarama recipe typical of Greek and Turkish cuisine that Monsieur Verjus learned in Greece. His version is made with smoked cod roe and likely includes milk, lemon juice, olive oil, garlic, onions, and bread crumbs, though I don’t know the exact recipe.
On top were two peeled and raw shrimp tails (Palaemon serratus, also known as the Galician shrimp, from the Ría, not the shrimp used in tortilla de camarones), sourced from the French Atlantic coast. A pansy petal was also placed on top for garnish.
Served inside a glass, it was a bit awkward to handle. The phyllo pastry was incredibly thin and absolutely perfect! It was just as it should be—beautifully crisp. The smoky note of the tarama was noticeable and, in some ways, it felt like a variation of a cod brandade. The temperature of both the cream and the shrimp was cool, very pleasant, deliciously raw, and flavorful. I believe this shrimp has a very short season, limited to autumn.
Graal – Fried veal brain, ginger and turmeric seasoning, and hand-harvested sea urchins.
A dish called “The Holy Grail.” It featured a piece of breaded veal brain, topped with two varieties of sea urchin, and a base of ginger and turmeric emulsion.
Regarding the veal brain, it was perfectly cooked (slightly underdone, still light pinkish-white inside) and impeccably breaded (using wheat flour and a very neutral grapeseed oil from the historic Huilerie Leblanc in Beaujolais). The flavor was clean and unmasked, with an exquisitely fine crispness.
The sea urchins were exceptional. Both varieties came from the Glénan Islands (Brittany) and were hand-harvested. The larger one (Sphaerechinus granularis) was much bigger than Mediterranean urchins, measuring about 10–15 cm in diameter (three urchins weighed 1 kg), with lighter (whitish) tones and shorter, less sharp spines. The smaller variety (Paracentrotus lividus) measured about 6–8 cm in diameter and had a violet-colored shell.
The yellow ginger and turmeric sauce had a pleasant and subtle citrus aftertaste that was delightful.
Altogether, it was an excellent surf-and-turf dish—exquisite bites, some of the best of the meal.
Farfouilleur – Cardinalized red mullet, citrus vinaigrette, and raw cream with samphire.
A dish called “Farfouilleur,” which I interpret as a term meaning “digging through something, turning everything over.”
It featured a small piece of cooked red mullet fillet (deboned) prepared in one of their magnificent Mauviel pans. It was accompanied by a citrus vinaigrette (the yellow sauce) made with mandarin, bergamot, a citrus fruit resembling a small green mandarin that was a hybrid, and a touch of saffron. Also on the side was a white emulsion made from crème fraîche and perce-pierre—commonly known as samphire or sea fennel (Crithmum maritimum), although the fish Parablennius gattorugine is also known by this name.
They refer to the dish as “rouget cardinalisé” due to its red color, similar to lobster à la cardinale.
The yellow sauce was highly citrusy with a hint of saffron.
The red mullet had a good, distinct mullet flavor. However, the cooking was unusual—the skin was not particularly crispy (despite the server’s claim that it was seared on the skin side for a crispy result), and the flesh was slightly undercooked, even cold. This type of dish is very common in haute cuisine and fine dining restaurants, but it’s not one I particularly enjoy. For starters, I believe red mullet has much more potential when prepared differently. Additionally, serving such a small piece of fish doesn’t allow one to fully appreciate it—it was almost like a canapé.
I also felt that the accompaniments overpowered the fish rather than enhancing it or creating a harmonious combination where both elements shine. Conceptually, it’s essentially a classic dish of fish filet with cream and citrus, but instead of being fully integrated, the modern plating leaves each ingredient isolated.
During the meal, a kitchen staff member cut himself, and within seconds, a colleague had a bandage ready while another chef, working at a different station, stepped in to assist so the service rhythm wasn’t disrupted. Moments of such camaraderie and flawless coordination are a delight to witness during a meal.
Roudoudou – Saint-Malo scallop, emulsion of trimmings and coral, with leeks and kiwi.
A dish named “Roudoudou,” referencing a type of confectionery—a colorful candy shaped like a seashell.
