Saint-Pierre and Miquelon. A Touch Of France In North America.

A French Pâté. A Tian. A Steak Frites au Beurre de Moutarde. A bottle of 2008 Charmes-Chambertin Grand Cru Cuvée des Merles. Eight French Chefs and a Loud Dinner Party.

It was a place like no other. A “a little bit of France” located just off the coast of Newfoundland and Labrador, Canada. Saint-Pierre and Miquelon is a place where French is spoken, euros are in use, and while you don’t need a visa, you definitely need a passport to get there. The journey to Saint-Pierre and Miquelon, however, is not for the faint of heart. It's an expedition of patience, resolve, and it will test your ability to withstand the mind-numbing tedium of airport lounges, boarding and deplaning, and lots and lots of layovers in-between. But for a lover of French culture, for a true devotee of French culinary adventures, it's a small price to pay for the promise of gastronomic enlightenment that awaits on the other side.

It a trip that took me nearly twenty hours to complete. And that was the fastest route. If I was a masochist, I would take the “average route” which just happened to be the slower route. And, no, before you ask. It doesn’t get there quickly. It’s a mind-numbing twenty-four hour, multi-hop journey that will lead you from one airport and layover to the next. I decided to commit myself to the journey from the sun-soaked shores of San Diego, a city where the concept of winter is as foreign as the idea of a bad fish taco. The first leg of my multi-step adventure landed me in Toronto, Canada. As I stared out of the airplane window during our decent, I was brutally reminded that I was leaving the land of eternal summer far behind me. From there, it was on to Halifax, Nova Scotia. During my dreary layover, as I stared blankly out of the terminal glass windows, I briefly dreamt of a sandy beach, where my toes could be gently dipping in the Pacific Ocean. Instead, I found myself in a place where the Atlantic air carried the briny scent of adventure and told me “No, under no circumstance would I be dipping my toe in any, and I did mean ANY body of water outside.”

But, as luck would have it, my journey was quickly coming to a close as the real test of endurance and endless patience came with the final hop to Saint-Pierre and Miquelon. The tiny prop plane bucked and swayed over the choppy waters of the North Atlantic. I sat in my seat, at the mercy of the pilots and of the elements. My seatbelt was firmly fastened. My tray table was in its full upright position. My luggage firmly stowed away keeping the aisle ways clear and safe. And as the plane hit an air pocket and shuttered up and down, I couldn't help but wonder if this remote French archipelago was just some elaborate practical joke that played on unsuspecting American food tourists. Twenty hours after leaving the comfort of my Southern California sanctuary, I finally set foot on the windswept tarmac of Saint-Pierre Airport. It had a small-town vibe that made most small-town bus stations look like the pinnacle of modern architecture and the hub and intersection of major travel.

Having traveled for nearly a full day, after sleeping in airports and planes, I was bleary-eyed and disoriented. After a short cab ride, I stumbled onto the quaint streets of Saint-Pierre, my nostrils flaring, searching, inhaling deeply and trying to find a hint of the intoxicating aroma of that wonderful elixir. That adult jungle juice that baristas with stories of tattoos traveling down their arms could craft in a variety of classic variations. Like a moth to a flame, I found myself drawn to Le Café des Docs, a small, local establishment that was cozy, welcoming and intensely inviting. It’s a strange feeling to be hungry and not realize it until you smell something profoundly delicious. As I stepped inside the quaint coffee house, the warm smell of coffee in the air mixed with bread, eggs, bacon and that comforting smell of butter that seems to always linger during breakfast. I was greeted warmly and was invited to partake in copious amounts of caffeine to bring my weary traveler brain into a state of mild coherence. And what’s that on the menu? A tartines gourmandes you say? Well, I was technically in a French territory. Who was I to say “no”. And so, I dove into a magnificent plate of Ballottin de poulet façon cordon bleu. The ingredients you ask? Why they were only the best. Mousseline de patate douce, compotee d'oignons, salade feuilles de menthe, and pesto maison. Translation? Fucking delicious. The chicken cordon bleu was like a warm hug for my mouth. The sweet potato mousseline and onion compote gave each bite a distinct salty and sweet balance and just tasted like a French Country kitchen. The mint leaf salad with the homemade pesto, brought the dish together. It was so tangy. So warm. So savory, I had to have a pain au chocolat just to tie everything together. It’s amazing how a meal after a long flight can make you feel like a normal human being again. Satiated. Caffeinated and awake, I thanked the barista and headed out to Boulangerie Beck, another shop that a local promised I would be able to get a perfectly crafted baguette for this evening’s meal.

