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I WENT TO THAT HOT MAIN SQUEEZE CHEF’S RESTAURANT SO YOU DON’T HAVE TO


by Leslie Curtin, eater.com


After last week’s episode of Main Squeeze, no corner of the Internet was safe from discussion of one topic: French chef (slash International Hot Dude) Luc Dupond and his illicit night with Bea in Morocco. Did they sleep together, or did they sleep together? Is he on the show for the right reasons? And, most importantly—can the guy actually cook? This reporter braved the Snap-happy crowds at his restaurant, Canard Chanceux (that’s French for “lucky duck”), to find out.

Spoiler alert? The answer is no.

If you’re opening up a restaurant in downtown Manhattan, you’re facing steep rent and stiff competition, which means you have one of two choices: Either you can cook outrageously good food that keeps the crowds coming back, or you can put out plates that look really, really, really good on Instagram. You want to take a wild guess which thing Canard Chanceux is doing?

And yes, I’ll admit, it’s fun to see your lamb lollipops ascend a spiral staircase made of freeze-dried frites while a column of foie-infused smoke (reader, I wish I was making that up) shoots up the middle. But you know what’s more fun? Eating food that tastes good.

In Luc’s defense, this isn’t his restaurant, nor his concept (he was hired by the owners to replace the previous chef after a much-publicized embezzlement scandal). Who knows how well he would do if he were to achieve his dream of opening up his own place—a dream that’s within reach now that he’s become a quasi-celebrity. But one thing’s unfortunately for sure: His fame will no doubt draw even greater hordes to a restaurant where everyone should photograph the food, but nobody, least of all you, should eat it.



Hometown week was the craziest shooting schedule of the season—four cities across America in just six days. Since there was neither time nor budget to go to Normandy to meet Luc’s family this week, Bea was spending an afternoon with Luc in New York City to meet his friends and eat at his restaurant. Still smarting from his behavior in Morocco and questioning his motives, Bea told Alison she wanted to feel tough on this date—like a hot bitch you don’t mess with. They settled on skintight Veda leather leggings paired with a silky black blouse (several buttons undone to reveal the lacy low-cut cami Bea wore underneath), spiky McQueen heels, and a luxe dark Baja East trench coat slung around her shoulders. They finished the look with bombshell waves, smoky eyes, big lashes, and soft, pouty lips—Bea thought it was the sexiest she’d looked all season.

As she stepped into the sleek mirrored foyer of the restaurant, Bea saw that Luc agreed with her assessment. He slipped the coat from her shoulders, letting his hands linger at her waist and slide down over her hips as he kissed her hello on the cheek.

“My God.” His voice was throaty in her ear. “I wish today you were the meal.”

“Then what would I eat?” Bea smiled and swept into the restaurant, leaving Luc to trail behind her.

The dining room was inky and angular, the chairs hard, the ceilings low, the surfaces dark and lacquered. The whole place had a sultry, subterranean feel—it made perfect sense to Bea that this was the sort of restaurant where see-and-be-seen traders and club kids came to drop $1,000 on a Tuesday. At the back of the room, a smoked glass wall gave a murky view of the restaurant’s kitchen, where prep for the evening was well under way; they were filming this meal at 2 P.M. so as not to interfere with that night’s dinner service. Bea was so distracted by the motion, energy, and chaotic order of the chefs and the line cooks going through their routines, and the realization that all these people reported to Luc, that she barely noticed the table of his friends waiting to meet her.

“Everyone, this is Bea,” Luc announced, and three of the most attractive people Bea had ever seen turned to appraise her.

“Bea, I’m Stefania.” A towering brunette with creamy alabaster skin and a crisp English accent rose to kiss Bea’s cheek and clasp her hands as if they were already old friends. “Luc has been telling us about you.”

“All good things, I hope?”

“Of course! He’s absolutely smitten by you. But that’s Luc, isn’t it? Never denies himself a pleasure.”

“I’ve noticed that too.” Bea threw Luc a little look, and he grinned impishly back.

“And this is my partner, Isabeau.”

Isabeau was a Black woman from Paris, and so chic Bea thought she’d be right at home in the fashion world; her flowing silk pants hung low on her hips, and her hair was arranged in swirls of Bantu knots.

“Enchantée—love your blouse.” Isabeau kissed Bea’s cheeks as well.

“Thank you. Your slacks are fantastic.”

“What, these?” Isabeau waved her hand dismissively. “I made them in an afternoon.”

“You’re a designer?” Bea’s eyes lit up.

“No, she’s in marketing, of all things.” Stefania rolled her eyes. “Just much more beautiful and talented than the rest of us.”

“Not more than you, chérie.” Isabeau grinned and kissed Stefania—Bea liked them both immediately.