![]() In retrospect, he might have been a bit of a recessionary whipping boy-perhaps we rejected, even punished the chef for representing a kind of extravagance that felt distasteful and un-American in those rocky mid-aught years. Regis and doing business for another five there, under the name Adour.Ĭulturally though, New York never seemed to fully warm up to Ducasse. Essex House rebounded, and it stayed open for seven years before relocating to the St. And so, it bears mentioning, did Ducasse. Even still, in this middle-brow climate, fine-dining restaurants like Per Se and Marea opened and thrived in New York. Even as he awarded the restaurant three stars, New York Times critic William Grimes described the place as having “the unmistakable look of a giant gilded turkey.” And this was before 9/11 plunged New York into its steepest economic decline since the 1930s before a cash poor and traumatized city looked for salvation not in the escapist theater of fine dining, but in the easy comfort of hamburgers and fried chicken before the stripped-down energy offered at restaurants like the Spotted Pig and Momofuku Noodle Bar became the prevailing aesthetic in town. The restaurant was roasted for its high prices and hauteur-for its Cartier pens and tiny stools designed expressly to shield handbags from the indignities of the floor. Ducasse” to the honorific “chef.” I smile a bit at the ask, as if I’ve called Queen Elizabeth “bae.” But Ducasse, a superstar in Europe, didn’t even introduce his particular brand of rococo decadence to the United States until the year 2000, when he opened Alain Ducasse at the Essex House in New York. ![]() ![]() He is an elder statesman of haute cuisine a walking constellation of Michelin stars, spread among 25 restaurants in seven countries. To many, the chef is a symbol of a particular tributary of fine dining that runs to crisp white linens, ritualized service, and a pressing need for mother-of-pearl spoons. But you wouldn’t know it at a Ducasse restaurant. The cult of casual that has turned so many dining rooms into house parties left its mark on chef culture too, stripping the craft of its continental, pro-forma conventions. There’s not a lot of room for this kind of bended-knee ceremony in the restaurant industry these days. Ducasse’s kitchen tonight, observing from a corner as he leads a brigade of his former and current employees in preparing his “legacy” dinner. Ducasse” to the honorific “chef.” I smile a bit at the ask, as if I’ve called Queen Elizabeth “bae.” But I’m in Mr. A few of the cooks call him “papa,” and that seems impossibly intimate, especially after I’m told that he prefers “Mr. And then he arrives, all silver hair and impeccable whites, tailed by a photographer who captures every handshake and hoisted champagne flute and hand rested assuringly on the shoulder of some young cook.Įven as he settles into his place at the pass, it is impossible to get lost in a task to forget that he is there. Sounds are more acute-of sizzles and scrapes and knives against cutting boards. If you’ve ever seen a storm coming just by observing the simpers of the family dog, then you know what it feels like in the moments before Alain Ducasse enters a kitchen.
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