It featured a seared scallop (the adductor muscle or noix) from Saint-Malo (Normandy), cooked directly on parchment paper with plenty of oil, almost creating a pool. Surrounding it was a white sauce made from scallop trimmings (the mantle or barbes), its roe (corail), and butter.
On top was a darker, purple-colored sauce, made from the same base as the white sauce but more caramelized and enriched with purple carrots. At the base, beneath the scallop, were finely diced pieces of leek and kiwi (not visible in the photo).
The scallop was perfectly cooked—tender, meaty, and silky inside—but somewhat lacking in flavor. It left a rather salty aftertaste. The combination of flavors was quite classic—a scallop with butter. I appreciated that it was served with a Catalan knife, the fantastic Pallarès.
Vol-au-vent – Vegetables and bitter greens in Viennese puff pastry, with bouche chaude sauce.
A dish called “Vol-au-vent“, named after the spirit of a vol-au-vent. It features Viennese puff pastry, arranged in a circular shape and stacked to form a small tower with multiple millefeuille-like layers. Surrounding it were bitter greens, vegetables, and bouchot mussels from Mont Saint-Michel (Normandy).
At the base was the sauce bouche chaude—a playful wordplay, as in French it sounds like bouchot, the traditional method of cultivating mussels on stakes rather than ropes, for example. The sauce was made with the mussels themselves, their cooking water, saffron, and nasturtium flowers.
Among the vegetables were some lettuce leaves, the first lettuce of the season from Orto Felice, a farm run by the Romanelli family, renowned producers from Udine (in Friuli-Venezia-Giulia, Italy). They have been organic since 1989 and grow, among other things, 70 different varieties of legumes recovered from ancient seeds. I find the work done at Orto Felice wonderful, but it’s incredible to me that Bruno Verjus, while in Paris, buys fresh lettuce from Italy. Aren’t there farmers near Paris? And, of course, it seems even less environmentally friendly. I understand buying dried legumes, which travel well, but fresh lettuce? Even if it arrives within 24 hours and is refrigerated, the journey from Udine to Table is over 1,200 km. I don’t get it.
The puff pastry was exceptionally well-made, with the layers perfectly separated. Some of the layers I ate by pulling them apart from the tower as if they were chips. Others, even though I felt guilty about dismantling the millefeuille tower, I broke apart and dipped in the sauce, mixing them with the other ingredients on the plate. I love these light, airy, crisp, and delicate puff pastries!
The mussels, cultivated on stakes (bouchot), were deliciously infused with saffron in the yellow saffron sauce.
The green sauce was one of those aromatic herb-infused oils, adding a final touch of seasoning to all the ingredients.
The harmony of flavors in the dish was excellent!
Ni-cru Ni-cuit – Trap-caught Île d’Yeu lobster, celeriac, caper and nettle rémoulade, with a halophilic garden.
A piece of the tail of a European lobster (Homarus gammarus) caught in a lobster pot (casier) off the Île d’Yeu, in the Vendée department of the Pays de la Loire region, about 700 km west of Roanne—a small island of around 20 km² located south of Noirmoutier.
At the base, there was a thick slice (about 1 cm) of Monarch celeriac (Apium graveolens rapaceum), a green emulsion with the consistency of mayonnaise (which I understand to be the caper and nettle rémoulade), a few petals, some leaves, a drizzle of oil, and another herb-infused green oil.
One of his signature dishes.
The cooking method and execution of the lobster amazed me. Just before plating, the lobster was briefly submerged in a beautiful, transparent, reddish broth made from the toasted shells of the lobsters and clarified butter (specifically ghee, which is clarified more slowly and retains a sweeter flavor). This technique resulted in a lobster that was technically raw but organoleptically warm—served at body temperature. It had a subtly sweet, pleasant aftertaste, reminiscent of vanilla. The texture was revolutionary, aesthetically brilliant, shiny, crystalline—a visual spectacle.
The celeriac, though well-cooked and tender, seemed slightly too thick to me and didn’t fully align with the idea this dish has always represented: lobster sandwiches with mayonnaise, tomato, celery, and a few leaves. Nevertheless, the dish as a whole was another example where all the ingredients, juices, oils, and sauces were perfectly integrated and harmonized with the star of the plate—the magnificent lobster.
