Subjective Memories of an Objectively Perfect Supper After a year of stashing away our change inside an old Glenmorangie scotch box, my boyfriend, Marcus, and I took our savings to the most expensive restaurant in town, Per Se. Zagat's concise review, "you're worth it," definitely piqued our interest. Their tasting menus were to be the ultimate indulgence of our enormous and curious appetites, and a peek into the lives of the fabulously wealthy who unlike ourselves, did not need to crack open their piggy bank for their dinner. It was hard to not be intimidated the night of our reservation as we dressed up for the evening. A student and a young professional were about to blow a quite substantial sum of money for one night's experience and we feared disappointment. Could it possibly live up to our hopes of unadulterated gastronomic bliss? We held hands as we walked through master chef Thomas Keller's famous blue door, into a cavernous entryway. A dark, Zen-like interior immediately cooled us down from a sticky summer's night: a sophisticated dˇcor appealing to men in expensive suits. Marcus immediately loved it. The hostess and wait staff greeted us as if they had been expecting us for a long time Š I suppose not so surprising given the mandatory 2-month advance notice on the booking. Our worries started to melt away once seated at our centrally located, yet private, table on the lower level, offering a panoramic view of the southwest corner of Central Park. To our right sat three generations of a family celebrating with tasting menus and many, many bottles of expensive wine. The elderly gentleman who paid for the evening seemed to enjoy it the most. On our left a table of four regulars flitted in and around, greeting each other and the staff with air kisses and laughter. They seemed to hardly taste their meal. Marcus and I, on the other hand, were eating it all up. The evening started with a vintage-year Rosˇ champagne served from an old-fashioned, wide-bottomed bottle, followed their signature hors d'oeuvre that I feel epitomizes Keller's dining experience: a miniature savory ice cream cone sitting in a custom made, solid silver tray. Ethereally fresh smoked salmon minced and formed into a tiny scoop rested on whipped cr¸me fra”che encased in a thin and crispy brioche cone. It's been almost a year since I've tasted it and I forget now whether it was chives he mixed in with the salmon, but I'll never forget its cool, crisp, and creamy texture and the way it melted and then evaporated in my mouth. Yes, food in a three-star Michelin restaurant is highly conceptualized, but it doesn't have to stop being fun at the same time. There is no way anyone could eat this dish with a knife and fork. Keller was like an indulgent uncle, allowing us dessert before dinner. Full disclosure before heading onto the next course: my last piece of seafood had been a fish stick at age seven. However, going into this meal I knew that if I was ever to overcome my phobia of seafood, it would only come from one of the most extraordinary kitchens in the world. Thus, although I opted out of the show stopping "Oysters and Pearls" with Sterling White Sturgeon Caviar, I devoured with relish the kitchen's milder play on another caviar classic. They served me tender slices of the sturgeon itself, wrapped up in tiny, light blinis, accented by the smallest dollop of cr¸me fra”che. I hardly allowed Marcus a taste I enjoyed it so much. In fact, and to my great surprise, by our unanimous vote of two the best dish of our entire four-hour meal was the "Crispy Skin Fillet of Royal Dorade" served with sungold tomatoes, summer squash, cipollini onion and marble potatoes with banyuls vinaigrette. I still dream of it. The flesh flaked off into substantial chunks that simply dissolved after a couple chews. The skin had not an excess drop of grease, with the texture of a very thin potato crisp possessing an innate sea salt flavor. It's an accomplishment that I even remember the vegetable side, which I attribute to the intensity of its pan-roasted flavor. We both had the "Peach Melba" Foie Gras dish, which served with peach jelly, glorified Rice Krispies and Melba toast, transported me back to childhood breakfasts of charred bread slathered with butter and jam. A succulent piece of lobster tail meat poached in butter followed. It was the first time I had ever enjoyed this crustacean, and the counterpoint of barely steamed baby peas and carrots served as the perfect counterpoint to highlight the meat's inherent sweetness. The next plate of duck breast with slow baked beets, red current, jelly, and bullÕs blood greens in juniper wood aged balsamic vinegar sunk deep into our bones after this lighter fare. It was a pleasure to have a meat I could chew on as I sank even deeper into my hedonistic trance. Marcus and I went our separate ways on the next course, as I had roast lamb with corn, fava beans, polenta, and a fig and truffle sauce, and he couldn't resist upgrading to a pan roasted sirloin of Blackmore Ranch's Wagyu beef. We each insisted that our respective dishes won that round. The five course of dessert might have just passed me by, save by the sheer stunning skill of their pastry team. They left us with a goody bag of the most decadent, fudgy brownies of my life, which Marcus and I rationed well enough to last for a whole week of dark chocolate paradise. The evening, the meal, was a stunning leap above even what we had fantasized about the past year, to which my limited word allotment cannot do justice Š never to be surpassed, except, perhaps until we go back again. |