After being subjected to literally years of hype, recognition and reverence, we finally had our opportunity to eat at what some consider to be The Culinary Mecca of the Americas, and many place it in a special tier reserved for the top restaurants in the world.

Before I continue on this subject, I’d like to amend my take on relating a dining experience, and by extension, the evaluation of the meal.

By adopting the same method that others use to ‘judge’ a restaurant, I realized I was approaching this all wrong. Ranking, judging and comparing restaurants is as pointless as the Oscars, or Guitar Player Magazine’s Guitar Player Of the Year. The unfortunate result of making a competition about something inherently subjective and unquantifiable as skill and talent, is that we start to take these things seriously. Was Eddie Van Halen really better than Randy Rhodes? Did Crash really deliver a script and story better than the performances in Capote? Do we really believe Olympic judges don’t favor their own country’s competitors?

By applying judgment and competition to art, we limit ourselves in the ability to appreciate it. Just because a Van Gough fetches $82 million for a fingerpaint he drew as a kid, doesn’t mean other artists out there are any less talented or innovative. It just means they don’t have the history or exposure. And yes, Randy Rhodes should have beat Eddie Van Halen in 1981.

The same applies to haute cuisine. I am retracting my faint praise of Robuchon, and compartmentalizing it from any other experience. Upon reflection, he deserved more than to be lumped in with everyone else, as every chef deserves. I approached The French Laundry in the same way…but not until I was halfway through meal did that decision benefit me.

I was already on the fence about this, because I’ve given serious consideration about the whole notion since writing my last post. I was already spoiling for a fight. Goddamnit, if this isn’t the best meal I’ve ever had, I’m going to dangle Keller off the balcony like Vanilla Ice.

I decided I wasn’t going to judge The French Laundry like all the other Kulinary Klownz (aka foodies) who have a chalkboard in their kitchen where they move rankings of restaurants around like handicapping a horse race. Kulinary Klownz also tend to base their ranking of the food on how much they paid for it.

I was going to enjoy this experience and relay it based on its own merits, without applying false comparison to other chefs, nor base whether I was having the greatest meal of my life based on the price. I wouldn’t even ask myself if was the greatest meal I’ve ever had.

What earns top chef’s recognition is their approach to unique ways of preparing flavors that fit together in a unified dish. We were having a pretty lengthy discussion about the differences between Robuchon and Keller, and it dawned on me that the comparison couldn’t be made. I had some mild criticism of The Mansion, and much of it was based on ‘for the price, I expected this.’ But, to ding the guy because he has a particular artistic approach and flair, wasn’t fair, and robbed me of fully enjoying the experience.

Instead of enjoying the moment, I was evaluating the meal in comparison of every other meal I had eaten. Other experiences that had history and sentimentality and meaning to me, which a new one couldn’t possibly stand up to.

It’s important for you to understand that, because in no part of my narrative will I say this was the best meal I’ve ever had, or that it blew me away because of x, y, and z. Everybody knows The French Laundry, everybody already has full knowledge of Keller’s reputation and meticulous preparation and avant garde flavors, and that is exactly what I expected. It is exactly what he delivered.

So, I was glad to have made that decision before sitting down in this intimate cottage in Yountsville. We all piled out of the SUV looking like we were showing up to the prom, Nayan, our good friends Brian and Oksana, and I rolled in there ready to be fed. Camera in hand, I looked like a complete tool wearing a suit because jackets are required, and I have no sports jacket. I work for an internet company, so I was dressed in my interview suit. Brian even threw on a tie for posterity.

We left the Hotel Carlson after their complimentary wine service in the lobby and shot out at 7:30 because we wanted to beat any traffic snarls and security slowdowns that might occur because Dubya was staying in St. Helena down the street.

We got there early, to discover they don’t have a bar, but a quaint waiting room adorned with a couch, few chairs and some flowers. We were the only ones foolish enough to arrive early hoping for a freak vacant table. Seeing as how we were the only ones monkeying around in the foyer, this wasn’t a common occurrence.



