Dining at the
T
his month we join Chef
Moeller as he steps through
the swinging door into his
first job interview in a “real
French kitchen.” Over the
next two years he will win high
accolades as he progresses from
a regional bistro in Dijon, through
a fine dining restaurant and on to
a lauded restaurant run by Chef
Bernard Loiseau, who was the
Gault Millau magazine Chef of
the Year, and that was striving
to move from two-star Michelin
to three-star.
Dining at the White House—From
the President’s Table to Yours
Les Vendanges in Dijon
(continued)
At the end of September, JeanMarie helped to arrange my first
job in France.
One evening, while his family dined
at a brand-new restaurant nearby,
JeanMarie mentioned to the owner
that he knew “an American guy who
wants to cook.” The owner was
interested enough to meet me, so
I picked a night and stopped by the
restaurant to meet him. He had
worked in England, and his English
was excellent. We got acquainted
over drinks, and I learned that his
restaurant had been open for a
month. We talked about my
background, what I wanted to do,
and what I hoped to accomplish in
the future. The dinner rush began
to let up, and he looked around and
said, “Just a minute — let me go
back and talk to the chef.”
He left me at the bar with my
thoughts (and my single-malt
Scotch) and disappeared into the
kitchen. When he returned a few
minutes later, he said, “All right,
come on back with me. The chef
wants to see your face.”
I stood up to follow him, thinking, All
right, John, this is what you wanted,
an entrée into a “real French kitchen.”
PAR
T2
We stepped inside, and before the
doors stopped swinging behind me, my
experience told me exactly what the
chef was thinking: We’ve only been
open a few weeks. We’re still getting
organized, and I’m buried in work. I
need real help, and this guy brings me
an American chef?!
At the cutting board, the chef,
whose name was René, noisily
chopped some vegetables, and then
glanced up at me, a hint of contempt
in his eyes. “American, huh?” His
French accent was thick. He lowered
his gaze. Chop, chop, chop, chop! He
looked at me again. “American, huh?
Hamburger? You hamburger, huh?”
Chop, chop, chop, chop!
Feeling awkward, I replied, “Yeah,
yeah... American hamburger... yeah,
yeah.” I tried to say something to
him in French, but my language skills
were still a bit shaky. It felt like one
of the worst interviews ever, but to
my surprise, he invited me to come
back on Friday night.
“You’re welcome to come and help us
out. I can’t pay you anything right
now,” he cautioned, “but I can feed
you and maybe give you a couple
drinks at the end of the night.”
L’Estancot
Our relationship felt a little rocky
at first, but we found ways to make
it work. My French was rudimentary,
but the chef patiently took time to
help me with the language, and I
continued to improve. I didn’t have
a regular schedule, and I wasn’t
getting paid, but as the place got
busier we found a pretty good
working rhythm. After a month or
so, the owner approached me again.
“John, the chef says he likes you, and
asks if you’d like to start working
regularly on Fridays and Saturdays.
I can pay you a little — on the side.”
L’Estancot was a typical French
country bistro, tucked away in a
back street behind Place SaintMichel in Dijon — not at all touristy
— the type of place where the locals
would go to eat. Right away, I found
myself cooking things that I had not
seen before. Cris de canard (a piece
of duck with the leg and thigh
combined; l’onglet frites (hanger
steak and fries; hanger steak comes
from up underneath the rib and
is not commonly available in the
States); Poulet de Bresse, a breed
of chicken that originated in eastern
France between the Rhone &