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Authors: David Kamp
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Soulé’s earliest boosters in America, recounted in print a conversation he’d had with the chef Fernand Point, whose restaurant just south of Lyons, La Pyramide, was widely thought to be France’s greatest in the first half of the twentieth century. “After all,” said Point, an intimidating man who stood six foot three and weighed upward of 300 pounds, “how French can
any
French restaurant be in America?” Though Soulé revered Point, he took umbrage at these words and set out to prove the big man wrong.
The ominous news reports issuing forth from the other side of the Atlantic made the idea of a permanent American venture even more appealing. As the first summer of the World’s Fair drew to a close, France had already entered into war with Germany. By the fair’s second summer, in 1940, Soulé was working with a drastically reduced staff, since most of his men had been conscripted into the army, and the crowds were noticeably thinner and less lively than the previous year. In mid-June, Paris fell to the Nazis, and the French signed a surrender agreement with Germany, leaving the country in the hands of the puppet Vichy government, and leaving the French Pavilion employees wondering what kind of life awaited them back home.
For Soulé, the die was cast when, shortly after the World’s Fair came to an end, the U.S. government decreed that French refugees could obtain permanent work visas provided that they had jobs lined up and that they ritually reentered the country. In 1941, after a few months of uncertainty, a contingent of the Restaurant Français staff that included Soulé, Franey, and even Jean Drouant himself traveled to the Canadian side of the Niagara River for the purpose of ceremonially crossing the Peace Bridge that connects Fort Erie, Ontario, to Buffalo, New York. In a remarkable stumble out of character, Soulé was the sole member of the group not to have his immigration papers in order; to his embarrassment, he had to stay in Canada for three weeks. Nevertheless, he made it back to New York, and when he did, he found himself completely in charge of the new restaurant he’d planned on opening with Drouant—though Drouant had arranged the financing for the new enterprise (reputedly by hitting up Joseph Kennedy, who in turn reeled in other investors), he decided at the eleventh hour that he missed France too much and returned home. With Drouant out of the picture, it was Soulé’s show.
The restaurant that he finally opened in October 1941 at 5 East Fifty-fifth Street, strategically situated opposite the plush St. Regis Hotel, was called Le Pavillon, in honor of its Flushing roots. On opening night, Soulé staged a bacchanal for an invitation-only guest list of Kennedys, Rockefellers, Vanderbilts, and the like, none of whom were charged. The menu included copious amounts of beluga caviar, a mousse of sole with lobster and champagne sauces, a roasted fillet of beef in truffle sauce, and magnums of Chateau Pétrus, the great Bordeaux, which had theretofore never been sipped by Americans on their own soil. “There were no concessions to ‘American taste,’” recalled Franey, who, clearly a favorite of the demanding Soulé, was brought aboard as the
chef poissonier
, a
commis
no longer. “The menu was in French, of course, and most of our educated and wealthy customers could work their way through it with at least some comprehension, but if they did not understand a particular term, I am certain they would hide the fact for fear of seeming gauche.”
Le Pavillon was a big step forward in American fine dining, the templatefor the fine French restaurant with Escoffier-derived cuisine and exquisite, tiered service administered by a battalion of captains, headwaiters, and waiters. In the 1940s, much more was expected of the waitstaff than the mere delivery of plated appetizers, entrées, and desserts—the waiters did a great deal of tableside preparation themselves, carving roasts and birds, and
any
French restaurant be in America?” Though Soulé revered Point, he took umbrage at these words and set out to prove the big man wrong.
The ominous news reports issuing forth from the other side of the Atlantic made the idea of a permanent American venture even more appealing. As the first summer of the World’s Fair drew to a close, France had already entered into war with Germany. By the fair’s second summer, in 1940, Soulé was working with a drastically reduced staff, since most of his men had been conscripted into the army, and the crowds were noticeably thinner and less lively than the previous year. In mid-June, Paris fell to the Nazis, and the French signed a surrender agreement with Germany, leaving the country in the hands of the puppet Vichy government, and leaving the French Pavilion employees wondering what kind of life awaited them back home.
For Soulé, the die was cast when, shortly after the World’s Fair came to an end, the U.S. government decreed that French refugees could obtain permanent work visas provided that they had jobs lined up and that they ritually reentered the country. In 1941, after a few months of uncertainty, a contingent of the Restaurant Français staff that included Soulé, Franey, and even Jean Drouant himself traveled to the Canadian side of the Niagara River for the purpose of ceremonially crossing the Peace Bridge that connects Fort Erie, Ontario, to Buffalo, New York. In a remarkable stumble out of character, Soulé was the sole member of the group not to have his immigration papers in order; to his embarrassment, he had to stay in Canada for three weeks. Nevertheless, he made it back to New York, and when he did, he found himself completely in charge of the new restaurant he’d planned on opening with Drouant—though Drouant had arranged the financing for the new enterprise (reputedly by hitting up Joseph Kennedy, who in turn reeled in other investors), he decided at the eleventh hour that he missed France too much and returned home. With Drouant out of the picture, it was Soulé’s show.
The restaurant that he finally opened in October 1941 at 5 East Fifty-fifth Street, strategically situated opposite the plush St. Regis Hotel, was called Le Pavillon, in honor of its Flushing roots. On opening night, Soulé staged a bacchanal for an invitation-only guest list of Kennedys, Rockefellers, Vanderbilts, and the like, none of whom were charged. The menu included copious amounts of beluga caviar, a mousse of sole with lobster and champagne sauces, a roasted fillet of beef in truffle sauce, and magnums of Chateau Pétrus, the great Bordeaux, which had theretofore never been sipped by Americans on their own soil. “There were no concessions to ‘American taste,’” recalled Franey, who, clearly a favorite of the demanding Soulé, was brought aboard as the
chef poissonier
, a
commis
no longer. “The menu was in French, of course, and most of our educated and wealthy customers could work their way through it with at least some comprehension, but if they did not understand a particular term, I am certain they would hide the fact for fear of seeming gauche.”
Le Pavillon was a big step forward in American fine dining, the templatefor the fine French restaurant with Escoffier-derived cuisine and exquisite, tiered service administered by a battalion of captains, headwaiters, and waiters. In the 1940s, much more was expected of the waitstaff than the mere delivery of plated appetizers, entrées, and desserts—the waiters did a great deal of tableside preparation themselves, carving roasts and birds, and
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