Moussetage – Parsnip mousseline infused with brown butter, and a soup of foraged herbs.
A dish called “Moussetage,” a contraction of mousseline and potage, presented as a trou normand (literally “Norman hole,” a tradition from Normandy). This refers to a pause during a long meal, typically a small glass of Calvados (or another brandy or spirit) served midway through the meal—not before dessert but earlier, as a kind of coup de milieu to continue eating.
In this case, it wasn’t a digestif but a mousseline of parsnip infused with brown butter (the white sauce) and a soup of foraged wild herbs (the green sauce).
The white cream had the texture of Robuchon’s purée—dense and buttery. Although the description mentioned parsnip and the dish was introduced as being made with artichoke, to me, it tasted like Jerusalem artichokes. It was silky, with a balanced butter flavor that didn’t overpower, and had a pleasant citrus note reminiscent of Uliassi’s lemon zest.
The green sauce was cool and fresh, lighter and more liquid, seemingly made from parsley.
This was a dish composed solely of two liquid elements with different densities, without any protein or solids. It was as though only the accompaniment—the sauce—was being served, or as if the purée was garnished with another liquid rather than solid elements like leaves, seeds, or crispy toppings. This liquid + liquid combination reminded me of the “60º/4ºC pea soup” from El Bulli (which also played with the same ingredient and contrasting temperatures), a concept I’ve been encountering more frequently. For instance, the next day, I had the bouillabaisse at Le Pré Catelan, and I also thought of Bagá’s “almendra/caviar.”
Speaking generally about restaurants, not just Table, I find that many dishes are served chilled for the sake of aesthetics or to facilitate explanations to diners, but this often disregards the importance of temperature—a factor I find fascinating. There’s little creativity in this regard, and meals tend to be monotonous when it comes to variations in temperature.
At that moment, Leandre was slowly frying an egg over low heat, with the butter and pan barely warm, for the only guest who chose the white truffle menu—a young-looking Asian diner, seemingly in his early twenties.
They brushed the crumbs off the table.
Meanwhile, Sarah was plating kale over mushrooms, and Giuseppe was filleting the already-cooked sole, coiling it, and handing it to Leandre, who plated it over a base of vin jaune sauce.
Two dishes were served simultaneously since the mushrooms accompanied the sole.
Clef de sole – Winter sole grilled on the skin, with a vin jaune emulsion.
A dish called “Clef de sole,” playing on the musical term clef de sol (treble clef) and sole (the fish), as both are pronounced the same in French.
A fillet of sole from Île d’Yeu (Pays de la Loire), weighing around 2 kg, sourced from Pascal Hennequin of Mareyage Hennequin (not to be confused with Poissoneries Hennequin-Taraud, also from Île d’Yeu). The fish was cooked whole (with head, skin, and bones) on the grill, then rested and finished in the oven (4 minutes at 200°C in a Rational oven).
Afterward, it was peeled and deboned, with only a portion of the fillet served, coiled atop a bed of spinach and dulse seaweed (Palmaria palmata), sautéed over low heat (likely with butter). At the base was a frothy, well-aerated white sauce made from vin jaune and butter.
The sole was firm but bland; the main element of the dish ended up being the weakest part. Apart from its texture and the aesthetic appeal of the rolled presentation, it added little in terms of flavor. Like with the red mullet dish, it’s moments like this that make me question whether I enjoy haute cuisine.
The vin jaune and butter sauce was delicious, especially when combined with the delicate texture of the seaweed and spinach. While the flavors of the spinach and seaweed took a backseat, the overall result was pleasant. These are simple, approachable flavors that transported me back to the sweet days of childhood and early adolescence.
Ragoût sylvestre.
A scramble made with mushrooms such as pied de mouton (hedgehog mushroom), yellowfoot chanterelles, and girolles; finely sliced pig’s ear, cut to resemble spaghetti; a few Venus clams; small pieces of chestnut; and the flavorful broth left in the pan. At the base was a frothy green herb emulsion, freshly whipped. Finally, on top, there was fried kale, though it was slightly too oily.
The dish was very good, and I had already enjoyed its visual appeal when I saw it in the pan. That said, I would have liked more pig’s ear, as it was so exceptionally well-prepared.
