That Sunday happened to be Alex's and my wedding anniversary. Seven years, and I'm not even itchy. How 'bout that? Let's observe a moment of silent wonder and appreciation at what the two of us have come through, and that we are, in fact, more or less happily married still. Done? OK.
Alex's delightful mother (honestly--I feel like the luckiest woman alive, because I not only have a fantastic mother, but a fantastic mother-in-LAW...it seems greedy), who is something of a Disney World expert, having made several trips with grandchildren before, had, months ago, made reservations for Alex and I at the very posh Victoria & Albert's restaurant. You might be wondering why that name sounds familiar, and it's because it was recently in the news for officially "banning" children under the age of 10. My input on this is that no one with half sense would bring a young child to a 3-hour, 7+ course meal, but that's just me. There may be people who also like poking themselves in the eyes with mechanical pencils, but I'm not one of them.
Victoria & Albert's is a AAA 5-diamond restaurant, and you get a feel for what's in store right up front, when they present you with your very own, pre-printed keepsake menus.
Intimidating, much? Well, yeah, you could say that. Let me take a moment and share a little secret about fancypants dining, especially 3-hour-long seatings of gourmet meals in places that are so dignified and quiet that you can hear OTHER people breathing, despite the soft harp music: Gentlemen, as you sit normally in your upholstered chair, in your coat and tie, supported by the seat back comfortably, and enjoying your meal, APPRECIATE the fact that the lady in your company is perched on the edge of her own chair, holding herself ramrod-straight, because, in the female version of "semi-formal" dress, well...we just must. There is no leaning back in our chairs, because that would make us look decidedly unladylike, and there is CERTAINLY no slumping. I can honestly say that the only not-entirely-positive thing about this amazing meal was the ache in my back and shoulders by the time it was over. But you can overcome a lot of pain with the right amount of gourmet cheese and/or chocolate ganache.
When people keep asking my why I'm persisting in my attempts at learning how to cook duck, I tell them it's because of this dish.
This is just not something I can eat, because the flavor of the liver and the taste of the insanely high fat content are just too strong for me. Alex could not believe that anyone would be so dense as to pass up this delicacy, and declared it to be "possibly the best thing [he had] ever eaten." While he was doing that, I was minding my own business over on my side of the table, with a festival of mushrooms and truffles, more formally known as ballotine of poulet rouge with chicken consomme', Scottish Chanterelles and black truffles. Also known, immediately upon serving, as IN MAH BELLEH.
Now, here is where things took a typical turn, for us. As you might well imagine, service up to this point had taken a good hour or more, and our supply of genteel manners was running on the lowish side. The stuffiness of the restaurant was starting to seem less serious, and more funny. This is dangerous, if you're out with us. Fortunately, we had only each other's images to damage. Naturally, my highly-sophisticated husband waited until I had taken a sip of the mellowest iced-tea ever, sweetened with honey collected from highly-sophisticated bees, to lean over and whisper conspiratorily, "Oops...got a little goose-grease on my tie, there." Composure: BLOWN. Thanks, Honey.
I blame myself, partially, because on our way to the restaurant, I'd dared Alex to sit down, look over the menu, and then ask the server, "Y'all got any nachos back'ere?" which of course he wouldn't do. But once the ice was broken with the goose-grease remark, the flood-gates were open, so to speak (and with mixed metaphors, even). I also blame the butter, because I think it made us a little stoned. I'm not kidding. This butter they had--it was naturally cultured butter from Vermont cows, cows which I imagine spend a lot of time getting spa treatments and dining on alfalfa cakes and drinking spring water, because only INSANELY HAPPY COWS could have produced the milk that made that butter, and therefore there must have been some sort of giddy endorphins buttering our bread that night. In fact, we discussed the truth that on this occasion, the bread was merely serving as a butter-delivery system, and had there been spoons on the table between courses, we'd have likely skipped the bread altogether and just mainlined the butter.
We did manage to get through the fish course (turbot for Alex, Alaskan sablefish for me), but the delay between that and the meat course left way too much time on our hands and way too much "material" for Alex to riff on. Probably my favorite exchange of the evening had to do with the lovely harp music, which was being played right next to our table by a lovely lady. It began during a particularly heartfelt rendition of "Lo, How A Rose E'er Blooming," with Alex once again leaning over to whisper to me.
Alex: "How much you reckon I'd have to tip her to get her to play 'Turkey In The Straw?'"
Me: (laughing) "I don't know, but for a heavy tip, you'd want to get your money's worth--something like 'Dueling Banjos.'"
We paused, locked eyes, and had minor meltdowns as we imagined the opening strains of "Dueling Banjos" being played on a harp. Go ahead--imagine that. It's FUNNY.
We hummed softly together, until we got to the "busy" part of the song, and I allowed that at that point, it was probably a moot question.
Me: "No, I don't think one harpist could do that part by herself--there's too much going on."
Alex: (without missing a nanosecond of a beat) "Oh, well, she'd have to rare back and kick her shoes off, for sure."
And then we LOST IT. For quite some time. And were not again settled until the arrival of some steak that demanded serious attention. Alex had Kobe beef tenderloin with smoked garlic puree, and while that garlic/potato puree tasted like it had been prepared earlier that day by angels in heaven, my Kansas City Angus beef with caramelized Yukon Gold potatoes was, in my opinion, WAY better. Great galloping kumquats, but it was good.
After the steak, Alex was the wise soul who ordered the cheese plate for our next course, and I'm grateful to him for not stabbing me with a cheese fork as I pilfered from his plate, because I'm not sure I'd have shown the same restraint, were our situations reversed. There were five amazing cheeses, but the highlights were the Comte' Saint Antoine, the 4-year aged Gouda, which transcended all Goudas that ever came before it, and the melt-in-your-mouth Cabra al Vino, which I believe is the one we were told translated as "drunken goat." Listen to me, all ye people who raise milk-goats and make cheese: START GETTING YOUR GOATS DRUNK ON WINE IMMEDIATELY. That was the most incredible cheese ever.
Just when we were almost ready to die, we were served our desserts, which had been in the making since the beginning of our meal. Alex had a Grand Marnier souffle', which I'm sure was perfectly wonderful, but I really wouldn't know, since I was occupied having the chocolate version of an LSD trip, with my trio of chocolate desserts: Tanzanian chocolate pyramid, Hawaiian Kona chocolate souffle', and Peruvian chocolate ice cream and puff pastry.
And yes, the apex of that sweet little pyramid is topped with 24k gold. I am now worth slightly more than I was before I ate it.
The only thing I can add about this meal is that, even if you don't particularly care for coffee (I don't), if you're ever offered coffee that is brewed at your table in one of these contraptions:
By all means, HAVE SOME. Wow. I am now of the opinion that all coffee should be prepared in a flame-powered vacuum percolator. Gotta get me one of those. And some of those wonderful little pear/mint/ginger sugared cubes that were served to top off the meal.
Victoria & Albert's sent us on our way, a little over three hours after we'd arrived, with a long-stemmed rose and a loaf of apricot breakfast-bread, stuffed to the gills with good food and memories of a special occasion. It's an experience I'd highly recommend, though if you're easily embarrassed, I'd suggest not taking us along. The really good news on this night was that the restaurant is located at the Grand Floridian Resort & Spa, which is where we happened to be staying, so we only had to waddle a short distance before we could fall into bed and try not to die of instant-onset gout. SO WORTH IT.
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