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Published : 1 month, 1 week ago (Tue, 29 Jul 2008 11:08:09 PDT)
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Ben gave me an amazing birthday present.
He planned ahead quite some time to secure the chef's table at Commander's Palace, one of my most favoritest restaurants in the world.
The chef's table, for those who don't know how these things swing, is a table in the kitchen that seats four. Those lucky four are presented with a special menu that's both well thought out and whimsical, based on the responses to a form you must fill out long before the dinner, stating likes, dislikes, allergies, etc.
It's a chance for the chefs to try out new stuff and gauge the reaction, and I've never been happier to be a guinea pig.
My friend Eric is the head chef (in Tory's absence) at Commander's, and was looking forward to this dinner with almost as much anticipation as we were. He had the rest of the kitchen in the right mood for us as well. "Your friends are coming Monday, right?" was the buzz in the kitchen last week, apparently.
Eric said he read my form around to the kitchen a week ago and everyone was excited that our table would not be a bunch of stick-up-the-ass bluehairs with permanently pursed lips of disapproval.
My form, in part, read like this: Please list any food allergies or food restrictions:
Seafood, unfortunately. All of it. Things that breathe water. I realize this limits the menu a great deal, and that the Shrimp Henican would be omitted. It is not necessary to deprive the other three diners of all seafood-based items due to my boring, stupid allergy. I’m happy with a breadstick for a course or two. In fact, I quite insist that at the very least the Henican shows up.
To whom should we present the bill? George W. Bush. Tell him he owes New Orleans at least that. If he’s not there, Ben would be a second nominee. We took our friends Sean and Chris, two people whom we felt would derive just as much pleasure from an A+ foodie experience as we would, for between the four of us, we've probably had every good meal on five or seven continents.
Sean and Chris were immediately amazed when they found the table was in the kitchen. "I wasn't sure what 'chef's table' meant," she said.
"Oh, it gets better. We have a waiter assigned to only us, and those two guys cooking are our personal chefs for the night."
"You're fucking kidding me."
Dinner was at 7:00 and ended around 11:00. Eric confessed he showed up around 1:00 to prep our meal.
"You mean, you came to work at 1:00 like you always do, and just started on some of our things in the course of your duties?"
"No," he said. "I came in at 1:00 specifically because there's some stuff I wanted to do for you that required special treatment."
"I like special treatment."
We began heavy salivation as some of the forthcoming courses were described, and I kick myself for not bringing a notebook to jot down many of the details I cannot recall today.
The first thing that came out (not pictured because I forgot I should probably document things for the first round), was a duck confit in a little pastry shell with an ambrosial sauce, the details of which should be in my notes that I neglected to take.
We opted for the wine pairing, which was done a little differently than other places in that some of the wines were not wines, but cocktails that the somalier thought would work well with the dish.
The confit was paired with Commander's own champagne label, for example.
Next out was — Jeebus, I don't even know what to call it. I guess it was sorta like an onion soup, except the onions had been carmelized for six hours (and I asked for details on how to do that because I love carmelized onions and often have six hours to kill in the kitchen), with a huge chunk of the best brie available melting in it.
The soup was paired with a shot glass of Abita Amber instead of wine, since there was a lot of Abita in the soup as well.
"I tried to put liquor into everything tonight," said Eric, solicitous of my vices.
"Have you been reading ![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) docbrite's books?"
"Okay, this is my favorite thing that's come out yet," we all agreed. The line would turn into a joke by the end of the night.
Next was the foie. I'd never seen foie gras in its "natural" state, but it was brought out before he cooked it and our tongues lolled on the tablecloth. The thing was immense, and we were warned that all of it would show up at our table.
I was secretly dreading the course, because, while I love the taste of a good foie, I can only have one bite a month. It's just too rich for me, and two bites skeeves me out.
However, Eric's presentation, with just enough sweet and spicy to mix it up, with subtle hints of bitter via light coffee grounds sprinkled on top, over a fig beignet, marks the first plate of foie gras I have ever finished by myself in my life.
In fact…
Yah, it was that frickin' good.
It was paired with a prune/date sherry from Southern Spain, which I documented so I would remember the label. I'm also not a sherry fan but this stuff was aces.
Moving right along, the pork belly dish came out, served on a moonshine-soaked watermelon slice in a honey/vinegar reduction sauce, with little pickled cucumber balls. The pork was cured for days in their … curing contraption, then seared and scored and god-knows-what-else before it was brought out.
Likewise with foie, I can never eat more than one bite of pork belly because of its richness. This dish, however, marks the first time I've completed a plate by myself of that!
"This is my favorite dish so far," we all agreed.