I strolled into Boulangerie Beck and joined the queue of locals and the occasional lost tourist, who might have wandered in to ask for directions or a recommendation, but stayed in line after smelling the aroma of crusty French bread drifting through the room. For me, however, this baguette wasn't just bread. Instead, it was a lifeline to some semblance of civilization after hours of airline food and stale pretzels. You know what I mean. It was that pungent smell of airport food and coffee, the lingering odor of day old pastries as they sat under heat lamps, staring at patrons as they walked by. I inched closer to the counter, gazing over the golden-brown crusts of the baguettes that peeked out from behind the glass, their aroma growing stronger with each step as they pulled me ever forward. I stepped up to the register and managed to secure a couple of these prized, crusty loaves. While there seemed to be a steady supply, Boulangerie Beck does eventually run out for the day. And, we needed these for dinner this evening. I carried the long baguettes tightly, their warmth seeping through the paper bag sheaths and pushed deep into my gloved hands, warming the leather and keeping my fingers toasty.

I tucked the baguettes in close and made my way over to my friend's home. As I walked through the downtown area, I took in the calm and the quiet existence of this tiny piece of France off the southern coast of Newfoundland. Saint- Pierre and Miquelon was an archipelago that consisted of two major islands. It was a French territorial collectivity named for the patron saint of fishermen as it was once a base for whaling and fishing. As with all new territories in the “new world” the islands passed between French and British hands for centuries until finally, landing back with the French. France, being the owner, heavily subsidized its last North American footprint. Saint-Pierre is tiny. With a population of 5,592 at last official count, is the culture island and the name of the largest settlement. This should, by proximity alone, feel like a Newfoundland outport community with its jelly-bean-colored homes scattered across its barren, rocky landscape. But somehow the presence of French flags, cars and street signs written in French changed just about everything. That, and if you listened to the conversations, you would hear the distinct sound of French spoken with a European, not a Quebec, accent. Walking here and looking out across the horizon, Canada felt like an ocean away.

For this visit, I was here to call on one of my best friends. In France, he was a chef who had found his success in the heart of Paris. However, after running the restaurant races for decades, he decided to retire and traded the chaos of big city kitchens for the rugged charm of this small French outpost. I approached his door with excitement and could already smell the smoky aroma of a wood burning fireplace wafting through the air. I knocked on the front door, balancing my bundle of baguettes being careful to maintain a solid grip on the warm, priceless bags. The front door swung open and Pierre greeted me with a warm embrace, as was his trademark. More importantly, before I even had a chance to set the baguettes safely down on his countertop, Pierre had already shoved a wine glass full of something deliciously red into my open hand. I could already smell the cherry and cassis wafting up from the glass as Pierre motioned at the horizon across the ocean, and said “If you want to go to Paris, it’s just over there.” Apparently, It’s not an uncommon sentiment on this island. Paris may be 4,253 kilometers away, at least according to a sign posted at the base of trailhead, but France was always close to everyone’s heart here from what I could see.

