Recently, I wandered through Paris for a few weeks, with a short but intentional detour to Lyon. It was not a journey born of deep personal longing, but one I chose for someone I love.
France was never high on my culinary bucket list. My roots in food came from a very different place. I began cooking in a Japanese steakhouse and sushi bar. It was owned by Taiwanese and staffed by a beautiful mix of Mexicans, Puerto Ricans, Koreans, and Vietnamese. That kitchen was my first education. Not a trace of French, not a mention of Escoffier.
From the beginning, I was immersed in a world entirely removed from traditional European technique. By the time I entered culinary school, I had already spent eight years sweating through services and developing precision with a blade. I was more prepared than most, and yet, I had never made a béchamel. I had never tasted foie gras. I didn’t know what a quenelle was. Years passed. My world view matured. A trip to France after years of working in fine dining, my fiancée’s idea, and I approached it with intention. If I were going to visit the land that shaped so much of the global fine dining, I would show respect.
Benoit, Alain Ducasse
Our first meal was at Benoit, formerly Michelin-starred, now stripped of that honor. Rightfully so. They served the expected bistro classics at prices that strained belief—foie gras at a cost that made me sell my own liver to finance it.
The food was tolerable. The service, however, was not. Foreigners like us were seated in the upstairs dining room, an overproduced Versailles imitation. Gold trim. Oversized chairs with stiff cushions and cheap grandeur. Locals stayed downstairs, in a room that exuded the golden hum of a true Parisian bistro.
There was a captain. His presence was like a punishment. He avoided the entire room for two full hours, leaving the entire experience in the hands of backwaiters. They were clearly undertrained, fumbling through service, struggling with questions, even bastardizing a tableside filleting of sole. But amid the chaos, something shone. The Sole Meunière included a fine brunoise of croutons, perfectly toasted in brown butter. This unexpected texture gave life to an otherwise ordinary plate. It hovered somewhere between Meunière and Grenobloise. And it was beautiful. A note to self: Never plate sole meunière again without croutons.
L’Arpège, Alain Passard
The second meal took us to L’Arpège: three Michelin stars and a green star for sustainability. Alain Passard’s spiritual headquarters. I have followed Passard’s work for years. My introduction was back in Chicago, at Blackbird, now gone. There, I was served a version of his legendary Chaud-Froid d’œuf. That egg marked a turning point for me. I asked questions to the staff there. Learned the story. There would be no egg this time.
I booked with full awareness that Passard had moved on. He no longer clung to his classics. His vision had become more ethereal, focused on vegetables, guided by the seasons. I was open to the journey—eager, even.
We were seated in the Salon, a dining space styled like a greenhouse. Soft linen tarps stretched across the ceiling, adorned with hand-stitched images of vegetables, fruit, and fungi. The space was reverent. Quietly stunning.
The service began with kindness. The staff introduced three tasting menus and an à la carte option. We selected the most ambitious. Parts of the meal had me enchanted. A radish carpaccio with fava beans, olive oil, and aged Parmigiano Vacche Rosse was precise and thoughtful. Later, a thin crème brûlée, infused with rosemary and verbena.
The service team struck a perfect tone. Polished, warm, and honest, seeking out the answers for my questions when not at hand. They listened. They cared. The room remained elegant without ever becoming oppressive.
The food faltered. Midway through, the dishes began to lose clarity. Courses ran together. Textures became repetitive. Plating turned sloppy. Even the beautiful Bernardaud porcelain couldn’t hide the unraveling. It felt as though I were witnessing a painter abandon his old medium, seeking transcendence or relevance but arriving only at mediocrity. The vision was there. The execution was not. I did not need meat. I did not need butter or rich sauces. But I did need form. Structure. And 1,000 euros should buy more than potential. It should buy greatness. I left unsatisfied. Disenchanted.
