D is for Distance

The long and short of it

31 metres between me and my sister

24 metres between me and my work

499 kilometres between me and my boyfriend

614 kilometres between me and my mum

792 kilometres between me and my dad

Having chosen to live abroad, there was always going to be a geographical distance between me and my family and for the most part I don’t mind this. I really like taking the train, as of recently it seems the only place where I am able to get any writing done. I am currently on the TER between Guingamp and Paimpol, a one carriage Dingly Deller as my mum would call it. Off to Brittany to see Paul for the weekend and in typical “us” fashion we have booked to go and eat at fanciest restaurant in the region and so we will be having lunch at Le Coquillage. When booking we were asked if we were celebrating a special occasion and although the answer is technically no, I think that dining with my boyfriend who currently lives 500km away could count. I don’t need to be told twice that we should celebrate the small things, wear the fancy clothes, eat at the nice restaurants, visit your family, because life is dangerously short. But, we were painfully reminded of this in Paris this month, having tragically lost the impossibly genius chef Bertrand Grébaut after his battle with cancer. Paul’s old boss, and chef patron of Septime amongst others, is the defining Parisian chef of his generation, responsible for making Michelin accessible and inspiring a global movement of bistronomie. In this moment, I hope that it brings peace to know that his legacy, so expansive and dear, will live on in so many plates and meals in restaurants worldwide as there is a demarcation of cooking before and after Bertrand. His spirit and his point de sel will continue to be felt for generations to come. All my love is directed to his family, both his relations and his chef family, all of those who worked and were lucky enough to cook with him.

With this reminder that simultaneously nothing matters and everything matters, I urge us to book the dinner with friends, call the parents, get a dog, go outside, and make the most of the life that we are able to be living.

---

Lunch at Le Coquillage definitely comes under the category of living the life we think we deserve. Nestled on the Breton coast overlooking Mont Saint Michel, a stunning property worthy of a French style Downton Abbey houses a three Michelin star restaurant originally opened by Olivier Roellinger, now run by his son Hugo. I flit between intensely disliking the idea of a 14 or more course tasting menu and believing that it is the perfect way to truly understand the style of a chef and their desires in the kitchen.

Embarrassingly, I think that I am phasing out the middle ground of restaurants, erring towards very low-key, cheap eats 95% of the time. Dumplings in Belleville, kurdish sandwiches in Strasbourg Saint-Denis, cheese toasties in the cafe in the library by my mum’s house. Then, once a year, pushing twice, an exceptional restaurant, that knocks everything out of the park, that reignites a passion for eating and cooking in a way that nothing, it feels, has ever done before. I hear the snob and blatancy in my voice whilst I write this but the distance between a restaurant of this calibre to a normal restaurant is immeasurable. Without even mentioning the service, the location, the beauty of the decor, speaking solely about the food in all of its glory at Le Coquillage, I think it was the best I’ve ever eaten.

I am lucky enough to have eaten in many a delicious restaurant, partly to blame is my job, partly my boyfriend, and partly my ongoing love for the industry. Moving from behind the pass to a table is always welcome step, from service to being served. This movement is intensified table-side when the plates starts to arrive. I believe that food that we make in the restaurant where I work is really, very good, there are constraints as with all sectors at the moment, but all in all, Alice is a fantastic chef with great ideas. Cooking the same thing however, over and over, will never be satisfying to me and a repetition of flavour often becomes sickly. Gougères with comté cream and jalapeños, the first time I tried it blew my mind, a comforting cheese embrace spiked with pickled fire, but the thirtieth time, the hundredth, it just doesn’t taste the same.

The novelty of being fed is one thing, but the feeling exaggerated by being fed in one of the top 157 restaurants in the world is incomparable. So without further ado, a brief resumé of this magical restaurant.

Langoustine served in a leaf of shiso (which we saw growing in the greenhouse later that day) with pollen and a mousseline of chouchen

Lobster with XO condiment and a sauce of Mexican cacao and vanilla

Good enough to drink from the Mauviel

Algae ice-cream, with dried scallops, caviar, and salted butter caramel

A perfect pre-dessert of grilled hay mousse, apricot vinegar and toasted marshmallow

The shiso bush of dreams

There was an elegant simplicity in the service of this meal, nothing was shouting for attention, there was a focus of spices and regional products carefully selected to illuminate the beauty of Brittany.