We settled into his cozy living room, the wine continued to work its magic, slowly bringing my mind back online as my friend regaled me with stories of his new life in Saint-Pierre and Miquelon. “Why here?” I remembered myself asking. “Don’t get me wrong, this place is gorgeous.” He nodded and smiled as he told me of the challenges and rewards of opening a restaurant in a place where the ingredients were as unpredictable as the weather or the tides. However, it was a place where each day brought a new adventure in sourcing and creativity that he could never have had in the heart of Paris. I recalled how burned out he felt the last time I saw him. He had managed three restaurants in the center of Paris. He designed the menu daily for each and could be found bouncing around the kitchen of one of them every single night. He seemed tired. Now, however, as I watched him speak, his hands animated as he told me everything, there was a passion that had returned. It was that same fire that I remembered that had driven him in his high-pressure kitchens. But here, in this remote corner of the world, on this gorgeous slice of French paradise, that passion found a new focus. “It not about creating exquisite dishes anymore,” he said. “Look,” he pointed. “It was about building something from the start. It was about becoming part of a community that still valued the simple pleasures of a well-prepared meal shared with friends. Something casual. Something classical. Something simple, but complex. Something…. French.” All at once, we laughed as we took a sip from our swirling wine glasses.

We moved to the kitchen to refill our glasses. I asked what the mystery wine that I was drinking this evening? Knowing Pierre, it was probably something completely over the top. And, no surprise, it absolutely was. A bottle of 2008 Charmes-Chambertin Grand Cru Cuvée des Merles sat proudly on the countertop. This wine was liquid poetry in a glass. It was a testament to the magic that happened when Pinot Noir grapes and French terroir met and decided to have a torrid love affair. The ruby-red elixir cascaded into our glasses in a swirl of beautiful chaos that filled the kitchen with deep notes of clove, chocolate, cassis, blueberry and vanilla. Every sip was like being hit with a velvet sledgehammer. On the palate, it was a complex symphony of dark berries, earthy undertones, and a hint of something that reminded me of walking through a damp forest after a spring rain. Pierre smiled at my enjoyment. Final verdict, this wine doesn't fuck around—it's elegant with a backbone of steel that told you it meant business right out of the bottle and with every luxurious sip, it showed you who’s boss.

With guests on the way, we did what any good chefs would do, we threw on our aprons and got to work. Tonight, we were cooking French food. What else did you think we were going to make? French town. French Island. French head chef. Yes, I believe we were cooking French food tonight. We divided our tasks and filled our wine glasses. The mise en place was ready. The stove was ready. And we were ready to get to work. Tonight we were cooking a meal that would make any Provençal mémé cross her ams and beam with pride. It was just one of those nights when you could truly say "fuck it" in the most eloquent way possible to calorie counting and fully embrace the hedonistic pleasures of country French cuisine.

The menu for this evening included tian. If you have never had it before, please find a French restaurant and order it. It was that quintessential Provençal dish that was like ratatouille's sexier yet more sophisticated cousin. Pierre started us off by demonstrating his incredible ninja knife skills and sliced vegetables with the speed and the precision of a neurosurgeon, creating a kaleidoscope of colors across the cutting board. I preheating the oven to a toasty 320°F (I know we’re technically in a part of France, but bear with me, I’m not usually using the metric system). I watched a master chef in action who didn’t mess around when cooking his vegetables. I raised an eyebrow as Pierre reached over and put a container of boiling water at the bottom of the oven. “It's like creating a spa for vegetables,” he said. “This way, they retain their moisture and don’t dry out.”

Pierre peeled and crushed garlic with a fervor and spread it on the bottom of the dish with a generous glug of olive oil creating a foundation of flavor. It was the aromatic bedrock for his vegetable masterpiece. And then for the vegetables. Eggplant, zucchini, and tomatoes. Colorful, decadent and plump. Pierre sliced with meticulous care and arranged them in the dish like a street artist creating edible art. He shoved the vegetables together and I squinted at the dish as he was creating a very tight fit. The veggies were packed in closer than sardines in a tin. I even think that the Tokyo subway at rush hour had more room between bodies of people than Pierre’s vegetables. But that was the secret, I was informed. The tighter the fit, the better the dish. It's like a mosh pit of vegetables, each one infusing its neighbor with flavor. They have to touch as they cook, and blend into one another creating flavor upon flavor. It was a cascade effect.

