ELEGANT FRENCH CUISINE
AT
L'ATELIER DE JOEL ROBUCHON - BANGKOK
- by T.E. Whitaker
Sydney and I stepped off the elevator, into the expansive red and black, chrome and glass of L’Atelier du Joel Robuchon Bangkok, Bangkok’s relatively new Michelin-starred restaurant.
“Why are we always first to a restaurant?” Sydney asked. “Can we not just arrive at a normal time?”
“It’s eight o’clock. This is when they open.”
We’d left the bike at the hotel. Though she’s usually a good sport about riding to the best hotels and restaurants so I can maintain GB’s authenticity, she’d put her high heel down this time. The outfit she wanted to wear wouldn’t work on a bike.
“Why would you bring something you can’t wear on a motorcycle?”
She didn’t deign to respond, and we were seated at the long, sushi bar-like dining counter. The chairs were barstool height, red leather upholstered. The counter gleamed.
“Welcome to L’Atelier du Joel Robuchon,” our hostess/server said from across the counter, with a Singaporean accent. Behind her the kitchen woke. The chef oversaw the sous chefs’ prep work, light flashing off glass bowls of ingredients, cutlery, chrome racks and shelves, a clock.
“Thank you,” we said in chorus, fairly loud in the thus-far empty space. Sydney ordered an apéritif, I ordered an espresso, and the hostess left us to the menus.
“An espresso before dinner?” Sydney asked.
“You can learn a lot about a place based on their espresso,” I said. “It’s a detail.”
“Euclid tells me you’re usually disappointed.”
The drinks arrived as I nodded. I breathed it in as one might wine before taking my first sip. “Yes. Usually. This isn’t bad, though.”
Sydney raised her glass. “To auspicious beginnings.”
We clinked glass to little cup as the hostess returned. We ordered to share—a weekend night in Bangkok loomed large after dinner.
Beneath a spotlight, two sous chefs—a man and a woman—built our salad in alternating fashion, taking turns placing elements on a steadily rising masterpiece that was as much fun to watch take shape as it was to eat.
“This is so good,” Sydney said while racing to eat more than her share.
“I think we’re supposed to savor each course,” I said.
“I am,” she said. “Quickly.”
Our hostess arrived with our second dish, Le Betterave, which is a bursting puck of deliciousness made from tiny cubes of apple and beetroot tartare with avocado, topped with a dollop of green mustard sorbet. A culinary architectural marvel. I loved it. It was crisp, it was creamy, it was chilly. I wanted to eat it cube by cube.
“I don’t like it,” Sydney said.
“Hmmm…” I said, giving her my best sympathetic expression between bites. “Well, I’ll soldier on.” I could not have been more pleased.
“What is it you like about this city?” she asked after I’d finished.
“Someone said once that your initial visit to southeast Asia is like seeing in color for the first time. Bangkok is like that for me. It’s incredibly alive. It’s chaotic. It’s not something that exists in Southern California.”
“New York is chaotic.”
“Not like this.”
“Doesn’t it bug you that you can’t ride your motorcycle?” she said.
“We didn’t ride here because of your skirt.”
She crossed her legs and dangled a heel in my direction, flirtatious, smirking. “And because it’s too hot.”
“You or the temperature?”
Sydney smiled. “You say the sweetest things when you’re obligated to.”
Our hostess brought our next two dishes with her—foie gras with Wagyu beef tenderloin, and Black truffle with Joel Robuchon’s famous “ratte” potatoes.
“These are the legendary potatoes?” Sydney asked.
“Yes. Concealed beneath the giant black truffle slices.”
She leaned in. “They smell amazing. Full. No, that’s not right. Complete. They smell ‘complete.’”
I cracked a black truffle disc with my fork, we each took half—
“Yours is bigger,” Sydney complained.
“Genetics.”
She rolled her eyes.
—before pairing it with the whipped potatoes and taking our respective first bites.
I was transported to the French countryside, away from the restaurant’s red seating and gleaming appointments, away from Bangkok’s chaos. I stood on a hillside, a gentle breeze caressed me, a distant farmer harvested small potatoes, and smallish dogs with woolly curls sniffed at the ground.
“What do you think?” the maid churning butter next to me asked.
“Amazing. So smooth. And full. And all there, and—”
“Complete,” Sydney said, plucking me from the countryside and the butter maid. “The word you’re searching for is ‘complete.’ There’s nothing missing. There’s nothing too much. They’re perfect.”
“There’s a lot of butter,” I said.
“Which is perfect.”
The foie gras and wagyu beef tenderloin—which looked a bit like the protein version of Neapolitan ice cream—tasted similarly complete. I hadn’t tried foie gras until now, and the filet pairing served as a blissfully savory, easy introduction.
“How do you feel about foie gras?”
“I’m not thinking about it. And I’d prefer we could get through this meal without discussing it in detail.”
“You could just edit the conversation.”
“I don’t like doing that. Let’s talk about it later.”
She grinned. “The instant the elevator doors close behind us.”
Our hostess informed us the souffle would be a few more minutes, and with her deepest apologies presented a petit four trio, consisting of a madeleine, vanilla bean macaron, and something I didn’t recognize. I snatched the macaron with as much speed and intent as one can exhibit while in a Michelin-starred restaurant and still maintain a modicum of class.
“Why are your eyes closed?” Sydney asked.
“I want to feel the crackle when the outer shell of the cookie gives. It’s delicate.”
“That’s one of the least ‘biker’ things I’ve ever heard.”
Macarons are just never big enough. I passed Sydney her half, and in return she gave me what remained of the madeleine.
“Bikers are thirty percent more likely to appreciate poetry than non-bikers,” I said, “so I think other bikers will appreciate my attempts at eloquence.”
“And if not, I’m sure you’ll appreciate it enough for everyone, baby.” She air-kissed me twice, a habit of hers when she knows she’s being a—
“Chocolate soufflé,” our hostess announced, sliding between us a soufflé bursting from an elegant white teacup. A caramel-colored cap topped it, with elegant flower designs that looked hand-painted and a sprinkling of purple candy stones.
“Voilà,” Sydney whispered, raising her dessert spoon menacingly.
“Wait,” I said. “Let me take a picture before you attack it.”
“I’m going to count to three—”
We went at the soufflé with shameful abandon, the ice cream vanishing too quickly, the soufflé’s rich and soulful chocolate dismissing the ice cream as an unnecessary distraction. We didn’t speak until it was gone. Our eyes met, and I think we both knew we’d never share a more profound moment together.
I kissed her softly, focusing on one corner of her lips—where the last of the soufflé raged against the dying of the light.
When I withdrew, love in my eyes, she said, “I had chocolate on my lips, didn’t I?”
I nodded. “But I would have kissed you anyway.”
Sydney motioned for our hostess. “Check, please.”
L’Atelier de Joel Robuchon
Bangkok, Thailand
joel-robuchon.com
Many locations worldwide
Bangkok location permanently closed 
RATINGS
Ambience 5/5
Food: 5/5
Espresso: 3/5
Bike Parking: 1/5
Biker “Fit-in” Factor: 3/5
