My last trip to France, to finish the book, was in mid-November 1996. In cold, rainy, foggy weather, so typical of the Brittany region, I drove to see Olivier Roellinger (OLIVIER ROELLINGER), France’s great seafood chef, who keeps alive the nostalgia for pirates, some of whom were heroes of the kingdom, and heroes of his own childhood. Everything that grows and teems along the Atlantic coast, from fish to oysters, from crabs to sea snails, dozens of species and sizes and “ages”, arrives at his kitchen in a state of absolute freshness, and is served without delay, after minimal preparation, though in some dishes with spices from the East and aromas from the New World.
His restaurant, La Maison de Bricourt (LA MAISON DE BRICOURT), is in the town of Cancale (CANCALE), at the northeastern tip of Brittany, almost on the border with Normandy. It is a small, modest two-story house sitting in a garden, which also holds a few high-end guest rooms. The Gault et Millau guide recognized its greatness some years ago and gave it 19 points out of 20. In 1995 it was even crowned “Chef of the Year” by the guide. The Michelin guide is still holding back, with only two stars. That’s no surprise: Roellinger is too creative for the conservative guide’s taste. But everyone agrees that La Maison de Bricourt is the best restaurant on France‘s coastline, from the Belgian border to the Spanish one.
Roellinger is Breton, but his name “sounds” Alsatian. That was my first question to the young, gifted chef, born in 1955, as we sat down after the meal (he had cooked and I had eaten) in a small parlor furnished like a living room, one floor above the restaurant. “With a name like that, what do you have to do with Brittany?” I pressed. He answered: “I was born in the next room! But it’s true, my grandfather was a wealthy merchant from the Mulhouse area in southern Alsace. In the First World War he was conscripted by force into the German army. As the signs of a second world war multiplied, he decided to move his family away from Germany. They drifted west, and eventually settled in the village of Cancale, in this very house. My father, who was a doctor who ‘performed miracles’ (one of the first to use the miracle drug penicillin at the end of the war), met a girl from the Chouan family, a descendant of Jean Chouan himself. She was my mother. So I’m half Alsatian, half Breton, but my whole life has played out right here.” Chouan (CHOUAN), you should know, isn’t just a name but a concept and a symbol in Brittany: Jean Chouan (1757-1794) was one of the leaders of the region’s peasant revolt against the French Revolution, and the movement he led is named after him.
With the Lords of Saint-Malo
With a background like that, it’s hard at first to understand why Roellinger’s menu is full of recipes about “escaping” Brittany. For example, the young lobster is flavored “spice island style” (not Zanzibar, but Grenada). The John Dory comes “in the style of the return from the Indies.” On the dessert menu, “An Invitation to a Journey” stands out: rum grog with a puff pastry cake with pineapple and banana. The coffee and tea menu lists varieties from all over the world, and every kind of rum, instead of the Calvados from the neighboring region of Normandy.
“Don’t you feel good in Cancale, that you try to escape it through your recipes?” I asked Roellinger, who at first didn’t understand the question. “I feel great here!” he replied. “And no, I never lived anywhere else, and I was never a chef before this. My cooking tries to revive the myths and legends of my childhood. Just behind Cancale lies Saint-Malo, a fortified port city, unique in the history of France. A city that has always been open to the wider world. From its old port sailed France’s most important captains, like La Bourdonnais (Bertrand-François Mahé de La Bourdonnais, 1699-1753), to whom I dedicated a dish on the menu, and Jacques Cartier (1491-1557), who charted the routes to the East and to the New World.
“Saint-Malo is Brittany, but it’s mainly Saint-Malo. A city of brave seafarers, entrepreneurs, adventurers, a city of pirates. An independent city. People say of its residents, the Malouins, that they are ‘first of all Malouins, a bit Breton, and if there’s anything left, also French.’ They also say that they don’t feel they’ve succeeded in their own city unless they’ve sailed around the world ten or fifteen times, by sailing ship, of course. The writer Chateaubriand (François-René de Chateaubriand, 1768-1848) was also born in Saint-Malo, and even if he never sailed around the world, he at least traveled through the Middle East, and visited the Holy Land.