As Pierre works his magic with the tian, he looked up at me and raised an eyebrow. “Are you just going to stand around and drink wine?” He joked as he winked at me. I smiled “Yes Chef!” I replied. I think that my day-long travel must have still had me in a slight trance. Either that or the wine might have been at fault as well. In fact, it probably was because this wine was really good shit. I set my glass down on the counter for a moment, and turned my attention to my assigned task in the kitchen: the Steak Frites au Beurre de Moutarde. While, yes, this dish was just steak and fries. However, it was also something a bit more too. It was a culinary middle finger to heart health guidelines and a dish that screamed "Vive la France!" with every cholesterol-laden bite as it casually ignored every cardiologist in spiting distance who was staring in horror.

I began at the end—the fries. After all, a steak without fries was like a French hooker without a happy ending – it just didn’t feel right. I peeled and slice potatoes with reckless abandon, whacking and whacking and whacking away at the spuds as the skins flew haphazardly into the sink slapping against the stainless steel as they stuck against the surface. I tossed the potato slices into a cold water bath. Note: it’s an old chef’s trick—to remove excess starch. It was like a spa day for spuds, as I prepared them for their final destination. After a good soak for the potatoes, and a hearty swig of snobby French wine for me, I rinsed the potato slices and at last, they were ready for their oil baptism. Dear readers, if you haven’t been paying close attention so far, here is where it gets interesting. For this preparation, I performed a double fry method because, frankly, if you’re making real French fries, there are two rules that you should always live by. One, don’t cut corners and get cheap potatoes. And two, don’t fuck around. The first fry was at 300°F for about 3 minutes. For this step, it isn't about color. The first part is about cooking the inside of the fry. When you pull the fries out, they come out looking pale and unimpressive. But pay attention and don't be fooled. This is just their first stage in the cooking process. You’re not done yet.

While the fries were resting, I turned my attention to the star of the show—the steak. I looked at this incredible slab of meat that Pierre got from the market earlier today. This selection was truly top sirloin. This island didn’t have any of that bargain bin bullshit. I seasoned these bad-boys liberally with kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper. It was simple. It was classic. It was unpretentious. It was a “Fuck You” to the Salt Bae’s $1000 Gold Cowboy Steak which was a 2-inch thick steak covered in gold leaf, reverse seared and cooked in wagyu beef tallow. At $1000 an order, I was surprised it didn’t come with an escort. There was no need for any pretentious bullshit here. This steak was pure, simple and absolutely magnificent. As these steaks didn’t come with an escort, I let them rest for a moment to let them get cozy with their seasoning on a more intimate level. I sidestepped Pierre who was busy with his tian to whip up the mustard butter. This butter was a flavor bomb that elevated our steak from just “great” to "holy shit, where has this been all my life?" And that was the reaction that I was going for this evening.

I tossed the melted butter into a bowl along with the sautéed shallots, fresh tarragon and parsley, Dijon mustard, and a touch of red wine vinegar to give it that extra little zing. It was a combination that on paper, sounded like it shouldn't work, but trust me, it is indeed a combination that will blow your mind. I blended my concoction on the stove until it was completely smooth. I added a bit of chicken stock to get that right consistency, and the result was a sauce that was tangy, herby, rich, and utterly irresistible. I shoveled a tasting spoon in to the pot and then plunged it into Pierre’s mouth. When his bushy French eyebrows shot up in the air and nearly flew above his forehead, I knew that I had gotten it right.

Remember the fries? The ones that looked like we fucked them all up. Well, it was time for the final act. The second round. I dumped the fries back into the hot oil. Only this time at a blistering 350°F. (Yes, I know. Fuck the metric system). This was the final act. Trust me, if you make fries like this, your guests will never forget their experience. I pulled them out of the vat as they emerged golden, crispy, and utterly perfect. Now this part is completely important. So please, pay attention. Don’t fuck it up. A sprinkle of salt, was all that was needed. A sprinkle of salt, and they were ready to go.

