French Laundry; Small Things in High Places
Labor Day Dispatch
Greetings, travelers.
Summer is coming to an end in the high country. So many hummingbirds, so many chipmunks, all so frantic, trying to get the calories they will need to migrate or to burrow under the snow for half a year or more. (Today I saw a chipmunk on a basalt outcropping at roughly 13,000 ft above sea level, miles from the nearest tree. Hope he makes it.) Lower down, where more things live, a few aspen leaves, nothing like a tree, have turned that yellow that once seen is never forgotten, some sort of beta test. Peak will be about a month from now; it goes fast.
As I’ve noted repeatedly, I have started serializing large and kind of offbeat (the best kind!) works for paid subscribers. Signals like this one, announcement of work, occasional essays, photography, will remain free. Politics has been exiled to Democratic Rock or Republican Whirlpool? Part I and about half of Part II are free. Part III should appear this weekend. I am trying to speed write a sort of book of essays, sorting out my thoughts, while waiting on the election, various negotiations, etc. It’s kind of a test, honestly.
The audiobook of Maguire & Westbrook, Getting Through Security Part I is rolling out, too. I am really excited about what Vince Parlato is doing with the sound. Mark and my book isn’t bad, but I think it picks up some meaning read. Remember, paid subscribers get access to all serialized work. It’s a modest fee, certainly cheap compared to book purchases, and you can always unsubscribe.
Intermittent Signal is read in well over 70 countries, so I should say, for those of you who don’t know, have no reason to know, “French Laundry” is a restaurant, a very, very fancy restaurant in California’s wine country, and kind of a barometer for, well, you tell me. At any rate, this Signal is not about lingerie. Nonetheless, “French Laundry” is a lot of fun. But as you will see, there are endless things to think about here, too.
With regard to images: I need to do something with hummingbirds and iridescence and maybe bravery (so the Aztecs thought). I am also struggling with the idea of landscape, its ineffability, and maybe the question of what photography should and should not be asked to deliver. And I have a thing for megafauna. While drinking a well-earned beer half an hour ago, I watched a moose calf nursing. I want to do something on moose and young manhood. But this outing, I am putting those ideas to one side and focusing on small things from above tree line. In the alpine tundra, things grow close to the ground, very slowly, but blooming fast. It’s always about to be cold if it isn’t already. But there’s more life than you might imagine. All of these images were taken above 12,000 feet in the last week or so.
I used to hike and climb a lot. I grew up spending time in Appalachia and I’ve been to some pretty high places around the world, but the last 15 years or so have been mostly here in Colorado. And the last few years have been tough, running up against my limitations as an athlete and as a man – there is only so much one can do. If you don’t know it, read Maurice Herzog’s Annapurna, a classic, insane and oh so French account of the first ascent of an 8000 m peak. And perhaps the best written mountaineering book. Both miraculously and due to the man’s leadership, nobody died. Towards the end Herzog says there are many Annapurnas in the lives of men. Indeed.
That too is for another day, perhaps. But for now, and on a lighter note, it has been good to get up pretty high, to reckon with going much slower than I used to, but perhaps seeing more. The flowers are shutting down, and I’m resisting the urge to use images taken in July of other years. This is now, more or less.
French Laundry
“To start – this would have been way better at 1:00 AM as I originally intended, with three bottles of various First Growth Bordeaux in me and the energy of a teen with their new driver’s license. Why? Because it was fresh on my mind and by God after that much wine I am a perfect Southern cocktail of comedy made with Jeff Foxworthy, Andy Griffith, and Ron White! Your loss. Besides . . . who goes to bed that early anyway? Methinks you are getting old my friend. Next thing you know, you will be drinking tea and reading the New York Times to Amy until “brunch” rolls around. Oh my friend, that is certainly a slippery slope.”
