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| February | 09 |
| 2005 |
Given the choice between standing in the middle of one of the worst blizzards of the past hundred years and eating in one of the most expensive, renowned restaurants in the world, for which would you opt?
Having done both, I would unhesitatingly opt for the former.
My girlfriend and I were in New York. As a treat, I booked a restaurant which I had long been desperate to try: Alain Ducasse at the Essex House. Ducasse is the only chef in the world to possess six Michelin stars: three for his restaurant in Paris and three in Monte Carlo. To put that achievement in perspective, there are only three 3-starred restaurants in the whole of the UK — The Fat Duck, The Waterside Inn, and Gordon Ramsay. M Ducasse is clearly some chef.
He opened his New York venue in 2000. As William Grimes, the former restaurant critic of The New York Times and thus arbiter of all things foodie, put it: “In the annals of New York dining, few events compare with the tempestuous arrival of Alain Ducasse in New York . . . it was more expensive, more sumptuous, more ritualised — more everything — than any other restaurant in Manhattan, where the worship of fine French food is an organised religion. Ducasse would be the restaurant that made the others also-rans.”
I wanted part of the action, and booked a table.
Come Saturday, we were ensconced in our New York hotel when we spied delightful snowflakes. How pretty. How romantic. Within minutes, the flakes turned to lumps, and a light coating turned to inches. Wall-to-wall TV coverage of “Blizzard 2005” reported that the storm was one of the three worst of the past 150 years, if not the worst of the past century. The Mayor of New York appeared on TV: unless your journey is critical, stay at home, for your safety and the city’s.
Clearly, Mayor Bloomberg had our dinner plans specifically in mind. He was, in effect, telling us to do whatever it would take to get to the restaurant. What, after all, could be more critical than a visit to Alain Ducasse at the Essex House? And in New York, it is the restaurants that hold the upper hand. As the snow was settling, I overheard an archetypal New Yorker on the phone: “No, 6.15 is no good. My massage doesn’t finish until 6.30. There’s a blizzard. Won’t they bend in a blizzard?”
Blizzard, schmizzard. No mere snowstorm was going to destroy our night, and we made it in good time.
The mere fact of getting there meant that it was round one to us; but it was the only round we were going to win. In the battle that was to follow, the surly Frenchman and his henchmen won by a knockout.
Now, an admission. Alain Ducasse at the Essex House is far from my only experience of haute cuisine. Given a one-off expedition to such a restaurant, I almost always choose the tasting menu — as I did at the Fat Duck last month, to wonderful, memorable effect. They do not come cheap. At the Fat Duck it’s £90. M Ducasse’s pride and joy is $225. Thanks to the dollar’s collapse, that’s just — just! — £120. But to be given a guided tour through the chef’s paces, and to be placed in his hands — how he balances ingredients, how he structures courses, and how he creates an overall style — it is worth every penny.
Usually.
Given the outrageous mark-ups on the wine list — a form of civilised mugging — I opted for the sommelier’s selection of glasses to go with each course at a mere $120 (£64). I was not offered a price on the next choice: one of 12 bottles of water (six still, six sparkling).
I chose the blue bottle. It was a nice colour.
Our first course — creamy pumpkin soup, with a “fricassée” of crushed chestnut — arrived. The fact that it arrived within what seemed a split second of our ordering the tasting menu should have put me on my guard. But I was complacent. Far, far, too complacent, it soon became clear.
It was gorgeous, albeit almost as heavy as me. It was also unaccompanied by any wine. I called over the waiter to point out that we had just finished our first course, that we had a set of wine glasses on the table but that that they were all empty. When, I asked, would our wine be coming?
Let the games begin. He looked at me as if I had stepped in from a trailer park. “That was not your first course.” Long pause. It might have been listed on the menu. It might have tasted like food, but no, it was not. “That was your amuse-bouche”. But of course! The fact that we had already been given a little choux bun as an amuse-bouche and that it was an entire bowl of soup — not, as it were, a soupç on of soup — was irrelevant. I was clearly stupid.
