Cancelled Reservations
It started at an early age—my fascination with the ins and outs of the good life. It wasn’t my upbringing per se. I’m the product of middle class Texas, however in-between visits to BBQ joints and pulling up to the Jack in the Box drive-thru, I did cross a few imposing thresholds…and I paid attention. Wandering the hallways of the Plaza, while my parents had a drink in the bar, I studied discarded room service trays and unattended maid’s carts. If this predilection came from a past life it wasn’t one of luxury, rather service—I was Carson, managing the intimate details of Downton Abbey. There could be no other explanation.
Sacre Coeur in Paris
To indulge this fascination I went to Hotel School, learning the difference between American and European service, hospitality accounting and the mathematical formula used to decide whether or not any given city needs a new Marriot. I planned a career where I’d be surrounded by 5-star beauty and an extensive array of cleaning products until I truly understood the long hours and dismal pay. (That’s when I got into my car and drove to Mexico—if I was going to work all day for almost nothing, I’d work for myself, not Mr. Hilton, thank you very much.)
But every now and then, when I witness the rare occurrence of service industry perfection, the faded dream emerges —and that’s exactly what happened the moment we (my sister, stepmother and I) pulled up to Epicure at the Bristol Hotel in Paris.
Bread Basket at Epicure
It wasn’t on our itinerary. I actually had chosen another restaurant for the special birthday occasion—Astrance, labeled one of the top 50 dining experiences in the world. But, unfortunately, they didn’t understand the nuances of service when they gave our 2-month out reservation to someone else. Instead of a world-class meal, we got an extra helping of attitude and a suggestion to “try the fish place on the corner.” In the long run though, they did us an enormous favor, but only after we insisted they book us a comparable place for lunch. I wanted Epicure, my second thoroughly researched choice, and I wanted them to get it for us. Explaining (in my Hotel School voice) that it was the least they could do under the circumstances, the concept fell on deaf ears. Well, almost deaf ears. Luckily, one gentleman was paying attention and graciously made a few phone calls. After a lot of waiting, we were on our way to the best dining experience of my life.
Bristol Hotel
From the moment we pulled up and men in charcoal grey tails and top hats rushed to open our doors, the service was flawless. Greeted by various employees along the way, we were escorted to the dining room, where staff members seemed to be waiting for us. They knew our names and the special occasion —now I finally had an inkling what it felt like to be minor royalty. We were seated at a center table in the cream and crimson accented formal dining room that looked out onto a rose bush dotted patio with guests sipping tea and reading newspapers. Red velvet banquettes lined the white walls; freshly cut rosebuds in crystal vases adorned each table.
Amuse Bouche
Chef Eric Frechon, who began his career shucking oysters, earned his 3 Michelin stars the hard way—with 35 years in the kitchen. And even though his food is superb, what left me in complete awe was the service. The uber-debonair Marco attended to us. Tall, dark and handsome, he hails from Milan and has spent his career at the best restaurants in Europe. His title is assistant manager, but he’s actually a choreographer, for he masterfully directs every step of the experience, and usually with his eyes—no hand gestures, and definitely no words, in this dining room. From the amuse bouche of foie gras stuffed cream puffs, a popsicle of smoked eel and a tiny dish of minted pea soup to the last morsel of macaroon, Marco orchestrated every move. I was impressed when servers, bearing the first course of macaronis farcis—tubes of pasta stuffed with truffles, artichokes, and foie gras in a creamy Parmesan sauce, stood behind us and lifted their silver-domed plates in unison at the precise moment Marco tilted his head. I was more impressed though that we each were given macaronis farcis, and that’s because only one of us had ordered them. The two complimentary portions were smaller, but nonetheless, the rule that no one dines alone was adhered to.
Melt in your mouth chicken–sous vide cooking at its best.
Course after course, we were fawned over, but not in that overly familiar American way, rather at a discrete and formal distance. We ate multiple courses and I discovered that contrary to what I thought I do like caviar…obviously just really good caviar, spooned on top of small buckwheat crisps with potato mousseline and haddock. When it was time for the cheese course, a marble-slabbed trolley appeared showcasing over 20 of France’s best cheeses. Wanting a bite of each, but narrowing my selection to only 4, was the hardest decision of my day.
Cheese Cart
We spotted the after-dessert cart long before it was our turn. A take on a magician’s box, it was stuffed with rows of richly colored macaroons, a generous dollop of homemade preserves sandwiched in the middle, as well as an assortment of chocolates and marshmallows pulled from an opening at the top. These treats were presented after our first desserts of wild strawberries encased in strawberry jelly and Peru chocolate served in a cocoa pod with lemongrass accented chocolate sorbet. Lamenting that we were stuffed and couldn’t possibly eat another bite, Marco presented us with small candy boxes to pack away whatever we wanted. Discipline and proper decorum prevailed, even though we really wanted to pack away more that the acceptable few pieces.
Cutting marshmallows from the after-dessert cart
Our birthday lunch lasted 4 hours. We were the last people to leave…by almost an hour and a half, but we were never rushed, never sped along, only fawned upon more. We thought our exceptional experience had ended with a tour of the kitchen and a heartfelt goodbye, but impeccable service is just that—impeccable.
Strawberry jelly encased wild strawberries.
Standing in front of the Bristol, requesting a taxi, we were ushered to the hotel’s private car. When I blushingly told the driver that we were just going to the metro (the subway), he said he had never heard of such a place. I repeated myself a few times, but no, in his world, there was no such thing as mass transportation. Then, I remembered that our stop was next to the Air France building. Hearing a respectable destination, we were whisked through the tree-lined streets and embassy-stuffed avenues, across the Seine in the most luxurious Mercedes I’ve ever come into contact with. Sated and happy, we held in our giggles and utter amazement, praising our luck and the attitude of the other 3-star restaurant that lead us to an experience of a lifetime. Carson would have approved.
Tags: Astrance restaruant review, delicious expeditions, Epicure, Epicure at the Bristol, Epicure review, kris rudolph, the best service in the world, world's best restaurants