[It had been a long day of writing, and in the mountains, the sun wakes me up pretty early. I ate dinner, listened to music and corresponded, and read some Cervantes, which put me to bed at a decent hour. Fight again tomorrow and all that. Due to complex family travels, I was alone, without even the dogs. So, when my brother Winfred woke me from deep sleep, it scared me. Among other things, I thought of parents, pretty healthy (no doubt due to their rigorous schedule of New York Times reading), but not young.
“Is everything all right? Where are you?”
“Oh, time change, got confused, yeah, thought it was earlier, everything’s fine, great. I’m on the West Coast, in Napa. Dude, I just ate at the French Laundry! Amazing, I’ve never had anything like it, blew me away . . .”
A bit of background: Thomas Keller’s French Laundry, in Napa Valley, California, is often thought to be the best restaurant in the United States. Rankings tend to be silly but are important to some people, another topic. Nobody denies, however, that this is a great restaurant. The French Laundry has held three Michelin stars, the top rating, for a few decades now, and has had great influence on fine dining. I have not eaten there.
I should also say that my brother is a very accomplished cook, and is the general manager of the fine wine division of a major distributor in Atlanta. His team of sales folk were the guests of several producers (winemakers, or holding companies that own winemakers). The team was out there for “training.” From the winemakers’ perspective, training and the glow of hospitality helps distributors understand and feel good about the wine they make, and so be inclined and able to promote the product to restaurants, hotels, and so forth in the Southeast. More subtly and longer term, producers are trying to shape tastes, brands, and so prices. (I’ll spare you the legal structure of the US alcohol industry, with, among other things, its distinctions among producers, distributors, and retailers. A legacy of the repeal of Prohibition.) A major producer invited my brother and his team to a surprise dinner at the French Laundry. Which, for any foodie of less than princely means, is akin to winning the lottery.
I was, frankly, touched that Winfred wanted to call and tell me about the experience immediately after the fact. Apart from being a serious cook, however, my brother has been wined and dined internationally in somewhat analogous circumstances, so this was not his first rodeo. Knowing this made me curious about why he was so excited this time. To satisfy my curiosity, and as punishment for the fearful wakeup, I made him write down his account of the experience, which he appears to have enjoyed doing.
This was obviously written very informally, brother to brother, but I asked and received his permission to put it on Intermittent Signal, for reasons I trust you will appreciate. I’ve lightly edited for clarity, but tried to keep his voice, excitement and the almost private language between brothers intact. I love editing.]
Nevertheless, as requested, I will try to paint a picture of the various details, as best I can, of the three hours that I spent in Yountville last week.
When we arrived, we walked through the narrow flower filled passageway to the beautiful and somewhat daunting front door. As I opened the heavy, castle like door to the entrance, we were immediately greeted by no less than four hosts that welcomed us to the French Laundry with a glass of sparkling champagne. Now I am not sure about you, but if you hand me a glass of champagne before we have even established who we are, it is basically the equivalent of giving my golden retriever a piece of bread – we are instant friends. Probably for life. But for fear of getting a restraining order put on me – I decided to “table” the hug and kiss that I was wanting to give them for the glass of bubbles.
Once we were all inside and armed with our bubbles, we were told what the night would look like, and we were offered the chance to take a tour of the kitchen, the wine room, and the grounds. Honestly, I was almost more excited to see the grounds and the kitchen than I was for the dinner itself. (Oh fret not – that feeling was soon corrected. The building and the bottles, although amazing, were simply no match for the menu that was to come.)
As we walked through the dining rooms, I noticed immediately that they were not lavish as one might have thought they would be, instead they were all clean, simple, and elegant. They reminded me of Anna Leier’s dining room. [Not some designer, but a friend of the family, who lives in Blankenase, outside Hamburg, in a house overlooking the Elbe.] All white, with the exception of the blood red rose that stood as the room’s sentinel, looking out in stark contrast to its white surroundings. These rooms were small and modestly appointed with a very few paintings, gorgeous local flowers, bone white china, and of course the finest Riedel that anyone could find. Clean, quiet, and teeming with civility. Only the hustle of the squadron of servers broke the room’s painting-like perfection, as they moved around in unison. Their approach to a table was not only precise in timing, it was disciplined in presentation. Seamless.