L’Auberge du Pont de Collonges, Restaurant Paul Bocuse, Gilles Reinhardt
The final chapter unfolded in Lyon. A pilgrimage, truly. L’Auberge du Pont de Collonges. The temple of Paul Bocuse. Once the longest-standing three-star restaurant in the world—demoted in 2020 to two.
Bocuse was born in this house 100 years ago. The restaurant, the building, the gardens, are all part of the story. We arrived early so I could walk the grounds. The murals. The bright green and oranges of the building. Bocuse carved into every detail. His name is everywhere. His face is everywhere. But also, the stories of every chef who poured themselves into that empire are everywhere. While a main deity obviously exists, the narrative is respectful of the team it took to build the empire.
We were greeted with reverence and care. Ushered through the grand entrance, past gleaming Bocuse d’Or trophies heading the kitchen’s view, into a room that felt suspended between history and elegance.
Three tasting menus were available, all distinct. We chose the Centenaire, a celebration of Bocuse’s birth, in the house where it happened. When I originally booked the menu, it was winter. I saw the truffle soup. It was not on the menu today. That disappointed me. But later, I found comfort in that omission. It proved they were honoring seasonality. They aren’t forcing the greatest hits out of season to hammer in that almost “Ratatouille” narrative that had formed in my mind. That movie was based on Bocuse, and there are slight nods to the mouse on property, but nothing overly distasteful.
The menu was extraordinary. Perfect seasoning. Clean, structured plating. A wide range of temperatures, textures, and techniques. Tableside carving of Poulet en Vessie. An expansive cheese cart with endless compartments. Each moment was carefully composed and joyfully executed. There was humor within the staff, and they were sharp, charming, and deeply professional. It felt grand, but never intimidating. The kind of experience that makes you feel special without making you feel small.
Yes, there was a gift shop. It was unnecessary. I do not need Bocuse chocolate bars or aprons. But the meal? The service? The room? Flawless.
Reflection
After L’Auberge du Pont de Collonges, we explored the bouchons of Lyon, then more bistros in Paris. My fiancée worked through her fixation with onion soup. I reached a breaking point. Too much butter. Too much cheese. I turned to Vietnamese food. Turkish. Japanese.
The trip took me deeper into a line of thought I have returned to again and again. What is hospitality?
I have worked across independent restaurants, hotels, and now a private club. Each space has its own politics, its own invisible lines. The more I worked in restaurants, the more disillusioned I became. Hotels, too. And yet now, in a private club, I find myself thankful. Because here, I do not chase stars. I do not worry about guides. James Beard’s politics aren’t here. I focus on the work. On the people in the room. When Michelin came to Miami, I felt angst and resent. I knew those kitchens. I had revered Michelin for years. And I knew they got it wrong. It felt like betrayal. This is not just Miami. This is everywhere. Michelin is a business, like the rest of them. Tires, water companies, whatever. Stars can be bought. Influence is a currency.
And in that realization lies the core of my discomfort with the term ‘hospitality industry.’ Very few chefs are hospitable. These awards and certifications create an aerobic environment where self-righteousness breeds into a pathogen that diseases the term ‘hospitality.’ At Bocuse, I felt genuine hospitality. At L’Arpège, I saw ego masquerading as progress. I find it shameful and wrong to strip a star away from Monsieur Bocuse. Keep in mind, I don’t even like French food.
And now, at Ocean Reef Club, I feel relief. Because here, we can choose sincerity. Here, we can choose kindness. I know sometimes I can be impatient and cantankerous either through personality flaws or industry ‘conditioning.’ I know that sometimes, a guest will want something I cannot give due to sheer inability. But I want to try. I want the people around me to try. Because this is what hospitality should be. Guests give us their trust and their money. We owe them care. We owe them joy. They want what they want. And most of the time, it’s not about what we want to show them. It’s about meeting their needs with generosity.
Remember, whether you are a server writing down a request or a cook preparing the plate: You are not the one eating that well-done steak. Make it with love. Let it go. And in the words of someone far wiser than I: Move forward with humility and talent.