For an intermission, we were brought the Holly Berry cocktail, a citrus'y pomegranite'y, cranberry'y, light, cleansing shot served in an iron tree.
"During large Victorian dinners," it was explained to us, "there would be an intermission of a liquor-based drink because they thought it helped with digestion. Of course today we know that's not the case, but hell, let's do it anyway."
Next came the quail. Eric explained that he just invented this dish 45 minutes before we showed up. He had some good quail in the house and a sharp cheese (I'm useless at remembering cheese names, unfortunately) that he wanted to use. He'd been tinkering around with some ideas, and decided to spring it on us.
"Okay, now THIS is the best dish so far!" we all chimed.
"I'm thinking of putting it on the menu," he said, and I think our post-coital grins were just the testament he was looking for.
I should mention that for all of these dishes, the lucky bastards at the chef's table can watch them be prepared. If you're the kind of nerd I am who enjoys the Process as much as the Result, this is very satisfying.
Next was an aged beef in another sauce that I cannot describe today, but was the perfect mix of sweet, sour and peppery, served with a robust pinot noir.
"Oh, no, I think this is my favorite dish so far."
Next meat course was in two parts, because clearly there wasn't enough variety in our dinner so far. Two of us got steak, and two got the lamb, and we were told to share. The lamb is on their menu, and is what I usually order when sitting in the regular peasant dining room, so I was happy to see a familiar face.
Look. It's smiling at me.
At this point we were literally busting out of our clothes. Chris had removed his belt, and I was a bit unbuttoned myself.
At which point the dessert was presented. Nine dishes for four people, plus two cheese plates.
They were, starting with six o'clock and moving clockwise in the above pic: pecan pie, four-day cheesecake, peach cobbler, lemon chiffon, a smorgasbord of chocolate, bread pudding, watermelon sorbet, biscotti, and the best crème brûlée in the world, for I am an expert at assessing the merits of this particular dish.
Commander's understands the very simple, but very crucial point of brûlée: surface area. The joy of a good brûlée is the texture of the burnt top mingling with the custard, and they are the only people who seem to grasp this and so serve it in a shallow plate.
I can't even begin on the variety of cheeses in the center of the table, but everyone conceded that the one that is as red as a salmon was the best.
Dessert was served with an amazing port, so heady that it had to be strained when poured to avoid the sediment.
The unanimous decision made by us — four well-seasoned foodies for whom this was not the first visit into a gustatory forest — was that this was the best meal any of us has ever had.
I cannot underscore the gravity of that statement enough. We all exchanged our "second best" meal stories, which were, until last night, the ones we erstwhile spoke of as being the best.
I feel like I'm ruined for life now. I can't imagine that there will ever be a better meal served to me. So I suppose I should just kill myself because there's little to look forward to. "The Last Meal," indeed.
I guess we could always go back to this table, however, so perhaps I'll hang on for a little longer.
Eric and I have a special affinity for his copper still that he and the boys had made in Portugal then imported (under dubious legality) to the States. In fact, what first started our friendship was when he would come to The Saint and drink my hooch, and we would collaborate on ideas for making absinthe.
I brought him some raw wormwood a year or so ago, and he turned it into absinthe ice cream, which was delicious even for people who don't like absinthe.
Last night I brought him the last of my wormwood and we'll see what he does with it.
He uses the still all the time, and there's a long shelf in the kitchen that houses his experiments. Most of his "moonshines" are made as ingredients to cook with, but some can be had directly from the mason jar.
He sent me home with two of his creations, both amazing things: a watermelon-jalapeño shine, and a smoked cinnamon shine.
We took these bottles, and some of the leftover cheese plate, to The Saint after dinner, where we were very popular for that reason. Eric and our waiter Josh were going to close down the kitchen and join us in an hour, but two hours later they hadn't shown up, and Ben and I were ready to call it a night.
Sean and Chris just sold the bar, and almost immediately Lily showed up. Lily is the new Barcat, and Sean and I lamented that after we left the place, only then did a barcat show up.
Quite by accident, and totally randomly, on this stupid Monday in the tail end of July, which always spells D-O-L-D-R-U-M-S for the neighborhood dive bar biz, The Saint was absolutely packed with most of our favorite people.
Sean and I arranged to have another Salon Night at her house on Saturday, and most of the musicians she wanted to invite happened to be there last night.
Today I have a lunch date with Ben and Nathan, but I'm going to bow out of that because I don't feel that I need any more food this week. Perhaps I'll munch on a carrot tomorrow evening.
If I'm feeling naughty.
The moral of this long-winded tale is this: I'm not trading in my boyfriend for anything because he concocts nights like these for me. And that's what love is. |
