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The Perfectionist: Life and Death in Haute Cuisine

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The cutthroat atmosphere of haute cuisine in France has been depicted by author Rudolph Chelminski with penetrating detail in his incisive study of one sad casualty, master chef Bernard Loiseau, the suicidal result of his own Machiavellian calamity. Just in his early fifties, Loiseau shot himself in the head in early 2003, after he sensed his reputation starting to slide. The esteemed Guide Gault-Millet downgraded his classic Burgundy restaurant La Cote d'Or in 2002, awarding it 17 out of 20, a significant and unprecedented drop of two points from its previous rating, and rumor had it that Michelin was thinking of stripping Loiseau of his third star. While this may seem trivial to the layman, this was tantamount to banishment from France, a cultural and professional distinction that Chelminski acutely explores in the rarified culinary world there.

Loiseau's career is the foundation of Chelminski's exhaustive and often entertaining book, as we follow his ascension from kitchen apprentice to award-winning chef amid the pressures of maintaining those Michelin stars and even more unrealistically, Loiseau's quest for culinary perfection. It was this stress combined with what was diagnosed as bi-polar disorder (unbeknownst to the public) that led to his suicide. Throughout the late 1980's and the 1990's, Loiseau's developed and mastered a style of cooking called "cuisine d'essences", which was a response to the prevailing climate of health consciousness. He was media-savvy and became a fashionable figure for a time. But times changed, and he was unwilling or unable to change with them. A new generation of chefs had emerged in the early 21st century, and novelty combinations replaced what was perceived as the lackluster concoctions of old-timers. Instead, they were striving to emulate the surrealist, laboratory-inspired inventions of the emerging Catalan chef Ferran Adria. As the author makes clear, Loiseau was simply not capable of adapting his approach, but what's worse, he could not come to terms with no longer being top dog.

Chelminski shows Loiseau's determination to reach the top was tinged with palpable desperation. He had to be the best or nothing in his narrowly focused mind, and he became his own worst enemy. Paranoia set in, and his nervous questioning of those around him set off a damaging chain of murmurs that eventually surfaced in the press. The truth deflated him to no end. Chelminski examines the effects of mental illness and seriously questions whether it is a prerequisite for being the top in anyone's chosen field. La Cote d'Or was open 364 days a year, and Loiseau hardly ever missed a service working fifteen-hour days for more than thirty years. Such monomaniacal behavior would appear to reflect a deep-seeded insecurity masked by a supreme ego and buoyed up by an adoring kitchen staff. Loiseau's innate connection with his restaurant was the model of psychological co-dependency, so much so that when he left La Cote d'Or to open a restaurant in Japan, he had a mental breakdown. In the final months of his life, he started to accept that he wasn't the best, and he must have believed death and perhaps an early legacy were his only options.

This entertaining book works on several levels. Chelminski provides a thorough history of 20th century French Cuisine, in particular, describing the rise of the name food critics' importance in the making of young stars in France. The book is also a morality tale about the lure of fame and the downfall of obsession. It's also a probing study on the effects of mental illness on one's increasingly warped perception of reality. In fact, there are so many different subtexts and themes that ultimately we are left with little doubt that a man so adored by the French culinary world would take his own life. Chelminski's book makes a fine reading complement to Ruth Reichl's recent book about being the New York Times food critic, "Garlic and Sapphires", and Anthony Boudrain's more acerbically funny take on the restaurant business, "Kitchen Confidential".

Two recent books about megalomaniacs: genial, larger-than-life luminaries of the food and wine world, Robert Parker, the American wine critic, and Bernard Loiseau, the French chef. They both tell of youthful talent that became increasingly ambitious as it ripened. Parker, the most powerful individual in the wine industry, ultimately claimed virtual infallibility; Loiseau, anointed with three Michelin stars but beset with doubts, ultimately committed suicide.

The Perfectionist is the saga of Bernard Loiseau, big, outwardly gregarious and confident, inwardly shy and insecure, whose traveling salesman father apprentices him, as a teenager, to the chef at his favorite restaurant. As it happens, while young Bernard is flailing away at his first kitchen tasks, the Michelin guide awards the restaurant three stars. Bernard, who's a competent though not exceptional cook, is awestruck: winning those three stars for himself become his life's obsession.

