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Regis Marcon on "The spirit of the recipes", July 28, 2005
An excerpt from Regis Marcon's Introduction to Marvelous Recipes:
A recipe does not just fall from the sky or from the rafters onto the stage. It requires hours of work and days of reflection, particularly in winter when Saint-Bonnet-le-Froid is held in snowbound silence, which enhances the feelings of belonging to a land. The idea that leads to a recipe sometimes emanates from the ingredients themselves. I like to imagine, for example, what trout tartare might yield when combined with green du Puy lentils. The impulse arises almost as an image -- a fresh-water lake, for example, on stark and rugged land.
When adapting a recipe, you never know quite where it may lead. Sometimes the final appearance of the dish becomes more important than first imagined. For example, glazing seemed obvious for the roast pork, as I imagined its caramelized rind vibrant with spices and rich fragrances. A recipe may change direction even before the flavors are considered.
At Saint-Bonnet-le-Froid, recipes are often written in the "stone" of the land's traditions and integral to the history of the community. I discovered the famous Margaridou brochette in the local library. I followed the recipe to the letter, then I tried to adapt it -- but the recipe resisted my meddling. Everything I added or took away upset it, disturbed its balance, ruined it. I came to realize that the recipe had to be respected in its entirety, as an essential and familiar part of the region's landscape, belonging to a local "nature reserve" of traditions and customs.
A recipe can build a bridge, almost physically, with the past by tying a present-day feeling with a childhood memory, as in the Two-mushroom ragout that I borrowed from my mother. Similarly, a conversation with a friend can lead to a recipe as easily as to a book reference or recommended wine. "Lactaire" mushroom salad in this book is the result of a conversation I had with Jean Delaveyne, another chef with a passion for mushrooms, whose renown has unfortunately never matched his talent. The recipe itself is perhaps less significant than the homage it pays to him.
I also like to complement two different recipes, align them togehter, and direct their union. When I place two fine dishes on the same plate, the result is a mini-celebration. When I serve blood pudding fricassee together with stewed eels in a red wine sauce, I feel a great pleasure -- as though monotony has been averted and life has been restored.
Naturally, the creation of a recipe should not be a frivolous act. Work is the key ingredient here. It no doubt makes the chef what he is. The best place to create is right in front of the stove. When I started creating dishes at Saint-Bonnet-le-Froid, the restaurant was modest and functional, situated next to a gas pump. There was a lack of savoir faire. I progressed slowly, discovering techniques as I went along and dining in other restaurants, my nose in the troughs of others. I read extensively. Christian Millau helped me to realize my strengths, as I myself was not aware of them. He had a strong intuition about the restaurant and what it could become. He helped me to understand the necessary balance between cuisine and its context. He helped me to grasp the principles underlying my cookery and to regard it as a cuisine with a story to tell, as history, as a description of a landscape.
It is not an abstract cuisine, born of brilliant intuition, like a flash of poetry. It has form, like prose, and is faithful to the principles governing matter, like an account of natural history. When I serve my Mushroom and tansy consomme to guests at the Auberge, I like to explain why we use a teapot. When I mix lentils with grains, I take great satisfaction as they discover the virtues of spelt and quinoa. Cuisine has much to gain when the pleasure comes not just from simple gratification but also from knowledge, which provides the meal with as many hidden surprises as pieces of china and enhances all the flavors.
By "knowledge," however, I do not mean erudition or sophistication. At Saint-Bonnet-le-Froid, we favor simplicity, which can be as flavorful as pureed porcini potatoes.
Most important of all, each recipe has to be accepted by the guests. It is physically painful for me when a guest does not like one of our dishes. In this respect, I am very different from some colleagues who can pursue their craft while remaining indifferent to reaction. That said, for the first time since the Auberge opened -- thanks to the excellent team I now work with -- I can leave the stoves to meet our guests and welcome then to Saint-Bonnet-le-Froid. After all, considering all the time I have spent in the kitchen, I no longer need to keep blinders on under my toque.
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