Michel Gérard, The Death of a Culinary Poet by Maurice Baudoin

This article is from Figaro Magazine

years ago, Glad call me: “I just read your column and I couldn’t agree more with you.” In the restaurant of the Hotel rue des Beaux-Arts, where he died Oscar WildeI ordered a fish. When he brought it to my plate, it was naked, without even a head or tail, without even a bone. I am writing to express my disappointment.

For me, there has to be a fish on the plate that is delicious even with the bones. You wouldn’t serve a veal steak without bones or a pig’s trotter without a solid part. This was Michel’s opinion, too, and I was delighted by his call. He reads my column and we share the same rigor.

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Michel Guérard, whom I met at the bistro from the beginning Thick Soupin the Parisian suburb of Asnières, where he served simple dishes, but revolutionary at the time, surrounded by auto parts workshops. The whole of Paris knew about the address. The room, overflowing, overflowing…