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The other day, I noticed a thin layer of dust coating
the heels of my “fancy” black mules. For a moment I
wondered where it had come from – I only wear those shoes
on special occasions that usually don’t involve dirt –
but I soon realized that it was residue from last weekend’s
trip to the Napa Valley.
My boyfriend Oliver had become fascinated with The
French Laundry after reading a book about Chef Thomas Keller. Two
months in advance, after at least an hour of tenacious redialing,
I secured an 11:00 a.m. lunch reservation at the French Laundry
for his birthday. Although not exactly a destination for the spontaneous,
we knew it would be worth the wait.
We skipped breakfast and arrived ravenously early
on what was soon to be a scorching August day. The air conditioning
in Oliver’s car was ailing, and the hour’s trip had
been hot and sweaty. Thankfully, the restaurant’s peaceful
garden provided a shady spot to cool off, but we were restless,
eager to be seated and to begin what was sure to be the culinary
highlight of our summer.
At first, we were the only people seated in the upstairs
dining room. It was so quiet and still that I felt conspicuous,
a sensation reinforced by the incredibly solicitous sommelier. I’d
dined at the French Laundry once before, and remembered being pleasantly
surprised by the staff’s attentive lack of snootiness, but
it seemed magnified by a power of ten now that we appeared to be
dining alone in a beautifully appointed room. We felt a little sheepish,
like guests who had arrived too early for the party.
Our first course was the trademark French Laundry
“ice cream cone” consisting of a tiny ball of salmon
tartare poised delicately atop a miniature cone, filled with crème
fraiche and studded with caraway seeds. The experience of eating
this concoction is transporting – it’s like being a
kid again, but at a slight remove. Instead of a little kid devouring
a big ice cream cone, I’m a big kid nibbling at a tiny one.
Pompano Amadine was surprisingly reminiscent of a
Chinese dish we couldn’t quite put a finger on, and “Caesar
Salad” was lobster claws in butter sauce with a Parmesan crisp
(thin and light as a potato chip) and a single grilled heart of
romaine. Keller plays with the classics of American cuisine, and
I was pleased on this visit to find his repertoire of “American”
classics expanding to include more Asian and tropical flavors. Simultaneously
adventurous and oddly reassuring, his dishes are always just far
enough off the beaten path to be startling, but close enough to
evoke the classic.
I soon found myself eagerly awaiting each new dish,
and then grinning uncontrollably when it arrived. Flavors were so
intense and satisfying that a single taste often initiated muffled
squeals and giggles of delight. Oliver and I were so enraptured
by the food, we found it difficult to talk about anything else.
But this total engrossment made me self-conscious in other ways.
As the dining room filled up around us, I found myself comparing
us to the other diners, who were a bit more sedate and were managing
(I can’t imagine how) to have conversations about matters
beyond what was transpiring on the table before them. We looked
like rubes, dining in a fancy restaurant for the very first time.
This feeling was exacerbated during the fish courses when an odd
little utensil somewhere between a knife and a spoon kept appearing
that neither of us knew what to do with. I’m sure the staff
graciously overlooked myriad other faux pas of which we were blissfully
unaware, but despite their efforts, I realized that the dining experience
was not entirely comfortable. Everything was perfect, but everything
was precious, too. I felt like my every move mattered. My emotions
were on a rollercoaster of anticipatory excitement, heightened sensory
perception, and self-conscious anxiety about whether I was using
the right fork. Not exactly a relaxing lunch.
But who could relax when there was so much to taste,
feel and think about? Reflections on the wondrous versatility of
pork were inevitable in a dish of tender pork saddle paired with
a mille feuille of salty, smoky bacon and translucent layers of
Yukon Gold potato. I can’t remember the name of the hard yet
creamy Dutch cheese that came with a simple plum tart, but I suddenly
understood why some people eat cheese for dessert. The cheese gave
the tart a richness that made it taste like a custard, but without
extreme sweetness.
