Our love for cooking is born also thanks to places like this. We hear about them since we’re children, without really knowing where exactly to place Eugénie-les-Bains on a map. We see the smiling face of that Monsieur in books and magazines, we hear chefs speak of him, adults who’ve been there—or claim they have.

And then, once we grow up and finally have the chance and the means to go all the way to Eugénie-les-Bains, out in the cosmic emptiness of the French countryside, what happens? It’s too late: Monsieur Guérard has left us.

Since living with regret brings no joy, we persevere: we book, we travel, we sleep there, we take the risk, we spend. After all, those stars that made him great are still shining, and the reins of the place seem to be in good hands, so off we go. Expectations run high, maybe too high, but the happiness of stepping through that gate fuels the hype—as if this were a historic moment in the life of a gourmet.

The welcome is professional, kind, almost familial. It’s the kind of place where you see an army of staff, impeccably dressed, gliding back and forth—of every age, every background, every ethnicity. A waltz. We sit down in the calm garden, not quite a “Palace” atmosphere; a bit country, a bit aristocratic, a bit of everything.

A glass of Billecart-Salmon sends our heads spinning; we’re hungry.

Les Prés d’Eugénie — And so it begins, with forgettable little amuse-bouches, until finally the time comes for the baroque and famous “Oeuf de poule au caviar osciètre, pomme soufflée, nuage de mer.”
Forget the cuisine minceur—let’s dive, let’s sink into pleasure, a luxurious comfort food.
Precise, perfect, the pomme soufflée a rare beauty in both look and taste. No stinginess with the caviar, which is absolutely wonderful.
Not very rustic, very aristocratic.

What follows is what you see in the photos: faultless dishes, a service measured to the millimetre. Great wines at fair prices. Clos Fourtet with the lamb from the Pyrenees is as good as it gets to explain the South-West of France. There’s even room for a Frenchified dim sum—yet again, ahead of its time. We finish with a strawberry “game,” of doubtful usefulness but great theatrical flair.