お任せ
This is the night of second-hand thoughts. Oh, the shame. I'm gonna do this in mostly-chronological order. Mostly.
I vaguely remember the first great meal I had in Paris. I got off the plane, went through immigration and customs, hopped on the RER, got out and dragged my suitcase to Le Chat Grippé. I walked through the door in my T-shirt and jeans, and said… well, I don't remember what I said, but I ended up getting a table and ordering the tasting menu. I don't remember very much about the food, but I remember that the waiter had to wake me up between courses. I've kinda had a thing for tasting menus ever since.
Tonight I made a reservation at a fine dining establishment that was advertised as having a couple of tasting menus. I wasn't going to commit myself to a tasting menu, but there was a good chance I would find it irresistable. I timed my departure pretty well, and after walking the 2.5 miles to the restaurant, I was only a couple minutes early.
Now the funny thing about this is I did not happen to notice that I had entered Molecular Gastronomy Hut. The signs outside did not say Molecular Gastronomy Hut, neither in cuneiform, hieroglyphs, nor any language I could read. The menu did not advertise the fact that this was Molecular Gastronomy Hut. Had I known that this was Molecular Gastronomy Hut, I would have not ordered the tasting menu, especially since I was not hungry and should probably have not even eaten a whole course. Had I known that the wine pairings would only include two reds, I wouldn't have ordered those either.
Normally I expect wine pairings to include a white. It's the thing to do; it adds contrast. You drink it and get it over with and then you enjoy the rest of your meal. This had at least three whites and one rosé. Mother of God.
For the moment, though, I had no foreknowledge of the wines, and was was entranced by the knives, which were twisted such that if the handle was lying flat on the table, the blade stood vertically. Not only was this incredibly distracting, it seemed to have some practical value; if there were foodstuffs on your knife, they would remain elevated and not touch the tablecloth.
Anyway, the food comes out, course by course, wine by wine. I wonder if Richard from Top Chef is hiding back in the kitchen. There are random foams and gastriques lying conspicuously on my plates. My second course had a lemon sorbet sitting on top of various types of vegetable matter. My third course involved arthropods. Ever wonder what to pair with fried arthropod? That's right, rosé. My fourth course was actually tasty, much to my surprise. It was a pumpkin flower cappuccino. It is hubris to call it cappuccino, but they did and I am going to maintain the tradition. It tasted like warm infused buttery goodness, even though I was picking insect legs out of my mouth while drinking it.
You may or may not be surprised to learn that the lemon sorbet made a reappearance in a later course. The waiter recommended mixing it with the other ingredients. Tom Colicchio was hiding in the back of my head asking why, if it was meant to be mixed, wouldn't they serve it mixed. I am forced to agree.
The only other thing worth having was the cheese plate. It was populated with cheese I had never had before, and fruit concoctions to go with each. Most of the cheese were nothing special, but one was orgasmic. No, I'm not going to tell you what it was. Oh, all right, it was the middle one.
One hundred fifty-six courses later, I was asked if I wanted any coffee. I didn't really want caffeine, but as I didn't want to sabotage the experience, I acquiesced and consented to an espresso. I'm not sure how I was understood, as by this time I had stopped speaking the local language and was presently shouting about bacon-burger dogs, the Huxtables, and Freebird. Then after coffee and being ignored, I asked for the check. Surprise, surprise: there was an additional dessert course to go. Didn't I look foolish? The bill came out to about half the country's GDP. The last time I had seen that many digits was when a bunch of hipsters tried to calculate π while spaz-dancing to Fischerspooner and playing Space Channel Five. I wondered how it must feel for one of those guys who decides to order all kinds of extravagant room service in a luxury hotel right before committing suicide.
After I paid, which seemed to confuse them a bit, they offered to call me a cab. I refused politely several times. I don't like cabs to begin with, aside from the whole plutocrat-fatcat I-might-as-well-get-a-maid-and-a-butler-and-a-valet feel to them, and the practical aspects of the drivers being douchebags. I had just spent a ridiculous amount of money on food that wasn't worth it, and I saw no reason to add insult to injury by paying for a taxi. It could probably have been $10 or $15 more. Mother of Christ.
So I walked. It was only four or so miles to my bed, and I passed the time by singing songs of cormorants and racial disharmony and seventeen-year-old prostitutes and the time the Rescue Rangers got sentenced to maximum-security prison. All in all it was a terribly unpleasant contrast to the happy song about alfajores I was singing before dinner.
Mmm… alfajores.
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