Sous la mer – Roasted veal sweetbreads in singing butter, shellfish jus, and kelp.
A dish aptly named “Under the Sea.”
Magnificent veal sweetbreads from Hugo Desnoyer’s Parisian butcher-restaurant, likely from Limousin cattle. They were prepared without flouring, cooked in a pan with beurre chantant (butter that “sings” as it crackles in the pan), and topped with some crushed hazelnuts, skin included.
The accompaniment was a dense potato purée (likely with a good amount of butter), flavored with nutmeg or perhaps an herb I couldn’t quite identify. Very kindly, they added a touch of shaved white truffle, using a stainless steel slicer from the Tartufi Ponzio shop in Alba.
The dark sauce was a reduction made from the heads of bouquet shrimp and kelp (Laminaria genus), which is why the dish is titled “Under the Sea.”
The veal sweetbreads practically burst in the mouth, releasing a bit of oil and their juices. They were of exceptional quality, comparable to those from Maurice Trolliet (MOF 1986), who has a stall at the Les Halles Paul Bocuse market in Lyon. Moreover, they were perfectly cooked—golden but not overly caramelized, so delicate, fluffy, and subtle that they resembled lamb brain.
It’s common to encounter sweetbreads that are coarse, overly floured, too oily, too salty, or drowned in demi-glace or even honey. These were fantastic, worthy of L’Ambroisie. In fact, they brought me far more joy than the white truffle. Comparing the two products, I found the sweetbreads to be more exceptional than the tuber magnatum, which didn’t shine and was served sparingly.
Everything was delicious, whether eaten separately or combining the sweetbreads with the purée, the sweetbreads with the sauce, or the purée with the sauce.
Lièvre à la royale
A dish they very kindly added to our meal.
One of the great recipes of Western culinary tradition, this dish was considered an outdated and old-fashioned classic for some years but, since 2010 (or perhaps a little earlier), it has re-emerged, wrapped in an aura of modernity. It can now be found in both informal settings like natural wine bars and even beer bars, such as the restaurant on the ground floor of Barcelona’s Fàbrica Moritz.
A Lièvre à la royale à la poitevine, inspired by Senator Couteaux’s recipe (though it included foie gras), with shredded meat meant to be eaten with a spoon. The dish featured hare liver, duck liver, blood, a tannic red wine, and a touch of rose water, which was imperceptible. Surprisingly, it didn’t include truffle and, as an unexpected twist, incorporated a hint of mole—a nod to Bruno’s relationship with Jorge Vallejo of Quintonil in Mexico City. I chose not to delve further into the mole details to avoid venturing too deep into that world.
The hare used was around 3 kg, sourced from Picardie (a former region in northern France, now part of Hauts-de-France, near the Belgian border). It was marinated for two days, cooked for 4 to 5 hours, and then rested for another 4 to 5 hours. Naturally, given the preparation involved, it’s one of the few dishes cooked ahead of service.
Just before plating, it’s simply reheated in a saucepan, stirred, and turned over. It was served with finely shredded cabell d’àngel squash at the base, all generously covered with the hare sauce.
The hare was very refined, light, and not heavy at all. It had a subtle, warm spiciness—perhaps from the touch of mole added to it. The sauce was well-balanced (often, these sauces can be overly acidic) and served in sufficient quantity to properly moisten the hare “civet” and allow you to enjoy the sauce without needing to ask for more. The Mexican mole twist surprised me and reminded me of Paco Méndez’s hare dishes from Hoja Santa, Niño Viejo, and the current Come. However, it was very well integrated with the rest of the ingredients, as it should be. The flavors of garlic, onions, and other vegetables were also perfectly blended into the overall preparation.
The dish stood out for the purity of its ingredients (the hare, livers, and wine), its deep yet controlled intensity, and the fact that it was served without any additional elements for acidity or freshness. It was a hare dish in harmony with itself (par lui-même), with enough nuances not to require embellishments like pickled onion rings, beets, flowers, sprouts, red fruits, soil foams, or a long list of extraneous ingredients that many chefs add, thinking they’re bringing complexity, cleansing the palate, or who knows what else to the poor hare. I appreciated this simplicity.
