Delicious

There is a specific kind of arrogance that only an 18th-century French aristocrat can pull off, and it usually involves mocking someone for putting a potato in a pastry. In the opening moments of Delicious (or Délicieux for the purists), our protagonist, the stoic and gifted chef Pierre Manceron, commits the ultimate sin: he serves a dish featuring the "earth apple" to a room full of powdered-wig snobs. To the Duke of Chamfort and his cronies, the potato is pig food—vile, dirt-adjacent, and utterly beneath them. The fallout is swift, brutal, and frankly, a bit hilarious. Manceron is sacked, not for a lack of skill, but for a lack of "decency."

I watched this film while my neighbor was aggressively mowing their lawn, and the scent of freshly cut grass drifting through my window weirdly complemented the film's obsession with earthy, pastoral textures. It’s a movie you can practically smell, though I’d recommend having a high-quality snack on hand. Watching Manceron handle a truffle with the reverence of a priest handling a relic while you’re eating a handful of generic cereal is a recipe for instant regret.

The Art of the Culinary Comeback

At its heart, Delicious is a classic redemption arc dressed in floury aprons and linen shirts. After his public shaming, Grégory Gadebois plays Manceron with a wonderful, crumbly grumpiness. He retreats to a dusty roadside inn, determined to never cook for the "quality" again. Gadebois is a marvel of physical acting; he doesn't need to tell us he’s heartbroken—he just lets his shoulders slump while he stares at a bowl of bland broth. He’s a man who has lost his "jus," so to speak.

Enter Louise, played by the luminous Isabelle Carré. She arrives at his door claiming she wants to be his apprentice, which, in 1789, was about as common as a peasant owning a private jet. Carré brings a sharp, secretive energy to the kitchen that balances Gadebois’ heavy silence. Their chemistry isn't built on grand romantic gestures but on the rhythmic chopping of vegetables and the shared understanding of how much butter is "enough" (spoiler: it’s never enough).

Their mission morphs from simple survival into a radical act of rebellion: creating the first restaurant. We take the concept for granted now, but the idea of a commoner sitting at a private table, choosing from a menu, and being served like a king was a tactical nuke dropped on the French class system. The Duke of Chamfort is essentially the original Yelp reviewer from hell, and Manceron’s realization that he doesn't need the Duke’s approval to be a master is the film’s most satisfying "eat the rich" moment.

A Feast for the Eyes (and Only the Eyes)

Director Éric Besnard and cinematographer Jean-Marie Dreujou clearly spent a lot of time looking at Chardin and Vermeer paintings. Every frame is bathed in that golden, dusty light that makes even a pile of raw carrots look like a masterpiece. In an era where so many digital releases look like they were filmed through a muddy sock, the visual clarity here is a breath of fresh air.

The film leans into the "contemporary" trend of slow-burn, tactile cinema. It’s part of that post-pandemic wave of movies that prioritizes the sensory experience of craft—think The Taste of Things or even The Bear, but with more lace and less swearing. There’s a scene involving the preparation of a "Delicious" (the eponymous potato and truffle turnover) that is filmed with such loving detail I half-expected a recipe to scroll across the bottom of the screen. If this movie doesn't make you want to bake something, you might actually be a robot.

However, it’s not all whisks and sunshine. The villainy provided by Benjamin Lavernhe as the Duke is deliciously over-the-top. He plays the character with such a high-frequency sneer I’m surprised he didn't shatter the crystal on set. He represents the stagnant, rotting core of the Old Regime, and his scenes provide the necessary friction to keep the movie from becoming too much of a cozy food-porn montage.

Politics on a Plate

While Delicious is categorized as a comedy-drama, it sneaks in some surprisingly heavy themes about the democratization of pleasure. In 1789, beauty and flavor were hoarded by the elite. By moving the kitchen from the chateau to the roadside, Manceron isn't just selling soup; he’s selling equality. It’s a prescient theme for a 2021 release—a time when we were all re-evaluating our relationship with public spaces and communal dining.

The script, co-written by Besnard and Nicolas Boukhrief, manages to keep the pacing brisk despite the period setting. It avoids the "Museum Movie" trap where everything feels stiff and untouchable. Instead, the kitchen feels hot, greasy, and alive. My only real gripe is that the final act leans a bit too heavily into a "heist" vibe that feels slightly disconnected from the grounded, soulful first hour. But honestly, I was having too much fun watching Guillaume de Tonquédec scurry around as the Duke’s sycophantic man-servant to care much about plot logic.

If there's a "stuff you didn't notice" detail to look for, pay attention to the evolution of the dining room. The shift from communal benches to individual tables is handled with such narrative weight you’d think they were inventing the wheel. In a way, they were. They were inventing the modern world, one plate of fried bread at a time.

Delicious is a rare bird in the current cinematic landscape: a mid-budget, high-concept French period piece that actually cares about entertaining its audience. It doesn't try to be a gritty, "relevant" deconstruction of the past; instead, it celebrates the timeless joy of a good meal and the spite required to serve it to your enemies. It’s warm, witty, and visually stunning. Just make sure you have dinner reservations booked for immediately after the credits roll, because you are going to be absolutely famished.