The Simple Lion

For gourmets, the news was unsettling. This year, for the first time in history, the Guide Michelin gave its top rating for culinary excellence, three stars, to four additional restaurants. Only twelve establishments in all of France carried three stars last year and the long-term trend has been downward: in 1940 1,200 establishments enjoyed one or more stars v. only 610 today. Has the bible of haute cuisine lost its bite? Not at all, says one of the editors: "We wanted formally to recognize and concretize the new wave in French gastronomy."

That gesture was, in fact, a bow to the master of that new wave, Paul Bocuse, who calls himself the "Lion of Lyon." He received his third star in 1965 and is the new school's preeminent practitioner, the leader in the reaction against heavy, highly stylized cooking that burdens food with pre-reduced sauces, excess stuffing, ornate croustades and cosmetic montages. Bocuse preaches in favor of provincial simplicity in the tradition of the bonne femme who relies more on basic ingredients than complicated technique. "A chef, even a bad one, can never go wrong," he says, "if he has good raw materials." The point, as Bocuse sees it, is to "render unto a chicken that which is its due, and nothing more."

That is what the world of haute cuisine also renders unto Bocuse. In a field cluttered with large egos, his rivals call him their chef de file (party leader). Says Alain Chapel, one of this year's new three-star men: "He was shaking the coconut tree while the rest of us were still learning basics." Actually, Bocuse and his mentor, the late Fernand Point, were shaking the tradition of Escoffier, who personified the elaborate approach that many foreigners think of as being the whole of French cooking. Says Jean Didier of the Guide Kleber: "If Point was God, Bocuse is his prophet."

Bocuse is also the heir to two centuries of family tradition. His ancestors began cooking for paying guests in 1765, on the same site in the Lyonnais village of Collonges-au-Mont-d'Or where his restaurant stands today. It is called simply "Paul Bocuse." Why?

"My name is enough," he says. "It means restaurant." His apprenticeship with Point began at age 21, and Bocuse became a believer in Point's commandment to protect "the integrity of the raw product."

Now 47, Bocuse begins his day at 5 a.m. by searching the local farmer's market for the freshest produce. He avoids supermarkets as he would canned soups. Then he is likely to go over the day's menu with his sous-chef, Robert Dubuis, before driving off to surrounding villages in search of freshly killed game and freshly made sausage. One of the new school's creeds is to avoid whenever possible food that has traveled long distances; favorite dishes tend to be seasonal and local.

Love Songs. The restaurant seats only 60. Bocuse, his wife and his daughter are apt to greet guests at the door. In the fireplace, chickens revolve on a spit. Individual dishes may be relatively simple, but Bocuse assembles a meal of awesome proportions and exquisite quality. TIME's Steven Englund recently sampled a luncheon that was spiced with Bocuse's commentary. It began with sausage in a brioche ("You really have to eat sausage when you come to Lyon") and continued with pate de foie gras that had been made the same morning. Next came the shrimp soup ("Escoffier would have been horrified at how simple it is. Just some shrimp, white wine, heavy cream, butter, a few shallots"). The fourth course was wild duck in green pepper sauce ("If you come in December, you can eat duck that I shoot myself"). Though sated by now, Englund continued through the goat cheese--Collonges goats, of course--but a sense of self-preservation made him turn down the pastry and the seven varieties of fruit in wine.

For a meal of that kind, Bocuse charges between $18 and $25, excluding the cost of wine, or about two-thirds the price of a three-star Parisian restaurant. He also maintains a staff of 48 and habitually loses money on the operation. Bocuse stays prosperous by lending his name to a line of wines exported to the U.S. and by running an annex, the Abbaye, that he calls his "laughing place." There he can feed 300 at a banquet, and there he enjoys tinkering with a stereo system on which he plays schmalzy love songs and a $10,000 automated organ that booms out John Philip Sousa marches. Occasionally he even sings for the customers.

What Escoffier would think about that can only be imagined.

This file is automatically generated by a robot program, so reader's discretion is required.