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During the height of the Paris Olympics, I sneaked off to brunch with an old college friend at a bucolic spot hidden off the main tourist avenues of the hilly Montmartre. Sweating in the late-morning heat, we had just turned our conversation to the moribund state of the journalism industry when the mere sight of our order coming toward the table took my breath away.
We had ordered oeufs cocotte, eggs cooked with various vegetables, meats, and cheeses in a miniature lidded casserole dish, called a cocotte. The overflowing concoction oozed down the edges, and the dish came sided with long slices of bread for dipping. Simply heaven. A few months later, while visiting Dijon, I saw a striking red version of the dish while trying different types of the culinary mecca’s signature mustard at a Maille shop. It was immediately clear that this was a Le Creuset, in the French-Belgian cookware brand’s iconic Cerise Red shade. At 25 euros, the mini cocotte was far less of an investment than its full-size counterpart (which cost into the hundreds) and an easily justifiable purchase.
As a not-too-shabby home chef often cooking for one, I thought of all the possibilities available to me: French onion soup, shakshuka, fondue, and of course many variations on oeufs cocotte (a dish known in English, much less cutely, as shirred or baked eggs). But I didn’t yet grasp that this small piece of cookery would provide a taste of the stability and comfort that’s often out of reach for perennial renters. I’ve moved more times than I can count in my adopted city, and in my hodgepodge of cooking utensils, no two forks look alike and no plate is unchipped. There’s little sense of pride in ownership when the quality of the mug for a morning brew is determined by the order in which my roommates and I wake up—the early bird gets the most aesthetic cup; the last gets the one with no handle—and breaking a wineglass is no big deal because you can always buy yet another set from Ikea.
I may not have the room in my quaint (a nice way to say “tiny”) Parisian kitchen for a full Le Creuset cocotte. (The word derives from the French cocasse, meaning “saucepan”; cocotte also refers to paper fortune tellers, as well as high-class sex workers in the 19th century.) But investing, albeit on a small scale, in household luxuries feels like a step into the sort of cozy homemaking espoused by Martha Stewart and Ina Garten. Unsurprisingly, the Le Creuset No. 26 Dutch is the Barefoot Contessa’s go-to. And of course Julia Child was a fan: One of her cocotte dishes is even in the National Museum of American History. (I should note, too, that the mini cocotte is also sold in a set of four, perfect for elevating a dinner party.)
Le Creuset, which celebrates its 100th anniversary this year, has long been a status symbol. The most expensive set ever was Marilyn Monroe’s in Elysee Yellow, sold at auction for $25,300 in 1999. The more than 150 colorways offered over the years; the clever shapes, like hearts and flowers; and the many collaborations, ranging from Pokémon to Star Wars to Beauty and the Beast, have kept the brand fresh. But unlike many modern “quiet luxuries,” Le Creuset’s value comes less from its exclusivity than from its practicality and longevity. It still produces all its cast-iron products in the northern French town of Fresnoy-le-Grand, where it reportedly takes 120 hours to make one piece, cast individually in a sand mold. This mold is used only once, so no two items are exactly the same. Each dish is coated in multiple layers of enamel and checked by 15 people with a high bar for quality: About 30 percent of products are deemed unfit for sale.
In an age of planned obsolescence and the enshittification of many consumer goods, it’s easy to understand why Le Creuset continues to draw new generations of fans. In an article for the Independent examining the brand’s popularity among Gen Z–ers, Helen Coffey quotes the British comedy Big Mood, about young women finding themselves in London. In the series, Nicola Coughlan (of Bridgerton and Derry Girls fame) says, “God, if I could finally get a big Le Creuset, things might really turn around for me.” As Coffey explains, “Le Creuset embodies the adulthood aesthetic—the supreme sign that you’ve transitioned into being an honest-to-goodness grown-up.”
It’s true that this cooking vessel can make you feel as if you’re in a Nancy Meyers kitchen, like that of the bakery-owning Meryl Streep in It’s Complicated. I’ve experienced this sort of cosplaying when I cook at the family apartment of my French boyfriend, a Ph.D. candidate in medieval history who’s uncertain about his career prospects. The space, which hasn’t been redecorated since the 1980s, bears many marks of the life his deceased grandparents built—like many Jews, they found success in the fashion industry during the 20th century. Of course, they have a full Le Creuset set, including a large soup pot. I learned of its existence while cooking a Passover meal for 10 of our friends, the sort of hosting I enjoy but that doesn’t feel totally natural, especially in a place that’s not my own. I might not be the biggest fan of the pot’s dated beige color, but it proved indispensable in making the matzo ball soup. As I ladled out bowls of the rich broth, careful to avoid spilling on the white carpet, I could almost believe I was in the sort of home I imagine owning one day. I was reluctant to close the lid on that.
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