Bernard is fortunate to find a patron who sets him up at a country inn, the famous Côte d'Or in Saulieu, a once-thriving market town in northern Burgundy now bypassed by the autoroute. No matter: Bernard settles in for the long haul. He assembles a talented team for his kitchen and dining room, he courts the Parisian press, he develops a network of local suppliers. He's unlucky in love (his first wife cheats on him with the maitre d'hôtel) but has a knack for the restaurant business (food journalists adore him); he wins back a Michelin star for venerable auberge, then two.

Now, as Bernard puts it, the trouble with success in the restaurant world is, "C'est jamais gagné." The battle's never over. First you strive for ten or twenty years to reach the top. It's not like training for the Olympics, where a single perfect routine wins you the gold medal; you've got to score a ten every day, twice a day. But then, after you've won, you panic even more: now that you've been given those stars, what if they take them away?

And poor Bernard, though happily married to his second wife, was bipolar. Mostly manic: that was the perfectionist his staff knew, the outgoing giant the adored by the media and the public.

(He was ebulliant, too, when I met him in Saulieu in the fall of 1998, eager to discuss his plans for a new bistro in Paris--eventually three--and an unprecendented plan to raise money by being listed on the Paris stock exchange.)

Then third Michelin star came along, and it seemed Bernard could do no wrong. But the tentacles of darkness were stronger than anyone knew.

A slight slip in one of the guidebooks, a rumor that his third Michelin star was in jeopardy, a change in the culinary fashion dictated by Paris critics: it all took its toll on Bernard.

His manic-depressive disorder--easy to diagnose in retrospect--was never treated. The right medications, it's assumed, could have saved him from his private demons. Instead he succumbed.

Rudolph Chelminsky, a keenly observant foreign correspondent, had already written one of the liveliest books about gastronomy, The French At Table, some 20 years ago. This longevity--critical to professional acceptance in France--and his deep understanding of French culinary history gave him unprecedented access to all the actors in this drama, including Bernard himself over a period of many years.

You taste Bernard's recipes, savor his enthusiasm for hospitality on every page. Even as you cringe at his effusiveness, you savor his generosity.

In the end, you mourn his death, but when the latest Michelin guide again awards his restaurant three stars, you recognize that Bernard Loiseau's spirit lives on.

A footnote to compare this book to William Echikson's Burgundy Stars, also about Loiseau. Chelminsky does everything that Echikson fails to do: he shows us how haute cuisine comes about. I read Burgundy Stars with mounting frustration at a writer whose research consisted of showing up and taking notes; I finished The Perfectionist with heady admiration for the author and his subject. That's the difference between blogging and real journalism.

I picked up this book after learning of the untimely passing of Bernard Loiseau. I previously read "Burgundy Stars" while I was in culinary school and considered that book to be an inspiration. I recommend reading "Burgundy Stars" before tackling this book to get a perspective of Mr. Loiseau during his rise to three stars that is not communicated in "The Perfectionist". The two work in tandem well.

Of course, the suicide of Mr. Loiseau hangs over every passage of this book, so there is a heavy feel to the text from start to finish. With the outcome known, the writer and reader are never able to relax and lightly appreciate the rise of this remarkable man. At every point both the writer and reader are looking for signs of what would lead to the demise of both the man and his image. This is one of my problems with the book. There are few if any light moments to temper the emotion of the death that we all know is on the horizon.

While the tone of the book may be dark, the story is amazing. I feel that anyone who works at high levels or overachieves can take something away from this book. Mr. Loiseau's mental problems are only one component of his personality. "The secret of success is consistency of purpose." No one ever embodied this quote more that Bernard Loiseau. Don't focus on his mental illness, focus on his passion for prefection.

Another problem that I have with the book was that the author integrated himself into the text nicely with personal accounts of his relationship with the great chef, but I wanted more of this. I think that more personal reflections by the author would have endeared me to the story a bit more, but this is just a minor criticism.

Overall, I highly recommend this book. I would give it 4.5 out of 5 if possible. If you are a chef, then this is a must-read. Remember, try to read "Burgundy Stars" first, it will make your experience with "The Perfectionist" complete.

Rudolph Chelminski's tale of French haute cuisine chef Bernard Loiseau and his tragically flawed quest and attainment of Michelin's elusive third star reads, to paraphrase a pithy comment made by one of Chelmeski's sources, like "The Flight of Icarus." Loiseau flew a little too close to the sun and his wings melted. At the end of the tale, you heart goes out to his widow Dominique and her three now-fatherless children.

