While chopping pigeons -- which
come in a box with separate bags
for their heads, hearts and
gizzards -- he remembered a song
he used to memorize
passages from Euclid, whose
structures, Rose said, could
apply to cooking. Homer comes up
so frequently, he added, that
it's as though he is still
studying the classics.
Substituting simplicity
What Rose seems to have
pulled most from his studies is
a culinary and personal
philosophy that revolves around
simplicity -- a bit of a
prerequisite since he works
alone in the kitchen.
"In France, it's about
technique. It's about making
canette," he said, stressing the
baby duck at the end of the
sentence in a way that placed
the emphasis on bringing the
product to its highest possible
point -- not using it as a sort
of building block to create
something else.
A chef once told him, Rose
said, "The more you manipulate
something, the worse it will
be," adding, "For me, it's gotta
be right the first time."
What stands out most about
eating at Spring is an
almost-primal link between the
product and the diner's
perception of it. "Damn," you
think, "that's good fish" -- or
"This pigeon is perfectly
cooked."
Using the philosophy he was
introduced to at St. John's,
Rose has accidentally found
himself at the forefront of
Paris' burgeoning gastro-bistro
movement, one that retains the
focus on food of
Michelin-starred restaurants by
offering three or four
constantly changing seasonal
choices for each course but
trades table linen and stuffy
settings for a convivial
atmosphere.
A few years ago, a handful of
chefs dropped the traditional
idea of creating a
Michelin-rated restaurant and
traded what was seen as
elaborate food in a stuffy
setting for well-crafted,
seasonal meals in a genial
setting at a much more
affordable price. These chefs
are now getting so much
attention that the usually
immutable Guide Michelin may be
changing the way it looks at
food.
Around town, a couple of
chefs like Rose have gone one
step further, offering three or
four courses with no choice --
you get what's in season and
what the chef feels like making
on a given day.
"Somewhere, I've touched on
something that was missing in
Paris," Rose said with a touch
of irony. "I didn't mean to; it
just happened."
Commitment to technique
Providence also helped Rose's
rise. His first restaurant job
in France landed him with chef
Jean-Luc Hourre in Brittany. A
Meilleur Ouvrier de France -- or
"MOF" as they're more commonly
known -- Hourre is one of the
finest culinary artisans in the
country.
Hourre, whom Rose describes
as a "real gentleman," took the
American under his wing. "He
said, 'Stay here and I'll teach
you what you need to know,' "
Rose said.
"I learned the commitment to
discipline and tradition -- the
epitome of never cutting
corners," Rose recalled. "If a
plate isn't hot enough," before
putting a meal on it, "you make
it hot enough."
Hourre's commitment to
technique and simplicity rang
true with Rose.
"He would walk in with an
armful of artichokes in the
morning and say, 'You need to
learn how to cook these,' " Rose
said.
So he did.
American roots, French
approach
Watching Rose work, there
seemed to be a thousand little
things like this he's picked up
along the way. He's constantly
tasting everything, making sure
what he's working on for that
night's dinner service tastes as
good as it can.
"Here," he said, placing a
heavy metal spoon with pigeon
jus he's spiked with a wild
pepper, a hit of honey and "a
little bit of coffee" under my
nose. It's so hot, I singe my
lips on the edge of the spoon,
but it's so good, I burn them
again five seconds later.
He's constantly smelling
things, too. Everything from his
pigeons to his knives, which, he
explained, could have a bit of
soap on them that could ruin a
dish.
You quickly get the sense
that there's no room for error
chez Rose. I ask if he's had any
catastrophes since opening and
he looks at me as if I've missed
the point.
"Those go in here," he said,
making a wide-eyed gesture
toward the sink. "Plus, there's
no way you can serve something
that's iffy."
Rose also makes use of an
impressively long list of
suppliers ranging from the
gigantic Rungis food market
outside of Paris to an in-town
Japanese restaurant supplier to
"five or six" separate butchers.
"One guy's beef cheeks are
good and another's aren't," Rose
said with a shrug. "Who knows
why?"
Although his approach to
cooking is definitely French, a
few subtle indications of Rose's
American roots that show up
around the restaurant include a
beautiful tangerine-colored
KitchenAid mixer and an iPod
that shuffles through anything
from Nina Simone to the Grateful
Dead to "C is for Cookie."
Though Rose enjoys the
occasional experiment, he's far
more focused on the quality of
the outcome. He pulled out a
mold full of frog-leg pte, took
a bite and frowned. "This'll
never see a plate," he sighed.
"It's the product, how you
cook it and how you season it,"
he said before adding -- almost
as an afterthought -- "and then
whatever you add after that."
Rose even applies his
"simplicity" philosophy to
himself. "In the end, I have to
enjoy myself," he said.
Judging from the popularity
of his restaurant, it's a
philosophy Parisian diners are
enjoying too.