As we were led into the kitchen it was for me . . . Amazing. Memories of jobs past and admiration for a life that I touched but never, ever, came close to being a part of. This team owned a title that only comes with a lifetime of work, patience, and practice. True - relentless dedication. My total admiration! Amazing! As I walked into this elite microcosm that holds those three precious stars so dearly, it was clear as to why, and it was on full display in front of me. At first sight you are struck by the bright white room broken by the stark contrast of the black of the grill tops, the library of copper pots that hang from above, and the shining silver of the perfectly clean stainless steel, all of which was only slightly disrupted by the perfectly dressed team of Chefs, Cooks and Garde Manger moving with purpose and precision. The noise of pans being whisked across the steel grates of the grills with fire lapping below them and the gentle clatter of the plates being laid out for their sole purpose in life was sometimes drowned out by the calls of the Chef that were answered with an almost booming and Hollywood style “Yes Chef.” Amazing.
As we left the kitchen, which was tough for me as I could have stayed there for hours, just watching, we were led into the wine area . . .
Now, let’s be clear: being in Napa Valley is special for almost anyone. Even if you do not like wine, the area is beautiful and can be a lot of fun. And being invited to the French Laundry, with its six to eight month waiting list, is a privilege and something that is not come by easily. But being in beautiful Napa Valley, at the French Laundry, and being able to simply browse their wine walls and library was truly a treat for anyone who happens to like Napa, wine, and dining at this level. I would imagine it to be similar to a car enthusiast being invited to the Barrett-Jackson Auctions for the first time. Or something like a Star-Wars enthusiast having his first taste of Comic Con. Simply overflowing with excitement . . . and an almost geek-like addiction that was about to be fed. So we were led into the wine area . . .
Now what I think is important to note is that the interesting point of the wine list at the French Laundry was not its size, but rather its accuracy. Don’t get me wrong, the collection was large, in actual listings, but the cellar itself was certainly not cavernous like that at the legendary Berns Steakhouse of Tampa, or the Alchemist in Denmark. What I found interesting about this wine list was the depth in its coverage of wine regions, wine styles, and wine makers. It paid homage to the leaders of its home state equally as it did from all major areas in the wine world. It of course had the required First Growths, the necessary “Lords of Dark Napa Reds.” There were plenty of screaming acid white wines of the German countryside [this is a real wine guy remark] and it even brought back twenty-five or more wines from the vintage 1994, with the sole purpose of highlighting the 30th anniversary of the restaurant. It was a big list for sure. Oh it of course had wines that quite frankly make no sense to me, like one with its $45,000 price tag that most likely would be bought by someone who almost assuredly had the palate of a goat but the bank account of a sultan. All of which is/was to be expected. SO I will leave it as this . . . the real elegance of the list is found in its simplicity. In its honesty to the craft. In its hidden complexity. I think the curator of that list should be commended for tireless work and attention to detail. I could have spent days sitting there admiring it.
By this point in our phone call that you wouldn’t take that night, you would have fallen back asleep (much like me at your dinner table in Colorado) . . . and I would probably be openly slurring as I certainly would have opened a bottle of bourbon in order to keep my mouth from drying out. (I promise that would have been the only reason for the bourbon.) I am sure I would have waxed poetic about the attributes of the rye content in the brown liquid that would have made a lot of sense to you. Oh, I probably would have gotten through most of the restaurant review without knowing you were asleep had it not been for your snoring and of course Amy picking up your phone, wisely telling me to go to bed, and then hanging up on me. At least this is how I think that call would have gone . . .
