Archive for August, 2008

I spent most of this past Sunday morning holding onto my floor for dear life.  I’d awoken early, probably 8 in the morning, after a long night out, scrambled over the bodies strewn about my room, and bolted for the bathroom, certain I was about to pay for last night’s decisions by vomiting up everything I’d consumed.  Normally (or not so normally, because I rarely drink to the kind of excess that would have brought on such an event), I would have merely gotten sick and then moved on with life.  On Sunday morning, however, the only thing I could think was “I will NOT throw up per se.  I will NOT throw up per se.”  So there I was, face down on the hardwood, focusing on zen breathing.

Per se represents a milestone in my culinary journeys.  Throughout my 22 years of life, my tastes have evolved to encompass ever-rarer and, unfortunately, ever-more expensive foods.  Naturally, this meant that at some point, Thomas Keller became my personal guru, and I followed his teachings (in the form of the Bouchon and French Laundry cookbooks) with the zeal of any evangelical, converting people through demonstrative 5 course meals (note to other evangelizers:  I find this a much more effective technique than preaching in a Subway train).  A couple of trips to Napa had allowed me entrance into the more casual Thomas Keller establishments of ad hoc, Bouchon, and Bouchon Bakery, and I’d had my eye on the French Laundry and per se prizes for about a year.  So naturally, as soon as I realized I’d be moving to New York, I’d gotten a friend and employee of Thomas Keller to get me a reservation.  After 3 months of waiting, I arrived armed with my food friend David, an appetite, and $800.

Okay, stop.  I know you’re questioning my judgment on the whole $800 thing.  After all, I probably could have fed starving kids in Africa for, like, a year.  I also could have fed myself like 20 times, even in New York, which would have been kind of like feeding starving kids in Africa given that on my salary I can barely afford to eat.  So why the obvious excess?  Well, my friend, one, I am a practical gluttonous hedonist.  15 courses for $800 kind of sounds like a sweet deal, especially when some of those courses are going to be mouth orgasms and all of those courses are going to include exquisite wine.  Two, how much would you pay to visit your personal Israel?  I know all those people making pilgrimages to their respective promised lands are shelling out for the plane tickets.  What with fuel prices, I’m totally saving money.

So as I was saying, I arrived at per se.  Per se is in a mall.  Sure, it’s a very nice mall with lots of expensive stores and other high end restaurants, but it’s still a mall.  So when you arrive in your sexy cocktail dress (which cost less than your meal, I might add) and see everyone else walking around in their shorts and sweaty tee shirts, you start to wonder how classy your experience is really going to feel.  And then you walk through those famous blue doors and you’re in completely different world, sitting at your table and looking out at Central Park.

David and I wanted documentation of our visit, so we brought a friend to take pictures as we entered.  After branding ourselves as culinary tourists, we were shown our table by a glowing staff who happened to know exactly how I’d gotten the reservation.  “Will this champagne do?  We hear you’re a friend of the Keller restaurants,” said a member of the staff as my dining partner and I sat.  Oh, no.  Send back that Primer Cru.  It simply won’t meet my standards for a gift.  We toasted to Thomas, offering our thanks to our culinary god, and started in on the fried bits of gorgonzola and little cones of crème fraiche and salmon.  The salmon is a famous amuse bouche, and I’ve toyed with recreating it for dinner parties.  Basically, take arguably the greatest gluten-dairy combo out there (the bagel with cream cheese and lox) and twist the flavors into a crispy bite.  Toss in some chives and it’s a party starter, especially when you’re having it with free champagne.

Per se is the promised land for gluttons (hooray).  To give you an idea of the kind of excess I’m talking about, I was served at least 12 courses, 8 different kinds of bread, and my meal ended with a three-tiered platter of chocolates and a trifecta of candies.  Plus they gave me a goody bag of cookies to go (these would be drunkenly consumed later after I decided all campari sodas that night basically constituted a rounding error on my dinner price and therefore were unlimited).  The point of all this is that you don’t get sick of whatever it is that you’re consuming.  So when you’re eating foie gras that makes you want to keel over and die because you’re never going to put something like that in your mouth again, you can stay alive on the premise that you needed just one more bite to be completely fulfilled.  By course 4, I was regretting my curve-hugging dress choice, by course 9 I was threatening a puke and rally (but once again, I will NOT throw up per se), and by the end I was quite drunk, quite full, and quite about to bust out of the spandex suit that encapsulated me, no doubt allowing my newly accumulated body fat to throw other patrons into the wall.  Highlights of the meal included the perfect silky foie served with a tart peach melba, and the oysters and pearls, which consisted of salty caviar, tapioca, and creamy sabayon.  I would pass on the wagyu beef next time.  It wasn’t worth the extra cost when I’m sure the alternative, lamb, would have been just as good (but then again, how often do YOU get to eat wagyu beef?  Because I could probably count my previous chances on 1 hand).  Only one course fell short:  the tasteless tuna was overpowered by the anchovies it was served with.  Wine pairings were mostly perfect except for an interesting exception:  the best wine we drank was the Chateneauf-du-Pape, which was so rich and creamy it tasted like chocolate.   However, the pairing was off, and the first bite of food took the knock-out punch out of the wine.  Fear not.  I solved my problem by inhaling the course and then nursing (um, chugging?) the wine (so good I couldn’t help myself).

My night was capped with a tour around the kitchen, a treat for anyone who’s going to try to recreate the magic.  Too bad I don’t have a temperature controlled meat room.  If only I had that piece of machinery I’m sure my cooking would taste just like TK’s.  I wanted to make witty comments about the mise en place and knife racks, but the food coma dictated that I merely smile and nod stupidly, as if I’d lost several brain cells in my gratuitous consumption, likely closing the door on my hoped-for affair with a chef or employee that would allow me to eat per se any time I wanted.

So in the end, was it worth it?  Interestingly, I doubt many of the patrons were paying for their meals.  The family across from us was with an employee, and I noticed many groups on corporate cards.  Guru Keller didn’t let me down, but I think I’ll stick with Bouchon until someone else is footing the bill (Dad, please ignore that last sentence.  It was absolutely worth it and I hope to take you sometime soon.  On your MasterCard).  That said, it wasn’t the money I was thinking about when lying on the floor refusing to vomit.  It was the thought that my body wouldn’t have the pleasure of digesting the rest of that perfect foie gras.  And that, really, would have been a shame.