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When you sign up for a one-year mission
in the Antarctic,

you know...

Actually, when you're a cook like me

and you decide to take on
an Antarctic mission for a year,

you know it's gonna be tough.

You know working and living conditions
will be difficult.

You leave your family,
you leave your friends,

but maybe difficulties
are what you're looking for.

The spirit of adventure.

That's the Prez.

She was the president's personal chef

at the Elysée in Paris.

This is the new cook, Loic.

Welcome.

Beautiful birds.

They're ducks I force-fed for three weeks.

- You ever force-fed ducks?
- No, never.

Gregory, you'll teach him
how to stuff a duck.

Now, fill this jar

with eggs and truffles

so the eggs absorb the truffles' aroma.

Leave it to me.

Meanwhile, I'll fillet the ducks
for dinner tomorrow.

You know the menu for my leaving party?

No, but I'd like to know.

Thai clear soup with fresh foie gras,

sweet and sour duck with Sarlat potatoes,

and Granny's St. Honoré.

Gregory, in two minutes,
strain the orecchiette,

add to the minestrone
and serve with parmesan on the side.

I'm very busy with tomorrow's dinner.

Gregory, I think the pasta's done.

Can you ask your cameraman to stop?

HAUTE CUISINE

Double-back?

And then left after the cross? Fine.

The governor apologizes.

He wanted to come,
but something came up at the last minute.

We're cutting it fine.

We're on the way.

Call Brive station.

The 8:53 for Paris.
Tell the train to wait for us.

Thanks, Nicole.

Your tickets. The return's at 5:23,
arriving 10:18 tonight.

A taxi will be at the station for you.

In Paris,
a car will take you to Rue de Valois,

the Ministry of Culture.

To see the chief of staff.

What's his name again?

It ends in Zain.

He's the official who needs a cook?

I can't say. I've no idea.

Yesterday, when Mr. Landron called--

- Mister who?
- Landron.

Chairman of the Union
of French Haute Cuisine.

Never heard of him.

He called yesterday

saying a senior public official
needed a cook.

He couldn't say any more.

He just said they wanted a woman
who could cook.

Go on.

With large breasts if possible.

We won't make it.

You were saying?

Nothing.

Mrs. Laborie.

You're from the Ministry?

That's me. David Azoulay.

We're not going to Rue de Valois,
but straight to nº 55.

Nº 55 of what?

Fifty-five, Rue du faubourg Saint-Honoré.

- You know what that is?
- No. Should I?

Nº 55 is the Elysée Palace.

After you.

Sorry.

Follow me.

Hello. You're expected next door.
Please follow me.

- Come in, please.
- Good afternoon.

Come in.

Take a seat. Please.

I know your time's short.

Very briefly,
the president would be delighted

if you agreed to run the private kitchen,

which handles his meals
with friends and staff.

I'm deeply honored,
but I doubt I'm the person you need.

Not at all.

What I mean is,

I learned to make simple food
with my mother and granny.

That's precisely what the president wants.

He wants good home-cooking at the Elysée.

Yes.

But I'm not sure I'm up to it,
Mr. Chief of State.

Chief of Staff.

I'm not sure I'm good enough.

The president begs to differ.

You come recommended by people he trusts.

Sorry, but who mentioned me
to the president?

Joël Robuchon gave your name
to the Minister.

Joël Robuchon?

You do know him, right?

Of course.

We met...

once.

We exchanged business cards, that's all.

Good.

If you need a few days
to organize your move to Paris,

take them at your convenience.

Yes, as you can imagine,

I can't just walk away from my farm.

The livestock. All that.

I'm sure you'll work it out.

If you're so sure.

Above all, never cross the courtyard.

Always go around to that door
and via the basement.

Or use the eastern gate
on Rue de l'Elysée,

but it's a bit tradesman's entrance.
No class.

This way.

Another important word of advice.

People you meet-- young, old,
famous, unknown--

say hello to all of them.

Nice and politely.

You never know who they might be.

How's your sense of direction?

Should I buy a compass?

A good sense of direction
is as vital as etiquette.

Because we have the East Wing
and the West Wing.

East, West.

We'll start with the Wild West,
as it's known.

For all its gunslingers.

Basically, the main kitchen
serves 70,000 meals a year

with a staff of 24 cooks
using copper pots and pans

that date back to Louis-Philippe,
scoured for 90 minutes every day.

It also has steaming ovens

that require a pilot's license to operate.
In white gloves.

Sorry.

I'll introduce you to Mr. Lepiq,
our head chef.

We'll do the formal introductions later.

I'm looking for Mr. Coche-Dury.
Mr. Montcoulon.

The sous-chef.
Mrs. Laborie will run the private kitchen.

