The Taming of the Review: the Spago Tasting Menu Part 1

All restaurants want good reviews, and Spago was no exception, but what Spago did to ensure a good review was nothing short of a culinary and service miracle. Indeed, the show Wolfgang Puck and our crew put on was on par with shows by the world’s greatest tent show faith healers.  We at the restaurant had a hive mind, all workers focused on one goal: We would win over the reviewer.  We knew their personality quirks.  Some, like Sunset Magazine, Los Angeles Magazine and run-of-the-mill travel guides were easy to impress.  House made angnolotti with shaved white truffles (trifola d’Alba) pretty much sends anyone over the moon; whereas a more world travelled restaurant professional would actually be able to compare this otherwise spectacular dish with the one they just had in Alba—last week!.  They know the real deal.  It was these heavy hitters that were in our sights.  Whether it was national reviewers, like Ruth Reichl from the New York Times, or S. Irene Virbilia of the LA Times, who served as conduits for our mission to reach the 1% of the 1%, or perhaps a historic wine maker like Henri Jayer, who revolutionized wine making in Burgundy, or Didier Dagueneau, the mystical, gravel worshiping vintner behind Pur Sang, the legendary Sauvignon Blanc, from Pouilly Fume.  These reviewers, even those posing as friends, required gastronomic jujitsu.  What I found remarkable as a participant in this culinary Olympics was Wolfgang’s unspoken battle cry: “Casual Elegance!”  The vibe in the front of the house was often comfortable—after all, he was “friends” with all these VIPs at least he was in the “Hello, he lied…” kind of way made famous by film producer Lynda Obst—but making a good impression was always the goal.  You are only as good as your last movie.  In the kitchen, it was a different story.  Chef Lee would bark at his sous chef, and line cook soldiers, and they would jump.  His gigantic pewter spoon, the one he always carried for tasting sauces, would ring like the bells of Notre Dame as he banged the counter, as he bellowed, PICK IT UP!  PICK IT UP!  PICK IT UP! For you see, we had no heat lamps.

The Spago journey always began on an earthly plane with the destination being the stars.  Upon pulling up outside the restaurant, a team of highly-trained valets greeted you.  The first sight as you stepped out of your car was the high garden wall and century-old olive trees offering the air of natural Mediterranean beauty and a guarantee of privacy from the prying cameras of the paparazzi.  If the valet manager recognized you—and it was his job to know people!--he instructed one of his men to serve as an impromptu doorman.  He swung open the heavy hardwood doors with the “Flame of Life” etched into the beveled glass, revealing a remarkable scene unfolding.  The long, narrow, wooden bar stretched out to the left while the French doors on the right opened up into the garden where olive trees bookended a fountain etched to look like a flame.