Chez Panisse

Saturday 19 November

We knew that we were going to spend Holt's double-nickel birthday on a plane flying out of San Francisco, so Barbara had to arrange something specially celebratory for the night before.  (The same had gone for the 1997 ASOR meetings in Napa, when we had booked our table at the French Laundry four months ahead.) 

This time we went for Chez Panisse Restaurant, one of America's top tables. 

You have to book exactly one month in advance, eat whatever they want to give you, and pay $95 prix fixe, all of which is actually sort of reasonable.  It gives the chefs the freedom to use all their much-lauded fresh local organic ingredients, since they know ahead of time exactly how much of everything they'll need to feed everyone.  (Actually, we heard some people at the next table turning down their meat course because they were "too full" [what silicon-enriched simpleton eats too much of anything before going to Chez Panisse?!] and the waiter kindly offered to bring them a plate of special vegetables, which are presumably ordered for just such an emergency.)

We traveled in the rain via foot and BART train, which offers stupid ticket machines, little signage, and the sort of seamy derelict experience you can no longer get on the New York subway.  We arrived at the restaurant wet-footed, draggled and hungry, but found friendly staff to unwind us from our wrappings and hide our umbrellas while we consulted the wine list.  Then we were seated at a corner banquette by a waiter with an accent like Michel's on "Gilmore Girls," and presented with a couple of menus by the artist Patricia Curtan, so beautiful that there is now a book of them.

The waiter poured us a citrusy aperitif from a decanter nearby, and brought us our first course: Bellwether Farms' sheep's milk ricotta (with a nice smear of honey), along with fall vegetables dressed with a vinaigrette with crushed coriander seeds, including tender little white turnips, whose raw counterparts were piled on a plate on the sideboard. 

There would be both fish and red meat, so it seemed best to choose a Pinot Noir: a 2008 Kendric, from Marin County (think global, drink local).

The fish course was a succulent lump of halibut, wrapped in a leaf of savoy cabbage like the apotheosis of cabbage rolls everywhere.  It was involuted with lobster butter and little tips of lobster meat, and tasted divine. 

Then came slabs of Piedmontese ribeye beef, spit-roasted in the wood fire that was burning in the fireplace ten feet from where we sat, dripping with Beaujolais sauce, set beside a crispy potato cake and chanterelle mushrooms.

Finally, for dessert, a tartlet of black Mission figs set like dark jewels in pate-brisée , herb-scented with Chartreuse ice cream.

We lingered until most others were gone, and after a long look at the open kitchen, ventured out on the rain washed streets, back to the BART station and the last train back to our hotel.