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.
