I settled down with the latest installment of Just Desserts with few hopes for anything other than the usual shameless product placement and pastry cheftestant craziness. I was not disappointed in either regard. But did I mind that the quickfire was a bizarre one-pot challenge dreamed up solely to promote our sponsor, some washing-up liquid whose name I can't remember? Did I mind the feeble accusations of sabotage? Did I mind Team Rainbow's ridiculous one-upmanship?
I did not. All this silliness was an nothing when the guest judge entered the Top Chef kitchen, revealing himself to be none other than the great Michael Laiskonis, head creator of dessertful delights at Le Bernardin, Eric Ripert's Manhattan temple to all things fishy. I admit to ignoring much of what came later on the show itself, as I was deep in reverie, admiring Chef Laiskonis' chiseled bone structure and elegant suit, pondering Le Bernardin's mystical - nay, spiritual - magic. It doesn't matter where I am or how awful my day is going: all I have to do is meditate on one of the many spectacular lunches I have enjoyed there and, Zen-like, I become tranquil and at peace with the world.
What is it about Le Bernardin that fills me with such a sense of well-being?
Well, there's the setting, to start with: beautifully understated decor; gorgeous seasonal flower arrangements; perfect lighting; comfortable chairs; and the most elegant ladies' loo in New York. Not too noisy, not too quiet. If you sit towards the back, the people-watching is superb. DMR and I (my dining companion at Le Bernardin is almost always DMR) once saw a young Japanese guy in torn jeans and a baseball cap drop a cool thousand dollars or so (at lunch! mid-week!) on the tasting menu with wine pairing. We must assume he was a Sony heir - or maybe the sole owner of the rights to Metal Gear Solid. One dishevelled-looking gentleman with a cardboard belt (clearly a regular) could only have been a Greek shipping tycoon. There's the usual masters of the universe, doing deals and rigging the markets over champagne and oysters. And of course, the lucky lady-who-lunches might meet Chef himself (as I once did), resplendent in immaculate whites and flashing that movie star smile. For a couple of gals straight off the Trans-Bridge bus from the rhubarbs, it's divine.
The service is often touted as being 'French', but I have no idea what that means. I've heard complaints that it's cold and stand-offish, but that is a tragic misreading of the situation. True, the waiters emphatically do not introduce themselves or ask you how your day is going - but they are knowledgeable and professional and can answer any question you care to put to them. The service is quiet and understated, subtle and refined. You never have to do anything uncouth like ask for more water or the bill: just cock an eyebrow at the nearest staff member (they're all men, except for one or two of the sommeliers) and your wish will be fulfilled without your having to say a word. Courses are brought with optimum timing: just as you've finished enjoying your starter, had a sip of wine and a bit of conversation, and are thinking, 'Hmmm ... I think I'm ready for my main course' - abracadabra! - it magically appears. To eat at Le Bernardin is to be taken care of. It's heaven.
Did I mention the food? Some might say it's dull or boring, that it doesn't bowl you over with flash or explosive flavours. Again, a foolish misinterpretation. The food is perfection - a hymn to the freshest ingredients, deceptively simple in its precise presentation, completely modern in its sensibility. Yes, the flavours are subtle: you really have to pay attention to what you're eating. But shouldn't you always? And here's the thing. I always feel really well after a meal at Le Bernardin. Well as in healthy and lively, ready for a brisk walk up 5th Avenue, rather than weighed down and needing a nap. I always assumed it was because, piscatorial as the menu tends to be, there is very little richness or fat in the cooking (Chef Laiskonis' bacon ice cream notwithstanding). But now, I have a different theory. Apart from the odd crouton or petit four, a beautiful meal at Le Bernardin can easily be gluten-free.
The stars are aligned and the heavens happily spinning in their spheres. A meal at Le Bernardin means that all is as it should be. DMR and I have just made a date for lunch in December.
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