Meet the Man Making Some of the World’s Most Stunning Restaurant Countertops

"Can you tell him to get a move on? We've already been here half an hour and we have two more hours of welding." It's 8:30 AM in a pizzeria in the center of Raincy, just east of Paris, and it's clear that Thierry Nectoux has no intention of spending the day here.

Nectoux is a friendly fifty-something guy, but this morning, he is getting annoyed: His tin countertop, which traveled across France on a truck all the way from his studio in Dax, isn't properly locking into place on the main bar. A piece of wood is preventing the heavy, 440-pound piece from fitting. The carpenter, Vincent Decot—the one everyone has been waiting for—finally arrives. He was the one who connected Thierry Nectoux with his client, the man who has owned this pizzeria for over 25 years, and who is renovating it from the floor to the ceiling. Vincent quickly identifies the problem, and one motion of his jigsaw later, the tin countertop finally slides into place, flush with the two pillars and the bar.

Without losing a single minute, Thierry Nectoux and his employee Mathias get to work: They light up the large stovetop at the front of the house, and dip the welding tips into the flame.

Before taking the reins at Ateliers Nectoux, the world's ultimate resource for tin countertops, Thierry Nectoux was a land surveyor. "The company crumbled, so I started helping out my father, who was one of the last people in France to work with cast tin. I dipped my toes into tin, so to speak, and immediately loved it," he remembers.

First, the tin ingots—his raw materials—arrive from Indonesia. They are melted in the family workshop, then cast in antique molds, the majority of which were made back in 1880—the year his grandfather, Thierry, got started with the artisanal craft. It has since become a family specialty.

"In the 1960s and 1970s, demand slowed so much that most of the companies making tin had to close. My father was one of the last people who knew how to work it," explains Thierry. Today, thanks to a new wave of chefs who appreciate the authentically French aesthetic of the material and its "bistro" touch, things seem to be looking up. "I met Yves Camdeborde in his restaurant La Régalade, and we got along well. He ordered a countertop for the next place he opened, and then introduced me to Philippe Etchebest, who also wanted to get a few made. Word of mouth connected me to this whole generation of new chefs."

Anywhere between six and eight countertops get completed every month at the Nectoux workshop, which has since relocated to Dax under the rays of the Landes sun. Sixty percent of these are destined to remain in France, while 40 percent are sent abroad to places including the US, Scandinavia, and most recently, Qatar. Most of the countertops are ordered by restaurant professionals and a handful of non-restaurant people, although, with rates of 1,000 to 1,800 bucks per meter of zinc countertop, Nectoux finesse isn't exactly accessible to everyone. "Each piece is roughly ten to 15 hours of work, and everything is customizable: the shape, the depth, the detailing on the edges, and the lip (that little wave that prevents water from flowing over the edge)." A tin "piste" costs roughly 30 percent more than its equivalent in wood or stainless steel. "Beyond that, it's a question of cachet," concludes Thierry Nectoux, quite confident in the effect his zinc has on customers.

Many competitors offer "laminated" tin—thin, ready-made sheets—but their lifespan and options for customization are a whole other story. "It's simple. There are two of us in France and two of us in the world who are casting molten tin," clips the boss, cutting short any further talk of comparisons.

Back at the Pizzeria Santa Monica in Raincy, Thierry and Mathias are applying finishing touches. The beast cost nearly 15,000 euros. "It was a large piece with two integrated pillars, plus a joint. That's why we tackled it bright and early," laughs Thierry. With the final product in place, the owners have no regrets, and the contractor seems pleased with the initiative undertaken by his carpenter. "We open tomorrow, normally," he mentions, trying to convince his workers, who are still busy with painting and electrical work.

Meanwhile, the Nectoux team is juggling various artisanal welding tips, which were also made in their shop. Mathias tackles the central weld. "I quit school at 16. It was my first job, and that was nine years ago," he tells us between two strokes of frisoir, a small metal blade that sands down the surface of the tin and gives it its final look.

Hammering is the last step: Mathias taps a metal chain against the welded areas, which leaves tiny traces on the surface of the countertop. "This helps it look less new, otherwise people are devastated when they make the first nick," explains Mathias, smiling. "Some resellers I work with ask me to do even more damage, and when I refuse, they sometimes go in with a sledgehammer to give it a more lived-in look," adds Thierry.

Later in the afternoon, we catch up with the duo in the 16th arrondissement in Paris. Since we saw them last, they've had time to go take measurements around Montreuil, pick up an old countertop in a cafe that is renovating its space, and scarf something down for lunch. The vibe here is decidedly different. The owner, François Saumet, greets them in a sleeveless down vest. This isn't his first Nectoux. "It must be my eighth," he says, chuckling as Thierry starts listing all the bistros where he's laid down a "piste." This is their last client of the day, and it's clear that the pressures from this morning have dissipated. The job goes without a hitch: They unveil the countertop, and this time, it fits in perfectly. All they have left now are two meetings tomorrow, and they'll be on their way back to Dax. "We come to Paris two days a week," explains the boss.

By the way, why do we say "zinc" when Nectoux countertops are actually made of tin? Thierry is used to getting this question: "There are two answers to that. The first is that during World War II, Germans occupying France melted tin countertops to make shell primers. And in German, the word for tin is 'zinn.' The nickname supposedly comes from that. The second answer is that, during the reconstruction of Paris, many rooftops were damaged, and the plombiers zingueurs [the name in French for plumbers who work on rooftops and gutters] who worked on them were traditionally regulars at local watering holes—spending a lot of time leaning on countertops. People often said they never climbed a roof on an empty stomach. Anyway, we're constantly explaining that there is no zinc in our countertops, since it's oxidizable and not appropriate for food."

Before climbing back into his truck, he adds, with one last smile: "But you gotta admit that zinc has a better ring to it."