Daniel Boulud: From Farmhouse to Food Empire

We raised animals, we had a big garden for produce and a vineyard for wine, and we made our own cheese and ham.

I’m a middle child with two older brothers and two younger sisters. My grandmother lived with us, while my uncles and cousins lived nearby on their own farms. We all helped each other during harvests.

Our farmhouse from the late 1800s was built of stone and earth in the French adobe style. Brick pillars supported the roof, and the interior walls were quite thick. Everyone had their own bedroom except for my two sisters, who roomed together in one. In the back, large buildings sheltered the cows, goats, pigs and chickens.

Every week there seemed to be a big harvest. There were specific times of the year to gather the garlic, the greens, the hay, the walnuts, the chestnuts and so on. After the harvest, our food was sold at the farmer’s market in Lyon.

My mother, Marie, raised us and tended the animals. Inside our house, the rule of law was my mother. Outside, it was my father.

My grandmother did the cooking for the café attached to our house—Café Boulud. This was fairly common. Every three or four miles, farms had a social place to gather and talk, make calls on the pay phone or just have lunch.

My father, Julien, was hard working and had a good sense of humor. He also was handy. He made all kinds of tools and machines. He was an inventor and engineer without a diploma.

I began helping my father when I turned 8. But to be honest, I didn’t like going into the field. So I became useful in the kitchen helping my grandmother. She taught me how to cook.

What I remember most were her soups. They expressed the foods of the seasons. She also made her own bread.

My bedroom walls were covered with posters of motorcycles. I was crazy about them. By the late 1960s, my wall also included posters of

Jimi Hendrix,

Bob Dylan

and French rocker

Johnny Hallyday.

A lot of my friends in the village became so experienced in the kitchen that they left home to cook professionally in their mid-teens. At 14, I did the same. Fortunately, I had help. For years, I brought milk, eggs and chickens to a wealthy countess who lived nearby. She liked me and my family very much. When my parents told her I wanted to become a cook, she called Nandron, a two-star restaurant in Lyon, and asked the chef to hire me. He did.

By 1980, there was already a legacy of great French chefs in American kitchens—

Jean-Louis Palladin

in Washington and André Soltner and

Jean-Jacques Rachou

in New York. Stories of their success made their way back to the kitchens of France. I dreamed of following in their footsteps.

In 1980, when I was 25, I moved to the U.S., to work as a private chef in Washington, D.C. Two years later, I moved to New York to work at the Polo Lounge and then Le Régence before becoming executive chef at Le Cirque from 1986 to 1992.

Today, I live above my flagship restaurant, Daniel, on New York’s East Side. I moved into the 2,500-square-foot space 20 years ago. It has a garden and a terrace.

My wife, Katherine, and I renovated three years ago, expanding the kitchen to 185 square feet.

When I finish work at 2 a.m. and arrive home upstairs, I love to eat half an avocado with either dry sausage or anchovy.

The dining space in our kitchen is my favorite space in the apartment. I also love my cookbook den and home office. I shut the door and relax in my red Auckland chair and footstool from Cassina.

Four times a year, I return to France to visit my family. Next year, my parents will celebrate 68 years of marriage and their respective 90th birthdays. I’m planning a huge party in Lyon.

My father still cures his own ham and bakes his own bread. When I’m there and we put those two together, it’s like prayer. I feel nothing has changed and life is beautiful.