So here I am . . . Awake, steady at hand, not a bottle of bourbon in my sight . . . and hoping this is still keeping you entertained.
Dinner:
When we were led from the wine room to our table, we walked down a few corridors and outside to the garden, then down a path of “Hollywood” like stars that are interred in the ground to memorialize the past chefs and staff that made a difference at the French Laundry. (Most of whom were still living, but for whatever reason no longer a part of the team.) From there we walked into a side door and into this incredible round room. This room was magnificent. The walls done in blonde wood, the shelving held crystal decanters and more Riedel glassware, and the table, a gorgeous round table with wood grain and color that could only come from a suitable hardwood, was decorated with flowers from the famous French Laundry garden on the other side of the wall. We were greeted by the Captain of the evening and his able serving lieutenants. They were ready to ensure our evening was to be filled with a magical dining experience and what would certainly prove to be the gourmet memory of a lifetime. Let’s Eat!
Now with all due respect to Mr. Keller, I will not go into intimate detail about the actual food. My description of this man’s art would really be akin me being asked to teach a class on the Greeks. I could do a little rambling on the Just City State, maybe even some logical reasoning, hell I might even throw in some of the Socratic Dialogue on Justice . . . but in the end it would be a train wreck, and I would probably confuse it all with the sophisticated teachings of Tim Tebow and the whole Barbarian class would revolt against me, after they failed. I simply owe Mr. Keller more than that.
I will say this: the food was breathtaking . . . It was creative . . . innovative . . . braised . . . silky . . . daring . . . sophisticated . . . caramelized . . . special . . . unique . . . elegant . . . spiritual . . . savory . . . fiery . . . delicate . . . succulent . . . velvety . . . charred . . . and fulfilling!
And all of that was to be expected!
What I did find almost equally fascinating and fun, fulfilling and entertaining, and just plain satisfying, was watching all of my colleagues’ faces and expressions as they traveled through this almost surreal dining experience. Their enjoyment was unique and real. They were literally confused by some, yet intrigued by each and every plate that was laid down in front of us. Watching them made me see, again, how much joy people can find in food. How people find joy in the mastery of the kitchen that is being laid before them. That alone was satisfying to be a part of. The Maestro, Mr. Keller, has directed the precision of the kitchen, which was matched and executed that by the cadre of servers whose efforts delivered their gastronomic opus that was laid before us, course after course!
It was an amazing dinner … and there really is no other way to put it.
To make it all the more memorable … as you leave the restaurant, you are handed a bag with your menu for that evening, printed out and placed in a folder, and a little tin of cookies. (The best shortbread cookie I have ever tasted in my life. I am almost certain that they might be the reason for the prices of butter in this country being so high.) Damn it … just when you thought you were done . . . they one up it again with the cookies!
OK now – still no bourbon – you have probably fallen asleep again. Although I know that this concept might be foreign to you, I have to go to work.
Salute!
WW
* * *
One thought: I was initially mystified by, but came to think just, the fact that Winfred did not actually describe what he ate. We talked about it. He deeply enjoyed, and could to some extent appreciate, and even here and there unpack, Keller’s cooking. But, as Winfred says, what Keller is doing is on such another level that Winfred openly acknowledges he doesn’t understand all of it, and certainly does not have the critical (poetic?) language to make it understandable to people who were not there. I doubt it is possible. And so we readers are left with fragments, and a sense of the intensity of the experience.
There’s a lot more here, from aesthetics to the relations between “art” and “craft,” and the meanings of the restaurant, the civilian front of the house vis-à-vis the militaristic back (much like security), notes on food, and wine, to California after France, to class and the social, etc., etc. and maybe for another day. And that’s before we get to work, careers, roads taken and not, siblings, parents, spouses and so children . . . My head wants to blow up; give critique a rest; this is his show.
For now, cherish your people and your moments, perhaps while eating well.
Salute! Indeed.
Safe travels, pilgrims.
— David A. Westbrook