I was fascinated throughout this enjoyable read at the level at which Mr. Chemelski, the Connecticut born and bred author, has steeped himself in the culture of French gastronomy. We often overuse the term "tour de force" when talking about about an impressive display of talent, but it really fits here. Chelemski seems like he was born in the kitchen of a three-star Paris eatery. His comprehensive knowledge of all aspects of the French dining scene and its place in the world will take your breath away. That I should have mastery of a subject with such command and panache!

`The Perfectionist' by American journalist Rudolph Chelminski tells of the career of leading French chef, Bernard Loiseau from his apprenticeship with the Troisgros brothers to his recent suicide in 2003 upon seeing some negative press about the quality of his cuisine at his Michelin rated three star restaurant. The book gives far more than the story of one chef. In many ways, it is one of the very best presentations of one aspect of world cuisine. As a description of the realities of food business, it ranks with Michael Ruhlman's two books, `The Soul of a Chef' and `The Making of a Chef' and with Anthony Bourdain's `Kitchen Confidential' with its insights into the culinary life.

The elements of this story follow. Loiseau, a lightly educated and seemingly unteachable young boy is apprenticed with the very famous chefs Jean and Pierre Troisgros, whose restaurant in Roanne, along with Paul Bocuse outside of Lyon, were the two leading centers for the development of `nouvelle cuisine'. Loiseau spends three years at `Les Frere Troisgros', earning the certificate showing he has successfully completed his culinary apprenticeship. The next step on the ladder of culinary advancement was to be hired as a `commis' or assistant, typically starting as a specialist at one of the main stations in the French professional kitchen. Bernard takes such a position with culinary businessman Claude Verger who takes over a restaurant in Paris. After a few years of success in Paris, Loiseau moves as sous-chef to a venerable but run down restaurant-hotel in Saulieu, a small town in Burgundy, several miles from the new highway from Paris to the Mediterranean coast. Even this early in his career, Loiseau has the ambition to earn the coveted Michelin three star rating which marks his restaurant as one of the very few (counted in the low twenties) best in France. After five years as Verger's resident chef at this `Cote d'Or', Loiseau buys the restaurant from Verger and embarks on a mission to enhance the physical hotel and restaurant and the restaurant's cuisine to achieve the coveted Michelin three stars. The big problem is that, without the benefit of a professional clinical diagnosis, it is fairly clear that Bernard Loiseau suffered from bipolar disorder. At one point, he was even prescribed Prozac which helped, but which so deadened his drive that he weaned himself from the drug as soon as he felt he no longer needed it. Loiseau gets his three stars in the 1991 edition of the Michelin guide that he retains until his suicide in 2003.

One constant theme in this story from the point at which Loiseau take over as owner of `Cote d'Or' is that much of Loiseau's success is due to his Herculean efforts at public relations. This was done with all the techniques so well known to American foodies. Just replace the name of Bernard Loiseau with Emeril Lagasse and you get a good sense of the efforts Loiseau made to keep the name of his restaurant in the public eye. Fortunately, Loiseau, like Lagasse, had the perfect personality for this task. And, unlike Lagasse whose base is smack in the center of US Food Central (New Orleans), Loiseau's venue was almost literally out in the sticks, isolated from mainstream car travel by the new superhighway several miles away. And, in a sense, it was this `deadly embrace' with the press that brought him down. One has to wonder how much time Emeril Lagasse really spends in the kitchens of his many New Orleans, Florida, and Las Vegas restaurants when he appears on television out of New York City practically around the clock on tape and live at least once a week. Similar questions arose about Loiseau, since his audience was unaware of the fact that between appearances in Paris, Loiseau would race back to his restaurant in time for the dinner service, so he was at the critical expediter's station for almost every service. The proverbial straw was a newspaper article predicting that his three stars were in jeopardy and that his rating with a Michelin competitor would drop. An actual drop in this less important rating followed this.

The broader culinary story is much more interesting. The book opens my eyes to the fact that our home cooking is about as much like French haute cuisine as my e-mail writing is like Proust, Dickens, or Dostyevski. The words may be the same and the grammar is the same, but the way things are put together is in a completely different league. And, what you read in Julia Child's `Mastering the Art of French Cooking' is just the starting point for these masters.

