“Ohhhh, what the hell… I’m wearin’ my fat pants tonight,” I once heard a lady next to me, with a deep southern drawl announce to her waiter and table as she struggled to choose from the breadbasket… There were at least half a dozen options, and within seconds of spying the bounty— she just CAVED and surrendered to a smattering of them all. Who doesn’t cave and walk out with mild gout/ severe carb-face after hours of endless gastronomic temptation + debauchery?!
The devil is always delightfully lurking in the details at the French Laundry. After years of being haunted, dazzled and smitten by the sheer talent and exceptionalness of every dinner had— I must confess that it is the little things that leave charmed + inspired… I can’t go frequently because it usually takes me a full year to digest the 14 courses of excruciating perfection– that renders me fearful, that I too, could end up like Mama Cass in the night!
But, in truth, TFL is as good as it ever was; the service as impeccable, as was the night.