He's always very busy.
Where's the steward?

Lepiq's still on the phone.

I don't see Mr. Coche-Dury.

I'll just call him. I won't be long.

Philippe Coche-Dury. Sorry I'm late.

- I was calling you.
- Yes, sorry.

You wanted a guided tour
of the storerooms.

No time like the present. Follow me.

You never go to the market.

Our suppliers have everything you need.

I'm afraid I have to leave you.

If you need anything,
you know where to find me.

Sense of direction.

See you soon.

So, if you want something in particular,
you must go through me.

It all must be accounted for.

Now, the cold store.

Here we have the meat,
fish, dairy products.

Next...

Upstairs is the main kitchen's cafeteria.

Every day, at 11:30 precisely,
you'll be invited to share

a table with Pascal Lepiq,
his sous-chef and pastry chef.

Hi, Fabienne.

This corridor goes on forever.

Here, we call it the tunnel.

- Mr. Luchet isn't here?
- I can get him for you.

No, I'll do it.

This is...

- Nicolas Beauvois.
- Nicolas Beauvois.

A pastry chef main kitchen
seconded for you.

Afternoon, ma'am.

He's your sous-chef.

Excuse me, I'll get the maître d'.

"Seconded" for me?

Yes, ma'am.

Well...

It's a Lacanche range.

So I see.

Its twin opposite.

- It's brand-new.
- Yes, it hasn't had much use.

What's this machine here?

A Pacojet, ma'am.

It's for making ice cream,
sorbets and plenty of--

You can explain all that later.

And this? What is this for?

It's a Gastrovac, ma'am.

A pressure cooker with a vacuum option
using the pump.

Precise temperature control.

- What's that?
- That's for the temperature.

- It's a probe that--
- It's very complicated.

- We have an oven.
- Yes, a Convotherm.

It says so there.

Yes. I mean, it's a steaming oven.

Ideal for fish, vegetables and meat...

This is Mr. Luchet,
the president's maître d'.

Ma'am.

Sir.

You rarely know how many guests
you're catering for.

Generally, you're informed by 11:00,
and expected to serve lunch at 1:15.

With two hours to make it,
you must be here every morning.

You inform me of your proposed menu.

I submit it to the president's office,
and it is returned,

amended or not, to go for printing.

The table is set
according to the number of guests.

The tablecloths are steamed on the tables,
so no creases.

This way.

Then come the silverware and flowers.

Sorry.

What does the president want?

Does he like some things
more than others or not at all?

Nobody's mentioned his tastes.

Since I arrived,
it's all been about tunnels, etiquette,

gunslingers, compasses,
but not a word about food.

Perhaps I could see the president
to ask him.

That's not quite how it works.

If the president wishes to see you,
he'll say so.

They're coming!

Gentlemen!

Silence, please.

- Check out the smock.
- It's SuperGran.

Guys, cut it out.

I hear you ran a B&B in Dordogne.

The best in the county.

No, that's not quite right.

I think you've been misinformed.

I was one of the first to organize courses

initiating foreign clients
to French cuisine,

making foie gras, confits and so on.

There you go.
Young chefs came from all over the world.

Japan, the USA...

You must have read about it
in Gault & Millau or Time magazine.

We don't have time to read.

Gentlemen, bon appétit.

Sorry, I didn't wait.

That's the first and last time
I eat with those machos.

They don't mean any harm.

No, they're just rude.

Jacques.

Tell the Australian to give me a break.
She's starting to--

I talked to her last night.

She didn't get the message.

On my jog,
she was driving right behind me.

I can't stand much more.

I'll have a word with her.

I want to be left in peace
on my last day on the base.

There's tonight's dinner. I'm tired.
I don't want her on my back.

If we let her,
she'd film me on the toilet.

I'll sort it out.

Morning, ma'am.

Fine.

- Well?
- Here we go.

Six guests for lunch.

The president's taking lunch here
with five guests.

We already know, Jean-Marc.

What do you have planned?

I don't know yet.

Excellent.

We'll take a dozen cep mushrooms
and we'll take...

this big Savoy cabbage.

And baby carrots. No, I prefer those.

So, we'll start with brouillade
with ceps and chervil.

Then salmon-stuffed cabbage.

Braised perhaps, or maybe with bacon.

What do I put?

Cabbage stuffed with Scottish salmon
and Loire carrots.

I like things to come from somewhere.

For dessert?

A St. Honoré, Jean-Marc.

Strain this with the Chinese sieve.

As soon as this is in the oven.

My carrots need steaming for five minutes,
then in with the cabbage.

Nicolas, I'll need some muslin.

- Some what?
- Muslin.