A quiet procession of people paraded by us for about a half hour, yet I didn’t find myself overwhelmed with anticipation like when I went to see Return of the King. We spent our time reading over the menu, deciding which of the optional items we would get and taking pictures.

One thing that perturbed me, and I wasn’t sure if I would even talk about this, was the foie gras course was an additional $30. Now, this is already quite an expensive meal, so I was wondering why they hadn’t factored in something as ubiquitous as foie gras into the price. In time, however, I didn’t really think about it, since I knew I was going to get it…but really…



The staff was cordial and accommodating without being overbearing and in your face. I really enjoyed that. When are table was ready, we were escorted upstairs to a small room with five tables in it.

At first it seemed a little cramped, but it really wasn’t. The French Laundry is a very intimate space, with enough quiet conversation so as not to be intrusive. Each napkin was bound with a complimentary French Laundry clothespin, suitable for…hanging clothes. I had fun with this as a lapel ornament and suggested Brian use his for a tie clip.



We had no problem ordering quickly, since we had plenty of time to read over the night’s offerings, all of which sounded exceedingly delicious. As per the usual, three ordered wine, I ordered beer. The waiter was smart enough not to roll his eyes like all the other snobs I encountered in Napa Valley who showed an absolute disdain for any drink that is not wine…but that is another discussion.



The amuse bouches were some of the best I have had, and that’s saying something. First out of the kitchen was a delicate puff pastry the size of a quarter, filled with melted gruyere and béchamel. It had an exquisite warm burst of creamy, nutty cheese that elevated the flavor of the pastry to unbelievable heights. Very supple.



That was swiftly followed by a salmon tartare ‘ice cream’ cone. A delicate ball of salmon puree and chive was delicately perched on top of a crisp cone filled with chive crème fraiche. This quirky play on a salmon pinwheel had that extra dimension of the kate moss-thin cone for texture interest.



The meal was a good, steady clip, never going more then a few minutes before the arrival of a new dish, many dotted between actual menu items.

Speaking of menu item, the first one bounded in with a deliberate presence, his famous Oysters and Pearls. A couple of beau soleil oysters and quenelle of sevruga caviar in a bath of pearl tapioca sabayon. This perennial head-turner was a perfect balance of cream and round textures to caress the tongue. A hearty saltiness from the caviar lent a brash presence to the sabayon, but not to the point of competition. As lucky as I am, my wife doesn’t like caviar.



We got a short break to share our thoughts about the various tastes, and along came the first bread sample. I have to admit, The French Laundry de-emphasizes bread to a palate cleanser more than a lingering course. Overall, they balance the portion size masterfully, so you feel full, but not gorged, when you leave. Thank their bread portion control for that.



The bread came accompanied by two cups of butter. The first was a salted butter from Vermont, hand churned by Diane Sinclair, and flavored with fleur de sel. The other was unsalted butter was from the Strauss family in France. I prefer salted.



The bun tasted honestly like a cross between a Pillsbury crescent roll and a soft pretzel, and that kicks ass. Crusted on top with salt, it had a nice bite to the tongue, and deep richness that definitely reminded me of home cooked meals. Maybe this was his way of bringing the palate back in before hitting me with another round of flavors.



And here it was. Usually the highlight of my meal, the foie gras is always the most anticipated plate put before me. What a sleek and elegant presentation.



The moulard duck terrine of foie gras was crowned with a delicate forest of pickled ramp-hayden mango relish, frisee and accompanied by tapered dots of balsamic vinegar reduction. It was accompanied by a thick brioche. A small ring of crushed black pepper sat alone in another corner.



It was also accompanied by three types of salt, all of which I discovered were unnecessary. There was a pink clay salt from Hawaii, a fine Jurassic salt from Montana, and a gray course Brittany salt. I loved tasting the salt alone, but the dish didn’t need it at all.