My favorite dish was a teaspoonful of Maui pineapple
sorbet on a slice of fresh pineapple, surrounded by a red chili
pepper coulis, and topped with a sprig of cilantro. I had never
tasted tropical fruit with chili pepper, although Oliver recognized
it as a reference to the mangoes on a stick dusted with chili powder
and sold on the streets of Latino neighborhoods. Again, I was gratified
to see Keller’s frame of reference expanding, and thoroughly
enjoyed the cool-sweet-spicy flavors, refreshing at the end of a
long and indulgent meal.
Three hours after our arrival, more than sated, we
rolled contentedly out of the cool dining room and into the heat
of a wine country afternoon in full swing. The now oven-hot Honda
seemed even more decrepit after our luxurious luncheon, and we wearily
climbed back inside, back to real life.
On our way up in the morning, we had passed a flea
market. As Oliver is an avid vintage record collector, we stopped
on our way home and took a stroll. Even if no records were to be
had, it would break up the heat and monotony of the drive and give
us a chance to stretch our legs. We pulled into the gravelly parking
lot, paid the $3 fee, and were immediately enveloped in clouds of
hot grey dust that eventually found its way back to my closet.
I wonder if many other people visit both the French
Laundry and the flea market in the same day. A more proper couple
would have basked in the afterglow of that magical satiety for as
long as possible, relaxing in a hot tub with cocktails and languidly
watching the sunset over the grape arbor. Not us. Although arriving
at the flea market with a stomach full of lobster, caviar and foie
gras did seem a bit perverse – what we had just spent on one
meal could have bought out an entire market stall – we tried
to look nonchalant.
There were no vintage records in sight that day, but
what we did find was even better. No genteel, over-priced flea market
full of expensive antiques and rare collectibles, this was a real,
working, thriving marketplace. Most of the merchandise was new,
flashy and cheap. Since Oliver is a Leo, I generously offered to
buy him an over-sized camp shirt with a large, life-like lion’s
head emblazoned on the front. Missing his chance to look like a
walking, talking velvet painting, he politely declined. In addition
to illustrated sportswear, most merchandise seemed to fall into
one of the following categories: third-hand tools and electronics,
twelve-packs of socks and underwear, dried nuts, fruits and Mexican
sweets, bootleg Latin and hip-hop CDs, chintzy wind up toys (barking
dog and swimming scuba diver were favorites) and the most frilly
and revealing maternity wear I’ve ever seen. Throughout the
market, jeans were displayed on mannequins – lopped off at
the hips– with extremely well-endowed behinds. At first I
thought they must be regular mannequins, with the jeans stuffed
to resemble J-Lo, but the frequency and uniformity with which they
appeared made me believe they were actually manufactured to be thus
abundant. It was refreshing that not a single flat-assed white mannequin
could be found.
Apart from the Asian vendors who operate the three
(!) Chinese food stands we were the only non-Latinos in the crowd.
We had stumbled across a thriving commercial center for a largely
invisible segment of Napa Valley’s population – the
Latino workers who tend and harvest the valley’s much-touted
crops. Simultaneously supermarket, restaurant, department store
and rendezvous, the place was packed. As we strolled the aisles,
sweating through our “fancy” clothes, we passed families
trundling back to the car with bags of tomatillos, fresh and dried
chili peppers, and all manner of snacks and sweets. Children darted
in and out of the crowds, dripping trails of neon-bright syrup from
quickly melting ices. Young couples tried to look and keep cool
under the tarp by the taco stand. We bought six large, beautiful
white peaches for a dollar and a package of three men’s undershirts
for five. Nothing precious, delicate, rare or tender here. Everything
was hot, noisy and reduced to a single common denominator –
the best price. No place could be further from the cool, placid
dining room at the French Laundry. It then dawned on me that we
were more than likely shopping alongside laborers who had plucked
the produce we had just ingested in such extreme luxury, and that
I was just as out of place here in my dress and high-heels, as when
I was fumbling with strange silverware not an hour before. The laundry
and the market are two sides of the same coin – they’re
undeniably connected, but they can never turn about and face each
other. Then, rounding a corner, I spied a man holding a clear plastic
baggy. Inside the baggy was a golden yellow orb, tinged with red
– a mango, coated with chili powder! Perhaps Thomas Keller
had been here too.
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