All is forgiven. I had dinner at Bouchon tonight (I took Anna's advice to bat my lashes and show cleavage). I'm in great charity with Vegas right now (I was kidding about previous comment. I just walked in at opening and pointed out that there was no one in the restaurant so surely they could seat me).
Having eaten at The French Laundry and Bouchon in Yountville (the former with the beloved hubby, the latter with cousins Wendy and Jesse), I was all set for good French bistro fare. Of course, Bouchon did not disappoint. (Okay, they did, initially: they do not make steak tartare.) I ordered Steak Frites and asked the waiter to have the meat prepared to the equivalent of what a dear British friend once described as, "Wipe its arse and throw it on my plate." It seemed to please him immensely that I did not ask for charred flesh so the hunk of meat came to the table perfectly pink bordering on red. And the frites! The frites! Few things in the world make me happier than fries that are properly prepared except it's so simple a dish everyone invariably screws it up.
Here's the proper way to make fries, taught to me by my aunt, the third first-rate chef of my acquaintance (one and two being Granny Le and Mom): first, use Russet potatoes. If you must use anything else, use Yukon Golds. Otherwise, don't bother making fries. Peel and cut into strips. Soak in cold water 30 minutes to wash off the starch. Drain in a colander and rinse with cold water again. Dry using paper towels or cloth towels. Heat up peanut oil (PEANUT! Not safflower, olive, corn or vegetable oil. PEANUT!) until flicking water droplets into the oil causes it to pop and crackle. Water droplets, mind you. Otherwise you are risking life and burnt arms. Put in a batch of fries being careful NOT TO CROWD the pot. This part -- blanching -- is the first part of a two step process. Leave the fries in until they start to turn slightly gold. Remove from the pot and drain on paper towels. Put in the second batch of fries. Repeat until you've blanched all fries. Part two of a perfect fry is to let the oil reheat. Now put the first batch of blanched fries (remember not to crowd the pot) back in. The fries will turn golden quickly -- remove from the hot oil once they're golden. Don't brown too much or you risk crunchy vs crispy fries. Repeat with other batches.
A frites purist would eat the fries without sauces. I'm American enough to want them with Heinz 57. Forget John Kerry. Any other ketchup is worthless.
The highlight of dinner: the chef de cuisine, Mark Hopper, invited me into the kitchen for a tour after I asked the waiter if I could get an autographed menu. Apparently the fact that I'd dined at his former alma maters (French Laundry and Bouchon) was enough to induce him to invite me backstage.
Take your movie stars; they're useless to me. But introduce me to a chef and it's the equivalent of giving me food geek nirvana. Hubby says that when I got to go back to the French Laundry's kitchen, I behaved as if I were going to prom. I was giddy, sure, but it had to do with still being drunk from the 4 bottle pre-dinner tasting expedition and the pain of sore legs from dry shaving. But I digress: that's another story.
Chef Hopper asked me about my experiences at the French Laundry, and mentioned that he might have cooked for me and Hubby the night we went with Wendy and Jesse since Chef Keller was in New York at Per Se. I asked him if he was planning to branch out on his own like Grant Achatz, one of the former FL sous chefs and Hopper lit up. He said Grant was his best friend and we chatted about Achatz's career and his new restaurant, Alinea, due to open May 4 (is it sad that I know restaurant opening dates and Star Wars movies opening dates?). He told me that when Hubby and I are in Chicago and we want to eat there to give him a call and he'd set us up with Achatz. Then he asked the chef of operations to give me a tour of the entire place.
It lacked only the Hubby to make the experience superlative because it's never fun to eat dinner without someone whose food sympathies are perfectly aligned with your own. You feel like The Jerk with the spotlight on you. On the other hand, everyone in the restaurant feels sorry for you and they keep bringing you bread from the Bakery and take you to the kitchen for a private tour.
I've figured it out: Vegas is like DisneyWorld on steroids. It appeals to my sense of the ridiculous so I like it. And let's face it: the food selections are pretty impressive. Le Cirque and a Keller restaurant within spitting distance?
My friend Greg text messaged me: "the thought of you soaking up all that psuedo-culture is painfully funny."
It is/was painfully funny to me too: I think I peed myself laughing under the fake blue sky when the singing gondoliers pushed by at The Venetian.
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