I took so long taking pictures that the waitress came back by and swapped my brioche with a new, warm, set. Was I being chastised? No, this is SOP, they always swap out the brioche after five minutes, and I appreciate that.



The dish itself was very clean and fresh, the delicate flavors of the frisee and ramps dancing off the creamy subtlety of the foie gras. The vinegar added an extra sweet note that obviated the need for the salt or pepper. A fine pairing, with a delicate presentation.

The rest of the table ordered the salad, which was judiciously portioned with Hawaiian hearts of peach palm, French Laundry garden radishes (mandolined translucent thin), all mamboing with some mizuna leaves in a foodfight of avocado puree (formerly known as guacamole). I had a taste and it was clean and fresh like it was picked 10 minutes ago, and who knows, maybe it was…but probably not. Have to say for all it’s freshness, I preferred my foie gras, my good man.



Following this was a small fillet of cobia balanced on a ragout of baby artichokes (and they were very cute), san marzano tomato marmalade and globe artichoke mustard emulsion. This was a whimsical take on ketsup and mustard, and I saw where he was going with it. The cobia was perfectly spiced and sautéed, playing a nice counterpoint to the artichoke’s sensual cleanliness. The ketsup/mustard combo worked better with the fish alone, so I ate the hearts separately and used the condiment to enhance the flavor of the fish.



Oksana ordered the octopus instead of the cobia. It came with marble potatoes, piquillo peppers, transparent almonds, cilantro shoots and enveloped by a Spanish caper vinaigrette. She said it had a delicate texture and hearty flavor, as opposed to the rubbery tire tread we are accustomed to in sushi bars. She also remarked how nice and different the transparent almonds were. By her description, I could definitely have gone for that.



Ok, down to some serious eating. Our next course turned out to be the crowning jewel of the evening, as we looked back and savored the memories.



This was sweet butter poached Maine lobster mitts balanced on a puree of celeriac, accompanied by navel orange confeit, shaved celery branch, aigre-doux a l’orange and celery seed melba. All that celery and you’d think I’d puke. I hate celery as a rule, but this was not like celery I was used to.



The celeriac was sweetened and prepared almost to a thin custard consistency. Pairing the overtones of vanilla and caramel with the butter poached lobster was decadence at its finest. The celery leaf added a nice, freshly bitter current to the sweetness of the celeriac. The waiter explained the sweetness of the lobster is enhanced by not ever touching it by water. They package it in butter similar to a cryovac, and poach it in more butter.



The armwrestle of the aigre doux was a perfectly balanced yin and yang of rich orange and the stealthy celery seed melba.

So here is where the party split among party lines. Everyone else got the all day braised Hobb’s Shore pork belly adorned with Dutch white phairly phallic asparagus, rich polenta and a black truffle coulis. They had pretty mixed reactions…good flavor but perhaps a texture issue with the fattiness of the pork belly. Neither Oksana nor Nayan enjoyed the truffle coulis, but we later realized why: each thought the smell was earthy and dungy, but it turns out the table next door got served their cheese plate. More on that in a minute.



I ordered the blood sausage with caramelized cabbage ball resting on a cushion of granny apple puree (The Artist Formerly Known As Applesauce). I really don’t like the thought of boudin noir, a sweet non-translation for blood sausage, but it was a rich puck of…well…blood…that possessed an enormous personality of umami. I would place it against any game dish I’ve eaten, and the hearty fruit puree is the perfect accompaniment.



We shift into a lower gear for a few minutes, reflecting on the rustic silverware and muted enjoyment of all around us. It was a serene circus of flavor that was mature enough not to yank our noses and shove our faces into the plate. There were a few experimental flavors, but not the glitzy crap I was expecting from all the kulinary klownz that demand a show and a fried onion sorbet of some sort.

