Blending fairly seamlessly with its surroundings, the quaint, stone-lined building subtly exudes an aura of a European cottage in a countryside town. Yountville does well in distracting visitors with its picturesque serenity; you would hardly know that you’ve arrived at one of the most influential restaurants in the world unless someone pointed it out. At feet level, the emblematic plaque is partially obstructed by the flowers and assorted vegetation that outline the borders of the restaurant grounds. As I strolled beneath the awning – along the passageway that led to the lobby – the Relais & Châteaux sign embedded in the wall became a stark reality check. The fairy tale façade and idyllic splendor worked to immerse diners within the Napa Valley’s tranquil atmosphere, yet underneath the external packaging lies an institution of gastronomic prestige. Once heralded as the pinnacle of the culinary world, the restaurant’s many fine details – each corner, crevice, and stone – seemed to serve as a subtle reminder that the aged titan of the industry still had a story to tell.
I was first introduced to Thomas Keller’s temple of French-American cuisine as a sophomore in high school. Back then, my only link to fine dining was watching the late Anthony Bourdain eat his way across the world. In one of the earlier episodes of his first show, A Cook’s Tour, Bourdain attended Keller’s gustatory sermon along with his gourmand crew. I never forgot the enthusiasm and praise he heaped upon the institution, and it became the focal pilgrimage dream for me and my friend. Eight years later, on the eve of his 24th birthday, we both realized our ambitions.
To extoll its many virtues would be unnecessary. Three Michelin Stars. James Beard Award. Best Restaurant in the World. The French Laundry has many badges, yet it displays none on its sleeves. Like many of the finest dining destinations in the world, Keller’s flagship impresses with its minimalistic finesse rather than hedonistic excess. Upon checking in, visitors are ushered into a large, open-air courtyard. Low tables and plush chairs are strategically placed around the compound so as to give those waiting for a table an intimate socializing space, but not so close as to encroach upon the privacy of those dining outdoors.
From the start, I could see the versatility of the servers from head to toe; there were no wasted movements, each gesture a calculated decision of absolute certainty. It never felt as if I were coddled or overwhelmed. The maître d’ and his revolving staff seemed to materialize at the precise moment I might have wanted something. Dedicated driver for the evening? Not a problem. A non-alcoholic, carbonated grape beverage was immediately whisked out amidst the complimentary champagne, hardly distinguishable from its fermented counterpart. Questions about the reservation? A waitress popped by to inform the party of the estimated time. This was the show before the curtains had even been drawn: a tasting menu of hospitality. The ballet-trained serving staff whisked about on their feet with the nuance of professional dancers. As dusk settled into the valley, casting a long shadow across the courtyard, the low light of the space heaters punctuated the dark like holes in a comfortable, gray sweater. Grateful as I was for the beauty of the curated outdoor lounge, I welcomed the respite of the inner dining hall. Unsurprisingly, as the wind picked up outside, we were swiftly ushered in by our server — the precise timing of it all a foregone conclusion.
The interior of the establishment is every bit as one would expect from a cozy chateau. Dimly lit overhead lights cast a warm glow throughout the compact space, illuminating the freshly laundered, snow-white linen tablecloths that almost too perfectly call back to the restaurant’s humble origins. Candles that stand guard throughout the long night diligently supported their patrons as they ooh-ed and aah-ed across the gastronomic spectrum. The carpeted floor was unusually smooth and frictionless, perhaps to better accommodate the arterial movements of the serving staff. Despite the proximity of all the tables, the inner sanctums never felt claustrophobic. Instead, it gave off the quietude of a mountainside lodge, amidst the warm company of amicable strangers and hospitable innkeepers. Acoustically, the architects of the modest abode have struck the perfect chord in balancing joyful ambient chatter against the auditory needs of each party. In an era dominated by restaurants that prioritize modern, minimalistic aesthetic over noise control, the comforts of the French Laundry’s decibel levels among other amenities speak volumes to the value of the enterprise. Design is now often weaponized in the fight for mainstream relevance, a trend borne from the commoditization of social media exposure. It’s reassuring that even with a recent $10 million renovation, the French Laundry still retains its nostalgic sensibilities, opting to subvert the philosophy that marketing should take precedent over a more intimate and personalized experience.
If there is one thing to take away from the Kellerian extravaganza, it’s the cone. Cornet with salmon tartare and creme fraiche, to be more specific. Always the first amuse-bouche served to the table, but always the last thing on the mind as the 3-hour spectacular comes to an end. The textured, blue dyed plate almost seems comically too large for the singular cone; the vehicle for delivery a round, metallic holder magnetically held in place to prevent any chance of spillage. Countless intersecting lines are strewn across the surface, a dizzying array that guides the eyes to the center. A soft linen towel gently hugs the curvature of the dark amber cone, blanketing the hand-sized creation to allow for better grip. Resting on top is a small mound of pinkish salmon, enticingly fresh and subtly contrasting the brownish tint of the cone itself. Absent from the printed menu, the cone emphatically announces the commencement of Chef de Cuisine David Breeden’s performance. As the unbelievable umami of the salmon melds into the tongue, the sharp bite of the lime-spiked crème fraîche washes over the tongue, a relentless tag-team of flavor. Then comes the defining crunch of the cone, the savoriness accentuated by the dotted black sesame embedded within its frame.