Fine-mesh cheesecloth to line my colander.

We don't have that.

- Go ask the main kitchen.
- Yes, chef.

- What does Du Barry want?
- Some muslin.

What for?

My towel.

She needs some muslin to line a colander
and stuff a cabbage.

Stuffed cabbage?

The president will be peeing all day.

Guys, calm down.

Gentlemen, back to work, please.

Chef.

Nicolas,

if the private kitchen needs something,
ask the steward.

Coche-Dury, first floor.

Tell your boss lady
this isn't a hardware store

or a soup kitchen.

Yes, chef.

They don't have muslin.

I'll be 15 minutes.

Finish the St. Honoré.

With Chiboust cream?

No. Granny's cream.

What's Granny's cream?

- Where are you going?
- Fifteen minutes!

What's Granny's cream?

You're the pastry chef.

Granny means "grandmother," perhaps.

Incorporate the flour,

then stir in a little warm milk
to slacken it

and pour the mixture
into the remaining milk.

Heat over a low flame
and bring to a boil, whisking constantly.

For five minutes.

There it is. Found it.

Remember,

add the whisked egg whites
when the cream's hot

so that they cook a little.

I line it with two layers of leaves

and one layer of salmon.

There we go.

A little coarse salt, please.

Thanks.

And I start over.

Get used to it.

I talk myself through a recipe.
I can't help it.

Excuse me.

Here.

Just like my granny's.

Bravo!

Gents, over here.

Which was the president's plate?

Put them here.

He ate his cabbage?

I think so.

And the carrot greens?

He looked a little surprised.

He cut off the tops, ate a carrot.

A moment later, he skewered a top,

peered at it and ate it.

Savoring it, I'd say.

He scores a point.

You can clear up.

So?

The president's allowed to stay?

President's private kitchen.

Cream of asparagus soup with chervil.

Fillet of beef en croûte,

chanterelle fricassee,

followed by cream tart

with fruit of the forest
and pistachio nougatines.

The door's locked again.

- I'll call housekeeping.
- It's fine. I'll manage.

Sorry, I think I took a wrong turn.

What's this? Who are you?

I'm your cook, Mr. President.
Hortense Laborie.

Yes, of course.

Is everything going as you wish?
You're wanting for nothing?

Everything's perfect.

Official engagements
have taken all my time,

but soon, we'll be able
to have a little chat.

I look forward to it.

Have a very good day.

Yes, have a good day, Mr. President.

Here you go.

Please,

just a couple of things.

Firstly, the truffles
have come straight from my farm.

There aren't many in the bake.

I've used most of them
in the Sarlat potatoes tonight.

Another thing.

The cep mushrooms in the bake
are dried, alas.

I'm sorry.

But if you want to eat
a real macaroni bake with ceps,

drop by my farm in the Périgord.

It's not far, only 12,000 kilometers.

You're all invited.

Enjoy your lunch.
I'll now follow my usual ritual. A nap.

I'll leave you in Gregory
and Loic's capable hands.

Bon appétit!

A little less, I think.

Sure, it's different.
Australia's a constitutional monarchy

with two elected chambers.

Royalty fucks, too.

Like maniacs.

The president wants to see me.

Go ahead. He's expecting you.

He knows we're leaving?

He just wanted to see Mrs. Laborie
for ten minutes.

Another ten minutes.

I'll tell the airport
we'll be taking off late.

Everybody ready! We leave in five minutes.

I'm delighted to be here
in this wonderful setting

and honored by the trust placed in me.

I have all I need and a young sous-chef
who has a real gift.

It's just...

I'm lacking something.

I'm lacking direction.

I'm not sure what kind of cooking
is expected of me.

A simple kind of cooking.

I detest complicated concoctions,

over-elaborate preparations
and superfluous decorations.

When I moved in here,

thinking I'd appreciate it, no doubt,

the pastry chef insisted on decorating
his desserts with sugar roses.

I hated those roses.

I systematically left them to one side.

And systematically, they'd be back.

In the end, I had to write a memo
to get rid of them for good.

I want to experience the taste of things.

Simple things, authentic things.

For example,

I loved the brouillade with ceps
you made the first day.

If you cook for me
like my grandmother cooked for me,

I'll be perfectly happy.

Give me the best of France.

Very good, Mr. President.

He hasn't left?

Nobody thought to tell the president?
Called the governor?

- How long's she been in there?
- Thirty-five minutes.

- What are they gassing about?
- I don't know.

Find out.

As a girl, I loved recipe books.

Recipe books? You, too?

Have you read the one by Edouard Nignon

called In Praise of French Cuisine?

I don't believe I have.

When I was little,
I used to read cooking books,

and Nignon's book was my favorite.

