Late on a Friday afternoon in August, one of this country’s most famous chefs announced he would close his flagship restaurant — forever. Now, come Saturday night, once the last of the guests have merrily tottered out and the kitchen porter downs his drying cloth, Michel Roux Jr’s Le Gavroche will be no more. It is somewhere that has endured since 1967, making history as the years passed: it was the first in the country to win one Michelin star, the first to win two, and then, finally, the first to win three. No closure can take those records away.
But collecting a galaxy was the least of it. Gavroche’s greatest legacy is witnessed in the chefs who came through its kitchens: Marco Pierre-White, Gordon Ramsay, Marcus Wareing, Jun Tanaka, Monica Galetti, Pierre Koffmann, Rowley Leigh, Paul Rankin, Bryn Williams. They all cut their teeth here. There are more, of course. This is a restaurant that has remained a cornerstone of an entire industry for decades — not bad for a basement named after “the street urchin” from Les Miserables.
And so, when the opportunity arose to spend some time in the kitchen, I couldn’t resist. Gavroche closing represents more than the end of a restaurant or the end of an era — those things are a given. It represents the final days of a certain kind of cooking in London; one eschewing modernity in unwavering favour of a kind of manor-house cooking, dishes first designed for the French gentry.
It’s on my mind as I wander downstairs. Being a basement restaurant with a basement kitchen, there is no natural light, but chrome counter tops sparkle, sauces glisten, and unending mountains of butter line the walls of the bright kitchen. The central station hums with stocks gently bubbling.
I meet Andrew O’Connell first. He’s a chef de partie, one of three working that day under the watchful eye of executive chef Rachel Humphrey, and Roux himself. With O’Connell, I set about the mise en place, picking the meat from cooked chicken necks for the cappellacci. Obtaining meat from the neck of a chicken is about as difficult as it sounds. I’m shown the technique: it’s all in the fingers and thumbs, and hard, labour-intensive work. Around 6kg of neck will yield just a kilo of dark, flavoursome meat. That kilo then needs picking, in the same way one would pick crab meat for shells, as the bones are tiny and the cartilage has softened. It is a reminder of the level of luxury here; the menus rely on having enough staff to make these difficult ingredients usable. Corners are not cut.
We clean down before raising a toast. I’m here on a good day. Handed round are some end of year gifts — t-shirts which read Vive Le Gavroche — and three magnums of Tattinger Champagne barrel into the kitchen courtesy Remi Cousin, the head sommelier. He’s a Frenchman’s Frenchman, speaking exclusively in his native tongue. We open the bottles and Roux raises a glass. There’s a lot to celebrate: not just the final full year of the restaurant, but that unwritten toast to a life spent in pursuit of a higher, brighter accolade. Le Gavroche is as much a celebration of a restaurant as it is a torch-bearer of a dynasty. It was opened originally by Roux’s father Albert and uncle Michel, and it’s where Roux spent much of his teenage life. Roux’s daughter, Emily, likewise cooked here many times growing up (she now owns and operates the successful Caractère in Notting Hill). It has always been about family.
We all sit for a moment during the staff meal and I quietly enquire about where might be next for some of the team. Once the 13th passes, many will take a break for a few weeks, while others plan to head straight into one of London’s many Michelin-starred restaurants. Helen Darroze at the Connaught is at the top of the list for most. There seems little appetite to take a break from Gavroche’s exacting standards, or indeed its Frenchness.
There are 84 diners on the book for tonight and as the unrelenting printer ticks over, spooling out orders, a certain soundtrack begins to play in the kitchen: the machine’s high-pitched beeps, the shorthand recital of the ticket (“on order: two ex [exceptional menus], one veggie”), the subsequent “oui chef!” from the team: loud, together, acknowledging.
Soon I’m shadowing the fish station. An order comes in for coquilles (scallops) St Jacques, but with a dietary note: no dairy, no onion. It is a dish built on cream and shallots. But within seconds the chef is preparing a new beurre blanc, sans dairy, from scratch. Nothing is a problem here; these cooks are trained to deal with it all. The scallops get a gentle sear on the plancha grill, before basting. Warming Vadouvan spice is added.
Drawn by the scent of game, I turn to the meat section where half a dozen pigeons sit in a high-sided pan that’s evenly blistering the bird’s plum-coloured skin, before enough butter to sink a ship is heaved in. This is as pleasingly classic as it gets.
Things pick up. The mix of adrenaline and expediency begins to turn up the pressure. Produce and pans and sauces and butter to and fro between tubs and containers and stovetops and finally to the pass. Roux, the overseer, watches on in quiet consideration, with only a soft word about the football to chef Humphrey. Famously a Manchester United fan, he’s not having a good time.
At ten past seven, there’s a mid-service lull. With no new tickets coming through, there’s a distinct deep breath. But in kitchens, there are no real breaks, only more chances to clean. Michel hops from his emails and event planning to monitoring the pass, and we talk about the final upcoming dinners. He is not shy in hiding how important, how personal these events are to him. He’ll have Westminster Kingsway College in — a training ground for hospitality — and treasured regulars, and a supplier evening too. It’s a thank you to businesses like Ritter Courivaud, a French distributor which has supported the restaurant throughout its entire 57-year history. Saying thank you to all those who’ve made Le Gavroche what it is, while he still can, seems increasingly essential to Roux.
Tickets resume. The wheel turns. I flatten myself thinly against the wall opposite the pass as chefs rush by with plates of mackerel, and of the famous souffle suissesse. These contrasting dishes perhaps best represent the two culinary poles which axis Le Gavroche: the souffle a bastion of old school classicism, of cream and cheese and tradition, the other a lighter, cleaner plate with miso mayonnaise and green apple. Gavroche knows its history, but it hasn’t kept it from moving.
That souffle, though. Roux estimates they’ve probably served over a million of the things. A famously hard-to-master dish, the chefs treat it simply, roughly even. During service, there are no weights and measures, instead, I'm amazed to see the chefs eyeball it. It’s just lots of egg whites, enough salt, a ladle-or-so of an egg-yolk-enriched béchamel. Combined then cooked for three minutes before a handful of gruyére and cheddar are added, then a salamander grill lightly torches the top to a soft crisp.
The service continues. By 8.40pm, I’ve a small dull ache in my left leg, not used to all this standing (normally, I’m sat typing at a laptop). The younger, fitter chefs, unburdened by age, don’t complain about a thing. I watch as the lobster and the chicken cappellacci are finished, and the pigeons come up to the pass.
As the clock ticks past nine, for a moment there’s another brief lull, these minute-by-minute calms wedged between the bustle of hot plates and simmering stocks and souffles. The second sitting is in and most of the starters and early courses on the tasting menu are out. I chat with sous chef Laurence Burns and he’s calm, but not everything tonight was as flawless as he'd have liked. Even now, at the end of everything, Roux, Humphrey, Burns and their team can’t bring themselves to ease up, to take their foot off the gas.
As the end of the night approaches, Roux tells me of tears in the dining room. There was a 40th birthday celebration for a couple who got engaged at Le Gavroche 10 years ago this coming Valentine’s Day. I nod. There will always be a story, a memory or a significant moment that occurred here on 43 Upper Brook Street. It may change, but the memories will linger. I think of those t-shirts. They say it all: Vive Le Gavroche.
