In Illinois: A Temple of Haute Cuisine

By Madeleine Nash

Save-More Car Rental. The Hangar Charcoal Steaks. Cheetah Nude Dancing. The Vault Self-Storage Warehouse. Rich's Place Package Goods and Cocktails. The signs flash by on this dreary four-lane strip. "Welcome to Wheeling--the village with feeling." Finally, painted in neat black-and-white script, a tastebud red alert: Le Franc,ais. The building looks like a suburban developer's vision of a French country inn, and the visitor pauses for a moment to savor the incongruity. Wheeling, Ill. (pop. 23,089), is a beer-and-pretzels kind of town with a sizable blue-collar population. Yet here, 30 miles from downtown Chicago, is one of the best restaurants in the U.S.

Le Franc,ais has verve that Craig Claiborne calls "pyrotechnic." Its sauces have been described as "psychedelic." One hundred twenty gastronomes polled by Playboy magazine picked Le Francais as the No. 2 restaurant in the country (after Manhattan's grand palais de cuisine Lutece). Bon Appetit proclaimed Le Franc,ais "America's greatest restaurant." Almost from the day it opened in 1973, the nation's growing cadres of gourmets and gourmands have been journeying to Le Franc,ais, "like dedicated pilgrims," observed one Chicago critic, "on their way to a shrine." The cost of dinner for two with only a modest wine can run more than $150. But Le Franc,ais regularly attracts a crowd of 120 to 150 people a night, and there is often a six-week waiting list for a reservation.

Behind the restaurant's success is its inventive chef-owner, Jean Banchet, 41. Stocky, with brown curly hair and square beard, he looks like a scaled-down version of Luciano Pavarotti and has the artistic temperament to match. Banchet was trained in the great restaurants of France, including that of Paul Bocuse, the high priest of la nouvelle cuisine. He commands his array of convection ovens, cannibal-size stockpots and giant food processors with the same authority that Sir Georg Solti displays when conducting the Chicago Symphony. "It's like an orchestra," Banchet explains, "where every piece must play its part."

At Le Franc,ais Maestro Banchet puts on a gala performance for two seatings a night, six nights a week. From noon to midnight he prowls the stainless-steel corridors of his ultramodern kitchen, setting a whirlwind pace for his 32-member staff. "Sacrebleu! Sacrebleu!" he shouts at a sous-chef when something goes wrong. One minute he is throwing whole fistfuls of truffles into a twelve-quart mixing bowl. Next he starts a pheasant pate, followed by a lobster and crayfish mousse. Tasting each creation in turn, he makes several mid-course corrections, adding a little salt here, a little cream there. Finally he is satisfied. Offering his visitor a taste of the gloriously light mousse, he nods his head gravely. "Nobody," he says, "can make a mousse like I can make a mousse."

As the afternoon progresses, the visitor is overwhelmed by a cacophony of sounds and a bouquet of smells. A peek into the larder is enough to tickle even the most jaded palate. Fresh foie gras de canard and turbot flown in from France, mallard ducks and wild morel mushrooms newly arrived from Washington State, plump pheasant and succulent little grouse shot in Scotland, live crayfish shipped up twice a week from New Orleans.

Shortly before 6, the dining room at Le Franc,ais has reached a state of burnished perfection. Above, dark wood beams and bronze chandeliers. Below, fresh flowers, crisp linen, the gleam of silver and crystal. Doris Banchet, the German-born wife of the chef, appears by the entrance in a chic black dress adorned with a golden rooster brooch, "the sign of good cuisine," she explains. Now it is the waiters, formal in their tuxedos, who take over, announcing the program and pacing the elaborate performance. The first guests arrive: James and Judy Horn, a pair of young Chicago attorneys. They are celebrating their tenth wedding anniversary. George, a jolly pink-cheeked waiter whose wife has stitched his name in yarn across his jacket, takes charge of what Banchet has labeled "Le Show," wafting a silver platter laden with treasures under the noses of the astonished Horns. There is a colorful vegetable pate studded with bits of broccoli and tomato as bright as jewels. A paupiette of smoked salmon filled with fluffy crab mousse. A lobster sausage served with two sauces--one made with sea urchins, the other with lobster. "They've shown us eight things already," giggles Judy Horn. "I shall never be able to remember which I like best." Says George: "We're going to come back for a test later--whoever scores the highest gets the biggest dessert." The Horns will return, though like most patrons, they reserve these caloric excursions for special occasions. Says Judy of tonight's feast: "I can feel my little arteries clogging already."