His recipes were exhilarating.

I learned them by heart.

I do believe...

I still recall some of them.

For example, I remember

the recipe for Rouen Duckling Surprise,

which began as follows.

"From the land of Pierre Corneille,
order the plumpest duckling there is."

"From the land of Pierre Corneille,
order the plumpest duckling there is."

Nobody writes like that now.
Things were different then.

Life was different.

I could talk to you for hours
about cooking.

It makes me wonder

if it's not better
than busying myself with politics.

They're on their way. They're coming.

Tell the airport take-off's in 30 minutes.

- No way.
- What's going on?

I've no idea. He said ten minutes.

I'm not calling into question
the Elysée's suppliers,

but I believe I can find better.

I'd like to source my own produce,
not take the main kitchen's.

This is the Elysée. We have another hitch.

In Pazayac, a village near my farm,
I know a lady who breeds the best poultry.

Have you tasted Coutancie beef
from a farm near Limoges?

They rear their cattle
like in Kobe, Japan,

massaging them every day

so the meat is tender
with incredible marbling.

Thank you.

Can I have a word?

I have work to do, Mr. Chief of Staff.
Another time.

The president's favorite champagne.

I hear the president agreed to--

Hello?

I have a favor to ask you.

Do you mind picking me
three or four kilos of ceps?

Not big ones.

Champagne cork-sized.

Mr. Papin, please.

This is the Elysée Palace.

No, it's not a joke.

For lunch, rack of lamb with herbs
and Julia potatoes,

followed by Aravis goat's cheese
and quince paste.

And cream puffs for dessert.

That's right.

If the president
asks what Julia potatoes are,

tell him Julia was my grandmother.

My poultry breeder keeps the blood for me.

I use it in stuffing and sauces.

With vinegar to stop it coagulating.

Let's put this back.

It weighs a ton.

Remind the president
to taste the garlic croutons

that Madame Neuville slipped inside.

Recipe for Beautiful Aurore's Pillow.

Prepare two batches of stuffing,
one with lean meat of veal and pork,

the other with liver and breast
of chicken and goose from Bresse,

partridge and beef marrow,

in proportion
to the amount of paté required...

Perfect.

I plunge the chicken
into a pot of simmering stock.

I add the bouquet garni, a sprig of sage,

while my chicken bubbles away.

I peel the vegetables
from Mr. Mirat's garden.

Sorry, what comes after the sage?
I missed that bit.

Concentrate on your crumble.

I'm on it, chef. Look.

Stop calling me "chef."

I'm blessed with a beautiful old name,
from the Latin hortus...

- Which means?
- You told me but I forgot.

It's gone.

- Garden.
- Garden, that's right.

You know what "Nicolas" means in Latin?

It means, "He who stopped listening
to you months ago."

I hear you've been unwell.

Nothing serious.

You mustn't take these things lightly.

One's health is one's most precious asset.

Around this time every year, in May,

I invite my family and friends

to a banquet held in the ballroom.

My brothers and sisters will be there
with their spouses,

as will my children, of course,
for a family luncheon.

I'd appreciate it
if for this very special event,

you'd make a proposal for the menu.

Come in, Mr. Coche-Dury.

Take a seat.

I was just telling Mrs. Laborie

about the spectacle
I'd like to give the May banquet.

We can't wait to see the menu
Mrs. Laborie will concoct for us.

You're invited, Mr. Coche-Dury?

As far as I am aware,

Mr. Coche-Dury
is not a member of my family yet.

His use of the word "we"
reminds me of King Louis XIV,

who said "we" when referring to himself,

but when he spoke,
he spoke for all of France.

I'm sure that Mr. Coche-Dury

meant that all of France
couldn't wait to see the menu

you will come up with for us.

Thank you for "all of France."

The president asked
for the table to be laid

in the winter garden
to be close to his guests.

There should be about 20 people partaking.

Twenty-one guests to be precise.

The president will eat
in the winter garden,

then move in here

to join his cousins, nephews, and friends.

The lobster was fabulous.

You're too kind.

I'm so sorry.

To share with them the traditional cake,
as I was saying.

You're responsible for the lunch,

and the main kitchen
for the buffet and dessert.

Any questions?

Now, my idea is to base a family lunch
around the River Loire.

We could start with duck liver
in Coteaux du Layon jelly

and cornbread.

I'd like you to try different cornbreads

with a hint of spice bread or pancakes,
but nice and crisp.

Okay.

Next-- I can't read my notes.

Snail stew à la nantaise, right,

followed by chowder à la charentaise.
Okay?

Chowder à la charentaise?

It's fish and cuttlefish soup.

I'll serve it as a main dish

followed by ewe and goat's cheeses.

