The phrase 'there's no such thing as a free lunch' is one that is habitually spouted by the sort of politician or businessperson who has evidently enjoyed many of them. What this normative statement really means is that 'nothing should be free for the lower orders'.
As a child of the 1970s, and despite Margaret Thatcher's best milk-snatching efforts as Minister of Education, I grew up believing that a something-for-nothing attitude should not be the sole preserve of the rich. I therefore jumped at the chance to have lunch at the world-renowned French Laundry restaurant in California's Napa Valley.
It was never going to be a tough call. My next-door neighbour here in San Francisco is the executive chef at a highly rated French bistro in the city. His enthusiastic reaction to my assignment suggested that there was much more than mere hype to master chef Thomas Keller's established eaterie up in Yountville, in the heart of Northern California's wine country.
My editor's last comment, 'Go easy on the wine', resonated in my ears as my girlfriend and I climbed into our waiting limo. Our driver, Brian, was new to the job but skilled at negotiating the city traffic, and we were soon heading over the Oakland Bridge towards the Napa Valley.
I had assured the editor that such a decadent means of transport was absolutely essential. The restaurant is situated some 60 miles from our downtown apartment and we don't have a car. It's California, and over here they don't really do public transport outside the city.
Anyone who knows me will be able to testify that 'going easy on the wine' is not something I'm particularly good at. I had, however, been dry for over a month, and running again to get back into something like shape after a pretty boozy year which saw me move from London to Chicago and then on to San Francisco. I briefly considered keeping up the good work, but this was The French Laundry, so rather than agonise over the drinking question, I opted to just go for it. As the waiting list for a table here is around three months and I don't really have a planning-ahead mentality, this was likely to be my one and only shot.
Despite traffic congestion, Brian's knowledge of the back roads ensures that we arrive in time for lunch. The restaurant is situated in a pleasant, yet unremarkable two-storey wooden building, which we enter via a rear garden. Engagingly decked out in quality made-to measure cloth, the maître d' and assorted waiting staff greet us heartily. Cosying into our seats, we are impressed by the atmosphere of restrained elegance: cream walls, and a wood-panelled ceiling with sombre, dusky lighting dominate a small, intimate dining room. We are told that the chef has prepared us a special menu, and asked if we have any allergies they should know about.
'Only paying restaurant bills,' I quip, anxious to avoid any embarrassing mix-up. 'I shouldn't worry too much about that on this occasion sir,' our host replies as strains of the old football mantra 'Here we go, here we go, here we go...' strike up inside my skull.
I soon realise that calling this 'lunch' is like referring to the European Cup Final as 'a kick-about in the park'. In fact, we receive 19 courses and 15 different types of accompanying wine.
Granted, as nouvelle cuisine, the dishes might not be copious in terms of quantity and many of the wines are half bottles, but this still constitutes a considerable physical effort. I come from the 'clear your plate' (and empty the bottle) school, so picking at a dish or just cursorily tasting a wine is not an option. Moreover, when one of the greatest chefs in the world prepares a special menu just for you, the only decent thing to do is wade through it with eternal gratitude.
From the opening glasses of Krug Grand Cuvée Champagne and our crisp and tasty cornets of marinated Atlantic Salmon with Red Onion Crème Fraîche to the 'Mignardises' washed down with Barbeito Sercial Madeira 1910 Vintage Port, some four hours later, this was a gastronomic assault course.
I have neither the time nor the space to go into what we received in between all this, so I'll just highlight some personal favourites. The Cauliflower 'Panna Cotta' with Point Reyes Oyster Glaze and Iranian Osetra Caviar was a magnificent canapé. I've never been a big caviar fan, but this finally showed me what all the fuss is about.
