It's safe to say that eating at The French Laundry was the apex event of my culinary life thus far. I have steadily checked off visits at several Zagat and Michelin starred restaurants in the past two decades and with few exceptions, have loved each one.
I am always a little leery and afraid of eating at acclaimed restaurants. It's like going on a blind date with someone who everyone says is amazing and what you find is that the person in question is nice. Just nice.
My last great restaurant experience (meaning, it measured up to the hype) was at Le Cirque, which I had the great pleasure and fortune to eat at three days running (ah the expense account...). Le Bernardin, which followed a mere two days later, did not fare so well -- the atmosphere was exquisite, the service was impeccable and the food was ... well, great. Great, not amazing. Don't get me wrong: it's a GREAT restaurant; but my food lacked that essential sublime quality that would have made me a convert otherwise. Maybe if Eric Ripert had walked out and talked to our table, I might have been more favorable about my food; but I shouldn't rate my halibut by a chef's smoky eyes and seductive penchant for referring to food as "sexy." I was talking to one of my sisters a few years back and she said she was going to marry an Italian chef. I begged her to marry Thomas Keller or Eric Ripert. I found it singularly uncooperative of her not to take my request seriously (bear in mind that one has a steady girlfriend and the other a wife, and my epicurean selfishness is such that I still suggested this).
Before eating one morsel of Thomas Keller's food, I was already an acolyte. I own his cookbook. To paraphrase Tony Bourdain, it's the equivalent of porn for foodies. Who, for instance, would pair up tapioca pearls with oysters and caviar? And more importantly, make it work?!
We took a cab from our hotel to the French Laundry. It's a lovely stone building that overlooks the main street in Yountville. It's actually quite romantic looking. We couldn’t find the door. There are no finger-pointing "This Way" signs up so we traveled around the side of the building. We saw a big blue door but figured that couldn't be it -- too large -- probably for handicapped access. This was next to a large window and a door so we walked over and opened the door. And interrupted a staff meeting. One of the waiters took pity on us and pointed to the blue door. Huh. Whaddya know? It WAS for the handicapped -- say, the mentally deficient. Finding doors to restaurants are troublesome for us.
I at least had an excuse for being as sharp as a bowling ball: I was still drunk. Let me back up a little....
I was so giddy that morning at the prospect of eating at the French Laundry that I told Hubby we were going to eat lightly as not to spoil our appetites for dinner. No lunch, I said. Breakfast only. For me, a bowl of fruit at breakfast. He had enough sense to eat eggs, bacon, fruit and a waffle. We then decided to go wine tasting at a few of our favorite vineyards: Whitehall Lane and Flora Springs on Highway 29, and Pine Ridge and Regusci on the Silverado Trail. In my perpetual state of exhilaration, I did what I had not done since I was a rookie vineyard hopper: I drank every glass that was poured for me.
Now, four vineyards with tasting flights of between 4-6 glasses + a 108 pound woman + a bowl of fruit four hours earlier = stupid drunk.
At some point, Hubby realized that my euphoria had nothing to do with the French Laundry any longer and I was definitely sloshed. This was now 4:38 pm. Our reservation was for 7:00. He hustled me back to the car and got me back to the hotel and put me to bed. I remember him saying something like, "You're pissing me off," but I think that was because I fell out of the car when he opened my door.
When he woke me up ninety minutes later, he actually reared in horror when I opened my eyes. Still fuzzy -- but definitely less sloshed -- I was actually alarmed.
"What? What?"
"Um...your eyes. They're all red."
"You think I can wear sunglasses?"
"Not inside."
GREAT. Going to the French Laundry as Bunnicula.
So getting wasted before the meal of a lifetime was Big Mistake #1. Big Mistake #2 happened because the neurons were firing but none of the synapses were receiving. I ran a shower thinking a nice hot shower would soothe me and wake me up. But before getting into the shower, I decided to dry shave my legs.
And that is the reason why, as I was sitting in the garden of the French Laundry, waiting for our table, my thoughts went like this: "Wow this garden is beautiful. Ow. This wine list is amazing. Ow. I can't believe I'm at the French Laundry. Ow."
Dinner….I thought about blogging the entire menu and my notes but that probably falls under cruel and unusual punishment. Suffice it to say that despite my sorry state, I progressively got better with each dish…and each dish was more exquisite than the last.
I can best describe the French Laundry meal this way: It was so good I fell in love with my husband all over again. There’s something elemental about communing over sublime food – all transgressions can be forgiven when every one of your five senses is floating between disbelief and delight.
As if the meal weren’t enough…the highlight of the entire experience was being invited to come back to the gallery – an alleyway between the kitchen and the dining room where the staff prep themselves and watch Chef Keller at work. Joe, our waiter, was just awesome. He took us back and we stood against the wall, watching as Chef Keller finished every plate before it left the kitchen. Behind him and around him were an army of white clad chefs – I have a strange memory of some of them simply standing idle though I’m sure that’s not at all the case – just watching him – and I can understand: we were dazzled by just WATCHING him. Hubby says that Chef Keller reminded him of a heroin addict: he was so completely focused on the task at hand, the food he was plating, that he saw and heard and experienced nothing else. I’m pretty sure the man knew everything going on in his kitchen – but I can understand what Hubby meant. Saying that Keller was focused is like saying the Pope could be Catholic. The man was intense.
Pretending to be appalled by the bill is just coy. This was the French Laundry. We knew what we were getting into. It was freaking unbelievably the most money I’ve ever seen spent for dinner for TWO people. But … IT WAS WORTH EVERY CENT and I’d do it again in a heartbeat.
Keller somehow managed to break his laser beam concentration long enough to sign my menu. It’s quite apt and perfectly descriptive of our experience: “It’s all about finesse.”
(originally posted May 29, 2004)
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