Still, with all the nouvelle cuisine cachet attached to his cuisine, Loiseau was still based firmly on classic French technique. He really had only three years of formal training. Even if this was with the great Troisgros brothers, it was still less than usual. And, it gave him no exposure to world cuisines, just at the time when French cooking was opening up to fusion principles, starting with some of the `experimental' cooking coming from Ferran Adria just across the border in Spain. If Loiseau had not been a superb culinary artist, he would not have had the success he made in spite of his limited knowledge and disadvantageous location, but I have the suspicion that he simply was not in the same class as Paul Bocuse, Joel Robuchon, the Troisgros brothers, Freddie Girardet, Guy Savoy, or Alain Ducasse, just to name a few.

The book benefits from the fact that the author know Bernard Loiseau well for much of his career, just as he know many of the other major chefs. This is not a book written from a distance. On the other hand, it is a purely journalistic treatment, with no citations of sources for statements and inconsistent translations of French expressions.

Still, if you have an interest in world food business and lore, buy this book!

This review is dedicated to the brave, admirable, courageous, gracious, and tenacious Madam Dominique Loiseau. France hasn't produced as fine an example of fortitude in the face of tragedy since Veuve Cliquot.

I am sorry I read Rudolph Chelminski's "The Perfectionist: Life and Death in Haute Cusine" for I feel the same revulsion as if I'd listened to the narrative of a ghoul.

This biography accurately recounts the story of the tragic Bernard Loiseau's brilliant career (full disclosure, I met him once and have eaten his food four times) and sad descent into paranoia and death from self inflicted harm. It also hints at the periphery of his fear of loosing a Michelin star (a rumor, and nothing more). But it is the detail that Chelminski chooses that is chilling, for he describes all too well the extremes of the extent of trying to please his clients and friends that Chef Loiseau would go to. After Chelminski has given us examples--and we get the point--Chelminski discourteously goes on again, with yet another example. Then another. Then another. "De mortuis nil nisi bonum" is violated to a sickening degree.

In addition, Chelminski makes a damning revelation about himself in a backhanded way. Chelminski freely acknowledges that some of the financial pressure Loiseau constantly suffered was because of his generosity to the glitterati, food press, and hangers-on. But then Chelminski freely recounts all the free meals he sponged off Loiseau himself. The idea that Chelminski tried to cash in on his dead friend one final time by writing this book makes this a sickening read.

In addition, it is clear throughout that Chelminski is a culinary idiot. I have no idea what a "sauce of blended sea urchin tongues" is (page 283 of my Gotham Books May 2006 edition) but I do know that if sea urchins have tongues, that wasn't what made up the sauce he ate since it would take the entire global population of sea urchins to provide a tablespoonful. That is the most offensive example, but it is indicative of Chelminki's purple prose about food throughout: while reaching for something superlative or new to say he reaches too far and becomes a foodie clown.

The index is a horror show and was clearly slapped together by an amateur.

Please read Madam Dominique Loiseau's "Mon Marie : Bernard Loiseau" instead of this horrible, creepy, ghoulish book.

This gargantuan tale succeeds on many levels. Rudolph Chelminski details the evolution of French haute cuisine throughout the twentieth century. As noted by another reviewer, the author fails to cite sources, surprisingly, because this book could easily be used as a text in any serious culinary school which required knowledge of the great Fench chefs.

Of course one of the book's great strengths is Chelminski's personal relationship and friendship with Bernard Loiseau, the doomed perfectionist. This original source information is by turns fascinating, exhilarating, poignant, and sad. Chelminski does draw a clear portrait of the exacting business world of the three star restaurants in France, and the men who run them.

Another mesmerizing thread running throughout is the history of the Michelin tire company, its tourism guides, and the absolute hold that the restaurant guide has over France. The club of three star chefs is small, exclusively male (the widow of one chef is permitted because she acts as a supervisor over the lower chefs but maintains her deceased husband's standards), and members appear to have a terrifying tendency to die young of stress related diseases. Their business is ruthless, subject to the vagaries of whim, fad, trends, American freedom fries, and worst of all, the 30% loss of business that will immediately follow the loss of a Michelin star. The chefs, therefore, have tricks to spot a Michelin eater. He will be alone. His car will have Michelin tires. He will spend the night. Or not. He will eat lunch. Or dinner.

The restaurants in the provinces have more time to ruminate because they are slow in the winter. The chef will sit in the window and wait, and think of other spotting tricks. The Michelin eater will wear a suit. Or a tie. Or not.

A disaffected Michelin employee writes an expose claiming that there were only 4 eater/reviewers for the entire country. The chefs are aghast.