Within seconds of our plates being cleared, the second course arrived — carpaccio of blue-fin tuna, with eggplant caviar. It was stunning; moist, fresh and flavoursome. Our plates cleared, there was barely a minute’s pause before the arrival of the third course. The “Poêlé duck foie gras, caramelised mango and its marmalade” was, however, the beginning of the end. With its arrival, I understood what it feels like to be a duck being force-fed to produce foie gras.
I have a healthy appetite. I am used to “fine dining” and can scoff with the best of them. But I am equally used to tasting menus, and the point of a tasting menu is to be balanced, and to be a pleasure, not an ordeal. It was a slab so large that a team of elephants reared specifically to eat foie gras would have conceded defeat, paired with the largest half of a roasted mango I have ever seen. And all this — an entire bowl of rich pumpkin soup, the tuna, a roasted mango, and enough foie gras to keep me in clover for the next 25 years — within less than 30 minutes of our setting foot in the restaurant.
By now, Nicky was beginning to wilt — not least because the room felt like a sauna. As a frequent visitor to the US, I know that Americans like their rooms warmer than we do, but this was something else. She was wearing a light top, with bare arms, and yet the heat was so oppressive that she could barely keep her eyes open.
I was obeying the orders I had been given on booking; I was wearing my jacket and tie. I couldn’t cope with the heat either, so wandered off to the loo to wash my face. As I walked back, I noticed a fellow diner. He was wearing a V-neck sweater. No shirt, no jacket. I removed my tie. I was not thrown out.
As we picked our way through the foie gras, the meal began to turn into something to be endured. Our stomachs could barely cope with the food, our bodies with the heat and our tempers with the superior service.
I suggested to Nicky that she step outside for some air. The fact that the worst blizzard of the past century was at its height was not a downside. That was the very point. It was preferable to the atmosphere inside.
On to the next course — “wild Alaskan salmon, lightly cooked, béarnaise reduction”. So far, it was not the quality of the food that had ruined the evening. The salmon, however, was a disgrace — overcooked and dry, utterly flavourless and crumbling as soon as it was touched by a fork. Still, at least I know that I cook better salmon than Alain Ducasse’s kitchen staff.
By now, we had been eating barely a third of the food on our plates. Call me an idiot, but I was determined not to complain and instead to see what it would take — heart failure, perhaps? — to interrupt the onward march of the food. How much would we have to leave before they made the inquiry, “Is everything OK?” The answer, I discovered, was that at no point in the evening would the waiting staff make even the slightest attempt to give a damn.
Nicky absented herself for a few moments. Up until now, the waiters might have brought our food immediately on clearing the previous course, but we had at least been sitting at the table. Clearly, a call of nature could not be allowed to interrupt their Olympic sprinting display and so, regardless of her absence, on came the “roasted free-range veal, winter vegetables in a cocotte”.
There was more of the same. On and on it came, relentlessly.
And then to dessert. As if the “sod you, the customer” attitude had not been evident enough, the waiter had demanded that we choose our dessert at the start of the meal. I doubt if you have ever eaten seven full courses in one sitting before, but let me tell you something. You don’t have a clue at the outset what you fancy for dessert.
It turned out to be academic anyway. Nicky’s rum-baba, “Monte-Carlo Style”, consisted of what tasted like stale sponge smothered in cream. My “pear declination, caramel ice-cream, topped with lace biscuits” was almost inedible, the caramel burnt over an assemblage of diced, tasteless pear.
I declined it.
The bill was $890 (£480). (We had also had a cocktail and a glass of champagne each.) We would, quite literally, have had more pleasure standing outside in the blizzard, ripping up $10 bills. We would certainly have been more comfortable. And we would not have had to spend the rest of the evening, as we did, in what Americans call the John.
