An
elegant white Burgundy from Pouilly-Fuissé precedes the agnolotti, and we
waiters inform the guest that this postage stamp-sized ravioli are
closely inspired by the Piedmontese model, filled with fresh sweet corn, a
touch of Mascarpone and Reggiano, butter and caramelized corn kernels. But when the manager steps up and presents a cutting board
with a large summer truffle and begins shaving it into delicate slivers that
float like rose petals onto the dish, the din of the crowd vanishes. A portal
opens. Goodbye Earth. I say this with no
apologies for the summer truffle’s status as third tier truffle, behind the
classic black truffle of late summer and the angelic white truffle d’Alba that
graces us with her presence in November.
Tasting menus done on the scale of Spago allow for elevated culinary
journeys that do not necessitate a credit check.
The truffles allow the next dish, roast suckling pig with last
of the season morels and fava beans, to offer an experience of two great spring
flavor combinations nearing the end of their availability. The crispiness of the pork, coupled with the
earthiness of the morels, lend themselves nicely to a classic California
zinfandel, and Michael Bonaccorsi forces the guest to think outside the box by
offering a Ravenswood “old vine” Zin from Lodi, California! Educated wine lovers, with all this talk of terroir and AOC, might be perplexed to discover
this superb wine originates from the heart of California’s central valley, a
place famous for raisins and Gallo wine. But there is that zinfandel with its deep
purple hue, its jammy nose, the pronounced black pepper on the palate and supple
tannins, the Ravenswood “old vines” Zinfandel from Lodi tells us to forget our
pretenses and to look for quality and value wherever it may reside, and despite
his predilections, that ability is Bonaccorsi’s genius.
Traditionally, the final meat dish would be rack of lamb or
Kobe beef; however, now and then a guest might request another kind of beef,
one that happened to be on the regular menu.
Côte de Bœuf , which loosely
translates as “hunk of cow,” is a bone in rib-eye, or cowboy steak. Added to this incredible cut, seasoned with
only kosher salt and fresh ground pepper, we served pommes
aligot,
for which there is no direct English translation, the closest being “cheesy
potato heart attack.” Rumor had it Chef
Lee brought the recipe back from three-star Michel Bras in Laguiole, France—and
the fact is, this was the only dish at Spago that came with directions to
Cedars-Sinai hospital. Such a dish
demanded a wine with enough tannins to tame it, and fortunately we had many to
choose from, from a young Bordeaux to a rich Syrah from Santa Barbara County—Bonaccorsi’s
preference being Santa Barbara where ultimately he moved to make his own high
quality Pinot Noir.
The dishes cleared, the table crumbed almost for
the last time, the good waiter fades into the background, leaving a guest on
her own for a while. She might observe a
smartly dressed man and beautiful young lady having a light dinner—wondering at
that, though we knew that the man had earlier eaten dinner with his wife. The sommelier returns with the cheese cart,
displaying Brillat-Savarin,
a triple-cream from Normandy; Brin
d'Amour, a Corsican raw sheep's milk cheese rolled in herbs; Stilton, the famous English blue cheese;
Pont l'Eve^que, from Normandy; and Te^te de Moine (aka Monk's Head), a raw Swiss-made cheese shaved by a spinning shaving
blade into flower-like ruffles.
Sometimes we offered a trio, sometimes all of one, and the wine pairing
depended on the cheese. Bleu cheeses call
for ports; soft whites go well with sauterne, and the harder cheeses allow the
guest to carry forward the Syrah from the last course.
Next came a phase that that
often incited the ire of the pastry chef, Sherry Yard. Often Chef Lee hit guests so hard, they
raised the white flag at this juncture, fearing even eating a thin mint would
cause an explosion like that of the gluttonous man in the Monty Python
sketch. Sorbet arrived to cleanse the
stinky cheese breath palate, and on its heels came a light fruit-based
offering, or perhaps something astonishing like a classic mille-fueille, “thousand leaves,”
embellished with blood orange zest in pastry cream and with juice from the
fruit in the crème anglaise. As if the
artistry of the presentation wasn’t enough, Sherry often served the dessert
herself, flooring the guests, leaving them sated and grateful.
At last,
from a perch on the cliffs of culinary bliss, warmed by the Spago sun, a guest
might take in the look of the bustling place with a clarity she missed on
arrival. As intimate as the meal felt and was, the dining room is huge, one
that easily could seat 200 guests at once. Since the tasting experience stretched
out over two seatings, over 300 meals were likely served over its course!
The bill
arrives, always a rock solid reminder that the guest has returned to earth.
Indeed, a guest might wonder if he’s just eaten in a tourist trap.
The
answer is yes. Spago is a tourist destination. But the food and service elevate
it far above other tourist traps like Mann’s Chinese Theatre or the Hollywood
Wax Museum. Still, some social
critics—and more than a few jealous restaurateurs have knocked Spago’s fame as
indicative of undeserving Hollywood glitter. There have been whispers and
worse—that the Spago scene swindles through culinary subterfuge; that it’s all
smoke and mirrors, a false heaven.
To that
I always said, “Praise the Lord! You’re
cured! You can walk again!”