It even came with a pellet, which always delights me—it’s like finding the fava bean in a King’s Cake. And, since this dish has a reputation for causing indigestion, it’s worth emphasizing that it was not heavy at all. Although, some eccentric gourmets might see this as a flaw, claiming that a good hare dish should be indigestible and involve certain less-mentionable aspects that I’ll skip over.
They offered us cheese, and for some reason, we said no. I always say yes to everything! Later, I regretted it because the cheese was from Bernard Antony – Fromages au bonheur de la France.
Salade verte vivement assaisonnée (vigorously dressed green salad).
DESSERTS
Tartelette au chocolat du Pérou – Infusion of capers from Linosa and osciètre caviar, pistachio oil. Homage to Claudio Corallo and Jacques Genin.
A slice of chocolate tart (or small tartlet) made with Peruvian chocolate, infused with capers from Linosa (Agrigento, Sicily) and pistachio oil. On top was a quenelle of osciètre caviar (Acipenser gueldenstaedtii, the Russian sturgeon), malossol (lightly salted), unpasteurized, from Antonius Caviar in Poland.
This dessert was an homage to Claudio Corallo and Jacques Genin, two figures who, among many other achievements, are master chocolatiers supplying the finest hotels and restaurants in France.
What might be their most iconic dish.
The tart contains no sugar, and the crust is made with hazelnut flour and flour from an ancient wheat variety.
It’s a type of shortcrust pastry filled with ganache. While I didn’t detect the flavor of the capers, I did notice the saltiness, which I believe comes more from the caviar than the capers. The caviar only lasts for a couple of bites and primarily adds texture (buttery with a slight crunch) and a touch of saltiness. It’s a truly delightful combination.
Alongside the hare, this is one of the few dishes prepared in advance of service. In fact, as soon as I arrived, I saw 6 or 7 chocolate tartlets covered with a glass cloche on a pedestal tray atop the counter.
Clafoutis minute, by the spoonful, stealthily.
A clafoutis à la minute, made to order and served by the spoonful to be eaten with a spoon, à la dérobée—almost as if in secret.
This traditional fruit dessert from Limousin (a historical region now part of Nouvelle-Aquitaine) is typically made with cherries and covered in a custard-like cream, somewhere between a flan and crème anglaise in texture.
At Table, it was served tableside from a gorgeous oval copper Mauviel pan with a stainless steel interior and golden handle—a stunning presentation. Their version featured cream, vanilla, two varieties of kiwi, and umeshu (Japanese plum liqueur made with sake and sugar).
Served warm while we were still eating the chocolate tart with caviar. It eventually cooled down, and I can only imagine how fantastic it must have been when hot. They “rushed” us—why the sudden hurry when everything had been so well-paced?
“Magneleine,” souvenir d’un printemps dans le Magne. Madeleine with olive jam, almonds, and citrus, olive oil from Kardamili.
A dish named “Magneleine,” playing on the words madeleine and Magne, one of the three southern peninsulas of the Peloponnese where Verjus holds memories of a springtime visit.
A shell-shaped madeleine filled with a jam made of olives, almonds, and citrus. At the table, a drizzle of Kalamata olive oil from Kardamili (in the Peloponnese) is poured over it.
A slightly crispy madeleine with a wonderfully light interior. Absolutely delicious—though it would have been even better served hot. I particularly loved the idea of drizzling it with Kalamata olive oil, lightly infused with honey, right before serving.
THE CUISINE – THE STYLE
INGREDIENTS – THE PRODUCT
For Verjus, the product is king, and that’s exactly how it feels when dining at Table. Many chefs claim this, but it’s not always evident—here, it truly is.
He uses ingredients from all food groups: fruits, vegetables, seaweed, mushrooms, nuts, flowers, plants, all kinds of seafood, smoked and pickled items, farm-raised and game meats, organ meats, and a wide variety of offal. He cooks with both oil and butter, as well as cream, wine, and spirits. He enjoys working with a wide array of oils and vinegars. While he makes his own doughs, he also sources bread from various bakeries. This particular menu did not feature legumes, pasta, rice, or grains of any kind, though he does include them in his cooking.