And we finish with a Rochefort jonchée.

The Rochefort jonchée?

- What's that?
- Cream cheese.

Curdled milk and laurel water
drained on woven reeds.

It's only produced locally.

We could try making it here.
That'd be fun.

- Your department.
- I'd be happy to try.

So, how does our menu sound?

It seems completely coherent.

The wine, Alix?

I like the surf-and-turf blend.

We need to complement the concept,

staying in the Loire valley.

Aiming for freshness and minerality.

For the foie gras,
we'd start with a Vouvray by Huet

and move onto a Silex by Dagueneau.

For the chowder?

Maybe a Coulée de Serrant.

And finally, a Clos Rougeard
by the Foucault brothers.

The Loire valley it is.

Cheers, Hortense.

Good morning.
The Chamber of Agriculture...

The Charente-Maritime Chamber
of Agriculture gave me your number.

I found it in...Discovering Charentaise Cuisine.

But it's an old edition, from 1922.

1922!

Here's the sheet of woven reeds.

Take the curdled milk,

place it on the woven reeds
and wrap it up.

Not this time.

Not the right recipe?

Too dry.

You don't use white wine in the chowder?

You do?

Yes, but that's before--

After--

It looks too firm, but...

Sorry, I have to spit it out.

- It's not--
- It's not far off.

And then?

She keeps contradicting herself.

Hold on. Sliced or whole cuttlefish?

No, the cuttlefish.

It's too crumbly.

Back to square one.

Hortense, wait.

My latest attempt.

I tweaked the recipe a bit.
What do you think?

Bitter. Too bitter.

We'll discuss it tomorrow. Bye.

Have a good evening.

Bitter?

We're good. The menu's been accepted.

From the president.

Great.

Perfect.

Move it, gentlemen!

Here's what the menu looks like.

Is this a joke?
The dessert must be a joke.

I'm dessert. You're appetizer,
main course, cheese.

Be so kind as to remove your dessert
from the menu.

Please.

Jonchée isn't a dessert.
It's cream cheese.

Don't bullshit me.

Almond cream's a type of cheese?

Elderberry jelly's a cheese?

Hey, that's hot!

- Keep an eye on it.
- No problem.

Chef! I meant no offense,

but I can't alter a menu
approved by the president.

The president.
Don't think I'm not on to you.

Acting the victim
and casting me as the baddie.

In 30 years, I've seen people
thinking they own the place.

Toadies,
so-called friends of the president,

all gone!

Everybody's disposable here except me!

Don't play games with me! You'll lose!

You're not dessert, I am!

- It's not a dessert.
- Or even a sweet.

It's cream cheese.

From the president's home region.

It in no way impinges
on the main kitchen's cake assignment.

What's in a meal?

A beginning, middle and end.

Each dish leads to another.

It has an order and logic.

Without the final touch, what's left?
A potluck.

- Tell him every detail counts.
- I agree.

Every product was chosen to--

Right now, I think the president
has other priorities.

How'd you do it?

It's a hearth bread recipe I adapted.

One-third corn flour,

a touch of honey and pinch of saffron.
But there's a trick.

I baked it in the bread machine

and I skipped the toaster
and used the salamander.

That keeps it moist on one side.

- Wonderful.
- Specially with foie gras.

We have the perfect texture.

With your almond cream, it's divine.

Maybe the jelly's too much.

I don't think it is.

It adds a floral note
to counterbalance the bittersweet cream.

You see?

And it reminds me of candy I ate as a kid.

So, we have a dessert that has taste

that takes you back to your childhood

without the phony populism
of jellybean cakes and caramel ice cream.

See what I mean?

Something's wrong.

We're ready, Nicolas. Bravo.

It's screwed.

They want me to scratch the jonchée.

Who are "they"? They who? They what?

It came from
the secretary-general's office.

Does the president know?

Frankly, I doubt it.

I didn't ask for two assistants,
but now you're here.

I won't send you back to the main kitchen.

What do they call you?

- Abdel-Karim.
- Jonathan.

- Can you fillet a sole? Make a mirepoix?
- Yes, chef.

No, my name isn't "chef." It's Hortense.

It's not Du Barry either.

Isn't that my nickname
in the main kitchen?

Do you know why?

I've no idea. Do you know?

Because you serve a lot of foie gras.

Du Barry foie gras is the best.

Not just that.

In the 18th century,
Countess du Barry was Louis XV's favorite.

Any idea what a "favorite" was?

The king's mistress.

A kind of whore.

Let's get to work.

How long does the bread need
under the salamander?

Forty-five seconds.

Go for it then.

Can you count to 45?

- What about my snails?
- Ready to set aside.

