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La Lessive Francaise.
12:01:37 ante meridian. 3 April 2007. I took a swig of the Listerine and it was over. Washing away the Sweet Turnip Cream and Japanese Plum Jelly as I urinated in a puddle in the porcelain. My dinner at The French Laundry was a budget breaking, sublime experience wrapped in the mystery of pre-game questions that always seemed to return to the fact that I was about to spend enough money to put a sizeable down payment on a new Forty-Two inch Flat Screen Plasma made by some egomaniacal engineer in some exotic, cement hut he calls a lab in Asia. Five hours after sitting down. After fifteen courses of food and fifteen glasses of wine swirled, sniffed and sipped, the magnetic strip on my credit card felt as naked as a prostitute standing in the rain. I spit the Winter Green antiseptic into the bowl and my eyes closed slowly, spinning with the water emptying into the sewer. Bastard rats, I thought, swimming in Thomas Keller's famous refuse. I tried to fall asleep counting Sheep's Milk cheeses. I am not going to waste words repeating the general fawn - "Best Restaurant in America," "Worth Every Penny," "Like eating Caspian Sea Caviar off the belly of Brazilian Supermodel Gisele Bundchen." You know that kind of stuff. I'll skip the praise worthy pleasantries and dig right into the meat and potatoes, although I took the road less traveled and ordered the Vegetable Tasting Menu. Why, you ask. Because anyone plating Fresh Ricotta Agnolotti with Black Truffles from Provence begs my attention and my fork lingering appreciation. There were many, too many, plates to mention, I'd lose you like the Devil's Gulch Asparagus in a quicksand of Bone Marrow Pudding, so let's skip the solids and seek out the two gems - the liquid gold and the melted ruby red. Two taps on the Tastevin for the Sommelier. He paired a selection of stellar wines. Two wines to take note of. One White. One Red. (1) Bert Simon Riesling, Mosel, Germany, 1989. (2) Auguste Clape, Cornas, France, 2001. The Reisling can only be described as a young, sexy teenager sent off to discover herself in the eating clubs of an upper crust College. She attends her first Sorority sleepover and although shy, with a little chatting and a bit of liquid coaxing, she slips from her soft, skin clinging cotton jams to reveal the floral and lace of her Fruit of the Loom, La Perla style underpants. The Cornas. Think about that First Year Sorority girl. Think about how much you want to fill your nose with her innocent aromas, sweeten your lips with the supple touch of her skin. But you can't have her, not yet. Lo. Lee. Ta. Humbert cries. She is too young upon release. But in just four years, plus two in the real world, she is educated and experienced, aged in the acts of pleasure. Suntanned. As the name, Cornas, is Celtic for "burnt land." This is the secret, available to only those who can stare straight into the sun. Every aspect, every sensory spotlight was balanced with equal explosion. She has arrived. The Cornas was truly brilliant. Young, but aged by the hand of an experienced teacher. Soft, but layered with internal complexity. Fresh, but not rebellious. One more wine was worth the price of admission. On its own, you question the judgment of your Tour Guide. Spencer Roloson Viognier, Knights Valley, 2005. The aromatics were like buck shot from a nasal spray filled with Chanel No. 5. Your head spins, heady oak. Something Schumacher must have felt when blasting his Ferrari V10 down the straight-aways into the forests of Hockenehim. The exotic smell of spring flowers left crushed on the gravelly pavement at 200 mph. Like kissing Paris Hilton and her whispering in your ear, "That's Hot." Light of my life, fire of my loins. Alone, sensory overload. But when paired with Glazed Belgian Endives and Poached Apricots in a Riesling Butter and shared with a Gratin of Santa Barbara Coast Sea Urchin, the wine settled into an Elysian high, lifting the soul of everything it touched. Even my shirt felt "starched" after I set down my fork and stemware. The French Laundry is "The Best Restaurant in America." I can sleep on that.
Post - April'07 Back to home...
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