At this intermission, we all agreed that the reputation and execution was Pulitzer Prize perfected. The service was exact and attentive, but not perceptible. If I needed some water or butter, it materialized in front of me without any pomp or choreography.



Keller and crew have earned a sublime reputation by offering unique combinations of intricate flavors without calling attention to their creations. He focuses entirely on the flavors of the food, not the acrobatics of serving or plating.

But, back to the food, since the inexorable trot of time is relentless, and so is the procession of dizzying flavors.



Hey, this course sucked! That’s right. It tasted like lamb bologna. It was a drunkard, off balance and staggering into disaster. They had to throw us a curve ball to show us how wacky food can get if left ungoverned by taste and restraint. Woo hoo! I read it to mean, ‘You paid me a neutron star’s weight in money, and I’m gonna fuck with your tastebuds!’



None of us could figure out the direction or intent of this dish, except to show you how bad food can get in the hands of some other hack. Oksana equivocated it to a short Russian parable, The Captain’s Bucket.

In the Russian Navy, when an Admiral visits the ship -which is impeccably clean- the crew leaves one bucket of crap lying somewhere on the ship. This gives the Admiral something to kick, and yell about to the Captain. The Lamb Dish was the Captain’s Bucket of The French Laundry. Let’s move on, we were getting full, so it didn’t matter that much.

That course was followed by the unfortunately malodorous cheese, vacherin fribourgeois. Like nouc mam, it had a rank diffusion of corpse, but a decent taste. The rule applies to both: don’t ever inhale it, just eat and appreciate it. Everyone else at the table inhaled it deeply, nearly retching on the table. The vacherin fribourgeois tasted sharp at first bite, then faded quickly into a nutty smoothness. No pleasant taste could stop the inevitable, and our table quickly knighted it “Ass Cheese.”



I’m all into rancid smelling cheese that has a pleasant taste, but in an enclosed dining room, stick to the cheese with the isolated rot that can be localized to the table or the plate. Four plates of this nostril assault was a bit much, even though I found the taste invigorating. It came accompanied by sweet caramelized cipollini onions, mache and a caraway vinaigrette.

They quickly whisked away three full plates of cheese and one empty plate, mine, preparing us for the dessert procession.

First, was the sorbet course that’s usually relegated to course 3.5, but this one came at the end. A rhubarb sorbet with rhubarb dusted vacherin, rhubarb preserve, coated with cardamom syrup. Yummy. The vacherin lent a crispy sweetness to the muted rhubarb, and the cardamom lent a regal taste, being the Queen of Spices. The flavors orchestrated masterfully.



Finally, the piece de resistance was the feuillentine au caramel, butterscotch boite, caramel mousse and milk chocolate praline feuillentine. Don’t ask me to pronounce any of this, but I think it translates to “Freaking awesome and opulent chocolate dessert.” Wow, this was truly a crowning achievement to round off a night of expansive flavors and textures. The overwhelming creaminess of the chocolate, offset by the crunchy base was balanced perfectly by a casing that was not overly-sweet. Everyone loved it.



So, with this long-winded article winding down, everyone’s impressions were exceedingly positive. What Keller delivered was sensible experimentation without ostentation. He clearly earned his reputation from satisfied gourmands and not the raving throngs of Kulinary Klownz that flock to The French Laundry and bow to his visage and kiss his ring.



Chef groupies have a way of distorting the true reputation of a master, and Keller wisely has not gotten caught up in the celebrity by shaking up wild concoctions or towering Rube Goldberg food contraptions that are visibly pleasing, yet tastefully disappointing.



A final volley of Tahitian vanilla creme brulee and custard topped off the last few inches of my stomach, almost an afterthought to the meal, although exceptional in its own right.



The flavors were correct and pronounced, and the food was respectful of the palate. No wild games, no flashy gimmicks, and above all else, a superlative time was had by all. As soon as I win the lottery, I will surely return. Until then, I have my pictures.