Don't tell Martha I said this.

What Joël Robuchon taught me about kitchens (without saying a word)

Martha Stewart’s name has been shorthand for perfection for as long as I can remember. The first time my sister tried to bake muffins for her high school boyfriend, I went into the kitchen, a complete mess, muffins overflowing the pan, and she looked like she had just run a marathon, and I said, “oookay, Martha Stewart.”

Or when my mom set the table one time for Christmas in an overly decorated way, beautiful, full of flowers, I smiled and told her how Martha Stewart would be proud of her. And she smiled back, knowing this was a compliment. Even if I must admit that back when I said it to my sister, it wasn’t necessarily one.

I was a bit young during the boom of Martha Stewart, so I can’t pretend like her cooking show or books influenced me in some deep way. But yet, I know what just saying her name represents. Meticulous, aspirational, curated.

It wasn't until recently, when I watched her documentary on Netflix, that I truly fell in love with her. But not for her cooking, but for her storytelling skills.

She built the life and universe she wanted all through details. And I love that. But in my quest to immerse myself in French culture, another chef is making me look away from Marta’s tastefully arranged table.

The world that pulled me away from Martha’s universe didn’t come to me through a Netflix show. It found me in my friends’ countryside house.

Their home has been passed down through generations, and with it, a family tradition: the same poulet rôti recipe, made the same way for years. But no one in the family came up with this recipe; the tradition has only come from reaching for the same book in their kitchen every Saturday, the book of Joël Robuchon.

My friend’s kitchen in la campagne is simple, except for one thing. The one piece that transforms any space into a quintessential French kitchen: a La Cornue stove. Really, you want a French kitchen? You don’t need to look further than installing a La Cornue stove, and you are done. Of course, you just have to be ready to spend big, but hey, we can all dream, right?

Well, my friend is lucky enough that he inherited one, one that has been passed down for more than 70 years. It’s not as old as this house, but it is older than all the inhabitants that now spend their weekends there. But she remains strong, working hard every weekend to feed everyone.

Like every friend who wants to test my French, he asked me to read the recipe myself and tell him what to do. Of course, he was feeling confident in taking this risk, as he knows this recipe by heart. He has done it every weekend since his father passed down this house to him and, with that, the books inside of it.

So I grabbed a chair, got on top of it, and grabbed, by his instructions, the same book they always do, titled “Le Meilleur & Le Plus Simple de Robuchon”.

Their copy is well-worn, its pages softened by time. Inside, you’ll find paper notes scribbled in different handwritings, likely from various family members who have contributed to the book over the years or simply left behind their grocery lists. Even though Joël Robuchon is famous for his potatoes, in this family’s book, the page for poulet rôti is the most worn, its indent deeper than the others, proof of how often it’s been consulted.

Pages from Joël Robuchon books

Robuchon’s books don’t feel overly curated. They feel raw and simple, like the ingredients he uses, like his recipes. They feel homey, cozy, like the French countryside. You can almost smell the garlic, the roasting chicken, the warmth of a kitchen. His imagery is beautiful but unforced; it doesn’t try to recreate the rustic, “authentic” aesthetic that has become trendy today. His world just is.

Martha’s homes are an open book. Her every room, every tablescape, every perfectly arranged basket of produce has been documented, polished, and published. But Joël Robuchon’s cookbooks give me a different feeling; his recipes make me think of a completely different space.

Many people see French culture in a château, in Versailles ceilings and gilded paneling. But I can also see it in a small kitchen in the countryside. Wood counters, a burning stove, peeled potatoes waiting in a bowl, garlic everywhere, radis from the garden, one or three bottles of white wine on the table, saucisson freshly cut, getting smaller by the second. Of course, a bottle of red wine has already been opened, breathing and preparing itself to be the best companion to the poulet rôti that’s coming.

For me, Joël Robuchon’s books represent this France, the one where food is a daily ritual, not a performance. Even though he cooked in the finest restaurants in the world, his books feel more quintessentially French than any opulent French interiors I’ve seen.

The right photo is also from Joël Robuchon's book

If I were to place his books in an interior, it would be likely in a farm converted into a kitchen in Le Perche, the old stone trough still runs along the wall, a remnant from when this space belonged to animals rather than chefs. On top, copper pans of different sizes hang. They are worn, but that’s part of the charm.

Candlelight burns everywhere, creating an ambiance. On the wooden table, there is a board with cheeses: Fourmagée, Camembert, Livarot. Three wooden chairs are being used to dry the white linen cloth. His famous potatoes are in the stove, while the garlic fills the room. Guests are drinking red wine from tiny glasses, keeping the bottle close for an easy refill.

But beyond the atmosphere, a kitchen like this is built for use. The walls are not decorative but lime-washed stone or aged plaster, textured and warm. The floor is terra cotta tiles, now smooth by years of movement, like those steps at old churches that are all smooth at the edges. There are no sleek, minimalist cabinets in this kitchen, like in Martha’s houses; here, it's just open shelving with ceramic bowls collected through the years, wooden spoons, and glass jars filled with ingredients and handwritten names of what they are.

Instead of hiding what others would consider a “mess”, in this kitchen, it is out in the open. There are no secrets here or pretending to be perfect, the food speaks for itself. That’s the perfect part.

The work table is butcher block, aged by knife marks and water circles, sitting in the center of the room like an anchor. This is a kitchen not styled, but shaped by necessity and use.

I find beauty in both worlds, the meticulous, curated one of Martha Stewart and my imagined version of Joël Robuchon’s. But going through his cookbooks made me realise how much the details around us build our own personal world.

The ingredients in his recipes, the way they are arranged and photographed, the typography and illustrations, they are all little details that work together to build a universe.

I don’t know what Joël Robuchon’s home looked like. I don’t know him, only his cookbooks. And maybe if I Google it, I’d find a TF1 feature on his house. But I don’t want to.

I want to continue imagining how I see his world just by the feeling his cookbooks give me. And that feeling is the same one I’ve encountered in certain interiors before, where everything is unforced, where time, tradition and use bring beauty.

And maybe that’s the lesson. That great storytelling, whether in food, design, or even a simple book, doesn’t need to say everything explicitly. It just needs to make you feel something.

So while I will always use “Martha Stewart” as a high compliment, I find myself drawn more and more to the kind of world Joël Robuchon’s books evoked in me. One that is raw, simple, essential, where the details, like his cooking, speak for themselves.

Thank you for reading,

Best,

Macarena