MessageSpace
Wonderful. You could have had a much finer meal in many, many places, it seems, for far less money.
Is it not a wonderful sign of a egalitarian world when spending so much money cannot get you wonderfully better food than spending much less?
Sir:
Perhaps a firm "Fermez la bouche!" would have been appropriate for the "wait-staff", as I, half-way through an experience such as yours, would have openly referred to them. (Just stand up, stick out your hand to shake theirs, and say, "Golly, Jim Bob, it surely is real good to meet'cha! Hey, Chief, whny'nt you pull up a chair?")
As a long-ago veteran of L'etoile and La Burgoine in San Francisco, I suffer along with your post. By contrast, to be sure. These two establishments were two of only three I have visited that recognized I was left-handed....They set my place accordingly. I was pleased.
It is so...disappointing...to have such an experience. Kind of like being introduced, by your fiance, to your future mother-in-law, only to have her exclaim to you, after ushering you into the drawing room, "Nice butt!"
Of course, you could have chosen the "Dudley Do-Right End Option, as I did one night after a similar over-priced debacle: I handed the "wait-staff" my fancy gold hotel membership card, and then pretended I spoke absolutely no language that anyone there spoke. "Nyet!, Nyet!, Nyet!"
Even so, I would not have braved the storm, as I hate to be cold.
Well, in my experience, not that special but very expensive meals are pretty much par for the course in the NYC. Rubbish service is not exactly new for NYC either.
I had a similar experience on blizzard night. I went with some British friends to Peter Luger's in Brooklyn, billed as the world's greatest steakhouse (with prices to match).
The steak arrived within about 30 seconds of being ordered, and was actually cold. We sent it back. When it arrived a second time it turned out to be tough and tasteless. We paid an inordinate amount of money, and yet were hurried out of the door as the staff wanted to get home (it was 9.30pm). Fair enough, but when you're paying their prices, you expect something a bit better.
First and last time for me there.
Thanks for that, Stephen. I'm in N America, so I read this piece with my breakfast coffee and laughed all the way through. What a great way to start the day! Funny, funny, funny.
"Twit Spends Too Much For Dinner, Disappoints Self"
Those of us who have not yet written a bestseller will feel a frisson of schadenfreude, if this is how the rewards get spent. It sounds as though French supply (skilled cooking) was at war with American demand (morbid obesity) and MO won. Portion control in reverse, hein?
Stephen, you might soothe your nerves by reading Jessica Mitford's essay "Checks and Balances at the Sign of the Dove", which recounts a similar misfortune. But she had better weather.
"This is my weblog. It's an outlet for all those things I think NEED to be said..."
Did you really need to tell us about a crappy overpriced meal in a restaurant thousands of miles away?
On the subject of the Fat Duck restaurant - I drive past this very regularly on the way to my rowing club (the Fat Duck is very near the Thames at Bray). I'm sure it's very good indeed, but do you know what? I'm glad I never stop to try it because I'm on my way to do something far more fun - rowing (with some great people who couldn't care less about whether I could afford a posh restaurant). Sometimes I follow this with an excellent pint in the club bar and some bar food. I can assure you that I'm having far more fun than you are.
You'll be much happier in life if you do what you really enjoy and to hell with trying to impress others with what you can afford.
Stephen,
This is G-d's was of saying keep kosher and stay off the foie gras :)
HJHJ -
I'm indifferent, by and large, that you never stopped to try The Fat Duck. I would be equally indifferent if you'd stopped and tried it, although thank you for sharing.
Every boy should have a hobby, and if rowing is yours, that's nice, I guess. It's probably nice that your rowing mates don't care whether you can afford to eat in a "posh" (giveaway chippy term here) restaurant. This was worth sharing with the world?
"You'll be much happier in life if you do what you really enjoy and to hell with trying to impress others with what you can afford."
