When Leg of Lamb Becomes the Stuff of Legend

In the pantheon of culinary innovators, one would have to include, of course, the 4th Earl of Sandwich for his breakthrough in plate-to-mouth delivery systems, Colonel Harland Sanders for his pressure-fried chicken, and whoever invented the concept of à volonté (all-you-can-eat).

Wait a minute, the French have a term for “all-you-can-eat”? 

You bet your sweet life they do. 

I too once thought that a dining format of such excess could only have been concocted in the smoke-filled casinos of Las Vegas. But then I learned of a place in Paris that has been serving all-you-can-eat lamb leg since long before Bugsy Siegel ever set foot in Sin City, and I was reminded that the real godfathers of gluttony are the French. 

Actually, Le Sébillon (the ‘place’ in question) is located just beyond the portes of Paris in the notoriously lavish Neuilly-sur-Seine, and has been serving its gigot d’agneau à volonté to a devoted clientele since 1914. But this is not your old buckaroo buffet. In fact, it’s not a buffet at all, for Neuilly is home to the wealthiest families of France, and self-service would be sacrilege to this set.

We arrived ten minutes late for our 12:15 reservation, and while the dining room remained mostly empty, our bespectacled maître d’ was already in top gear. He rushed to take our coats and ushered us quickly to our table, as this was still the calm before the storm and efficiency was his top priority. Having just escaped the storm outside, I didn’t mind skipping the pleasantries. Hot lamb was my top priority.

The ambiance at Le Sébillon is that of the archetypal brasserie bourgeoise—a bit like how I imagine Smith and Wollensky in the ‘70s, only French. Staff members dress according to strict traditional hierarchy: chefs de rang (captains/servers) wear black waistcoats and white half-aprons, while maître d’s sport professorial suits.

The interior architecture—somewhere between Art Nouveau and Art Deco—harkens back to another bygone era. Large arched mirrors amplify the views of the dimly lit dining rooms, revealing expansive wooden molding and allowing snooty patrons to see and be seen.

As I settled into my plush, tufted leather banquette, I couldn’t help but bemoan the plight of the modern American finance bro who—in a post-subprime world—subsists on takeaway slop bowls from Cava. Midday meals such as the one I’d be experiencing are something they’ve only seen in movies, or heard about in stories from back in the day when they were still known as “bankers.”

Luckily, in the shining city of Paris, the business lunch is still alive and well. The regulars arrived—it seemed—all at once. Their hair was white, their ties were tied tight; and while we may have come from different places, we were all there for the same reason.

When a cashmere clad high-roller sat down with two companions at the table across from me, nearly every staff member came over to greet him. He’d be requiring special attention, so I thought it prudent to get my order off before he settled in.

We were greeted by our server with water, bread, and a briny olive tapenade. I barely had to speak the word gigot before he nodded and took my menu. He knew why I was there.

Shortly thereafter, a very jovial maître d’ came along, pushing a beautiful wooden trolley, and my mouth began to water.

“Quelle cuisson préférez-vous, monsieur?” (What temperature would you like your meat?)

“Rosé s’il vous plaît.” (Medium/medium rare please)

Before handling the meat, he scooped a heap of lingots (white beans) onto my plate from a large copper pot. Then he turned his attention to the leg. Juice seeped from the muscle fibers as he sliced away three perfectly pink pieces, which he then lifted with the length of his blade and laid across my plate. Just a final ladle of jus de cuisson and lunch was served.

As I took in the beauty before me, I thought, this stuff is really all-you-can-eat? It seemed too good to be true.

I began with the lamb leg in its pure form. My steak knife cut through it like butter, even with the slight presence of sinew, and I took my first bite. The meat was as tender and succulent as it looked, and the beans were soft, simple, and nourishing—exactly what I needed on a miserable Wednesday in November.

While my gigot was perfectly seasoned on its own, I decided a dollop of dijon would only enhance the experience. Just a dab of the mustard set fire to my nose hairs like a match to a fuse. This was some top notch dijon. I stuck with that combo for the remainder of the meal.

My first plate polished, I asked the maître d’ for a second. He informed me that the record was thirteen. A mysterious man had come in one day with something to prove. They had never seen him before and haven’t seen him since. “Peut-être qu’il est décédé” (Perhaps he’s deceased), the maître d’ speculated.

“C’est fort probable,” (Most likely) I agreed.

Having eaten all the lamb I could muster, I struggled to choose a dessert until I saw a behemoth of an éclair being brought to the high-roller’s table. In the space of an hour, he and his two guests had blown through a bottle of Louis Roederer Cristal, a seafood tower, sole meunière, and now this.

My whole life I’ve resisted the urge to tell a waiter “I’ll have what he’s having,” then I finally succumb, and it doesn’t translate. I should’ve left that line in the movies.

The éclair was cold from the refrigerator, which peeves some, but I was too overcome with excitement to care. A divine chocolate substance sat sandwiched between the two layers of pâte à choux. This was not your typical chocolate crème pâtissière. It was almost mousse-like, but denser.

It was the largest éclair I had ever seen, but in the end it lasted not more than a minute and a half, causing me once again to sympathize with Sally.

It’s all right, though. If the last century is any indication, Le Sébillon will be serving ephemeral pleasures for years to come; so I can always come back for more.

Feel free to reply—even just “gigot”—if you enjoyed this bonus edition of Club des Meal, and don’t forget to share with your foodie friends.

I’ll see you next week for our regularly scheduled newsletter. In the meantime, click here to read past editions.

As always, thanks for reading.

Max Kreckel