In terms of origin, while his focus is primarily on France (Normandy, Brittany, Loire, Bordeaux, Gascony, Occitania, Roussillon, etc.), he also sources products from Italy, Spain, Catalonia, Greece, Scotland, Belgium, Poland, Norway, and Japan, depending on what interests him.
He has a deep passion for different species and varieties (many of them heirloom and revived) as well as rare products, whether from France or around the world.
Verjus has built an impressive network of suppliers—remarkable not only for the quantity but also for the diversity of varieties, origins, and quality. For example, he works with about ten pea growers, ten tomato growers, and has seven suppliers for Mallemont asparagus from Grasse.
That said, I think this level of sourcing is to be expected for a chef at his caliber. It’s not so extraordinary—just like when I, on a domestic level, often have to visit four or five stores in two or three different towns to find the tomatoes or artichokes I’m looking for.
The quality and freshness of all the raw materials are particularly remarkable, clearly evident on the plate. The dishes that shone the least, not due to the quality of the ingredients but because of the recipe and plating style, were the red mullet and the sole.
Verjus claims to have deep admiration and absolute respect for his producers. His rule is to avoid placing specific product orders with a shopping list; instead, he lets the producer supply what they believe is their best product at the best moment and in the quantity available. He doesn’t want to exert “pressure” that could force producers to meet unmanageable demands or alter their ways of working. He believes this is the kind of eco-responsibility that restaurateurs should have toward their artisans and producers.
Each morning, he receives product deliveries with excitement, like a surprise party. Based on what he receives, he starts thinking about how to cook it. He says this approach makes them very creative and forces them out of their comfort zone.
While he doesn’t pursue localism for its own sake, he does advocate for seasonal products. According to Verjus, the ingredients change daily. I understand the idea (every melon and sole is different), but I find it unnecessary to exaggerate by claiming that everything changes completely from one day to the next. As Ryoko Sekiguchi poetically explains in La Nostalgie de la Saison Qui S’achève (The Nostalgia for the Ending Season), I prefer the concept of 10 or 12 seasons throughout the year (micro-seasons) rather than the classic four seasons.
Additionally, with climate change and the disruption of seasons, we could also talk about micro-seasons that overlap, shorten, or extend. Moreover, his market isn’t strictly local—when, for example, Maresme peas are no longer available, he could source them from Garrotxa or Getaria, as an example from our market.
As for ingredient combinations, I don’t see a clear pattern; in this sense, his approach seems entirely free. There’s a noticeable abundance of “surf and turf,” which I wouldn’t claim as exclusive to Catalonia, but as someone born and raised in Catalonia, I naturally see it as part of Catalan cuisine.
I’d love to know which restaurants in Catalonia he has visited, what he enjoys, and who inspires him.
TECHNIQUES
Verjus employs traditional techniques and equipment, subjecting products to minimal manipulation that remains discreet, always giving center stage to the ingredient itself. He (or rather, his chefs, as I observed) executes the preparations like true virtuosos, without drawing attention to extraordinary efforts, yet achieving a minimally processed cuisine that shines and elevates.
He avoids overcooking and instead respects the natural textures and qualities of the products. He has a clear vision of what should be served raw versus cooked, what should be served fresh versus aged or matured, and why. For example, much of his seafood is alive right before serving, but turbot, sole, and tuna are aged and rested, seemingly in a very thoughtful and appropriate manner.
He often speaks of the “gesture” and “caressing” the product, which, for him, are key focuses. This ventures into poetic and philosophical territory, as he talks about the gestures of cooking and eating with expressions that evoke deeply human moments, like “eating spoonfuls straight from the pan, in secret.”
In any case, this stripped-down style of cooking leaves no room for error—if the cooking or execution were not impeccable, such flaws would be glaringly obvious.
ORGANOLEPTICALLY
Aesthetically, it’s clear that Verjus values beauty and follows a consistent aesthetic criterion, both in the restaurant’s decor and its overall concept, as well as in the plating of dishes. The overall coherence is very harmonious, making dining at Table a delight. While some dishes might be minimalist, I wouldn’t say that minimalism defines his style (as I had previously thought from a distance) or that it is one of his goals. However, he avoids decoration for decoration’s sake and does not add superfluous or unnecessary elements from an organoleptic standpoint.
