The French Laundry...

(NOTE:  My spellcheck disappeared.  Just like that, it magically went away.  And I can't find it, either.  I never was all that technologically competent, so I go forward not knowing whether my most dogged attempts at spelling everything correctly will work; they may not.  But if they don't, just remember, you can't beat the price...)

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You've no doubt by now heard about our Boy Guv's pricey little birthday party dinner he held at Napa's most celebrated, and America's most expensive, restaurant.

Yes, he, San Fran Nan Pelosi's nephew, and J. Paul Getty's Godson, and the once-Golden State's Governor, is the very same guy who ordered us, his plebes, his serfs, his unwashed peons, to go home and stay there.  No little gettogethers, no parties, no Thanksgiving dinners of more than ten, even if it's with your own family. 

Yet, like many politicians, he decided that his rules don't apply to him.  Or his wife or family.  He decided to attend a birthday party for a long-time lobbyist and friend at Napa's famous French Laundry restaurant.  And by famous, I mean FAMOUS!

How famous is it?  The French Laundry has owned its 3 Michelin stars since 2007.  It is generally considered America's finest restaurant.  And whether it is or not, it is most assuredly our most EXPENSIVE restaurant.  If you can get reservations, and that's a big IF, you can expect to pay up to $1,000 a person to taste their apparently wonderful food.  And I say "apparently" because I've as yet not had the chance to eat there.

But I once tried.  And this unassuming little posting will tell that story...

My dearly departed wife Elaine and I decided to celebrate our wedding anniversary with a Napa splurge.  We made reservations at the gilt-edged Silverado Golf and Country Club for a four day-three night vacay to end all vacays.  And we arrived filled with expectations of great food and even greater wine.  We checked into our suite ($500 per night...and that was 15 years ago!) around 4:00 p.m., dropped off our bags and headed off to try and score a great meal at the world-famous French Laundry.  As foodies, we'd heard great things about this famous place and were looking forward to experiencing it, and a number of other Wine Country restaurants.  But getting a reservation there was nigh on to impossible!  I know, I had tried.  For the weeks leading up to our vacation.  But I figured if we got there at the exact moment it opened, which was 5:00 p.m. on weekdays, we might be able to sneak in and snag a meal before all the big stuff started happening.  Great plan, huh?

We pulled up in front of the French Laundry at 4:45 early on a Thursday evening.  Door locked, nobody in this tiny little town within blocks.  We went around to the rear.  The restaurant backs up to a set of train tracks and a dusty lot.  We parked and walked up to the door.  It was locked also.  There, carefully hung next to the door, was a copy of that day's menu.  We read it voraciously.  It was a thing of beauty.  "Long Island Duckling With Cherry Confit" this, and Braised Elk Shank in Lobster Sauce" that.  And the Special of the Day was a tasting menu of nine items for "only" $175.00.  And that was two decades ago!  Gulp!  Our mouths were watering.  And my wallet was shrinking.  

Turns out the now $350 per person menu at Newsom's little dinner on November 18th featured "Wolfe Ranch White Quail "Presse," which could have been upgraded to "Rolled Risotto 'Agnolotti'" for "only" an additional $175.00.  

You could also upgrade your "Herb Roasted Elysian Fields Farm Lamb" for the penultimate "Japanese Wagyu 'Poele'" for an additional $100.

Wine?  Sure.  The white wine starts at $35.00 per glass.  Bottles start at $150.  And if you'd care to bring in your own bottle, they'll charge you $175.00 to open it for you.  Which takes about one minute.  Ummm, yeah.  Apparently I went to the wrong school.

Anyway, my nose was pressed up against the door glass on that day long, long ago.  The lights were off and nobody was yet stirring.  Except a guy in a chef's coat who I could see walking around in the shadows.  I tapped on the door.  Lightly.  He came our way and opened the door, just a crack.  "Yes, can I help you,?" he asked?  "Sure," I said, "We're here for dinner.  Can you seat us?"  He asked, "Do you have a reservation?" without even looking at us.  I said "Unfortunately, no, but I was hoping you could sneak us in before the rush starts."  He burst out laughing.  A full-on belly laugh.  The suddenness of his doing so caught us off guard.  He laughed long and hard and in a way that made us to know that we had asked a really stupid and ridiculous question, which we should never have asked, and if we had any couth at all we wouldn't have, and that we should probably get our car and go back to whatever little redneck village that had spawned us.  Oh, and never return.

I asked again, "But can't you just seat us, over in a corner somewhere?  We'd be gone in like 20 minutes.  We'll sit at the bar.  We've been so looking forward to experiencing your wonderful food.  You can serve us anything you wish."  He laughed again.  Harder this time.  And then he said, "Don't you know that if the word got out I'd fed someone who didn't go through our reservation process, our reputation in the restaurant community here would be shot?"  

I frankly didn't know what to say.  And as a salesman, that's saying something.  I was expecting this guy to say anything but that.  Anything but that his reputation would be ruined with the locals if he didn't crap on people just like the entire Napa winery and restaurant and hotel community does, Every. Single. Day.  Anything but stooping to feed a couple of hungry tourists, for waaaaay too much money, even though there was not another human in the entire restaurant, would ruin his vaunted reputation among his oh-so-cool peers.  

And so I came to know I wasn't going to be able to cross this off item off my Bucket List.  Upon leaving I asked him his name.  He said "Herman Keller."  The owner.  The owner had blown us off.  The owner apparently was do damn rich, and so damn successful, and so damn full of himself, that he no longer felt the need to serve a couple of hungry customers.

Which is why he got into the business in the first place.

Keller didn't know who we were that day, nor did he ask.  He didn't care.  But I can tell you I've made it my business to tell anyone I can, every time I can, ever since, that if they are hungry for some really fine food, and even if they have a pocket full of cash to pay for it, please take that money someplace else.  The French Laundry doesn't deserve your patronage.  It doesn't deserve your favoritism.  It doesn't deserve your time or attention.

As I'm wrapping up this little trip down memory lane, I'd like to say, screw the French Laundry.  And also, screw Herman Keller.  And while we're at it, screw our Boy Guv, especially for having the temerity to try and tell you and me what to do with our plebian lives while doing the exact opposite.  And to all my friends and neighbors, wash your hands, like you were taught to do in the 2nd grade, wear a mask when necessary, even though you don't want to, and stay six (6) feet apart from others.  

Remember, the Chinese Wuhan Killer Coronavirus can only travel 5 feet...