The Dance of the Master Chefs, 1930

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What makes a master chef? Originally, the title of maître queux referred to the head cooks who oversaw the kitchens and banquet tables of France’s great noble households. In the Middle Ages, the term came to denote those who showed a most excellent mastery of their craft. The most skilled cooks were then called maître queux, and the name has stuck (albeit in an evolved version) until the present day. In a kitchen, the head chef bears responsibility for the entire process of preparing and serving every dish, every morsel and every plate that is served. They generally work in what is known as a brigade, with a team of commis chefs who perform culinary techniques under the head chef’s orders.

Today, the top chefs from the finest Parisian restaurants had gathered on the roof of the Palais de la Découverte. They were here to celebrate their art and mastery of cuisine, and to honour their commis. Cookery, after all, was an art form. Here today were Benoit Coussau, Nicolas Bellin, and most famously Alain Tupu. Each one of the chefs had a secret weapon that would never be unveiled to the general public, but only to their apprentices in the kitchen. Cooking is a tradition that is handed down from father to son, from family to family, and from generation to generation. “My father passed on his love for food,” Benoit Coussau would recall. “My speciality? I suppose I’d have to say truffled lobster,” added Nicolas Bellin. “I’ve been working on an asparagus and gruyere soufflé,” said the great master, Alain Tupu. Today was a chance to discuss their art, to confer and to share ideas for the kitchen. Cashew nuts and saffron rice appeared to be on trend this year. “Lobster with truffles, you say? It’s unusual, but why not bring the mountain to the sea?” An asparagus and gruyere soufflé...it sounded delicious, and each thought of how he would approach these ideas when he returned to his own kitchen. For now, though, it was time to relax a little.

“Your attention please, master chefs! Kindly line up in rows so we may begin the dance!” asked the Minister. The master chefs took their place in the first line. Each of them had earned a Michelin star, and they held themselves to be courteous and disciplined. As was tradition, each chef held a saucepan in his right hand. Benoit Coussau preferred a shallow bowl, in reference to his famous pistou sauce. He was the first in line on the roof of the Palais de la Découverte. He flipped his plate from one hand to the other like a circus performer. “Et voilà!” he cried each time. He tapped his feet in fine black brogues, lithe and supple as a ballet dancer in spite of his prominent paunch. Cheered on by the Minister, his routine finally came to an end, and there was thunderous applause. His colleagues were proud of him, and the chefs were jubilant. It was now Nicolas Bellin’s turn to begin his own dance. He took a great long ladle and twirled it as if he were in a marching band, looking like he were serving soup left and right. All the chefs knew his bistro well; it was a palace of the senses, and certainly not a place in which soup was served slapdash. Nicolas Bellin finished his routine to rapturous applause. Some tapped their spoons against their pots in a sign of respect and appreciation for the performance. Many in their craft hoped to one day hold a star, but such an achievement took endless patience and perfection of the art. It was now Alain Tupu’s turn to dance. He took out a great sharp knife and sliced through the air as if performing some samurai display. It was marvellous, and the Minister was greatly impressed.

Now it was time to dance together, so they could take the annual photo!

Alan Alfredo Geday