In terms of taste, except for the red mullet dish, the harmony of flavors in the dishes stands out. All ingredients are perfectly integrated, avoiding the style of plating where different zones on the plate can be mixed and matched in various ways. Verjus champions pure and clean flavors, aiming to highlight the natural characteristics of the product in its raw state as much as possible.
There are no excesses—whether of salt, sugar, oil, or overpowering flavors—at any point. I would highlight moments of exquisite gelatinous texture, such as the green emulsion accompanying the oyster, which evoked an Asian mellowness. I imagine he must have deeply enjoyed exploring such textures during his time in China.
THE STRUCTURE OF THE MENU
A menu consisting of 16 courses with a structure that has some curious traits, such as serving the salad before what I interpret as the appetizers or as an appetizer itself, to settle the stomach and encourage good digestion. Another intriguing aspect of the menu’s structure is the dish “Les Mer Veille,” which I interpret as the appetizers due to the size of the portions and the fact that they are served simultaneously. Then comes the red mullet (which is also amuse-bouche-sized), followed by what I would consider the main courses of the meal: the scallop, a puff pastry with vegetables and mussels in sauce, the lobster, the trou normand made from two sauces to aid digestion, and the sole accompanied by the mushroom dish.
Up to this point, the order seems unusual and mysterious. Apart from the sequence being based on intensities, I cannot discern why one dish is served before another. Perhaps the idea is to interpret each dish as a chapter, a separate story unrelated to the others.
From here, finishing with the sweetbreads and the hare feels more traditional. Then come the cheeses, which I skipped, and as for the desserts, nothing mysterious: chocolate, creamy custard with fruit, and a madeleine as a single petit four. I appreciate that they don’t overwhelm you with sugar, flour, or the typical petits fours often served just because it’s expected. In this informal setting, such excesses wouldn’t have made sense.
As for the dishes I would highlight from the menu—those I would classify as unforgettable—I would clearly say the lobster and the veal brain with sea urchins. As for isolated components (rather than entire dishes): the sweetbreads on their own, the puff pastry, the vin jaune butter sauce, the mussel and saffron sauce, and the delightful scrambled mushrooms with pig’s ear and clams.
The chocolate tart with caviar will stay in my memory more for its concept and the acclaim it has received than for how good it was; I found the madeleine with olive oil far more exceptional, yet no one mentions or highlights it.
I really liked the portion sizes. To me, it wouldn’t make sense to have a menu consisting of finger foods and bite-sized dishes in a cuisine style and spirit like his, but since we’ve seen everything in life, nothing surprises me.
The tableware, though not unified under a single collection from one brand, is of very high quality and predominantly white, following a fairly harmonious aesthetic throughout the meal. I liked it quite a lot.
THE CREATIVE PROCESS
On one hand, he draws inspiration from the products he receives each morning.
On the other, he says that just as he once told stories with his pen and words, he now tells stories through cooking, using food as his medium. Thankfully, there’s no storytelling during the meal itself, as some of the dish names and the rhetoric I’ve encountered in his books seem dangerously close to the kind of overly elaborate narratives found in many of the most criticized menus, which I discussed extensively in my article on “inspiration from non-culinary elements as a starting point for the creative process.”
As I explained at the beginning of the article, there’s no mise en place or “production” (or at least far less than in most restaurants), and many of the preparations are made on the spot. Thus, in a sense, there are no rigid recipes, fixed menus, or a set à la carte offering. However, over the years, some dishes have become emblematic and signature items of the restaurant.
For me, cooking consists of a series of mechanical processes. Therefore, the claim that at Table dishes aren’t reproduced mechanically doesn’t seem entirely accurate. He aims to convey a sense of freedom, but in reality, there are more structured dishes than it might initially appear.
That said, Table is a universe of products with more spontaneity and immediacy than most restaurants, regardless of their type or level. Bruno creates dishes by cooking, not by drafting precise recipes, drawing detailed diagrams, or sketching with colored pencils and markers as many chefs are shown doing in documentaries. In a way, he improvises, much like improvisation in certain styles of jazz—but only at specific moments and always within certain guidelines.
