No Ordinary Bistro

Jim Gullo

You may not have noticed it, but there was a subtle ripple in the gastronomic cosmos when Jean-Jacques, the French chef at our wonderful Bistro Maison restaurant, stopped putting the crispy, pan-fried shallots on the luncheon hamburger a few months ago.

This, mind you, was no ordinary hamburger. This was a hamburger that made grown men (okay, this grown man) sigh wistfully and wipe a tear from his eye as he hefted its half-pound magnificence. This was a hamburger that made you forget all about steamed mussels, foie gras terrines and coq au vin, which believe me, are not easy to forget. As Deborah Chatelard, the co-owner and manager of Bistro Maison (and Jean-Jacques’ wife and partner) explained, “He grinds the meat to order, seasons it and cooks it to perfection.” And Deborah does not use the word “perfection” lightly.

Deborah and J-J opened Bistro Maison a few years ago after leaving New York City, where she was the Banquet Manager of the high-profile (and higher stress) Tavern on the Green restaurant at Central Park, and he was the chef at the lovely Café des Artistes. In search of a simpler lifestyle, they moved house, home and dogs to McMinnville and transformed the historic wooden house on Third Street, hard by the railroad tracks, into one of Oregon’s most distinguished French restaurants. People from very far away have been known to plan their days around J-J’s potage du jour. The business has been a hit since they opened their doors, and it feeds an awful lot of happy people in the charming dining room or a lovely, flower-laden patio in the summer. Except in January, when Debra and J-J close down and go scuba-diving for a month.

But back to the hamburger; it took me several visits to muster the enthusiasm to order it, what with the glorious potato tartiflette that J-J cooks, the Sunday cassoulet laden with sausages and duck confit, or the plump mussels in a Pernod cream sauce. It was the crispy shallots that won me over that first time, a little mound of buttery, acrid goodness that put the burger, with its housemade ketchup and fries, over the top.

Way over the top. Suffice it to say that there were days when I couldn’t live without that burger. Imagine my horror, then, to learn one day earlier this summer that some demonic customers from hell had begun to ask if they could have the burger without the shallots. And then some of their evil spawn asked if they could have the shallots on the side, but not pan-fried. Or if he could maybe go half-shallots, half-pickles because they had a meeting that afternoon and the shallots might linger on their breath. Or could they just substitute onions or a slice of tomato? When Deborah explained this to me, she sighed, “It got to be a little too much.”

Well, like any good French chef would, J-J blew his top. He took the shallots off of the burger and refused to put them back. It’s still a damn fine burger, and one to which I often return, but as I understand it from the Greek mythology, when one has been touched by a goddess it’s pretty hard to go back to the high school prom queen. And so I implore all of you TO JUST LEAVE THE SHALLOTS ALONE. And maybe they’ll one day return to grace my burger at Bistro Maison.