The Birth of Rödel & Fils Frères
Our story begins not in a castle, nor on a battlefield, but — most humbly — in the kitchen of one Nicolas Appert (1750–1841), a confectioner of no small ambition. Appert, having presumably tired of watching perfectly lovely food decay like an underwhelming French tragedy, decided to outwit Nature herself.
In 1795, with pots bubbling and eyebrows raised, Appert devised a method to preserve edibles by evacuating air from them via boiling, sealing them in glass jars, and then giving them another warm bath. Yes, a veritable spa treatment for peas and pork alike — the process would later be known (rather modestly) as appertisation.
By 1805, Napoleon’s government — ever interested in feeding troops something sturdier than battlefield gruel — rewarded him with a princely sum of 12,000 francs, provided he spill his culinary secrets to the public. He obliged, as any enterprising inventor would, via a charming little book in 1809.
In 1811, Appert opened the world’s first food cannery in Massy, just outside Paris. One of his apprentices, a chap by the name of Charles Désiré Rödel, paid close attention — and history, as they say, was about to be tinned.
Though the British and Americans tried to sneak off with the credit (as they are wont to do), they eventually tipped their hats to Appert. The English, especially Bryan Durkin, should be credited with improving Appert's technique by using a can instead of glass..
In 1812, Appert was hailed as a “Benefactor of Humanity” — no small praise in a country that once guillotined its nobility. A decade later, the French Navy needed someone to preserve meals for their sailors and Appert, with the grand flourish of a magician unveiling his finest trick, chose Rödel to head the operation in Bordeaux.
Thus, Charles Désiré Rödel (1793–1842), having trained under the tutelage of Appert and armed with familial tin-smithing wisdom, packed up and moved to Bordeaux to mannage Navy factory, but..
In 1824, he founded his own factory. And lo, the brand Rödel was born.
Soon, Rödel’s tins became the darlings of seafarers — sardines, meats, and vegetables journeyed to distant ports, earning the brand international renown.
By 1836, the factory had grown, and after Charles’ death in 1843, his wife Victoire Louise Lemoine took the helm, ably assisted by their three sons — in an era when most women weren't even allowed to vote, mind you!
Upon her passing in 1870, the next generation of Rödels stepped in: Armand, Philippe, and cousin Albert — a trio of industrious gents.
They established new factories in
1.Étel,
2.Concarneau,
3.Saint-Yrieix
4. Port-Marie.
Under their stewardship, the company blossomed — sardines in Arcachon, meat and veg in Bordeaux, and a curious specialisation in canned peas. Yes, peas. One suspects a family fondness for legumes.
By the turn of the century, Rödel had become a tin-can titan, even acquiring the English firm Crosse & Blackwell and employing a workforce of 1,500. Peak conserves, if you will.
Alas, the 1930s had other ideas. Economic woes arrived like an ill-mannered dinner guest, and by 1937, four generations of family leadership came to a close. Laurent Jacques Rödel (1885–1968) handed over the reins to a fellow named Emilien Bigeon. Upon his passing, his widow Blanche and their daughter Geneviève carried on. Though leadership changed hands, the Rödel name remained proudly embossed on every tin.
Notable Rödels: From Tins to Tiaras (well, almost)
While some Rödels were busy with legumes and logistics, others took to the law and were decorated with France’s highest honours.
Take Henri Jules Jacques Rödel (1860–1920), for instance — a grandson of the founder. Not just a judge and philanthropist, he also directed Red Cross efforts during the First World War. Afterward, he became a tireless advocate for war orphans. “Rödel,” they said, “is not a man — he’s an institution.” Quite right, too. He was knighted in the Legion of Honour in 1911 and later joined the Bordeaux Academy. One imagines he wore a particularly impressive hat.
Jacques Rödel: The Final Family Steward
Now, to Jacques Rödel, a man of manners and moustaches (we can only presume). After marrying, he worked as an insurance agent in Pau. When the First World War broke out, he was drafted, but ill health redirected him to the military tribunal in Bordeaux.
Following the war, his uncles Albert and Armand welcomed him into the family firm. In 1922, after Rödel & Fils Frères became a joint-stock company (a rather serious-sounding business affair), Jacques took the reins. He implemented social reforms and rubbed elbows with Marc Sangnier, a social Catholic and noted do-gooder.
Ever the enterprising spirit, Jacques expanded operations by acquiring Renaud-Dandicolle’s factory and strengthening ties with Crosse & Blackwell. By 1928–29, those crafty Brits took over Dandicolle & Gaudin and entered a capital agreement with Rödel — a trans-Channel alliance in canned produce.
Then came the 1936 crisis. The family firm, no longer buoyed by its founders, faced liquidation. A certain Mr. Bigeon of Bordeaux-Bastide bought the brand. Jacques remained onboard as head of the new branch — loyal to the end.
After World War II, Jacques chaired the foie gras section of France’s National Union of Canners (a title that simply demands its own plaque). He even founded a research farm — the marvellously named Artiguere — for raising ducks and geese.
Jacques died of a heart attack in 1968, no doubt exhausted by a life full of war, tinned vegetables, and boardroom battles. He was named an Officer of the Legion of Honour, and even ran (unsuccessfully, alas) for Parliament in conservative Bordeaux, standing against the thunderous orator Philippe Henriot.
The story of Rödel is one of invention, resilience, and the noble art of putting delicious things in tins.