The fumet's good.

In ten minutes, we poach the turbot.

Ready upstairs.

How long, Jonathan?

- Eleven seconds.
- Count out loud.

Ten, nine...

Two plates each for the toast.

...five, four,

three, two,

one, zero.

Quickly. Faster.

Well, Jean-Marc?

The president said nothing
about the chowder, but that's not--

No slacking.

Plates for the greens.

- Is the sauce ready?
- Just right.

One-third balsamic,
one-third hazelnut oil,

a big third olive oil,
and a small third citrus juice.

- Right?
- That makes four-thirds.

Only a pastry chef would say that.

Always measuring, always weighing.

A cook, my dear Nicolas,
is not an accountant.

A cook is an artist

who works wonders
with an Argenteuil asparagus,

an onion from Paimpol,
or a dash of Modena vinegar.

I think he's over there.

Sorry, ladies.

Mrs. Laborie.

I wanted to congratulate you in person
for the lunch.

The chowder you made us

was identical to the one we used
to eat at home.

The meal brought back
so many childhood memories.

I'd be neglectful not to thank you.

Fabulous, isn't it?

Give me that.

What's the great chef call it?

Chocolate and vanilla millefeuille
with bitter orange ganache.

What do you think? Like it?

It's good.

Good?

And you?

I think that...

vanilla with bitter orange doesn't work.

It doesn't work because
if you bite a vanilla pod, it's sharp.

It's bitter.

With the bitter orange, it adds nothing.

Besides that, it shows good technique.

It's well-made.

But no personality.

So we agree. Anybody could have made it.

It's anonymous.

The redcurrant's excellent. Just kidding.

The president thought you'd like it.

In Praise of French Cuisine Preface
by Sacha Guitry.

"Order from the land of lush pastures,

Normandy, where the highest quality
cows and calves are rampant,

a saddle of young veal,

whose flesh must be as white
as the finest poultry.

Gird it, wrap it around four times
with string.

Cook in blond butter
in a shallow braising dish until golden."

I had absolutely no idea.

I'll be right there.

Did you know Azoulay had been replaced?

No.

It's not his decision.

Anyway, he's totally incompetent.

Mrs. Laborie, the president's cook.

Jean-Michel Salomé.

Hortense Laborie.

I hear that you have a truffle farm.

Yes.

I only planted the oaks last year,

so there'll be no yield
for three to four years.

And?

I told you so.
He's the slimiest guy I know.

All right.

Sorry.

Yes, well, I asked to see you

because we're restructuring things
slightly at the Elysée.

In terms of the private kitchens,

we would like, starting next week,

for the president's menus
to be submitted earlier.

I mean, in advance.

For analysis in every detail.

Analysis? What analysis?

The president's doctor
mentioned certain health issues.

Well?

I hope you like working with fruit.

Rum babas, bitter chocolate tarts,
pistachio madeleines--

- Forget it.
- Why?

As of next week, like the government,
we're trimming off the fat.

We've examined every menu
since you arrived.

You'll have to cut out all the sauces,
cheese and cakes.

And considerably reduce animal fats

in favor of lean meats, fish,
and steam cooking.

Furthermore,
looking at next week's meals--

I'm very sorry.

What's beef mariniers du Rhone?

Topside of beef, which is very lean meat,

sliced one centimeter thick
and served with steamed potatoes.

- How is it cooked?
- In a casserole dish.

Let me explain.

I fill the dish with a layer of onions,
a layer of beef, thyme and salt,

then I start over,
finishing with a layer of onions.

Clear so far?

Then I cook it over a low flame
and I scoop out the juice,

I blend it with anchovy fillets,

I pour the sauce over

and leave it for one hour.

A delicious mix of turf and surf.

Even so, it's a dish with sauce.

What's known as a sauce
is butter and flour

mixed with stock or wine.

And even some cream.
My recipe is fat-free.

The juice of the onions and meat
makes the sauce.

So it's a sauce, like I said.

I'll cook anything
I'm asked to cook, but...

How can I put it?
Until now, I devised the menus.

If the president liked it, good for me.
If not, bad luck.

Now all that's changing.
I'll carry out orders, but--

Hold on.

For the president's guests,
you can still choose.

I wasn't brought in to cook
for ambassadors or ministers

but to cook for the president
and nobody else.

If you want that to change, fine, say so.

We just did.

I didn't ask you to clear the tables.

Good job, anyway.

Grab the skillet and help serve the duck.

Watch out, it's hot!

Here it comes!

Hortense, sit with us!

It's ready right here.

Hortense, sit with us!

- What about the tarts?
- They're done.

Any longer, they'll burn.

Put them there. We'll reheat them.

