LE MATIN, November 6, 1980
A TRULY PARISIAN MÂCHON
HAD I REALLY SAID SOMETHING improper by suggesting we go for a little “mâchon” together? Her—overly—fine eyebrows furrowed in disapproval and the double curl of her crimson lips stumbled over mâchon = pig.
When I explained the thing, extolled the hearty joys of a sheep’s trotter salad or a tablier de sapeur, cheerfully washed down with a real—and therefore good—Beaujolais, all of this elbow to elbow at a counter, the disdainful crease deepened: “What complications just to admit we’re going to grab a bite! And at 10 in the morning, no less! No thank you, not for me!”
I was vainly defending my Lyonnais loves when, suddenly, the irresistible argument:
. . . the Cossacks, the seraglio, Topkapi and the Musée Grévin: “A truly adorable bistro, entirely decorated by Slavik and…” “Ah! Slavik!” she cooed with delight,
“Slavik! Why didn’t you say so right away—it must be an adorable place!”
It is adorable, it’s true, and she loved it: beveled mirrors, cut like moucharabiehs, diamond-engraved with honest gastronomic propositions, a massive brass percolator behind a porphyry bar, variations on every (faux) marble and, above all—though I didn’t dare suggest she take a tour—the prettiest “facilities” in Paris along with the (historic) ones at Vagenende. There, the decorator’s deliquescent genius ran free: nothing but speckles, bird’s feet and shell fragments, fragmented by indecent mirrors that would make Justine’s father blush and the Musée Grévin jealous.
We blossomed with pleasure at a small “marble” table before fortifying fare: truffled sausage with pistachios, pork rind parcels, andouillettes and jésus, pork head roulades, terrines and pâtés. To accompany these charcuterie where the gourmand spirit of Lyon triumphs, a cervelle de canut (let us reassure our delicate guest, this is fresh cheese beaten with shallots, garlic, white wine and oil) that she prefers to call “claqueret.” We continued with a shallot bavette steak, quite tender and flavorful for her and, for me, an excellent andouillette with Lyonnaise potatoes—that is, sautéed with onions and sprinkled with parsley—a delight. There followed a few “boutons de culotte” that one devours in two bites (those tiny Mâcon goat cheeses that appear and triumph on all the cheese boards of fine restaurants). They are often goat or half-goat half-cow and are eaten fresh or slightly aged. Some enthusiasts prefer them slightly rancid and grate them over their salad or potatoes. You’ll wash them down with a Côte Chalonnaise or a chilled white Mâcon.
The homestyle desserts are touchingly straightforward: apple tart, chocolate mousse, crème caramel. Sometimes bugnes dusted with powdered sugar that other regions call oreillettes or merveilles, and Jean Moussié’s extraordinary chocolate charlotte. Because I haven’t told you everything yet: this mâchon, so pretty and so good, shelters under the prestigious wing of Bistrot 121. You are here at Jean-Claude Moussié’s establishment, Jean’s son, and it remains, under this gourmand guidance, a guarantee of quality. At reasonable prices, for simple yet refined cuisine, you know that the products are of the finest quality, the wines carefully selected and the welcome warm. And it’s not the serpent lamps hissing in spirals above our heads that could darken our well-being.
Yannick Jouhaud S.
123, rue de la Convention,
Paris 15th. Tel. : 554-08-62.
