Taming of the Review--the Spago Tasting Menu Pt. 2

Immediately inside, standing attention at the host stand was the Maitre’d at Spago Beverly Hills, Jenny.  The time difference between a small delay and an hour-long wait could be subdivided by a simple twenty dollar bill while a hundred could send time reeling backwards.  Once past the portal, guests were escorted by cordial, and smartly dressed young ladies through the bustling, loud dining room, and seated at an elegant table with creme colored linen, and heavy teak chairs with the Flame of Life etched into their backs.  The pulling of the chairs for the guests was of utmost importance for no other reasons than, 1) it was polite, and 2) they weighed a fucking ton.   These custom made behemoths were a sight to behold.  They were unstackable, in yet another Barbara Lazaroff design triumph of form over function.  Their legs undulated, giving way to impossible curves that brought to mind Steve Martin’s Cruel Shoes.  I remember when the restaurant was new, and Barbara saw damage on these chairs, she went berserk, and you’d hear her and Wolf arguing in the hallway by the garden.  “Barbara, it’s a restaurant, not a museum!” he would lament.

When we knew a guest was planning to have  a tasting menu--or if the guest was a reviewer who had no choice but to eat whatever we served --the table was set simply, with a classic mis-en-place and a champagne flute.  Old school joints like Chasens began with an empty table, the waiter taking a cocktail or champagne order and serving up that order with oysters or their famous seafood platter and afterwards setting up the appropriate mis-en-place.  But by the time Spago Beverly Hills opened, times had changed. In the new era, even VIPs wanted bread right away, and Spago obliged serving an array of wonderful house baked breads like crispy Lavash, as well as olive, walnut, and sourdough from Nancy Silverton’s La Brea Bakery.  Spago couldn’t make everything in house, but if they went outside, they went for the best.  This also made sense as Nancy and her husband/partner, Mark Peel had both apprenticed at Spago in the 1980s.

So now the guest is seated, so let’s get started.  A true tasting menu always begins with champagne.  Cocktails at the table are bad-form.  Having a Negroni lingering on the sidelines like some vagrant on a piazza in Florence is absurd, but a wise waiter carefully navigates these waters.  You don’t want the guest juggling his cocktail, and Billecart-Salmon with his amuse bouche (its purpose to amuse the senses), miso cone with ahi tuna tartare.  The wise waiter proffers champagne with a small introduction.  “We are happy to offer a world renowned cuvee Bille-Cart Salmon Brut Rose,” making the 3 oz. pour in one pass. 

            The fine waiter pours the Billecart-Salmon and the iridescent bubbles that race to the top, dare him to twist the bottle back just before overflowing.  If all goes well, the table will be aglow with an effervescence that beckons the diner to a higher state of consciousness.  Something truly wonderful is about to reveal itself.  If the stars have led us towards a fusion of cultures, the sesame miso cone with Ahi tartare will manifest itself, or perhaps the strong pull of traditional European cuisine will be desired, and then the amuse bouche might be a potato gallette with crème fraiche, smoked sturgeon and black osetra caviar.  Either way, the champagne and crunch transport the diner into an astral plane; he is rising and flying, like a honeybee racing, towards the warmth of the sun.