Hold everything. He wants oysters

for six people, in 15 minutes.

Oysters? That's not what was planned.

Nicolas, call Brasserie
La Lorraine, please.

Oysters are not good news.

I won't be long.

A selection of six Gillardeaus
and six Vaasts.

With some nice greens if you can.

And no ice.

And no ice on the tray. Thanks very much.

- No ice for the president.
- I know.

I'm very badly parked.

Perfect. Thank you very much.

Here we are.

- We're okay for time?
- Fine.

Put it down there, please.

I made lemon mayonnaise, mousseline,
and gray shallot vinaigrette.

Well done.

I'll open up two pots of foie gras paté

to go with the oysters, like in Arcachon.

Screw the dietician.

In this heat, the oysters--

Ask the main kitchen to lend us space
in their cold store.

- Main kitchen?
- You want me to go?

They won't lend us their fridge. Sorry.

Luchet speaking.

I'll put her on.

Who is it?

Mr. Salomé.

No, thanks.

What you just did is an absolute disgrace.

A disgrace! And you call yourself a chef?

If I wasn't a woman,
I'd punch your lights out.

You may not like me,
but don't worry, it's mutual.

Du Barry says, "Screw you!"

What happened?

I have a slight problem with you.

You know the main kitchen
refused to lend us the cold store?

Sorry?

In this heat, with a tray of seafood
that wouldn't fit our--

Look, I don't understand a word.

I wanted to see you
about your train expenses.

Sit down.

What's this return ticket Paris-Brive,
second class on March 3

and another on July 17?

The trip in July was to collect ceps.

Ceps?

It was so hot in June,
and then we had a very, very wet July.

In one morning,
they picked 40 kilos. Amazing.

The president loves mushrooms.

Imagine how much I'd have paid in Paris
for similar quality.

Talking about quality produce.

According to my calculations,
the average cost

of a meal from the main kitchen

is over three times cheaper than you.

It's way too much.

Except one kitchen makes 3,000 meals
a month and the other, 150.

Different organization, different produce.

No kidding. At your suppliers' prices,
I'd happily swap jobs.

You want to see the invoices?

Look, sir, I swear there is no wastage.

I work with people who share a passion,

who strive for excellence,
as the president requested.

For example, my market gardener

grows vegetables that had disappeared,
with long-forgotten flavors.

It comes at a cost.

It's a cost that must be reduced.

Thank you.

This cake is the last I'll make here.

I'm heading back to France tomorrow.

I'm leaving Alfred Faure Base.

But I won't be alone on the boat.

David will come with me. Baptiste, too.

And Edouard, too.

- Olivier, too?
- Absolutely.

I just wanted to say a few words.

Tonight, I remember seeing that ad
over a year ago now.

"Wanted for a mission
in the South Antarctic territories.

A male head chef, 25 years old,
to make school cafeteria-type meals."

I got the job,
but honestly, I had to fight for it.

I really wanted to come here.

Anyway, I won't go into that.

Sorry. I wanted to tell you
why I made you a St. Honoré.

There are two reasons.
Firstly, in tribute to my granny's recipe,

without puff pastry,
just choux pastry and cream.

The other reason
is that for over two years I worked

on a street the cake's named after.

At nº 55.

It leaves its mark.

But here, I put all that behind me.

Living on this island for a year

with the wind, the cold,
the isolation that gave me strength.

I won't bare my soul to you any longer
because what do I see?

You're all hungry!

Cut the cakes!

There's plenty for everybody.

This one's mine.

Fillet of sole? That takes us over 1,025.

Let's use a leaner fish. Cod's loin.

That won't make much difference.

A bit, though.

Maybe we can...

The president
won't require lunch after all.

Okay.

- Have a good day.
- You, too.

Can I help you, Mr. President?

I'm fine.

Mrs. Arvelet said
you'd received some truffles.

Yes, that's perfectly correct.
Do you want to see them?

- Do you mind?
- Not at all.

I suppose they're the first of the season.

Yes.

Look at this.

How marvelous.

Are you familiar with trufflesà la croque au sel?

There's little about truffles
I'm not familiar with.

Chateau Rayas 1969.

Thank you.

Perfect.

They're making life hard for you?

Me, too.

Adversity.

Personally, adversity keeps me going.

The spice of life.

You see?

Evening, ma'am.

Good evening, Mr. President.

Mr. Pascal Lepiq

will accompany the president
on his visit to Tunisia.

During his four days away,

Mrs. Laborie,
you will be on call at the Elysée.

You will resume your duties
when the president returns,

which means...

- the seventh, which is a--
- Tuesday.

It's called a stress fracture.
It's that little line high on the tibia.

It's invisible on a regular x-ray.