“We’re all farmers here, but mostly fishermen. We all learned to row before we learned to walk. I myself travel from time to time to the Far East, with friends. We rent a sailboat and head out to open sea. And believe me, I have no need for a skipper.
“As early as 1440, Saint-Malo was the first republic in Europe. The lords of Saint-Malo were a bit like the doges. Politically and commercially, Saint-Malo is the Venice of the Atlantic. It was the richest port in France. Twice, under Louis XIV and Louis XV (r. 1715-1774), it poured money into covering royal deficits. Saint-Malo’s wealth came from a kind of stock-market activity: residents invested money with an entrepreneur, who used the funds to finance a daring sea voyage, usually a raid with a commercial purpose. If the ship came back safely, loaded with goods, the investment yielded 400 percent profit, and everyone got rich. If not… many ventures sank to the bottom of the sea.” In the history of piracy, you have to distinguish between CORSAIRES and PIRATES. Privateers were “private entrepreneurs” who operated on behalf of their governments against the ships of enemy governments, and more broadly, against anyone who wasn’t a friend. Their plunder was their pay, along with honor and glory. Pirates, on the other hand, were and still are simply criminals. The pirates of Saint-Malo were, of course, privateers, and they brought the kingdom glory. “Our house was built in 1760, by a nouveau-riche family, the Hertré de Bricourt family. They made their fortune from trade and piracy expeditions in the East, and brought to Saint-Malo silk, porcelain, rare woods, and spices. To decorate the house, they hired the same craftsmen who built Versailles.
“It was in the house next door that the legendary pirate Robert Surcouf (1773-1827) (SURCOUF) was born, who during the French Revolution caused enormous damage to the English fleet and won great fame. The young ladies of the Bricourt house were very friendly with the Surcouf family, and there’s no doubt that young Surcouf played in our garden, my garden, where I played throughout my own childhood.
“These are the myths and legends and the world of imagination I grew up on, the things that nourished my childhood. And if my kitchen carries hints of the history of the city, the town, and the nearby region, exotic spices, subtropical fruits, rum, and various references, these aren’t a game or a pose, but my own truth: a house of pirates, silk and spices, the aromas of rum and glorious names.”
The Chef of the Tides
“The second side of my inspiration is the Bay of Mont-Saint-Michel, of which Cancale is the western edge. A bay wrapped in enchanted fog. A place that casts a spell on you, that captivates you with its wonders. A place of wind and water and fog and the strongest tidal movement in the world: the water level difference reaches 15 meters, 250 million cubic meters of water rising and falling twice a day, on a steady cycle tied to the moon.
“The bay is a dangerous place. At low tide, a vast expanse of sand is exposed. You’re walking out there, and suddenly the water rises, and you have to rush back to safety. You head for the shore, but suddenly you’re surrounded by water and can’t see a thing, because of the fog. What happened? Without noticing, you’d walked up a gentle slope, and meanwhile the water surrounded you. The shore isn’t visible, you think you’ve lost your way, you turn back, and that’s the end of you. The water closes in. You can’t swim, because it’s too shallow, and you can’t walk, because the currents swirl, and you sink into quicksand. That’s why even the local fishermen, who know every inch of the place, never go far without a compass when they head out to catch fish trapped in the deep holes.
“The bay is tied to stories from early Christianity. It was a refuge for saints persecuted by barbarians. It’s a bay of legends, centered on the struggle between good and evil, between the archangel Saint Michael and the dragon, the serpent of the deep.
“Many of the products I use in my kitchen come from the bay: the oysters unique to Cancale, growing at the foot of the hill, facing the coast; the fish the fishermen catch at night and bring me every morning, depending on what comes up in the nets or on the line; crabs of all kinds, brought to me twice a day. Everything comes from here, from the stretch of sea between Cancale and Mont-Saint-Michel. That’s also where the lamb comes from, grazing on the grass during low tide, until their meat develops a pleasant natural saltiness, the famous PRÉ-SALÉ, ‘pre-salted,’ wonderfully delicate.”
At the foot of Cancale, a few meters from the shore, low tide reveals a strange architecture of “beds” with stakes and paths. These are the oyster beds, drawn from the sea twice a day, sold and opened at kiosks along the shore at peak freshness. Along the coast are breeding pools for various crabs, also pulled out as needed.