Excuse me? Did Stephen confide anywhere that he is not doing what he really enjoys - and has achieved - writing a column for an internationally respected newspaper, writing a highly publicised book that people have paid to buy, appearing on TV, taking his girlfriend to Manhattan, staying in a neat hotel and taking her out to an expensive restaurant, romantically arrived at through a blizzard?
And then writes a very funny column when it went pear-shaped?
What is your gripe?
I had breakfast at Tesco's this morning of sausage, 2 rashers of bacon, egg, hash brown and beans and got £478.31 change out of £480. Had to wait three minutes for the egg though. The secret is not to have the tea or coffee. That's a rip-off at OVER £1.
Just thought I'd share that with you.
Bob Doney - Why?
What's a matter? The joint too cheap to give you a doggy-bag?
Verity,
So the word "Posh" is a "giveaway chippy term"? Spare me the amateur lame-brain psychology.
My point was this:
The piece was not in the least bit funny (and clearly was not intended to be) - if it had been self deprecating, then it might have amused. Neither could you describe it as something that NEEDED to be said (which Stephen Pollard says is the point of his blog). So why were we treated to this story? So that he could tell us how acquainted he is with fine dining and that he is jolly rich, but because that would have been tactless, he dressed it up in a moan.
If he's done well - then good luck to him. I'm not in the least bit chippy about it. But why is it so important for him to let us all know what he can afford?
Verity: "Bob Doney - Why?"
A lot of people have asked me this over the years. I don't have a simple answer.
Bob Doney - V good!
HJHJ - The piece was very funny and was intended to be so. It was a vignette. Your responses both reeked of chippiness and envy. Stephen was relating the ne plus ultra of disastrous three star restaurant experiences against the background of the blizzard, and I had to put my coffee down from laughing as I was reading it.
In Stephen's introduction to his weblog, if you would be so good as to read beyond the first comma, you'll see that after noting that the blog is for things he feels need to be said, he continues: "and those which I want to share with my readers."
Verity. Oh dear. Do you ever get anything right?
"reeked of chippiness and envy" - you are pathetic. In fact, you can have no idea on this point as you don't have any knowledge on what I can or cannot afford (and I'm not going to boast about it here).
I made a valid point, so what exactly is your problem) except for severely limited intellect and an penchant for amateur pyschological diagnosis?
HJHJ - I'm not going to respond to any of your charges because we are guests on someone else's property.
Club Gascon in Smithfields is the best French restaurant in London and beats a lot of them in France too. (The best French restaurants are outside France it seems.)
Service is variable and the staff do see themselves as equals but the food is superb. Meal for two with wine for less than £200.
Before anyone points out the obvious, I realise that what I am about to say says more about me and my friends than it does about the rest of you but I know of no one - literally, no one - amongst my friends and acquaintances who has the slightest interest in Stephen's eating habits. What Stephen did is, to my mind, one big yawn. I appreciate that it was an achievement but it is one in which neither I, nor any of my friends, has any interest.
Stephen,
Next time take Nicky to the Carnegie deli. Minimum order: $12. The corned beef is to die for.
Maybe Blunkett was freelancing in the kitchen
Verity, I kind of agree with the substance of HJHJ's point (although I too hate the word 'posh') which is that you can have a much better time at cheap or middle-ranking restaurants - indeed, at what one might call vernacular restaurants. In my experience, the top end (partic. in the UK) is stuffed with expense account diners and riddled with what someone called status anxiety, waiters and customers alike. They are, in the main, temples to the art of public relations, not gastronomy. The phrase that always comes to my mind in smart, 'name' restaurants is this: 'Are we having fun yet?'
Pollard deserves a citation for bravery, or foolhardiness. I cannot imagine spending $445 (£240) per capita for the best meal on earth or in Heaven. In retirement my average spend on food and drink (I'm teetotal) is £1.90 a day, so I could live on the equivalent of Pollard's bill for 250 days. If I purposed to spend anything like what he paid, I would be flicking every breadcrumb off the tablecloth into my doggy bag.