It cures itself. You need to rest,

walk as little as possible,
and not put any weight on it.

Here I am.

What's wrong?

You hiding?

Tired, that's all.

Thanks for the dinner. Mind-blowing.

The duck wasn't moist enough.

Some days, things turn out wrong.

I never worked out why.

Depressed?

No.

It pisses me off
that you're leaving tomorrow.

You know what?

I'm gonna get drunk.

- Me, too.
- Risky.

What's going on?

Ladies and gentlemen...

tonight, we have a dish of the day,

a story...

Not yet.

The saucy story of the cook

who nearly became
the Prime Minister of France.

Our true story begins
at the Elysée Palace.

That day, as he did every morning,

the president sniffed the aromas
wafting up to his office.

What have you cooked for me,
my dear Hortense?

Mr. President, today,
we have kidney in a--

No, not another word.

Let me have a sniff first.

The president loved Hortense's kidneys
in sauce poulette.

He loved her everything.

Her succulent breast, her divine tongue.

Everything.
He even loved her tasty cream puffs.

Sorry, we've been trying to call you
for two hours.

You're needed in the kitchen.

- A flight's planned--
- Come in.

What's going on?

A flight's planned
to join the president in Tunisia.

We need meals
for the guests flying out.

The flight will be confirmed tonight.

- What time is the flight?
- 6:50.

You're hurting me!

What a dish. We'd make a fine coalition.

If you keep this up,

you'll finish your kidneys
in the main kitchen.

Not the main kitchen!

A kiss.

It's my heart talking.

I have a heart, too, you know.

Stay in character.

In character.

How about the Legion of Honor?

That's all I am to you? A trophy?

I'll appoint you Prime Minister!

Promises, promises!

How beautiful are you.

Promises, promises!

I'll always love you.

Promises, more promises
That you scatter to the winds

Caramels

Candy and chocolate

Even if they're not for me

But for another girl

That's all, folks.

Fortunately, my dear Hortense,

you turned down the chance to become
Prime Minister.

One day, you washed up
on this Antarctic island.

Exactly one year ago.

Frankly, you seemed like a prickly pear.

Who'd take no shit.

In fact, you scared the shit out of us.

You banned us from your kitchen.

We had to sit up at the table.

Raise our hands for the salt.

Talk properly.

Or do the dishes.

- We called you "ma'am."
- First names were off limits.

But now, Hortense,
we have something to tell you.

We love you.

We'll miss you.

We won't forget you.

Or your cream puffs.

So, till next time, Hortense.

Till next time.

Yes, we will meet again, Hortense

For auld lang syne, my dear

Should auld acquaintance be forgot

And never brought to mind?

Should auld acquaintance be forgot

And days of auld lang syne

I ask your permission to return home.

As soon as is convenient.
Today, if possible.

Here's my letter of resignation
along with a letter for the president.

Thank you.

Morning, gents.

I'm looking for Mr. Montcoulon.

- Right there.
- Thanks.

Morning, Mr. Salomé.

As of Tuesday, the main kitchen
will also handle private meals.

I've notified Pascal Lepiq in Tunisia.
He'll call you.

That's all. Have a good day.

Have a good day, gents.

We've won.
We're taking over the private kitchen.

Dear Mr. President, when you return
from your visit to Tunisia,

I'll be gone.

I'll have taken off my black apron
and left the Elysée.

I have decided to go now

because I can no longer accomplish
the mission you gave me.

For nearly two years,
I happily applied myself to it

with devotion.

But now, Mr. President, I'm tired,

terribly tired.

It is time for me to go
and make way for someone else,

someone younger, more talented,
and perhaps more obedient.

My work was done behind the scenes.

It was thankless sometimes,
with few chances to meet you,

seldom knowing if you liked what I cooked.

Nonetheless,
I enjoyed working for you, Mr. President.

It grieves me to go,

and I take many memories with me.

I simply hope
you won't completely forget me

and will occasionally recall

the cook who made you
crispy fried acacia flowers

and black trumpet mushroom risottos,

for I won't forget you.

Farewell, Mr. President,
and beware diets.

As Montesquieu said,

"Such a tiresome illness is good health
preserved by too much dieting."

I don't know if etiquette allows it,
but I send you all my love.

With my deepest respect, Hortense Laborie.

You told me yesterday

that you'd been to Australia.

For a truffle farm.

Wonderful, virgin territory.

Not nuggets of gold, just truffles.

You like truffles?

There's nothing better in the world.

You go out early in the morning
with your dog.

You walk in the forest,
you smell the earth...

suddenly, your dog goes crazy,
sniffing all over.

There, at the foot of a tree,
lies perfection.

A miracle.