At low tide, the boats in the small harbor rest on the sand, and the sea is far away, out of sight. At high tide, the boats float, and head out to sea. The boats matter a great deal to the town and to the restaurant. At least two dishes on the menu are a tribute to his suppliers’ fishing boats. “The fishermen, and the oyster farmers, are friends from childhood. Almost every chef in Paris, in Burgundy, and in any other region far from the coast, uses fresh fish and seafood. But many hours pass from the moment the fish leaves the sea and is shipped out, until the products reach their kitchens, hundreds of kilometers from here. At the top, only I have this extraordinary freshness, this huge daily selection. My deep familiarity with the suppliers, and with the products, is my great advantage. You could say every fish in my kitchen has a history. And I know its ‘past.’ Without friends like that, and products like that, I wouldn’t have succeeded.”
“And then there’s my third source of inspiration: Brittany’s uniqueness. Brittany didn’t join the kingdom of France quickly or easily. It was Celtic, spoke a Celtic language still fervently preserved today, and it looked west and north. It had a unique connection with Ireland, Wales, and Scotland. Its dukes were crowned in the nearby town of Dol, and one of them was even a king of England. The French didn’t overcome them easily before annexing Brittany to France.
“The memory of Celtic, Druidic Brittany (later immortalized in comic books through the characters of Astérix and Obélix, editor’s note) with its forest legends, the forest sacred to the Druid priests, remains very strong. Christianity in Brittany, which arrived later, was very pagan, and Rome didn’t like it. It sanctified places that had once been sacred to the Druids, water springs, for example. The Druids built dolmens near the water springs. Christianity didn’t uproot them: it simply carved crosses into them. And then there’s the Brittany of Merlin the wizard, with all the legends surrounding him.”
“In my kitchen, I give expression to Celtic flavors. The taste of mead liquor, the famous hydromel, the taste of the big pumpkin, salted butter, buckwheat dough crumbled over food, the chestnuts of Brittany’s forests.”
A Clockwork Orange in Saint-Malo
Olivier Roellinger’s cooking is a wondrous alchemy of products and traditions from the far corners of the earth. But the feeling that some of his dishes give you, that there’s real magic at their core, has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that Olivier is a chemical engineer, and his wife a pharmacist.
In fact, neither of them ever worked in their professions. Olivier came to cooking the hardest and most bitter way possible: through an event straight out of A Clockwork Orange, which he tries to suppress. At the age of twenty-four, he was attacked in the streets of Saint-Malo by a gang of minors. “For a month I was unconscious, and for two years, confined to a wheelchair. Imagine what that’s like for a guy who used to be as athletic as I was. While I was recovering, the house became a gathering place for all my friends: fishermen, oyster farmers, farmers, hunters. They came every evening with their ‘catch,’ beautiful fish, vegetables, poultry, and my mother would cook for everyone. The house turned into a kind of open table.
“When I recovered, I decided to look for a new world for myself. One not based on reason and logic alone, but mainly on feeling. A world that would let me recreate, in my parents’ house, the experiences of my childhood. Since I’m not a musician, or a painter, I became a chef. I asked my wife, Jane, then my girlfriend, who had just finished pharmacy school, what she thought, and she was thrilled. I went to study for six months at a cooking school, and we got started.
“The house was ours to use: my mother, who still lives there (we’re sitting in her living room), agreed. Truth be told, since my father’s death, when I was 12, we had lived modestly. My mother even had to rent out rooms in the house. But in the past, before his death, countless celebrations were held in this house. My father led a lively social life. He hosted friends, dignitaries, and winemakers. Those feasts, cooked by women from the port, are part of my childhood memories. Of course I never took part in them, and because of them, I never once ate dinner with my parents, but there was a festive atmosphere in the house, and I remember it vividly. My wife and I don’t eat much with the kids either, but every Wednesday is set aside for the children. Even if the pope came to Brittany that day and wanted to eat at my place, I wouldn’t give it up.
