Recorded Books Inc. - Bouchon Bakery

BOUCHON

BAKERY

Thomas Keller and Sebastien Rouxel
With Susie Heller, Matthew McDonald, Michael Ruhlman, and Amy Vogler
Photographs by Deborah Jones

To the world of pastry chefs and bread bakers who delight us every day with the simplicity of their craft and the wonders they produce. And to my brothers James, Robert, and Joseph; my sister, Judith; and my late brother, Michael.

Thomas Keller

To past, present, and future ptissiers and to the chefs who inspired me in my career. And to my dear familymy wife, Andrea; our daughters, Ava and Grace; my in-laws, Rob and Naomi Brantjes; and my parents, Henri and Hlnefor their endless support and love.

Sebastien Rouxel

To my wife, Kristina, whose love and support make my work worthwhile.

Matthew McDonald

Every Morning in Paris When I was twenty-eight, I lived on the top floor of 15, rue de Vouille. On the ground floor was a tiny boulangerie. Every morning I woke to the smell of baking bread. But before I got to Paris, my time in France hadnt gone well. It took me several years of building up contacts to find a stage there. At last I did, at a Michelin-starred restaurant in Arbois, a small city near the Swiss border. My traveling friends dropped me off at the hotel where I was to work. The gruff matron showed me to my cell-like room, which was barely big enough for the bed. Strangely, the single window was almost completely black. When I was taken to the basement kitchen, I realized why: the kitchen still relied on a coal-burning stove, and my room was right above the chimney.

It wasnt just the kitchen stove that evoked a past era of cookingeverything was antiquated. I had come from working at The Polo Lounge, where young chefs Patrice Boely and Daniel Boulud were preparing really forward-thinking cooking. I had spent three years searching for a stage only to learn how to cook on a coal-burning stove? In desperation, I called Serge Raoul, a New York restaurateur for whom Id worked and whom I considered a friend.

He told me to take the next train to Paris, where he had an apartment. I could stay there while I regrouped. Rue de Vouille was in the fifteenth arrondissement, a lovely middle-class neighborhood, with small shops and bars and brasseries. My bedroom window framed the Eiffel Tower. A good sign.

In a short time, I had my first Parisian stage, one of seven. For fifteen months, I immersed myself in the cuisine of France, working at different restaurants, ending at the Michelin three-star Taillevent. It was here that I witnessed the structure and organization, the attention to detail and consistency that made one of the worlds great restaurants what it was.

Open five days a week, Taillevent served lunch and dinner, so I had a great schedule. I arrived in the morning and helped to prepare the mise en place for lunch service. When lunch was done and the kitchen cleaned, by 3:30 or so, wed have a break when I could hang out with my fellow cooks, walk in a park, or take a French lesson. We had to be back at 5:30 (dinner didnt begin until 8:00 or so), and one of my afternoon jobs was to make the marquise au chocolat, one of the restaurants signature desserts, for the next day. It was a very rich confection, kind of a cross between mousse and ganache. It was sliced and served with a pistachio sauce. I love chocolate, so I loved making it. It became one of the highlights of my day and of my time in France.

I learned so much during those months in France in 1983 and 1984. It was where I first worked with foie gras, and with more obscure cuts we werent used to in the United States, like lamb breast. Its where I had my first macaron, that most extraordinary of cookies. And where I tasted my first real croissant and mille-feuille (I was in heaven when I was eating one of those). Three days a week, a wonderful, noisy food market set up on my street selling fresh chickens, cheeses Id never heard of, saucissons secs, and jambon cru, then unavailable back home. I was living at the heart of a thoroughly food-centric culture.

But looking back on it now, from an emotional standpoint, my most enduring memory is of waking up every morning to that smell of baking bread. The central staircase of our old building had been renovated to contain a tiny elevator, and Id take this downstairs, pay a franc fifty for a demi-baguette (I had little money), and head back up. Id share the bread with my housematewe cooked at the same restaurantwith butter and jam and coffee.

It had quickly become clear to me how central bread was to life in Paris. The boulangerie in my building was maybe 100 square feet of retail space; the ovens were in the back. I was fascinated by the man who baked the bread. I saw that a man could devote his life to baking bread, and that it was a good life, a worthy profession and one to be revered. That was very powerful for me.

On our way to the metro Id pass at least three boulangeries, of all different calibers. The one in my building made bread and rustic little apple tarts. A second one sold large, garish meringues. The finest one made the most beautiful mille-feuilles and tarts. Id never seen apple tarts like theirs, slices of apple, each one perfect, in concentric rings, with a glossy sheen of a glaze. I couldnt afford them, but they were beautiful to behold, and they taught me about the level of excellence a bakery might strive for.

I also learned that a bakery is an anchorit draws a community around it. People would sit in the bakeries to eat their croissants; they would gather in the morning, and in the afternoon. People come together at and around bakeries. Baking is a unifying force.

The smell of baking bread is universally adored for a reason: it appeals to us at the core of our humanness. Its the smell of sustenance and security. To enjoy that aroma even before I was conscious of the new day had a great impact on meone I didnt truly realize until, well, now, trying to understand why on earth I have five bakeries. Im a restaurant chef, a savory cookwhat am I doing with five bakeries?

The reason is bread, and croissants, macarons, puff pastry, apple tarts, and mille-feuilles.

Per se and The French Laundry, highly refined restaurants, speak to only a small segment of the population. Even our bistro, Bouchon, and our family-style restaurant, Ad Hoc, have specific, somewhat narrow, audiences. Bread does not. Pastries do not. They are universal. And that is one source of my desire to offer baked goods to as many people as possible, and why Im so excited to be sharing the craft in this book.

M y mom, Betty Keller, was a creature of habit. She worked very hard at her job managing restaurants while raising five boys and a daughter as a single mother. She loved to have cookies on hand at the end of the day, and she especially loved the Keebler pecan sandie. It was part of my childhood, and its a flavor combination, vanilla and pecan, that I associate with her. It was an adult cookie to me. There was always a bag of them in the cupboard.