14 février 2008
Bells and whistles, or some thoughts on innovation
"Bells and whistles" is an English expression that I, as a native French speaker, have always loved for its evocative power. It has no good equivalent in French. It sure came to my mind one afternoon of last week, as I sat with my lovely friend A. and a cup of hot chocolate at the Angélina tea room on rue de Rivoli, Paris. The thick, hot liquid was a welcome relief from the cold outside (and from my very bad idea to have lunch in the Jardin des Tuileries, inspired by the bright sunshine of that day).
As we came in, we passed by a large tray of colorful pastries. The one that looked the most like a chocolate éclair was a very pretty thing indeed. But it was not called "éclair", it was called Marc or Antoine or Daniel, or another male name, I forgot which one. My luck, I thought — it so happens that I'd love an éclair, right here, right now, on the spot. And so we ordered that, with a cappuccino, a hot chocolate and a croissant.
That éclair that was not really an éclair inspired today's post, which will (hrm hrm, please bear with me while I drink this glass of water) be on the topic of classicism and innovation.
What makes a thing (work of art, recipe, etc.) become a classic? It is not necessarily a question of style. It is mostly the fact that the thing has proved its own worth; in the case of a recipe, that it has reached its point of completion, whether that completion is of the simple kind or of the complex kind. Take the chocolate éclair as an example: the chocolate éclair is a classic pastry. Why has it become a classic? Because, in its own category, and provided that it is properly made, the chocolate éclair is perfect. One day, it reached its maximum point of development and stayed there. Its perfection has been achieved. No need to add anything to it, or remove anything from it. Of course, if you wish to work on its elements, you may do so as long as you remain inside the limits of its perfect form — choux pastry, pastry cream, icing, elongated shape; it has to remain an éclair. Use different flavorings, for instance: coffee, vanilla. It has been done, and quite a lot. You may even go further: blackcurrant, lemon, raspberry, even violet. Sure, you may make violet-flavored éclairs, and the like. They will not be as plainly classical as the chocolate or coffee éclair, and it will depart from classicism insofar as the experimentation — raspberry, violet, lavender — will not give very satisfactory results. You will hear: "Nice experiment and worth trying I'm sure, but all things considered it is not very good to eat and after all there's nothing like a good old chocolate éclair." (By the way, many thanks to La Maison du Chocolat for fully understanding this fragile, and very misunderstood, notion of classicism and for making the best chocolate éclairs in Paris, sans bells and whistles.)
(Update of October 28, 2008: the éclairs from La Maison du Chocolat, unfortunately, have shown signs of weakness lately. The chocolate éclairs that kick every other éclairs' ass are to be found at the chain stores Cacao et Chocolat. I'll go back to that in one of my next posts.)
The proof of the pudding being in the eating, the eating of this Charles, or John, or Ebenezer — which was not really condescending to be an éclair because it contained so much added innovation, and therefore thought itself much higher — made me think strongly of classicism and innovation. The following evening, I heard someone say this: Innovation kills creativity. I agree to some extent. It does invalidate and even incriminate most of today's discourse on cuisine and pastry, but I agree nevertheless. As time goes by, I feel a more and more frequent urge to cry out to some chefs or pastry chefs: "For God's sake, stop innovating!" And even sometimes I would like to tell them: "Aside from innovating, what can you do?" I am only too aware of the fact that some would have nothing to reply.
Some restaurant guides and a certain type of food journalism are partly responsible for what I call the deviance of innovation, but they are by no means the only culprits. Zeitgeist is the criminal here. Many are brimming with innovation without having, beforehand, asked themselves a few questions about values and basic quality. Once, attending a conference, I heard Cornélius Castoriadis talk about technological or scientifical innovations that, sooner or later, proved to be ethically dangerous. He said: "Just because you can do something does not mean you have to do it, but it seems, these days, that as long as you can technically do something it is enough of a reason to rush to its material actualization." Hear, hear, cooks, chefs starred or not, creative pâtissiers! There are days when the only thing one does not want to find is bells and whistles. When the only thing you want is something classical, and executed the best possible way. Why forget that?