The little touches were excellent; our oyster dish was eaten using a mother-of-pearl spoon. I salivate now as I think of the Truffle-pickled Hen Eggs with 'its creamy yellow' and Chopped Black Truffles. God, that was amazing, and my girlfriend evidently thought so too. Our eyes met across the table in one of those glances which evoke making love on a bearskin rug in front of a roaring fire in an elevator rising up the Eiffel Tower while a (blindfolded) string quartet plays 'Sunshine on Leith'.
My taste buds went into overdrive with the Salad of Marinated Jacobsen's Farm Figs with Caramelised Fennel Bulb, Roasted Garden Peppers, Shaved Fennel and Fennel Bulb Vinaigrette, and gastronomic orgasm was achieved with the Sweet Butter Poached Maine Lobster with first-of-season Chestnuts, Granny Smith's Apples and a Hydromel Sauce.
The chef's personal version of 'bacon and eggs' was a revelation, composed of a 'rouelle' of slow-baked 'Tête de Cochon', Frisée Salad, poached Quail's Egg and sauce 'Gribiche'. It was followed by Snake River Ranch 'Calotte De Boeuf Grillé' with pan-roasted fennel bulb, caramelised Bartlett Pears and 'Sauce au Poivre'
This set us up nicely for the transition into a myriad of desserts, the standout being the 'Declinaison au Chocolat' which comprised 'Mousse Au Chocolat TiÀde', Chocolate Sorbet, Chocolate Brownie and Milk Chocolate 'Ganache'.
As with the grub, the wines were all excellent but I must mention a buttery local Chardonnay from Santa Barbara County and a particularly gorgeous white Burgundy. Unfortunately, I was way past the stage of reading any labels by then. The wine, typically, did not just include the safe choices of France, California, Australia, Germany and Italy. Our canapÀs, for example, were partly washed down with a delicious Basque wine called Exumin Etxaniz Txakolina.
Halfway through all this, you become aware that you are in a trade-off between the joys of the palate and the pressure on the gut. I think of Steven Berkoff's magnificent film Decadence in which he and Joan Collins play two toffs ploughing their way through course after course. And, as in that movie, the waiters just keep coming with more dishes, unfailingly polite and informative as ever. Three-quarters of the way down the list and it starts to add up to physical and sensory overload. You think you can't take any more, but the last dish tasted so good and this one looks even more interesting. And as for the wine...
It becomes like the foodie equivalent of running the London Marathon. A marvellous event in which to participate, but as with the deep-fried Mars Bars served up by the fine lads at Edinburgh's Piccante chippy, you certainly couldn't do it every day. Your bloated belly is relieved when it's over and you immediately tell yourself: never again. Yet, after you've got home, lain around groaning and sweating for a bit, digested the lot and got back to the everyday run-of-the-mill stuff, The French Laundry menu starts to dance through your head and onto your salivating palate.
Obviously, the title of 'best restaurant in the world' is subjective to the point of lunacy. Having said that, I doubt it would be possible for The French Laundry to be equalled, let alone surpassed, as a lifetime dining experience of its kind. From the journey up the beautiful Napa Valley with its sun-kissed vineyards into this tranquil, sophisticated gastronomic Mecca, to the wonderfully engaged and knowledgeable waiting staff, The French Laundry is a sparkling jewel in America's culinary crown.
All this is a perfect environment in which to enjoy the finest and most inspired cooking of which I'm probably ever likely to partake. Thomas Keller is a true giant among chefs, coming over as a genuinely inspirational figure, and to see him in action in his kitchen is pure joy. The French Laundry will shut down for a few months early next year when the master chef heads for New York to open his new restaurant. And a good thing, too: it certainly wouldn't be the same without him.
Sitting back in the limousine stuffed like battery hens, we swing over the Golden Gate Bridge, Brian having changed the route to avoid the rush-hour traffic. Downtown, from behind the tinted glass, I watch scores of people pushing shopping carts, scavenging in trash bins and begging for change in this, the city with the highest number of homeless people in America. I felt sad and angry, but not guilty. I was privileged. I'd got my free lunch, even if plenty of others weren't so fortunate.
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