My Spin Cycle at French Laundry

What separates a good restaurant from a great restaurant is the way they handle adversity. In this case, the adversity was me.

French Laundry in Napa, California is the Bentley of restaurants, the Monte Carlo of restaurants. It is among the best restaurants in the world and is virtually impossible to get into. You cannot make a reservation more than two months ahead of your desired date, and you feel like a kid trying to get concert tickets as you frenetically dial and redial the number, hoping to get a live reservationist.

After waiting on hold for hours for Ticketmaster, I mean table master, I finally got my golden reservation.

And I guess it is like an adult rock concert in a lot of ways. You figure with ten courses, the show will last for three hours; the amuses count as a sort of opening band. And throughout your experience your celebrity chef is harmonizing the hell out of your taste buds, wailing on them like a genius possessed.

Though I live a mere foie gras’ throw away from the wine country, I don’t get up there nearly as much as I’d like. It is my favorite place on earth with its perfectly organized rolling vines, chateaux, charming gourmet markets like Oakville Grocery and French oak barrels as far as the eye can see. So for my birthday, I thought, now here’s an excuse to finally go to famed French Laundry, one of few delights that has eluded me.

Dinner meant an overnight stay, and who better to invite than my mom and sister? Prized reservation reconfirmed, I promptly called Auberge du Soleil for accommodations. My ultimate Diva birthday was set.

For two months, I flipped gaily ahead in my calendar, ignoring July completely to stare at the magic date in August: the 16th. On Wednesday night the 16th, I would be dining at the degustatious French Laundry. It would be a dreamy first for me and my younger sister, Corey; though for my Mom, both Auberge and the restaurant were old hat. Ah, well. We can’t all be fabulously chic mommies.

August finally came and brought with it the unexpected and sad death of a hometown friend. I found myself back in Texas fighting back tears and wrestling with old memories on a humid day in a house I practically grew up in. I vowed to toast this departed friend at French Laundry because she would appreciate it.

Then I came back to California and tried to understand the cycle of death and life as the celebration of my own birth came on the heels of a big loss. The champagne ran like water and the future and past collided but felt soothing and mellow, this dance between tragedy and celebration, and I marveled how at thirty-three I was moving with more fluidity than ever through life’s many courses. Now it was time for French Laundry’s many courses.

I picked my mother and sister up and we headed to Napa on the morning of August 16th to get in some wine tasting before dinner. A friend at Mumm, Sophia (you must ask for her), gave us a private tour and a sumptuous tasting of—count them—eight different varieties of sparkling wine and champagne. Eight glasses of champagne. Seven and one to grow on. Then two more wineries.