Michelin responds by hiring 11. They publish a new book every year, and fortunes and lives rest on the outcome. This appears miserly and unfair, but c'est la vie.

Bernard Loiseau is the subject of the book, its star, its puzzle and its tragedy. While an apprentice, he tips a pan into the flames and is scolded harshly. This is the most dramatic episode of an altogether unpromising beginning. He spends the rest of his life trying to show up the people who humilated and mocked him.

We later learn that Bernard has bipolar disorder, and things take a more tragic color. The mocking, which a stronger or sterner individual could shrug off or forget, irreparably scarred Bernard. He threw himself into his first job, insanely dedicated to the idea of attaining Michelin recognition. He's crushed with each peer that gets it, and delighted when he finally does. Chelminski shows someone who is not so much jealous as insecure and fragile, completely lacking in self-worth. Bernard appears to love everyone but himself. All of the photos in the book show a bald man with a huge, loving smile surrounded by smiling people. Bernard was never able to internalize the tremendous affection and admiration that poured his way from so many sources. He became a media darling early in his career. He was photogenic and well-spoken. He had tremendous energy and vivacity, probably in part due to his illness. Later, he would be criticized for neglecting his restaurant for the media circus, but Bernard was never good at defending himself. The truth was the he burnt the candle at both ends, rushing back and forth to Paris so that he could cook 365 days a year. He never took vacations.

The greater tragedy is that he leaves a family. His apprenticeship taught Bernard that he could not make mistakes, and he could not ask for help. This proved deadly when he began to falter with his sauces, and his cooking needed to evolve, and he was not well, and he only looked within. Luckily when it had happened earlier, when he was invited to Japan for a two-week cultural exchange, he had been able to reach out to his maitre d', who had gone with him. This time he despaired. Bernard was able to focus exclusively upon achievement, but when the idea of losing a star began to haunt him, he could not bear it.

This book is a fascinating read for anyone interested in haute cuisine, the restaurant business, the Michelin star system, or the famous French chefs. Finally, it is an intricately drawn character study of a life-long bipolar who resists treatment and ends in suicide.

I'm getting tired of looking up books for my Kindle and finding them to be more expensive than the hardcover. I'm going to start voting with my business. If enough people do this, things will change. I will not purchase books from publishers exploiting ebook readers. With a paper book I can read it, share it, pass it around to friends, and ultimately donate it to a library or Goodwill. A Kindle book is for my use only and is cheaper for the publishers who don't have to print it, ship it, or distribute it. It should cost less to the consumer than the hardcover...not more.

I agree with virtually all of the reviews, but I found the writing style incredibly irritating. There seems to be no word sufficiently arcane. Peers can only be confreres (and in italics), and some of the analogies are suitable for those with a doctorate in medieval history.
Ironic given that Loiseau's was keen on presenting ingredients in their purest form.

Shortly after beginning his culinary apprenticeship, Bernard Loiseau declared his intention of becoming a Michelin three star restaurauteur. By dint of relentless effort and unusual talent, he attained that much coveted goal just after his fortieth birthday, in 1991. For more than a decade, he continued to share that lofty height with fewer than twenty other chefs in all of France. Yet it would all end tragically with his suicide in early 2003.
Chelminski's is a cautionary biography, totally sympathetic to its subject, whom he personally knew for much of Loiseau's career. He portrays a man obsessed with the desire to create the perfect dining experience, while plagued by doubts of his adequacy and in constant need of reassurance. Loiseau's emphasis on absolute freshness and the eloquent simplicity of his preparations was, in the author's estimate, "classical French cooking" divested of its extraneous fluorishes. Chelminski places his portrait within the context of the Michelin-conditioned world of haute cuisine, populated by food fashionistas and the chefs who cater to them. It is a world in which innovation and novelty have come to play an increasing role and Loiseau had the misfortune of witnessing a gastronomic shift toward an international fusion cuisine shortly after attaining his third star. Having perfected "le style Loiseau" he could only despair at a trend that he could not and would not follow. (He retained that third star until the time of his death, however.)
Other chefs handled the fickleness of the dining public with relative equanimity but, as Chelminski asserts, Loiseau suffered from bipolar disorder. It would be in the depths of depression, aggravated by scattered criticism of his menu and an apprehension that he would lose a star that he took his life.
The author has provided his reader with a balanced and detailed view of a pressure-filled profession in which the performer is under twice-daily scrutiny and success may depend upon a sauce.