Chef's Table. Tuesday 15th September, 2009.

The old wood oven had been stoked with large branches of oak three hours before my cooking class began at La Mirande in Avignon. The earthy aromas of burning wood drifted up to the lobby where we sat with coffee, tea and a coke for AJ. The boys had time for a quick game of chess before chef was ready to begin class in the ancient underground kitchen, during which AJ was allowed to wander the main square in front of the Papal Palace and enjoy and ice-cream.


There was myself and one other, Gail, a lady from Chicago, cooking with chef tonight. By 8pm the guest table would be filled with 15 hungry diners, we had two hours to prepare the feast.
Chef was lively and fun. His body was of small stature, on top of which sat a craggy face that never stopped smiling. He was 100 miles an hour from the moment we met. First, there were four ducks to prepare. Head, neck and feet were taken care of with a brutal blow of the knife, the necks were reserved to deepen the sauce. I pulled their innards from their little bodies and in their place was put dry sprigs of aromatic thyme and a sprinkle of salt.


We chopped, sliced and diced to our hearts content, chatting all the while about chef’s adventures which rolled of his tongue like scenes from tales of the rich and famous. JR snapped away to capture the spirit in this very special kitchen and the heart of La Mirande Hotel. The wood stove bubbled with heavy copper pots filled with the stars from tonight’s nights menu; potimarron simered in milk and veal stock, the duck necks floated in stock which was reduced to almost nothing, and a large pot of diced eggplant, red pepper, parsley, and tomato which would become a flavoursome ratatouille was stirred from time to time using a wooden spoon almost as tall as myself.


We cut tiny apples into segments for the clafouti and after the batter was mixed and poured into the heavy, rectangular copper pan, chef trotted it over to the hotel kitchen to be baked in an oven with a precise regulation of heat which could not be obtained with the beautiful 122 year old wood stove we were using. The hotel kitchen was more sterile and hotel kitchen like than our wood and copper filled hideaway deep under the city of Avignon that was filled with soft and comforting aromas which were very fitting for the rainy night it was.

AJ returned from his adventures on time having enjoyed an hour or so of freedom. He poked his nose about the pots and pans, investigating what would be for dinner as chef snipped the fins from small red snapper and sliced off delicate fillets of flesh, this was to be second course. Other diners began to arrive; two lovely sisters from Newport Beach, California, a couple from Melbourne were hot on their heels. Before long the room was filled and chef whisked us all deeper underground to the cellar where we all exchanged pleasantries and shared an aperitif of white wine.

Back in the kitchen we sat around the central wooden table, large baskets of chewy bread had been cut and the table awaited 15. The potimaron (pumpkin) soup was the debutante tonight, what a way to start. The veal stock had given it a distinctly meaty depth, very different to my lighter style pumpkin soup and so much better I think. Oven roasted hallibut and pan fried red snapper were served on a bed of tender leeks, blanketed in a sauce of balsamic and olive oil, to the side sat a ripe fig whose ripe flesh displayed itself like a flower in bloom. It would have been rude to lick my plate but I wanted to, was everyone else thinking the same? The duck lay on a bed of rattatouille and was moist and tender, not a little bit fatty, the sauce was quite light, perfectly seasoned too.

“It’s a good table tonight”, chef whispers in my ear. Here we are in France, 15 strangers, coming together over the love of food. There is not a word of French spoken until Chef encourages us to all sing a few of his patriotic ballads, one, an ode to the beloved bridge of Avignon. It is a great group, seven of which are Australian which is quite a treat for us after being away from home for so long. We spend quite a bit of time chatting with Lindsay and Susie, a gorgeous couple from Sydney. The table are quite interested about our adventures and shoot questions up, down, and across the table and we have a right old time sharing our stories and learning about theirs. I grow quite fond of our English speaking, French eating table of friends as the night ticks along and the apple clafouti makes its appearance.

Chef holds the floor with his stories of tripping the light fantastic with the who’s who of the world, what he has cooked for them over the years and the funny predicaments he has found himself in, he maintains his 100 miles an hour approach to life, his energy never wanes.

We leave our underground haven of good food and good times to enjoy a coffee in the lobby. The young boy ballses up the tea and coffee order good and proper, I encourage him to get a pen and paper to save him taking the order a fifth time, he does which is a relief to us all. Chef comes to join us, as does a friend of his, a professional magician who holds the floor for a while, enthralling AJ, and one of the chef’s table guests who has been practicing magic of his own all night, with confuddling tricks of disappearing coins, my brain just cannot get around it, neither can AJ’s.

The rain is still coming down, in the headlights it makes the shape of a lit sparkler as we drive towards it, it lasts all the way home to our little village in the hills. Alex’s voice comes from the back seat of the car, “Thanks for shaping me into the person I am”. If he only knew that there were no thanks needed, it has been the greatest pleasure of my lifetime and will remain so forever.