I find it to be a restaurant with a very distinct DNA, from the concept of the restaurant to the cooking style, and from the personality of the chef to the resulting dishes. That DNA also happens to be the initials of his book L’Art De Nourrir—everything fits perfectly (as the marketing department might say).
HIS MENTORS OR CHEFS WHO HAVE INFLUENCED HIM
As I mentioned at the beginning, the fact that everything is cooked to order without a fixed repertoire reminds me of Alain Chapel. The fact that he is self-taught and transitioned into the culinary world by opening his restaurant after the age of 50 makes me think of Mikael Jonsson from Hedone. But I also see traits of Alain Passard: the innovation and disobedience of focusing on vegetables, the obsession with product quality and variety, and the approach of creating menus based on the daily arrival of ingredients.
I also see similarities with Bernard Pacaud of L’Ambroisie (what a shame I wasn’t doing Tast a Tast back when I dined there; I couldn’t have imagined how much the experience of dining out would change). Pacaud shares a tendency to break from tradition while remaining tied to classicism, unafraid of seeming old-fashioned, focusing on immediate cooking and serving dishes with just 3–4 ingredients.
As for the naming of dishes (sometimes poetic, sometimes wordplay, or evocative descriptions of memories and landscapes), it reminds me of the more artistic side of Pierre Gagnaire, the dish names of Passard, or titles like “A Sad Day at the Beach” or “Oops! I Dropped My Lemon Tart” from Bottura. It also makes me think a bit of Gresca, Rafa Peña’s cooking, and what I believe the restaurant might have tended toward becoming at some point in its history.
THE PRICE
I don’t usually address or evaluate this topic, but the €400 barrier compelled me to do so, which is why I brought it up at the very beginning of this piece. I’ve at least tried to tackle the subject from some perspective, as there’s much to unpack.
If we consider the prices of the top three restaurants on The World’s 50 Best, this is by far the most expensive: Disfrutar is €295, and Etxebarri is €280. In Parisian terms, despite having two stars and being far removed from the classic and palatial three-star establishments in Paris, Table charges three-star prices.
Did I find it expensive? Well, starting from the belief that good food doesn’t necessarily have to be expensive, a €400 menu seems pricey no matter how you look at it. At times, it even pains me—this is why I resisted going. There comes a point where certain prices leave me feeling slightly uncomfortable, even questioning whether, morally, they might be indecent.
But given the current landscape, with more and more menus priced at €600 or €800, I find myself thinking, “At least we ate well. At other restaurants, we pay similar prices, and there isn’t even quality produce.” Sure, we eat soles and red mullets of similar quality at home and cook them in ways we feel make the most of them. And yes, there’s a markup due to factors beyond the product and cooking itself, as with any restaurant, to varying degrees.
Jubany also charges €90/kg for pagell, while I buy it for €20 or €30 at home. The same applies to Estimar, Villa Más, and any restaurant serving quality fish—let alone those with three-star settings like Da Vittorio. If the grouper is good, it will be priced at €150/kg or more, instead of the €50 I pay at Ca La Carola. Miracles in Lourdes—we know what it means to dine out. That said, there are many other ingredients mortals like us simply cannot have at home.
Still, I’d rather pay €400 at Verjus than €300 (+€40 for the popsicle) at Coda, for example. But I also think a restaurant is much more than just the product and what’s on the plate, so I can understand, justify, and appreciate what was served to me for that €400. Furthermore, I believe all the details can be very well appreciated through the level of detailed analysis I’ve provided.
CONCLUSIONS
It closely resembles how I’d like to eat daily at home, especially in terms of having the most exceptional ingredients, as fresh as possible, cooked with brilliant technique that remains hidden behind the extraordinary quality of the product, which is what truly deserves to shine.
A cuisine based on local products and ancient, lesser-known varieties—whether from the animal or plant kingdoms—but without rejecting products from around the world that can travel well. A cuisine where most of the preparations are made fresh and everything is served with a tasteful, harmonious, refined, and high-quality table setting that doesn’t steal the spotlight from the food itself. A place where all the essential values in the art of cooking are present and balanced in a way that feels just right to me.
A restaurant du bonheur, of happiness. La joie de vivre. It is indeed true, as Bruno Verjus says: “The way we eat determines the world we live in.”