I turned back to my steaks. At this point, they were so relaxed in their seasoning, they were practically smoking a cigarette. I speared each one of them and tossed them on the cast iron skillet. The steaks hits the screaming hot pan with a sizzle that sounded like applause. It was so loud that Pierre actually turned towards me and took a bow. We laughed like juveniles as we grabbed our wine glasses and toasted for a moment to relish in the craziness of the kitchen. Three to four minutes per side for a perfect medium-rare was all that was needed here. And, as they cooked, I baste them with a mixture of butter, garlic, and thyme. The aroma in the house was demonically intoxicating. It was a primal call to our carnivorous instincts. It was a melange of oil, herbs, frying starch, sizzling flesh and that secret French ingredient—butter. It was the kind of smell that made you inhale deeply with enjoyment and was actually known to enhance wine as well creating a taste and sensory experience that could split your palate open a the seams.

I pulled the steaks off and slapped them onto a wooden cutting board, as juice surrounded the hunks of meat in pools. If there is one mistake that every person who cooks a steak makes, it’s cutting into the steak as soon as it’s pulled off of the pan. You have to let that shit rest! PERIOD! When it rests, don’t look at it, don’t touch it, don’t poke it, and certainly don’t think about it. Just, leave it alone. As the steaks rested – as I mentioned before, the crucial step that separated the amateurs from the pros – our friends arrived classically on French time. I other words, they were fashionably late. Therefore, Pierre said at once that their timing impeccable. While I was fumbling with the steak in the kitchen, Pierre prepared a classic French Pâté—chicken liver and pork terrine. This, was a thing of beauty. It was wrapped in bacon like a meaty gift from a nutritionist that hated your guts. And while we all said our hello’s, we tore into crusty baguettes, smearing them with generous hunks of Pierre’s pâté. It was rich. It was earthy. It paired perfectly with our Charmes-Chambertin as the wine cut through the fat like a warm knife through butter with every indulgent bite.

We nibbled, we sipped, we ripped at the baguettes and smeared the pâté as the kitchen filled with the kind of laughter and conversation that only good food and great wine could ever inspire. It was a moment of pure, unadulterated pleasure. Pierre and I broke from the festivities momentarily and let out rowdy group of Frenchmen continue to carouse in their usual way with loud singing, laughter and genuine enjoyment. We strolled into the kitchen to plate everything up and prepare the meal for the dining room. I sliced the steak against the grain, Sliding it gently next to a mountain of golden fries. I dolloped the mustard butter slowly and watched it melt over the meat, creating rivulets of flavor and textures that made my mouth water just looking at it. Next to me, Pierre centered his vegetable masterclass creation. The tian was simply gorgeous. There were no other words to describe this phenomenal dish. Pierre plated it to perfection, its colors vibrant and inviting. The vegetables melded together in the heat of the oven and created a dish that was somehow both rustic and elegant.

Pierre and I layered the table with our dishes and poured glasses of sparkling water and even more importantly, generous pours of the 2008 Charmes-Chambertin Grand Cru Cuvée des Merles. We crowded around the dining table together, sitting down to eat, drink, laugh, talk, catch up and make more memories with one another. When you gather eight French chef’s in one place for dinner, and one French chef imposter (that would be me), I could guarantee you that there was no calm before the storm of flavors that were about to hit our palates. There was no break in conversations as we all took our seats and began to reach for this plate or that serving. Cutlery and ceramic banged and scraped in the process. It was a culinary melody played out across a dining table. There was no hush of reverence for the meal that we all gathered to share. And as we all dug into the food, savored the wine and relished each other’s company, the world outside our dining room suddenly ceased to exist. For all of us, there was only this moment. This dinner table. This meal. This wine. And all of us. And when the meal was done. When the plates were bare. When the charcuterie was scraped clean. When the wine bottles stood empty in the dining room and in the kitchen, empty wine glasses set where they were drained. When the lingering aromas of our feast clung to our palates. We laughed. We embraced. We said good night. Next time, there would be another house. Another place. Another meal. And always another memory with friends who were actually now family.