Adhering to the deserved traditions of such a grandiose culinary icon, the chef de cuisine reached deep into the storied pockets of the past to bring out a timeless classic, warning salvos of the jubilation to come. One by one, the rest of the eleven courses came like a blur, a time-lapse built piece by piece from distinct flavors and textures, interrupted intermittently by the sommelier’s commanding presence as he occasionally stopped by to feed the wine glass with elixirs that diluted time itself.
I still dream about the “Oysters with pearls”. Smooth and buttery oysters – topped off with a gentle dollop of caviar – played an umami tune across the keys of my taste buds amidst the swirling, oceanic tsunami of the cream sauce. The tapioca “caviar” gently popped off with contrast to the velvety richness of the dish, a lightness that lingered with comfortable distinctness in texture. This was the standout of the night.
Almost immediately, the Garden Beet Salad came next, while my dining companion opted for the foie gras terrine. Sweet and earthy, the refreshing flavors paired well with the peppercorn-infused yogurt palate cleanser. Next up was the Mediterranean turbot, its playground of textures — crunchiness of the “Pommes Maxim’s“, whipped smoothness of the potato purée, the tender-but-bouncy mouth feel of the succulent fish — a joy to experience. Alternating textures elevated a carousel of flavors along with the casual joie of eating, an important aspect of stemming the fatigue that some high-end restaurants can bring with their stringent atmospheres and formal setting.
The Maine lobster steeped in tomato broth, the Pekin duck with skin crisped like a fluffy chicharrón, and the hearth-roasted lamb draped with an opulent dress of slow-roasted mushrooms — the Holy trinity of well-executed protein, cooked and seasoned to perfection that may convert even the most devout Vegetarian. These were classic American delights wrapped in a New Californian coat, and polished with the subtle refinement of French technique. I had no complaints; the three dishes were a testament to a masterful knowledge of ingredients that encompassed the land, the skies, and the seas.
At the French Laundry, the bread is delivered from Bouchon’s hallowed forges next door, the bakery’s Hephaestus working diligently behind the scenes in Olympus. Every piece of bread served to diners has been stamped with the Northern California seal of approval, guaranteeing a certain level of quality. Bread in America has come a long way; gone are the days of stale mold generators, pre-sliced and proffered to the masses in plastic bags. Today, the legendary pantheon of floured institutions — Acme, Boudin, Bouchon — needs neither introduction nor validation. “Bread and butter” was a tongue-in-cheek intermission amongst the multitudes of concertos that played throughout the night. The small, plump tomato baguette rested neatly on the smooth ceramic, a small leaf-shaped crust emblazoned across the top of the breaded dome. The “butter” — a dairy plateau of pale white partially submerged in a silky layer of oil — had all the consistency and appearance of such, yet its true identity unmasked by its deceptive flavor: a blanket of light, creamy freshness that betrays the Buffalo Milk Burrata hidden beneath.
Positioning of the courses is undoubtedly as strategic and creatively complex as coming up with the menu itself, and no dish is more understated and more deceptively integral than the “Gougère“. Almost three hours into the service, the nectar of the Gods can only help so much in alleviating the fullness of the burgeoning patrons, let alone their mental fatigue and saturated taste buds in keeping up with the perpetual train of Napa’s Greatest Hits. Those uninitiated in the ways of a tasting menu may find the extravagance to be an indulgent curse as these sample platters transform into an endless nightmare. The Gougère serves to reset the palate, thereby easing the diners from the heavy punches of protein to the delicate embrace of dessert.
Étude from Andante Dairy, delicately wrapped in a choux pastry and baked until golden brown, swims in a black winter truffle fondue that captures the full heterogenous spectrum of textures. Cheese connoisseurs will recognize the familiar, subtly sour taste of goat milk upon first bite, a pungent note in an otherwise creamy, delectable crunch of the pastry. While the inside of the choux introduces deeply intertwined flavors of cheese and bread, it’s the ubiquitous fondue that really ties the dish together. If the simple étude — the name meaning a short musical composition — lacks the lyrical impact necessary to make an impression, the symphonic rapture of the truffle fondue certainly reverberates loudly enough. Balancing the delicate sweetness of the choux while subduing the cutting tang of the goat cheese is challenging enough, but to also integrate an immersive, warm layer of striking truffle umami is no easy task. It necessitates the versatility of a master artisan, a purveyor of flavors plucking and displaying an intense mosaic of tastes and textures. All the while, the palates of the customers must be prepped for the incoming storm of sweets.
