The Passard Egg: the one egg that ruled us all.

Like Duchamp’s “Fountain” - a pissoir repurposed as a fuck you to the art establishment - Passard intrinsically understands the power of contextual change.

The Alain Passard egg

words & photography Mark Best

In the realm of haute cuisine, Alain Passard is a rockstar shrouded in an enigma, wrapped in a cabbage leaf. This culinary traditionalist, avant-garde rebel and vegetable forward iconoclast, who became the youngest ever recipient of 2 Michelin stars at 26, gained top toque in the 1990 edition of Gaullt et Millaut and 3 Michelin stars since 1996, decided to throw it all to the wind in 2001 declaring that hence forth ‘my menu will be entirely and exclusively dedicated to vegetables’ 

The decision, in retrospect, felt like a resumption of the light, bright nouvelle cuisine idealism his predecessors espoused in the 1960s—but it was also a volte-face from the 30 years the Chef had spent defining his own heritage as a “maître rôtisseur”. Following the culinary legacy of his Grandmother, Louise Passard - whose portrait remains sternly in place above the swinging kitchen doors - and acknowledging his own mastery of slow cooked flesh.

On this tectonic shift Passard remarked that “I had a moment when I took a roast out into the dining room and the reality struck me that every day I was struggling to have a creative relationship with a corpse, a dead animal. And I could feel inside me the weight and the sadness of the cuisine animale.’ 

It is one of the enduring myths. Passard is neither vegetarian nor did Arpége ever entirely eschew serving meat and poultry. Playing a little light frottage with the truth, this personal outcry skirts the enormity of Vache Folle reaching the herds of France. It didn't go down well.

Passard opened his famed premises in the 7th Arrondissement - at the heart of the political establishment on Rue de Varenne - in 1986. Taking over the 14th Century “Hôtel Particulier”of his Chef mentor Alain Senderens’ “L’Archestrate” who was heading to the Lucas Carlton. Its appellation, L’Arpége (arpeggio), being as much a tribute to his musician father, as it was to re-use the same ‘A’ monogrammed flatware he purchased with the business.  

In a bout of equivocal praise Passard called his mentor Senderens ‘a perfectionist in constant search of originality’. Passard, if there is one constant to the criticism levelled at the man, could equally be called an originalist in search of perfection. 

Viewed as a provocateur and nonconformist by the culinary establishment with dishes like lobster braised in the sherry-like vin jaune or farm pigeon rolled in crushed candied almonds; It was perhaps the famous caramelised tomato stuffed with twelve flavours served as dessert, that truly rocked the status quo.

Passard, along with his peers, Gagnaire, Verat, Bras, et al, was seen as bringing a pox to the foundation traditions of the French culinary oeuvre. Gault et Millaut, known for its acerbic commentary and its skill in keeping readers abreast of the nation's changing restaurant scene, making it indispensable for young French gastronomes, were the first to hero this brash infant terrible in their 1990 guide with an almost perfect score of 19/20. Michelin were shocked into recognising that this as an era defining moment taking just 6 years to bestow their highest accolade and put it into print. 

I fell hard for the man and his magic back in ’96 after a prix-fixe lunch. I can’t remember how I heard of him or how we even made the booking. Perhaps we faxed. The pear wood and handmade Lalique panelled salon near the Prime Minister’s office and en face the Musée Rodin was disarming and intimidating. Naive and underdressed in equal measure there is that point between the discreet entrance and being spotted where you just want to turn and run. 

Two years later, I knocked on the kitchen door, ready to learn, armed with a mullet, no French and a rudimentary understanding of the old Picasso trope “Good artists copy; great artists steal”. For a time I felt like I’d swapped a cow for a handful of beans, but comme Jack, in retrospect, those beans paid dividends.

Lunch started with a short skirmish with the commis waiter over the precise meaning of "l'eau robinet sills voos plat”. After a short scrum the maître d’ curtly shook her head and we were given an Evian each and a tiny tartlette. Another panic over the extraordinary size and certain financial ruin of the wine list was settled with two kir Royale’s (made with Sancerre from memory) and then, we were delivered a boiled egg. 

This simple-yet-sublime Chaud-Froid d'Oeuf cracked my culinary world wide open. The opening to the egg alone is remarkable, seemingly perfectly incised. A Tintin like quiff of lightly whipped créme fraîche, gently acidulated with sherry vinegar and fluffed by the heady Christmas aroma of quatre éspices. Topped with a sprinkle of chives three drops of maple syrup and fleur du sel from Chef’s native Brittany: All this covering a barely warmed egg yolk.  

For 12 years it was offered at my restaurant Marque as the first hors d’oeuvre. It served me well as a crutch while I found my feet, an homage to the great man and souvenir of my culinary epiphany. Our fine diners, having no sense of proportion in their perspective, would exclaim equally in delight at the perfectly circumcised egg as much as they might in seeing the harbour bridge for the first time. 

These were the days it was deemed helpful to offer a little polite instruction to the diner “if you dip your grisine into the egg you will find layers of hot and cold, sweet, sour and salty” Almost immediately these recalcitrant children would whisk the contents of this symphony in a shell into an homogenous goop. 

Like Duchamp’s “Fountain” - a pissoir repurposed as a fuck you to the art establishment - Passard intrinsically understands the power of contextual change. The outright provocation of his “Chimera” (the Frankenstein like bonding of a pigeon and lamb) or the perfect restraint of a soft boiled egg to start and a tomato to finish. His is a masterclass in the pursuit of his craft and a salient teaching moment that something so emotionally potent can come from such small gestures.