Indeed, bells and whistles were blossoming abundantly all over my Marcel, my Jerome or my Maximilian, which was not an éclair (if you have followed me that far) but was sort of based on one. It was a reinterpretation of the éclair, but watch out — an innovative, creative reinterpretation. One half of the thing — lengthwise, please take note — was covered with chocolate icing. The other longitudinal half was chocolate crumble. The inside, which should classicaly have been filled with chocolate pastry cream, was a hyper-rich, über-dense mousse, with one or two added layers the composition of which I forgot, only because there were too many things inside and outside this piece of pastry. Bells and whistles. Too many elements, too many textures, too many tastes, too much richness, and the whole thing had a way of staying on your stomach. Not that the cake was actually too heavy, but its mental conception was tiring for the mind. There is something about the simplicity — the classic simplicity — of the éclair that relaxes your brain and, I am sure, furthers the pleasure of eating. Why is this equation, simplicity of the concept/sensory pleasure, so frequently overlooked?
I know that some people like that. And it is a good thing. I know that some are truly interested in bells-and-whistles cuisine or pastry. I know that some restaurants may lose or gain one star on matters regarding innovation (<-- cool) or classicism (<-- uncool). However my personal feeling is that I would have preferred, sitting at Angélina's, a good, dumb, well-prepared chocolate éclair than this complicated, artsy pastry.
Am I a despisable reactionary trying to choke our chefs' precious creativity and freeze the course of time?
Or am I only pointing out that there is something sick and sterile in this blind rush forward?
Novelty is permanently sought. It has become an obsession. As Pierre Gagnaire said the other day at the OFF3 festival, creative chefs backed by the Gault-Millau guide in the late 80s did condemn to death hundreds of wonderful cooks who "made terrines". And he sounded really sad about that. When the interviewer pointed out that creative cooking was precisely what he, Gagnaire, was doing at that very period, he answered: "Of course we did. Without thinking. Without ever looking aside, God forbid! But such were the consequences."
Who, these days, asks themselves only once if innovation is really a vital need?
For I realize that true innovators are rare. Even rarer than you think. For one Ferran Adria, how many slightly off-the-point followers? Count them. One egg yolk suspended in mid-air, surrounded by its own white sublimated as a foam or some other textureless, airy thing? Great! What is it for? As for me, whenever I have met true innovators and creators, I identified them as playful and pleasure-loving, not as led by competition or the expression of their ego. And any "innovation" that was not the work of these rare people seemed dull and repetitive to me. The human capacity for innovation is limited and less important than is commonly believed. Man moves and progresses leaning on cultural marks. He easily overestimates his capacity to depart from those marks and enter the unknown, the unmade. Most of the time, as he believes to be treading on virgin snow, hundreds of yettis have already stomped all over the place and yaks have shat in every corner. Man is not that much of an innovator. At least, not so much of an innovator as guidebook editors would like him to be. Innovation means coming up with Citizen Kane, Les Demoiselles d'Avignon or Sondheim's Assassins. You cannot expect the same feats from thousands of cooks toiling under the Michelin's stern gaze. Innovation is not something that is welcome. It is never accepted immediately after it appears. It requires some time to get used to it. It is not something you can expect and certainly not something you can demand. It does not appear where you want it to. And thus it is absurd to promote it as the highest value, a mental automatism which at length threatens the art and culture of cooking — and pastry — and (more dramatically) puts good chocolate éclairs in the category of endangered species.
Do you think I am being mean? Unfair? Oh, do not worry one bit, any more than I do on what this article should bring about. I am certain that its consequences will be very limited and that there will always be a whole bunch of people to celebrate the delightful inspiration that has led a creator to imagine, from a basic and classical (chuckle!) chocolate éclair, a whole sublime palette of tastes and textures, going so far as dividing the éclair in two lengthwise to sprinkle half of it with an exquisite chocolate crumble, and concealing in its choux heart amazing layers of sinful, rich, melting, powerful chocolate, sustained by… (etc.)
Yes, bells and whistles are the thing, no matter what I say or do, which I am thankful for (I'd feel very guilty if it were not so). However I am increasingly wondering about the notion of innovation in cooking, on our true need for it, on its actual value and meaning, if it does have one.
Edit: in a later post on the OFF3 festival, I will resume this meditation on innovative cooking and pastry.
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