It seems funny that M. Ducasse's ultra-classy joint should be named after the least classy county in old England, although Essex does have a lot of self-made vulgarians with more money than sense.
I didn't really know a meal for two could come to $890. Did you cry at the end? I would have just sat in the restaurant and cried. Did you tell them the meal was not good?
Stephen, I very much sympathise. Researching for a recent trip to New York I read of several very expensive and disappointing restaurants, Ducasse's being one of them. New Yorkers even manage to outdo London in fleecing those in search of the ultimate foodie experience.
But we did try Bouley on the Saturday night and were very pleasantly surprised. It didn't come cheap, of course, but the atmosphere was relaxed, the staff didn't have 'attitude', and the tasting menu excellent - especially the seafood. We'd definitely go back. Easiest way to book is via;
http://www.opentable.com/restaurant_profile.asp?ID=2954
I'd recommend the tasting menu, with wine by the glass.
I'm intrigued by the actions of those who take the time to post, what is effectively, a yawn. Here is the non-sequitur of taking a passive-aggressive step to communicate disdain all while claiming the cloak of distanced disinterest. Does that fail to persuade anyone but me?
I found Stephen's bit entertaining and even edifying. If I were unimpressed, this would be silence.
Why on earth are people having a go at Stephen for choosing to spend his money at a posh restaurant? Surely this is a choice of hobby? I've looked baffled at people who spend thousands on a tv, while they regarded the 7,000 volume book collection with equal mystification.
If food turns you on (and it does me) then the point is whether the food is good. Sometimes you pay a lot, sometimes you don't, but it's a damn site more galling if you *have* paid a great deal on the grounds that that place is well recommended. Imagine paying £5000 for a flat screen tv only to discover it flickers and no one will mend it? Me, I'd wonder why you didn't buy the cheap one, and it would miss the point as much as some of the comments miss the point here.
Stephen, thank you for your post. I have to follow a non-gluten, non-dairy diet so food journalism is a great compensation. Even hearing about the absurdities of some restaurants is fun.
PaulDS, if you think the best French restaurants are outside France you have not spent very much time eating in France.
Suspect that M. Decasse or his chef-designate (if there is such a thing!) was no where to be found on the night of your excusion. Clearly, the staff wanted to be rid of you so they could close up shop. Suggest that you write a letter if you haven't already! I'd think M. Decasse would be mortified with your displeasure and would appreciate knowing about it.
I, for one, was delighted by this post. Not for the words, but I do enjoy well-heeled hacks blowing large amounts of money and then shitting the night away. I personally, can do that at the local Toucan Taco for about 1/180th the price, but then it's not pretentious, is it?
As a former 31/2 star wine spectator award of excellence winner
I know how hard it is to be perfect or darn close to it everynight.
I ran the front of the house and my brother a 1982 CCA gradaute was the chef and we worked everday every meal time to be able to do it consistently and still once in a while it just goes wrong.
I have found if you say something nicely about your displeasure along the way the operation usually will make good. Thats why food writers usally go to a place many times beofre reviewing it for print. But who knows? Maybe this place sucks. :)
Check out my new food, wine, restaurants, club and fun stuff blog
for things in California.
Guys, if you don't enjoy the article why bother read it and commented on it?
This is Stephen's blog, his own writing, if you don't like it go somewhere else.
Why are people having a go at Stephen. If you're not into food in the same way he his; get lost. I can whole heartedly sympathise with Stephen, I myself have paid vast quantities of money for meals only to be horribly disapointed, however I don't kick up a fuss. Ok, I paid huge amounts of money to eat a horrible meal, but at least it was an experience, at least I tried it.
Oh, and to HJHJ who said rowing was much more fun than eating out, what does everybody think, would you prefer to be sitting in a cold boat, tugging at oars and getting wet, or be sitting in a nice atmosphere at a restaurant eating fine foods, drinking fine wine and being tirelessly waited on? I think we know the answer.
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