While Darroze expedited, Baudic made sure that the dishes went out as she wanted them to. This was the moment for the salt cod. He ladled the oil over the portioned pieces and watched while they cooked in the trays. Around him, his team moved as one, rocking the casseroles back and forth on the stovetop to open the cockles. Then a piece of cod was placed in among the barnacles, piquillos, and chorizo. The last thing Baudic did before closing the lids was to add some of the cooking oil, which was now infused with cod juices. Darroze's other main course was the pigeons, which were finished over the coals of the old grill. At the same time, a small metal funnel with a long handle was heated in the embers, and at the last moment a cook crammed back fat into it so that it sizzled and melted over the pigeons. They were served with a quick-sautéed ragout of cogollos (lettuce hearts) and bellota ham from southwest Spain, and accompanied by an '82 Lynch-Bages.
There was no stopping now; it was on to the cheeses, Picodons and Basque brebis, with a confiture of black cherries from Marie Quatrehomme, followed by desserts—a croustade with roasted Mirabelle plums and prune Armagnac ice cream from Daguin, transparent layers of cooked sugar over fraises de bois from Pic, and chocolate café liégeois in brandy snifters from Darroze, whose father dug deep into the legendary family vaults for a 1936 Armagnac.
Then it was time to honor the cooks. The clean aprons were brought out and placed on the long kitchen counter, and Baudic wanted everyone to also wear a neckerchief in the traditional chef's way. Only a few knew how to tie them, but that didn't matter: The values that had been transmitted in this kitchen tonight went deeper than that. And then Benoît, the pâtissier, remembered the apprentice who was frying the beignets that were served with the coffee and truffles, and he called down on the speakerphone for him to get his butt up there, and Pic found her patent leather shoes. Gathered together, their achievement became clear. They had defied the constraints of the present, run out along the razor's edge of sentiment, and cooked their way to the little France, to what is known as le pays, an area that can encompass the distance between two village steeples, a place where an old farmer with a frayed checked shirt buttoned all the way to the top might be called Père, and where a woman who keeps a restaurant might be called Mère. It was twelve-thirty, and Paris was dark. They filed out toward the applause and their aprons were perfectly pressed.
D'ARTAGNAN
152 East 46th Street, New York (212-687-0300)
Pic
285 Avenue Victor Hugo, Valence (04-75-44-15-32)
RESTAURANT HÉLÈNE DARROZE
4 Rue d'Assas, 6th, Paris (01-42-22-00-11)
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