Emil Schwarz
Google
Lunch. No Bullshit – Just Class.
Avignon, June 16. 26 degrees, light wind rustling through the old stone streets. The Rhône moves like it’s got somewhere to be. My Family and I duck into Pollen for lunch – off the main drag, no flashing signs, no red carpets. Just a clean doorway and a quiet confidence.
Inside? Cool, calm, quietly elegant. No circus. No ego. Just a dining room that whispers: you’re in good hands.
We go carte blanche. That means: shut up and let them cook. Perfect.
First course: roasted beet in a salt crust, Berberis berries, a green herb foam, trout roe, radish, and some tiny tart that crumbles the second it touches your tongue. It’s fresh, focused, and dead serious. Nothing here is trying too hard.
Wine? Something white, smells great, just tart enough to snap you awake. Tastes like river stones and orchard windfall. Not your supermarket Sauvignon. Good.
Then: whipped butter with preserved lemon. Comes with warm bread. No theatre. You dip into it and it’s sunshine, citrus, and comfort all at once. You could eat it forever.
Next: a zucchini flower, filled with a delicate mousse, floating in a light mussel curry broth. That sounds like a train wreck in lesser hands. Here? It’s silk. Balanced. Beautiful. The kind of dish that says, these guys know what the hell they’re doing.
The lamb? Perfectly pink. Perfectly salted. Served with wild mushrooms, some weird but wonderful vegetable the waiter called “ornithogale” – looks like baby asparagus, tastes like spring. Deep, spicy jus. And the wine? A lean, earthy red with just enough bite to keep you honest.
Then: carrot mousse with tandoori spice. It’s weird. It’s cool. It works.
Dessert: apricot cream, white tea, some delicate crunchy pastry called an Arlette, and a sauce that zips through the sweetness like a blade.
Now let’s talk about the service.
The team here is young, sharp, and tuned in. Genuinely kind. Not fake-fine-dining-smile kind – real, human, attentive without hovering kind. They know what’s on the plate, what’s in the glass, and how to make you feel like you belong. Not because you dropped a few euros on lunch, but because you came to eat – and they respect that.
No pretense. No show. Just people who give a damn – about the food, about the wine, and about the experience you’re having.
Pollen doesn’t need a hype machine. It doesn’t need a dozen Instagram influencers pretending to be food critics. It just needs what it has: a chef who cooks with restraint, a team that cares, and a space that lets the food speak.