Banchet devised Le Show as a way of introducing his American clientele to the unfamiliar wonders of French haute cuisine. Through the inventiveness of the waiters, Le Show has evolved into a ritual of anticipation as each day's off-the-menu specials--often more than 15 dishes and as many sauces--are described and displayed in mouth-watering detail.

Eating at Le Franc,ais is serious business, and tablemates frequently converse with the intensity of opera buffs at intermission. Detroit Businessman Ed Connelly is a Le Franc,ais fan. He and his wife Pat popped into their eight-seat Cessna 421 a little over an hour ago and flew down to Wheeling just for dinner. They brought along Paul Mann, a wine importer, and his wife Rosi. The first courses are just arriving. Ed has ordered oysters: half a dozen embedded in their shells over spinach leaves and lobster mousse. Each is covered with julienne leeks and a beurre blanc sauce. Ed slips the first oyster into his mouth. His eyes close. There is a weighty pause as all at the table attend his reaction. His verdict: "It's like I've died and gone to heaven."

Soon Ed is eyeing his wife's saucisson chaud. They are both looking covetously at Rosi's delicate puff pastry filled with snails and sweetbreads. Rosi, for her part, tosses a longing look in the direction of Ed's oysters. Everyone sneaks a glance at Paul's pink-hued foie gras resting on a quivering bed of clear aspic. Soon Connellys and Manns are trading morsels. For several minutes conversation stops. Finally Pat has something to say: "I think Ed's and mine were the best." Paul heartily objects. "Mine was best," he declares.

Now the main courses. Paul rhapsodizes over his squab in red wine sauce. Ed hyperventilates over his firm-fleshed turbot aswim in fragrant cream and saffron. At last the table is cleared and the dessert carts arrive. "If we eat dessert," Ed laughingly asks no one in particular, "will the plane get off the ground?" Included in the dazzling array are three different chocolate cakes: one is a heavenly concoction the waiters call "chocolate mousse-chocolate meringue cake." Pat can't make up her mind. "I have just the thing," says the waiter, writing on his pad with a dramatic flourish. "One Chocolate Plus." A few minutes later Pat gasps. Her dessert plate contains not one but three generous wedges of each chocolate gateau. In the center is a huge dollop of whipped cream. "It's lucky," says Ed, "that you wore an expandable dress."

In the kitchen now there is a lull. Awaiting the orders for the 9 p.m. seating, Banchet decides to start on a veal mousse for the next day. "I like everything fresh," he sighs. "It's a lot of work." Later Banchet roams through the dining room wearing his rumpled double-breasted chefs jacket and no hat. He looks exhausted. His French accent has grown stronger with fatigue. "Eet's hard," he puffs, before disappearing into the kitchen again. "Some nights eet's very hard."

Banchet has made no secret of the fact that he finds his marathon work week tiring. Ten years from now, he says over and over, "I won't be doing this." Already he has started to branch out. He is a consulting chef for the Adolphus Hotel in Dallas. In partnership with a longtime friend, he has started a seafood restaurant, La Mer, in Chicago. But ten years from now is a long time. And for as long as Le Franc,ais continues to exist, the Ed Connellys and Paul Manns of the world will keep coming back for more. After all, declares Paul Mann as he departs, "this is a little piece of heaven on earth."

--By Madeleine Nash

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