Despite obvious influences from across the Atlantic, the French Laundry refuses to cater to America’s obsession with European sensibilities. Tea time in America is a Willy Wonka affair, a feast of sweets fit for a king. Assortment of Desserts is exactly that, a dazzling display of all shapes and sizes that embraces our bountiful traditions but stops just short of celebrating our propensity for gluttonous overindulgence. From the decadent chocolates presented in ornate boxes to the chocolate mousse shaped into a foamy cup of cappuccino to the small stacks of macarons dusted with addictively colored sugars and glowing like precious stones, the frenzy came all at once. An array of candied fruits set on top of a slice of cake cuts through its decadence while kissed by a mound of lightly whipped, coffee-infused cream. Just when the night was drawing leisurely to a drowsy close, the ambrosial fireworks of colors, textures, and differing degrees of sweetness explodes on the senses with a climactic bang. The coffee served at the end in a palm-sized cup almost seems out of place, and is perhaps the greatest testament to the eponymous restaurant’s humble origins — there’s simply nothing more French than coffee after a meal.
If lunch rush at a packed Chinese dim sum house is a battlefield of passionate shouts, free-flowing waterfalls of tea, and ceiling-high stacks of steam baskets, then the tension of a fine-dining, French-American establishment is a gourmet hospital. Everything must be meticulously precise, from the placement of utensils to the subtle movements of the servers. On my way to the bathroom upstairs, I encountered a waitress carrying a platter of used plates emerging from a dining room alcove. Deftly, and seemingly without effort, she twirled like a ballerina and in one fell swoop, held the door open for me with her one free hand. I couldn’t help but laugh as I relieved myself. In this historied institution where many masters have dined and left, the service is run with one heart and one mind. The servers are extensions of the cooking staff’s will. Chaos is immediately quelled, appetites are expertly maintained, needs are catered to with zero hesitation, and the servers definitely know best. Subject yourself to the ebb and flow of the cosy chateau, and you’ll be rewarded with a sense of hygge that might impress the most stoic of Danes.
Tales of The French Laundry still echo through the halls of the food zeitgeist, despite its waning relevance. No longer at the Olympian heights of its heyday, the restaurant now nestles comfortably in the lower echelons of San Pellegrino’s annual rankings, away from the tempestuous spotlight and contentious bloodbath between the Italian, the Dane, the New Yorker, and the triple Spanish threat. Even so, no self-respecting master in the food world would dare take lightly the culinary emperor of the United States, for the Herculean monsters of the modernist cuisine movement have all at one point walked through the Hall of the Mountain King. Thomas Keller’s rippling empire have sent emissaries to far corners of the world, and his sphere of influence carries on the prestige of the Old Gods themselves: Bocuse, Troisgros, Robuchon, Arzak, and Adria, among others. Perhaps more impressive is the French Laundry name embedded in the mainstream vocabulary, as even those deterred by the stratospheric barrier to entry of tasting menus recognize the name, and know the whispers of its peerless history in America.
In the waning moments of the last service, as tables emptied and the serene darkness of Yountville pulled patrons back into its gentle embrace, I had the opportunity to step into the kitchen. On one side, a medium-sized television screen, broadcasting a now empty kitchen.
“Oh, that is a livestream of our sister restaurant in New York,” our friendly server-turned-tour-guide explained. “The staff at Per Se can see us too.”
Motivation. Inspiration. Competition. Cooperation. Whatever the reasoning for having the East Coast connection, I was fairly convinced at that point the process could do no wrong. Yes, a television for your sister restaurant is of course an absolute necessity! The kitchen staff was in the process of cleaning, stripping down the grime, splatters, and battle scars of the night’s hidden battles to prep for the next good fight. Like a coordinated, well-oiled pit crew, the cooks worked in synchronized silence as if they’ve done this a million times before. Even away from the spotlight and the eyes of whom they served, the kitchen worked with a solemn dignity that defined professionalism as a gleaming and beautifully scrubbed counter top. On my way out, the elusive Three Michelin Star plaque hung above the alcove, facing the interior of the kitchen with a regal gaze. Without having stepped into the inner machinations of the restaurant, one would have never seen the physical proof of the food world’s highest honor. Motivation. Inspiration. Competition. Cooperation.
I donned my jacket, ready to brace the chilly Napa Valley night. “Designated driver, you awake enough to do this?” teased the maître d’ with a devilish wink.
“Of course!” I replied cheerily, silently wondering why I was even surprised that the man remembered my non-alcoholic preference three hours and countless other guests later.
| 06. 16. 2018
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