The Birth of Homespitality™ - Giovanna & Bernard

Even at Yannick Alléno, the most celebrated three-star Michelin restaurant on the Champs-Élysées in Paris, one encounters waiters striding the floor as though carrying chainsaws, interrupting conversation and speaking over host and guest alike—guests who have crossed oceans for the occasion. They serve from the wrong side with the wrong hand, elbowing diners in the process. When a detailed survey was returned, the Directrice de Service replied in unkind terms that this was simply “their way,” and that the guest simply lacked the refinement to appreciate it. I am not kidding; the correspondence remains in my possession.

In other words: no technique, no true professionalism, misplaced pride, and, above all, no class. Whether in France, Italy, or Monaco; whether in a one-, two-, or three-star Michelin establishment, the ancient recipe for hospitality has been lost—much as the Romans lost the secret of concrete with the fall of their empire. Hospitality itself has fallen.

At another renowned Michelin-starred restaurant in Paris, La Tour d’Argent, the staff inquired three times about allergies yet still served peanuts to my guest on two separate occasions. Across three extended stays in France, Italy, and Monaco, we encountered similar inconsistencies far too often. Even the historic Café de Paris in Monte Carlo has strayed from its own legendary recipe for Crêpes Suzette — which it created — replacing it with a lesser, and flambeed, version, and questioning the change can elicit a surprisingly defensive reaction.

In striking contrast, we found only one establishment in Paris that truly upholds the highest ideals of French hospitality with unwavering excellence: Le Taillevent. With its two Michelin stars worn with genuine honor and quiet pride, it stands alone as a restaurant that not only deserves a third star, but continues to embody the rarest qualities of precision, warmth, and authentic excellence in an era where such standards have become increasingly rare.

The legendary luxurious brasseries—from the Grand Café des Capucines to L’Alsace—no longer maintain proper glassware. Only Bofinger still offers a respectable oyster selection. Charlot Roi des Coquillages at Place de Clichy, once the sole restaurant in France outside the Riviera admitted to the Charter of the Bouillabaisse, has become a Five Guys burger establishment. Its neighbor, La Champagne, is now a KFC. Hard though it is to believe, such is the reality.

In America until and including America’s Golden Age, even the wealthy and refined most often dined at home. Indeed, up until the Great Depression, an upper-middle-class household would customarily retain at least one servant, and no one of breeding would approach a table without white gloves. I can document this with more than thirty original pre-World War II almanacs and household manuals.

The very first restaurant in the U.S. that would have qualified as truly upscale by today’s standards of food and service did not appear until the 1940s. It was opened by the Frenchman Henri Soulé, who had fallen in love with America while presiding over the French Pavilion at the 1939 World’s Fair. At a time when transatlantic travel was still confined to steamships and propeller aircraft, Soulé imported lobsters, oysters, and even strawberries by air directly from France—except during the war years.

The Kennedy family dined frequently at Le Pavillon, and upon his election, President Kennedy offered Jacques Pépin, then chef de cuisine at the restaurant, the position of White House chef—an offer Pépin respectfully declined. Thereafter followed other fine establishments, including La Grenouille, also founded by Soulé. These houses were largely staffed by French chefs, chef de rang, and maîtres d’hôtel, operating under the disciplined brigade system that governed even the seating at the staff’s family meal. There was honor, discipline, and mutual respect. Though they might quarrel among themselves like brothers, any external challenge united them in singular purpose.

In those days, if one possessed the means, the dining room could stand as the crown jewel of the home, accompanied by a gracious parlor for retreat. The food was equal to the finest restaurant fare, and the hospitality extended there served as the supreme emblem of one’s social standing. Invitations were handwritten and delivered by hand; sending them by post for local guests was considered poor form.

Business affairs, private and intimate gatherings, and the most significant moments of life were hosted within the home. It was not until the 1960s and 1970s that such occasions began to migrate to restaurants like Le Pavillon. With the arrival of the baby boomers, kitchens became bars and dining rooms merged into open party spaces joined with the living room.

Today in America, even within a Four-Diamond restaurant in a Ritz-Carlton, one may hear the dining room captain describe seared foie gras as “charred,” while the manager patrols the floor in leather-topped tennis shoes with bright white rubber soles. Such lapses insult the discerning guest. In truth, the average patron in a fine American dining room now knows far more about food and wine than the majority of those who serve them. One hears captains explain that Pouilly-Fumé earned its name from its “smoky” flavor.

To this general decline has been added the recent practice of charging customers a fee for the “convenience” of paying by credit card—much like a highway gas station. Some establishments discreetly add a gratuity to the check while leaving the tip line blank on the credit card slip, inviting unwitting double-tipping unless one scrutinizes every line like a miser.

Anyone may reserve a table at the finest establishment in town, yet one can only hope for a favorable seating, a preferred waiter, and bartender on duty that evening.

Your home, by contrast, opens solely by invitation. Its décor reflects your personal taste. The menu is curated by you, tailored expressly for those you have chosen to receive. You are not purchasing a meal; you are extending an invitation to a private and exclusive experience. Your guests do not share the room with strangers—they are the room, the sole focus of your attention. This reveals not merely refined taste, but the full measure of your style and impeccable decorum. It is leadership and friendship at their finest, and it quietly distinguishes you from the crowd.

Far from ostentation, it is an act of generosity with your home and quiet confidence in both your hospitality and your discernment in selecting your guests.

You may set the table in a manner that most restaurants have long forgotten—and which few possess the equipment or expertise to emulate—transforming your dining room into one of the most exclusive venues in your social circle. Reservations are impossible; entry is granted by invitation only. The pleasure of a fine cigar accompanied by aged brandy after dinner becomes a grace you may extend without seeking permission or encountering a single disapproving glance. In this way, you live and host in the grand tradition of the Rothschilds and the Vanderbilts.

You create and offer a level of comfort, luxury, and attentive care that your guests are unlikely to encounter anywhere else.

Le Ciel Bleu is our dining room and the birthplace of Homespitality, where its guiding principles were born—a return to Home Hospitality in its purest form. This concept stands as a quiet answer to the vulgarization and degradation of the noble art of hospitality that we witness in our time.

It is simply a restoration of the level of hosting, comfort, and grace that our great-grandparents once took for granted. You may recreate this excellence within your own walls. It demands no great fortune or architectural grandeur—only a conscious cultivation of taste, style, and thoughtful organization.

Our own home is a modest 2,200 square feet, situated in an ordinary upper-middle-class neighborhood much like millions across America. Yet the hospitality we offer rivals the finest dining rooms anywhere. We are not ostentatious people; we are merely confident in our craft—possessed of appreciable skills, quiet assurance, and the genuine joy of sharing them. Imagine what your own Homespitality™ might become.

Among the artwork at Le Ciel Bleu you will find an original menu from Le Pavillon, signed by Henri Charrière—“Papillon”—after whose memoir the celebrated films were made, as well as an original copy of the book Le Pavillon by Henri Soulé himself, bearing his personal signature.

We take the arts of hosting and dining seriously, for they bestow memories that endure a lifetime.