“We had a house, but no money. We borrowed 240,000 francs at 16.5% interest, that was a fortune back in 1979, and we started. There were forty-seven restaurants operating in Cancale’s harbor, all of them facing the sea and serving live oysters and simple seafood dishes. We’re set back from the harbor, up the hill, with no view, and on top of that, we decided to break from the local culinary norm, so hats off to those who believed in us and agreed to lend us the money. I’m not sure I would have lent it to myself, back then. It was very hard for us to get the first customers to walk through the gate and into the restaurant.” The restaurant is divided into three small rooms, facing a lush garden. At the heart of the garden is a pond, with constant commotion around it from ducks and geese. You sit facing the garden, with your back to the other diners, which feels a bit odd.
But it was hard to focus on the birds, given the ten-course meal Roellinger cooked for me, after I was asked whether there was anything I didn’t eat, and I said no.
Brittany, except for its southern tip at the mouth of the Loire, is a region without wine. The aperitif, then, was a slightly sweet Loire wine, served with ENCORNETS, the local name for squid, fried in batter. The white wine that accompanied the meal also came from the Loire.
First courses
Herbs and spices with palourde clams (CLAM in English) and coquilles Saint-Jacques.
A well-seasoned clear broth of red tuna, over flat oysters and foie gras, a perfect dish, with heavenly flavors.
ORMEAUX (abalone) Cancale style, with white beans, bacon, and parsley. Small lobster set in spice-island aromas.
Main courses
Thick TURBOT, grilled over the fire and then finished in a pot, with Madeira wine and chestnuts.
The classic: John Dory in the style of “the return from the Indies” (a tribute to Saint-Malo’s own son, de La Bourdonnais).
Desserts
Frozen cream between chocolate and pear.
Apple and pumpkin, Celtic style.
An Invitation to a Journey: grog made with rum from Marie-Galante, puff pastry cake with pineapple and banana.
Let’s not forget the excellent bread, served with salted Breton butter, and the varied and detailed coffee, rum, and tea menu, the likes of which I’ve never seen at any other restaurant in France, and the fourteen-spice brandy, Roellinger’s own personal blend.
An Oyster Platter for Dinner
In the small village of Saint-Méloir-des-Ondes (SAINT-MÉLOIR-DES-ONDES), four kilometers south of Cancale, atop a hill overlooking vast stretches of sea and tideland, Roellinger bought, a few years ago, a private, castle-like house, which he converted into a hotel with several rooms and apartments, more luxurious than the ones above his main restaurant, La Maison de Bricourt. On the ground floor, a “seafood bistro.”
The hotel is called Maison Richeux (MAISON RICHEUX), and the restaurant, Le Coquillage (LE COQUILLAGE). The food is simpler, cheaper, but with the same extraordinary freshness of seafood. I enjoyed a platter of oysters from Cancale, just pulled from the water, and various crabs. The oysters, with their intense taste of seawater and iodine, were wonderful. The restaurant was packed, just like his flagship restaurant, by the way, and the atmosphere was lively, unbuttoned. I had a great time.
Business card
JANE & OLIVIER ROELLINGER
LES MAISONS DE BRICOURT
1, RUE DUGUESCLIN 35260 CANCALE
Closing the Circle
It had been a long time since I’d come across a fish bone in a fish served to me at a top restaurant in France. In the kitchen of every self-respecting restaurant there’s someone whose whole job is to pull the bones out of fish with tweezers and produce “fillets.” So I was surprised to receive a fish almost exactly as nature made it: skin, bones, and all. I asked Roellinger why. “Because for the flavor, you have to cook with the skin, the bones, and the carcass. With small red mullet from the ocean, red mullet, in my opinion, are the tastiest fish there is, I serve them whole, not as ‘fillets,’ the way most chefs do.”
And then I remembered that exactly ten years earlier, in November 1986, when I began my training in top-tier French cooking under Paul Bocuse (1926-2018), the “emperor” from Lyon said something remarkably similar to me: “To me, chicken is meat with skin and bones. A fish isn’t a fish without its carcass.” I told this to Roellinger, who was quite surprised to hear that Bocuse thought, or at least had thought, exactly the same way he did.
And I understood, in that moment, that with Olivier Roellinger, ten years after Bocuse, I had closed a full circle in top-tier French cooking, and that the book was finished.
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